Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Weekly Paint Progress: 4/30

This week the cenote went from this ...

... to this, which took a lot of work but doesn’t seem that different, unless worse. Essentially I darkened some things and lightened some things and I will no doubt undo all of that. And I drew where a tree will be.

The teacup went from this ...

to this ...

 

Online Concerts

So, yesterday I mentioned online concerts. That’s my new favorite amusement. I’m defining “concert” as any time a musician sits down in front of an iPhone and puts himself out there. So far I’ve attended three of note. 

Barenaked Ladies are not offering concerts as such, they’ve been taping their parts separately (I suppose with a backing track) and submitting them as “selfie-cam jams.” These have been offered everywhere - Facebook, the app, maybe YouTube. They’re pretty polished, but they have some fun with the staging and guest appearances. However, the lead, Ed, does do concerts as a solo act each week and they’re nice and loose. For some reason I thought the first few were taped in his bathroom, probably because he did do a series of songs taped in his bathroom back in the day. He makes the mistakes I live for. I love live things, I love mistakes, I love people putting themselves out there and making it up on the go.

Friend Dave - I have a Facebook friend, Dave, who is a piano teacher / dueling piano player / church service accompanist, until social distancing dried up up much of his income. He’s been using Facebook to have a weekly live stream for 90 minutes in which he peppers the lyrics to rock songs with asides about the virus and shout outs to listeners who comment. (I get call outs often when there’s a key change. I have discovered that I love key changes.) I like the comments and I would like to see them at live concerts in the future. People could comment instead of trying to shout louder than the music.

Speaking of comments, Steven Page did a concert last weekend via Zoom, and about five minutes in the comments took a turn. Some bot filled the comments with racial and anti-Semitic slurs. He claimed to be excited that he was big enough for someone to hack the comments. That concert was very loose. I’m afraid he began with a little — understandable — overconfidence. I’m sure if I had performed The Old Apartment for 20 years that I too would assume the words would be committed to memory, but evidently not. 

Online concerts: some are free, some are Facebook donations, and the Steven Page one was eight dollars. You get the same sense of community you used to get from the applause, only now it comes from the comments. I like it, and in some ways I like it better than standing outside in the summer.

No Virus In My Head

I have a big database upgrade scheduled. I’ve been planning this database upgrade for four months. When I’ve pictured the Upgrade Day I’ve always pictured myself in the office, holding court at my desk, answering questions, probably in my black jacket and gold turtleneck and new gold pants. (Yes, I planned what I would wear. I think that should be on project plans. Microsoft Project should have an area on Gantt charts for “Ensemble.”)

So, as the day nears, I find that when I make plans / worry / fantasize about the big day I still picture myself at the office, just as I have for months. Of course, I won’t be in the office, I will be at home, oblivious to everyone’s discontent or praise. It’s just hard to shift gears.

I had a similar experience this morning when I bought tickets for the next online Steven Page concert. The web site said something like “concert at 4: doors open at 3:00.” And I actually thought, “I should get there at 3: I want a good seat.” And of course, it’s a concert on Zoom. My seat is my guest bed. It won’t matter if I come early. 

I feels terrible for all the brides who planned their weddings for years and then had to adjust their dreaming at the last minute. The should all get free do-over weddings. 

 

Male Illness

My brother: the biopsy of his lymph node shows no cancer, and his bile duct cells are abnormal but not cancerous. So ... technically he’s fine. He hasn’t been told what might have caused the weight loss, or the constricted bile duct, but since his blood work is fine again I think everyone’s going to drop it until the Covid is gone. 

My husband: Gary also has an undiagnosed something now. He sneezes a lot, is fatigued, coughs half as much as he sneezes, and his lungs do feel stiff. For two non-consecutive days had a fever of 99.1. He definitely has something. His toes feel stiff but are not blue like “Covid toes.” His eyes feel bleary but are not pink (pink eye is the new Covid toe). 

In both cases, anything I say other than wailing “please don’t die” will be seen as heartless and dismissive.  I want to go on record saying I don’t want anyone to die. I really don’t.

I do want one place to quietly whisper, “You might have bile stones, and you, Gary, you might have a really bad cold.” It could be. But I can’t say that, just in case.

Blue Angels

I am very excited by the news that Thunderbirds are Go, as are the Blue Angels.

Some time in the next two weeks various fighter squads will be flying over major cities. They are scheduled to fly over cities hardest hit by the pandemic.

