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.

Five

Five.

In about three and a half months the Nootch will be five, (five!!!), and because I know I will not be able to deal with this momentous event as it happens and simultaneously compose my annual tribute (much less fully comprehend the import of this half decade milestone!), I will write my yearly birthday wish to the Nootch now, while she is still four though almost five, then post after the Big Day is a fact- a way of holding back time.

For a couple of weeks she and I have been reading Winnie-the-Pooh together on google hangout (which we call “skype”) a day here, a day there, chapter by chapter.

Okay, let’s revise. We’ve been reading a highly edited (by me) version of the original Winnie-the-Pooh in which I leave out a bunch of sentences here and there, sometimes whole paragraphs, so that the Nootch will not lose interest in a rather complicated narrative with all sorts of British-isms from way back that was written quite a while ago- almost a hundred years to be exact- for slightly older kids. She’s already told me in fact that the book is “complicated” though she seems proud of this passing observation, along with the very word itself, which she stresses and says slowly: com-pli-cated.

She knows the word “complicated?” How is this possible? When did she learn this? It’s much too complicated to fathom, this three thousand mile relationship that yields all kinds of complicated surprises!

The particular edition we are reading is based on the original black and white, with its few, small illustrations, though I chose the modernized, prettier “colorized” version; she calls these tiny pictures of Pooh and Piglet and Christopher Robin et al “pikcheeze” when she wants to actually see them as we read, because for a moment she has allowed herself the luxury of pretending she is only three, or maybe two, and therefore can say pikcheeze instead of pictures. Although the story is really quite grown up for a four year old, and the Nootch does try to rise to the occasion, every now and then she reverts to early toddlerdom and asks cutely if she can see the pikcheez. This request I am happy to fulfill by holding up the page we’re on to the miniscule camera lens clipped atop the desktop.

We usually do a chapter at a time, but I’ve told her that when her own mommy was little she, her mommy, often pleaded, and got, an additional chapter of Pooh at bedtime. So as not to be outdone, the Nootch in a slyly humorously manner asks if we too can do “one more chapter,” happy that she is getting away with something her mommy got away with when she too was in kiddie literary land. She wants to be as “mischievous” with Lynnie as was her mommy before her. Before we conclude our “skyping” on such chapter days, we always confirm exactly which number chapter we will be up to next time, and when we “meet” again she always remembers.

We usually read on a weekend, but apparently one morning as she got ready for pre-school she asked her mommy if she could “skype” with me right then and there, in that early a.m. What a crafty little reader! Oh, that we could. . . .

She drinks mint tea now too, from a mug.

She tells stories, lots of them, in great detail and there is drama.

While we’re reading, cavorting and singing songs to each other on screen (lately we’ve been tackling “Desperado,” Eagles version, which she’s quite taken to; she sent me a little video, via mommy, of her belting a heartfelt line from the tune, the one that goes Desperado, why don’t you let somebody love you. . . which she gets almost right with the words.  With Gilly accompanying on the guitar and our pretending to screen hug, now and again she says that she wishes could really hug me.

Oh, me too, me too, me too, me too!

So by the time anyone reads this, she will be five and have even more stories to tell. If you’re reading this, it already has happened.

Five.

Indiscriminate Watching (or Art by Algorithm)

If, like Sir Edward of the previous post, you are "no indiscriminate reader" (though hopefully, like Charlotte, you have  decidedly different taste in books than Sir Edward), then you know how frustrating it can be to find something really good to read, a story on which you can lock your eyes, heart and mind, with no regrets. 

The more catchy titles continually appear, the harder it becomes! How many of such  thinly conceived tomes littering display tables and lauded by "reviewers" have you latched onto, only to discard them  barely halfway through. . . ? It's like those movies you want to walk out on, but easier to do.