Only 50 people have died in Saint Louis (I don’t know about the metro region). So, in a way I hope we don’t see them in Saint Louis (Blue Angels of Death). 

Drug Test on the Porch

Well, that was pretty handy.  A nurse (or possibly a technician) did come to my porch, as the neurologist promised. She was dressed in scrubs, but she wore her face mask as a necklace. I, on the other hand, wore my face mask as prescribed.

I was very impressed with the “sticker” style thermometer. The photo above shows the sticker she stuck on my forehead. After she said my temperature was 96, I tore it off and saw a green line dropping down from the 96 point to the centigrade scale. And then it faded. Like a mood ring, I suppose, in sticker form. It might be on the low side: I’m usually 97.

She did indeed draw three vials of blood, give me a retina test, and an EKG. It was not the fingertip EKG I expected, but a full-on EKG, with the little pasties on my ankles, arms, and all over my rib cage. The only difference is that the result showed on her iPad instead of a printout. Do they still have EKG printouts? I haven’t had one for ten years. Back in the day. Back in the day when they stuck one of those antique digital thermometers in your ear to take your temperature (how quaint).

I had already alerted the woman across the street that there would be some odd behavior on my porch Friday, so I wasn’t surprised to see her on her porch. I waved and she called back, “I’m here to see the show!” She didn’t watch for long, just the blood draw. She missed the EKG entirely, and that was the best part. 

I did look odd when I did the eye test. It was the test where you rest your chin outside a box and it shows you a green neon crosshair inside the box, and you can’t blink while it tickles your eyeball with air. We had to put the box on the porch bench, which meant I had to kneel and crouch low to put my face in the side of the box. and yet with the EKG and this not one neighbor on the road or walking a dog even slowed down to see what was going on.

I could have done this all inside, I suppose, but the doctor referred to it as a “porch call” - not a house call — more than once. I felt it was wrong to ask her in.

She’s been doing this since even before the pandemic, driving around specifically to MS patients. Pretty cool. I imagine it’s available for all types of tests. Are there mini portable CAT scans? MRIs? 

Covid Mask Kills My Sewing Machine

Well, I tried to sew again. I was, of course, trying to make a mask, as is the trend.

Gary was wearing a mask and was yet able to smell his strawberry instant oatmeal, and that was enough to convince him that if an odor could get in, so could a virus. I don’t know how airtight he wants his mask, but I volunteered to make a cloth one with a coffee filter pocket. 

Seam 1 was excellent! I heard a thunk and then the next seam was disastrous. It looked fine from the top, but the bobbin side became increasingly knotted up in the gears of the machine. 

When The Confinement is over I should take it in and have someone teach me how to use it again. I got it my junior year of high school — 40 years ago. Might be time for some maintenance. 

Weekly Paint Progress: 4/23

Last week the cenote went from this ...

... to this ...

Now that the bowl of lemons are done, I am moving on to a teacup with lemons from the book:

Wow, the top of that teacup is way too high.

 

Rewriting the Novel: Percentages

I have found myself working on Jerry’s Novel in spurts. I always start by editing what he has, but then that leads to filling in what he’s missing. 

After a busy night, I calculated how far I was, given how many words I had so far, and discovered I have about one 25% of a Young Adult novel, and 18% of an an Old Adult novel. 

I find this remarkable, especially given that I haven’t hit my first plot point yet. I tell myself that’s because some of those pages are slated to be in later chapters, which is true. 

Wouldn’t it be funny if I finished up and I had a confused mess with a plot that peaks too late and too harshly, with too many characters, just like Jerry did? 

American Gods, or What Is Wrong With Me That I Am Not Enjoying the Most Popular Book by The Most Popular Author

Neil Gaiman is an esteemed author. American Gods is his most popular book.

I enjoy it while I’m actively reading it, but I will put it down for days and have no urge to pick it up again. I’ve had it for over a month and I’m only halfway done. This is very strange for me. Usually I’ll eat up a book in a few days. 

“I just don’t know where this book is going.” I thought. “What is wrong with me? The hero just seems to travel around the country —“

And of course, there’s my problem. I checked, and yes, what we have here is The Hero’s Journey, my very least favorite plot: episodic, wandering, no progression. I don’t like episodic plots. I demand progression even in my pop songs. 

The only hero’s journey I can remember liking in recent memory is 1917, and if you’ve seen it you know it’s a Heroes’ Journey, not a Hero’s Journey, and that’s what made it unique and surprising.