And so this winter I chose (or should say choze) a rereading of the novels of Jane Austen, starting with a favorite, Emma. As I delved once more into this scrumptious satire of manners and motives, after initially wrangling with early 19th c. spelling and syntax my resolve suddenly strengthened; I had caught sight of the first disappointing episodes of PBS' "Sanditon," Austen's unfinished work, and it was so soothing to be able to return to the source and ignore this misbegotten production. Somewhat idiotically written as a story now completed for a mass TV audience, the "finished" narrative has little relevance to Austen. Instead, it's become a kind of twenty-first century, lackluster soap with a few retro, lamely progressive and totally anachronistic nods,  all done up in lots of period costumes. 

So sad! Even PBS has gone the way of quick fixes and cultural photo ops; but though a bunch of these inane episodes still are waiting in the wings to be mind-numbingly aired, it was comforting to know that Austen's actual work and wit endures in the written word.


Here's but one gem from the novel I'm reading, the excerpt relating to an upcoming entertainment- a ball; Mr. Knightly, a character normally gracious and obliging, just does not like to dance, as he explains to Emma, and finds his enjoyment elsewhere. His words also can stand as a metaphor for participating in the predictable screen "dance" of a crappy, uninspiring, made-for-"prime" TV/streaming industry that can screw up even Austen. 

"Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say against it, but that they shall not choose pleasures for me.- Oh! yes, I must be there." could not refuse; and I will keep as much awake as I can; but I would rather be home, looking over William Larkin's week's account; much rather, I confess.- Pleasure in seeing dancing! -not I, indeed- I never look at it- I do not know who does..- Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward. Those who are standing by are usually thinking of something very different."
                                           - Mr. Knightly in "Emma"

And like Knightly, even if you are present at the ongoing screen ball, you can chuze not to "dance," not participate in something you view as badly conceived, nor stand on the sidelines either, watching with interest a watered down art form or clapping to a faux, really badly writ, pseudo 19th century representation- (even if you are bored on a Sunday night and have come to the ball looking for a fix). And Net-Fix-Land is not Shakespeare, or Austen, and often not much of anything. 

Okay, I'm through with this rant for now on classic lit misappropriation as a means of upping TV ratings. Next time, something fun.

You Are What You Read

'I am no indiscriminate novel reader. The mere trash of the common circulating library, I hold in the highest contempt.The novels which I approve are such as display human nature with grandeur- such as show her in the sublimities of intense feeling- such as exhibit the progress of strong passion from the first germ of incipient susceptibility to the utmost energies of reason half-dethroned- where we see the strong spark of woman's captivations elicit such fire in the soul of man that leads him. . . to hazard all, dare all, achieve all, to obtain her. . . and event is plainly anti-prosperous to the high-toned machinations of the prime character, the potent, pervading hero of the story, it leaves us full of generous emotions for him;- our hearts are paralyzed-.'                          - Sir Edward, "Sanditon"           

'If I understand you aright'- said Charlotte- 'our taste in novels is not at all the same.'

The truth was that Sir Edward whom circumstances had confined very much to one spot had read more sentimental novels than agreed with him. . . . With a perversity of judgement, which must be attributed to his not having by nature a very strong head, the graces, the spirit, the sagacity , and the perserverance of the villain of the story outweighed all his absurdities and atrocities with Sir Edward.- It interested and inflamed him. . . . Sir Edward's great object in life was to be seductive.
                      -Jane Austen

Perfectly stated! Choose carefully. . . . 
         -me

The Shadowy World of Futons, a Parable

I found it. . . . Finally.

The guy on the phone sounded sort of normal, rational, not uninformed or dazed, not resentful or bored, not fatuous or high pressured. And he had the exact futon mattress I sought. An actual store with a live human and samples. Almost too good to be true.

I quickly dressed and jumped in the car (how come you always jump in a car but into a shower??), then headed to the west side. Miraculously I found a parking spot albeit on a speeding avenue, with a perilous-to-pedestrian bike lane that seemed to welcome motorized two wheelers zooming straight at you; gingerly I made my way to the curb.

The company name was all over the web, but the store was so small that at first I did not believe it existed. When the sign came into view, immediately I tried to quell my disappointment. Once inside, the narrow, dreary, dim cave-like atmosphere matched the ramshackle, faded and chipped paint of the outside. You know the kind of situation- it blares MISTAKE, but inexplicably draws you in further if only to delay the small agony of defeat.

This was not at all like the cheery, suburban, well organized futon place with the knowledgeable, clean cut futon guy from whom I bought a futon mattress two decades earlier. All that was gone- gone-gone; online sellers had taken over; what’s more, after voluminous online research on how to replace this simple item without receiving a returned, bed bug ridden, sagging bundle of rags, it appeared choices were scarce; cyberspace held just a few dealers, most of whom did not have actual stores like this one, hence my initial, doomed elation. I had found a couple of wildly overpriced organic, west coast sellers who claimed futon spiritual purity, the other online retailers seemed spurious. 

The futon mattress on the floor of this “brick and mortar” venue of course was horrible, much like the store itself; it seemed comprised of bricks by its weight and bulk, and was truly frightening. If it fell on you, you’d be instantly smothered. In addition, it was dirty, really dirty. Two customers walked in as I stared in disbelief at this almost alive thing; the lone sales person totally ignored them and after a couple of minutes they left; I soon followed.

At that point I started flirting with the idea of “mattress toppers,” knowing deep down it would not end well. After all, a futon in itself is a kind of hefty mattress pad. In addition, finding one  to my liking in the shadowy world of pixels would entail the same frustrating process as before.

In the end I went with LL Bean, which offers only one simple futon mattress, not dozens. Their George Washington Apple Tree image of Total Honesty notwithstanding, I suffer from online shopping PTSD and still must endure the inevitable qualms and misgivings as I await delivery. Hopefully all those fears will become a dim memory and I will never have to stay awake at night thinking about how to repackage and mail back a fifty five pound mattress.

But why, oh why, must something like buying a damned futon mattress (or anything else you may need) be so daunting?? Oh yes, I forgot. Online product acquisition! The wild west, the unregulated “air b & b” of commerce- yes, it’s true, you can find a cozy sweater in your correct size and color in cyberspace, and at a great price (though chances are it may already have been washed by a previous owner, perhaps more than once); conversely you also can fall victim to a creepy, invisible, retail sociopath from some shady, online outfit that makes you curse and kick yourself for foolishly shopping online, again.

As if you had a choice these days . . . .

The naysayers of anything pre internet scoff at those of us who pine for the old days,  refuting complaints about online shopping as reactionary, unliberated, not in step with the times; they reduce our intense and well founded angst to a mere retro, nostalgic and unrealistic view of the world pre-online; they are not beneath dredging up arguments like lack of penicillin back then too! to prove what an old fashioned idiot you are.

And naturally they have a point. Now I actually can figure out how to treat toenail fungus or sore throat or even a bad back or the plague simply by clicking a button. I even can take my life in my hands and order medication without a prescription from unknown, online sources! But consumers also can be major-ly and egregiously scammed in a variety of ways, over and over and over again ad nauseam in this quintessential bait and switch universe, and  wind up throwing stuff away rather than repackage or fight with faceless customer reps.

In truth, I also miss all that human to human contact, the touching of the fabric, the pinching of cushions, the smelling of rugs, the peek at that pristine, first page of a novel in the book store so that you don’t defile or mess up the volume’s crisp, newness even as you feel the shopkeeper’s vigilant eyes boring into you; the kindly doctor you love, or obnoxiously taciturn, arrogant ass of a practitioner whom later you can diss but who still talks to you, discusses your case face to face, personally as it were. Even healthcare is getting the screen treatment! How do you explain your intensely mysterious, no doubt significant symptoms to the image of a face attired in the image of a white coat?

Oy. You think this is bad? Just wait until “AI” takes over. . . .