As I say, though, I am right at the midpoint, and that’s where things can often get much more interesting. I’ll keep plugging at it, and if I don’t like it I’ll approach it as if it’s a series of short stories. 

Covid Complication

Leaving the house and putting on shoes made me consider my appearance for the first time in forty days.

While I was out I realized I hadn’t put in earrings in ... forty days. “Oh no,” I thought, “How long does it take for my ears to close up? Are my ears closed up?” Also, Does Gary Have the Covid, in addition to Am I Catching the Covid, but just for a moment I worried my ears were closing up. 

The back of my left ear had closed over to a small degree, but I twisted the lobe around and eventually got in from the back side. It wasn’t pretty.

(So, in Frivolous Health News, how long does it take for pierced earring holes to close up? The internet says eight months. I anticipate people will be visiting Claire’s and Tattoo Parlors in mid-October.)

Covid Cold: In Which I Leave the House for the First Time in 40 Days

Somehow, with all the hand-washing and not touching his face, Gary has still caught a cold.

“I have a cold!” Gary pouted. “And I have no Dr. Pepper.”

”Poor sweet baby,” I said, obediently.

”I’m sick.”

”Poor sweet baby?” I said, confused.

”You have to go out to the grocery store and get me Dr. Pepper.”

“You have to wait until Wednesday for them to deliver Dr. Pepper, you mean.”

Feeble, sickly Gary disappeared and was replaced by healthy, full volume Gary.

”FINE FINE I’LL GO GET IT MYSELF.”

”No, Gary, I’ll go. You’ve risked your life going out to the grocery for your parents for months.” (He wants them to get exactly what they asked for.) Plus, I thought, you’ll see what it’s like to worry just because someone has gone to the grocery store and you picture them touching all the dairy department door handles then rubbing their mouth.

I wore shoes, jeans, and a bulky sweatshirt. (I think we all know this is code for “no bra.”) I also wore a mask, as you do. Well, as I do. Well, as only half of the people in the grocery did. Only half wore masks, or bothered to keep six feet away. I held my breath when the No-Maskers passed and I clutched my little alcohol wipe like my life depended on it.

Ironically, the classic Dr. Pepper that Gary wanted is entirely unavailable in our region. Gary is having to make do with some new Cream Soda / Dr. Pepper mutation.

In thanks for my sacrifice, Gary has taken to wearing a mask and staying six feet from me in our house. I am okay with this.

Covid Chinese Toilet Paper

Early on in the pandemic, Gary purchased some toilet paper on Amazon. 

It took a long time to get here from China.

People have very small bottoms in China.

On the left: Wee Chinese Toilet Paper.

On the right: Mega rolls of Cottonelle. (Not Charmin, though, which was the ultimate. Ah! The days of luxury. I remember sitting at the barbecue at Tara, wiping our lips with lace and our bottoms with Charmin.)

Spunky Labia International Toe Porn Superstar at the bottom, shown for scale.

 

Covid Cleanup

It was 90 degrees last week, and I’m still sleeping in my winter pajamas.

I pulled down my seasonal clothing storage box, intending to swap my winter sweaters for the linen pants, when I realized that it was futile. Sure, I’ll wear my summer pajamas, but linen pants? Do I really think I’ll be leaving this house before it’s sweater season again? 

I decided to bring out one summer shirt and one summer pair of pants, in case I have to, I don’t know, drive to a funeral where we will all stay in our cars, as is the custom at funerals now. 

I do need a gardening ensemble, but I might just might end up using my painting ensemble for that. I’m sure the neighbors won’t give me odd looks, because the painting ensemble is a step up from the pajamas they see me in whenever I get the mail.

 

Weekly Paint Progress: 4/16 (free of Covid)

Last week the Mexican sinkhole/cenote looked like this:

... and now it looks like this:

The lemons went from this ..

... to this finished version. I really don’t like my version. I got the blue colors wrong.

Here is what it’s supposed to look like:

See how the lemons are all loose and chunky? I couldn’t do that. I even tried a new version and the lemons still don’t look loose and chunky. I might try just the lemons. They didn’t say to use the transparent colors, but those look transparent to me, or else I need to take the time to let every color dry.

Better idea, though, to move on. I’m doing these copies from the book to have some small successes, and if something isn’t a success, I should move on.

Covid Communications

The young people at work continue to communicate with me in their youthful way.

There was one five-minute period recently during which they Skyped me, emailed me, and texted me, and while I was reading their texts the landline phone rang. (The landline phone was the hospital telling me that my brother was out of surgery and had just needed a little extra Valium to get past the emergence delirium. Now it’s just a two-week wait for the lymph biopsy.)

I was settling back down after all that when I found that one of them had texted me literally WHILE we were Skyping. I had to set her straight. I said it was like Dave and Buster’s here at my house with all the alerts and bells and notifications. Grandma can’t handle the mental overload. One communication method at a time, please.

During the 1917 pandemic there was no doubt some elderly bank official working at home, complaining that there were messengers leaving cards with the butler at the same time that the footman was asking him what he wanted for tea. 

Covid Creatures

Pregnant raccoons show up in the daytime this time of year, looking for food, eating for five.

I was up at dawn and noticed what Gary calls a pregnant DayCoon wandering in the back yard. First, it was odd that she was wandering: usually the DayCoons eat desperately and then run away. She was tooling slowly around an area of the yard where there was no food or water. She was not on her way home, which is through the sewer in the back left corner. She was in the front right corner, by the neighbors’ fence.

She slowly scaled the fence, and instead of jumping down, pivoted at the top and crawled paw over paw back down the other side. I waited until I thought she was down before I raced out to see where she was headed, because she had no business being in that yard.

She was gone. Poof. I honestly thought I might have dreamed it. Then I thought, perhaps she’s gone through a hole in their fence and is in the front, in the street, headed for a different sewer.

No. She was not. A duck was in the middle of the street. A colorful, spectacular, quacking mallard duck. 

“Well, this is messed up,” I thought, and went to wake Gary up so he could see that the Wildlife is emboldened by the lack of traffic and are taking over our street, just like the supposed dolphins in the Venice canals and the elk wandering around New York City.

I threw open the front door to show him the spectacular duck, and saw it had moved to the middle of the driveway across the street, and was strangely less gorgeous. It wasn’t until I saw the male join her from his post in the middle of the street that I realized they were a couple, spectacular male and dowdy female. 

They waddled off down the street, side by side in sync like The Monkees, then they circled back and vanished into the backyard of the house across the street.

The injustice. Does the neighbor where the raccoon went have a yard with a giant pile of nuts? No. I suspect he has a hollow tree with a hole full of baby raccoons, though. Does the neighbor where the ducks went have a heated ground-level bird-bath? No. That neighbor has an in-ground pool. So not fair.

Covid Carbs

Early in the pandemic, on the day I tallied up all our available food, I sent Gary out for yeast packets. He came back with this Huge Bottle O’ Yeast:

It stayed on the shelf. The only thing I did with it was mail some in an envelope to Friend Anne, who was making sourdough because she had no yeast.

Then, eventually, four weeks into the Great Confinement, I made some bread. Such a disappointment. I made the conversion between instant and regular yeast correctly, but I added the extra quarter cup of water at the wrong time.That bread was so gummy and grey it had to be thrown away.

I’ve made yeast bread from scratch plenty of times, but this failure rocked my confidence so badly that I dug my 1990s bread machine out of the basement. 

What a delight to use! I had forgotten about the clunky industrious noises it makes, and the beeps, and the smells, and how it produces a simply perfect loaf of bread. So easy! I had an egg sandwich for breakfast and I will have a peanut butter sandwich for lunch.

I may not put that machine back in the basement ever again. Of course, I will wake up bloated and achy, but I imagine Gary will chew up all the bread before I get much more of it.

Covid Culture

They came for the baseball season, and I didn’t speak out when the baseball season was cancelled, because of the Covid.

Then they came for the hockey season, and I did not speak out, because I was not a hockey fan.

But then they came for my opera —and there was no one left to speak for me.

The 2020 Saint Louis opera theater season is officially cancelled. We’re getting a credit for the 2021 season, to keep our wonderful season ticket seats, but this summer there will be no Carmen or Die Fledermaus, or any other lesser-known operas. 

Darn. I was going to hunt for a red bolero jacket for Carmen, too. 

Covid Comforts

[Editor’s note - I have tried to write posts that are not about the global pandemic. I can’t even try any more. The Covid has crept into every aspect of life.]

Every once in a while a friend will post a covid-related alcohol meme on Facebook and I think, “I have alcohol, right here, in my house. I could drink that alcohol.” 

And why don’t I? I relaxed my carb restrictions, happily trading the immediate six pound gain for fewer grocery trips or deliveries. I’m stress-baking and stress-eating, so why on earth don’t I deal with stress the way the rest of the world does? I’ve got wine and hard liquor and mixers. I’ve got everything but maraschino cherries.

I suppose I’m not drinking because my current stress relievers are more convenient. Why climb the step-stool to get to the liquor when my fingernails are right here, ready to be chewed?

In the other hand, one plus in the alcohol column is that you can drink without physical evidence. Anyone can look at me and see I’m a stress-eater, whether it’s nibbling carbs or fingernails. 

Sadly, I see those memes and think, “Tomorrow is the day I start drinking,” and then I never do. That’s why I am getting some flat Moscato out of the garage fridge and drinking a glass, right now, before 9 am. Cheers.  

Mask Couture in Practice

Why look, you CAN make a face mask out of toddler underwear.

I have been assured by my friends that this is a level of creepiness that even they cannot abide, so I won’t be wearing it out and about.

Weekly Paint Progress: 4/9

Time to pick the next thing. I‘m going to try to step away from any exact representations, do something big and really loose based generally on this Mexican sinkhole:

... minus the rusty rail. 
Here’s the start. Loose, I say.

The lemons continue. This is a copy of something that’s already loose, so that makes it easy.

This week the lemons went from this ...

... to this ....

I hope the next thing in the walk through is to darken the lemons. There’s something wrong about the relative darkness of the leaves and the lemons.

 

Doctor’s Appointments in Practice

Neurology virtual visit 

I’ll be darned: except for the reflexes, he did everything - and he mentioned he had a new patient earlier and he’d had her husband check her reflexes.

He even had me prop up my iPhone by the baseboard and watched me try to walk a straight line. 

I thought the blood work would be the big issue, but they’ll be sending a nurse out to my front porch to take my blood. In fact, she’ll be taking my blood on the porch and doing an EKG on the porch and a DNA test for a particular genotype, because that’s what’s required when Gilenya patients switch to Mayzent.

Yep, i’m switching to a different MS drug. I’m not going to be a Gilenya girl anymore. Because of the COVID, the doctor wants all his patients on the Mayzent drug instead, because if you stop it then your immune system comes back in 10 days instead of 6 weeks.

It uses the same mechanism as the Gilenya — it makes your white blood cells too fat to sneak into your brain.  Evidently the new version bulks up just one limb of the molecule instead of all the limbs, so it can go back to normal more easily. It is also used for the more serious stages of MS, so I suppose if I get worse I’ll have that going for me.

Same maker, so he thinks I’d have the same copay. I’m not sure, but I do like the idea of having a good immune system if I need it, especially these days.

Therapist virtual visit

Of course, the therapist’s visit was just about the same. I need to remember to start by asking how she’s doing. I usually forget until about three fourths of the way through and she always has massive news and I feel like a heel.

I am a little sick of talking to people, today, though.

Doctor’s Appointments in Theory

Six months ago. I scheduled my therapist and neurologist appointments for today. I usually do this so I can take a half-day sick day and not have to worry about making up the time.

Last week I planned to cancel them both so I could continue with my confinement, and at the same time I scheduled three one-hour-long work phone meetings for today.

Both doctors convinced me to switch to tele-medicine visits. This means that today I will spend six solid hours talking to people on the phone.

I am most skeptical about the neurologist “visit” translating effectively over the phone. Blood pressure test - no. Tuning fork test - no. Reflex test - no. Spasticity test - no. Touch-your-nose-touch-my-finger test - no. Blood tests - no. Cognitive and hearing tests - yes. That’s about all he can do. 

Similarly, I am skeptical about the therapist’s “visit” translating effectively, but only  because she wants to use Zoom. Have you heard about Zoom-bombing? Evidently strangers can intrude on your Zoom conference call and draw phalluses on screen. (My brother reports that AA meetings have been interrupted by people drawing bottles of vodka.)

If this happens I will hopefully have the presence of mind to get a screen grab. 

Slumber Party

Last night, Gary and I ordered a pizza for the first time in two years. It was a no-contact delivery pizza. You pay and tip on-line and they just put it on the doorstep. Much better than listening to Gary making small talk with the delivery person.

The excitement of the carbs, combined with the usual global pandemic worries, meant I couldn’t sleep at all. At about 2:30 I found Gary in his room. He was still awake, too.

“I can’t sleep,” I complained. “Do you want to play our game?”

”Sure,” he said. 

And that’s how we found ourselves eating Doritos and playing Mansions of Madness from 2:30 - 4:30 last night. 

I’m sure there’s a deleted scene from Mrs. Miniver when the family does the same thing.

A Little Nervous

Yesterday, Gary said, “We need to leave the house and buy peanuts for the raccoons.”

”We?” I thought, loudly. And I am certain my left eyebrow echoed that.

I thought of the video we’ve all seen of women walking around downtown Kosovo as bullets fly. I’ve often wondered what on earth drew those women out of their houses. Now I know. The raccoons needed peanuts.

This may turn into a fight. Or, it may turn into a negotiation. I may trade leaving the house for getting Gary to stay in. I have wanted to try curbside pickup at the grocery, instead of Gary having walk in. Gary tends to walk in, buy his staples (potato chips and ice cream) and walk out. The shopping list is on his phone. He claims there is no bacon on the shelves. I have seen bacon and I ordered it on Instacart.

If that runs out I seriously will butcher and eat a raccoon.

Mask Couture

Well, I haven’t sewn any masks for the doctors and nurses. I’d hate to think the only thing between a doctor and a virus was my sewing skill. Now that the only life that would be lost is mine, I’m starting to think creatively.

So, how do I make a mask out of the supplies I already have in the house? I can’t expect a doctor to sport a ninja mask made out of my husband’s underwear, but I can do it myself. Sadly, when I tried the ninja mask shown in that link, I found that either my head is too small or Gary’s thighs are too big, or both.

So then, I was thinking underwear, and I thought of tightie-whiteys. They have that cunning flap in front that could hold a coffee filter for extra protection. 

I could cut on the dotted lines and remove the extra fabric in the back.

The waistband would go over my nose, then the leg bands would be pulled back behind my ears, then my mouth would be in the crotch, as you do, with the added protection of a coffee filter tucked in to the cunning little crotch pocket.

Or maybe that would work better flipped upside down. Hm. 

Or I could make this out of papier-mâché:

Ohh! I already have the goggles from my onion-cutting supplies.

I also have heavy black landscaping “cloth” that seems like it might be useful, and really, anything with elastic can be stripped for its elastic parts.

There is also a respirator mask that Gary bought when he thought he’d be spraying our house for bugs. Gary said it wouldn’t work, but I don’t understand. It looks like a WWI Mustard gas mask. Perhaps I could stretch a sock over the air holes.

Seems like I’ll end up making something out of duct tape and landscaping cloth.

Update

Late January - Remember back in January, when I thought my brother might have cancer?

Mid February - So, he ended up pursuing this diagnosis at a better hospital. Got a stent. Got an oncologist for his potential cancer.

Late February - Things stalled because he mentioned to the doctor that he now has some condition that makes him terrified when he comes out of anesthesia. That put the kibosh on any forward motion, because the doctor saw my brother’s mental health issues and insisted a psychiatrist sign off on this. Eventually he was convinced otherwise, but that took until mid-March.

Mid March - A new surgeon won’t go in and do the biopsy / duct repair because of the virus.  My brother has all the underlying conditions: heart disease, asthma, diabetes, and whatever the other risk factor is (cancer?), so he wasn’t keen on leaving the house anyway.

Late March - The mid-March virus-fearing surgeon has been replaced by the previous February surgeon who is now going to do surgery on my brother next week. So, is he doing a biopsy? No. Is he doing a duct repair? No. He’s putting in another stent. You know, like he did in February.

No one is saying anything about tumors, or masses, or malignancy. 

I’m baffled by all this. I don’t get this blasé attitude about malignancies. I am telling myself that the reason that the original surgeon is going back in is that he might be able to tell if there is any change or growth.  

And before you ask, yes, I have seen the documentation and this is not a delusion. Eight weeks is a long time, though. Isn’t it?

Weekly Paint Progress: 4/2

This week the lamp finished up. Or at least I have reached peak disgust. It started like this:

... and it ended up like this:

Some things I like, especially the cast shadows on the table, and the water in the vase, and the base of the lamp. I don’t like the tulips at all.

It was originally this:

I much prefer the small lemons, which went from this:

... to this:

 

A Pepy’s Diary Entry for the New Plague

This is the day I usually catalog corporate April Fool’s jokes, but April Fool’s is cancelled this year. Google isn’t even doing anything.

Instead, a most excellent jape for April First: Pepy’s Coronavirus Diary from The Fence.