Queen Mediocretia of Suburbia

Yard Sign 2020

Here is a quandary.

As I said during the 2016 election, I don’t like yard signs.

Put another way, I like getting along with my neighbors more than I like yard signs.

So here is the 2020 yard sign debate.

1. The neighbors are selling their house. 
2. The instant Kamala Harris was announced Gary started looking for a yard sign we could stake out.

I said, “Gary. We can’t put out a yard sign. It will affect the neighbor’s sales potential. Let’s wait until after they sell the house. It’s just common courtesy.”

For a moment he looked like he saw the point, and I could tell, because he frowned instead of yelled.

But that was only for a moment, and then he yelled “DO YOU WANT TO LIVE BY NAZIS? IF THEY DON’T AGREE WITH BIDEN I DON’T WANT THEM MOVING IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD.”

Seriously. No doubt the rest of the neighborhood feels that way about us, but I didn’t mention that, and I haven’t brought it up again.  I think the realtor is going to make the decision for us. I think that sign is going to vanish in the night.

Republican National Convention

I watched both the political conventions. (I watched the RNC, unlike Stephen Colbert, and watch this if you haven’t seen his screed already.) I always watch both, so it couldn’t be different this year. 

But you know what was different? This year the Republicans actually made me lean their way, just for a moment.

Most of it was comical, what with the pro-Trump nun and all the Trump DNA, but one part got me. When the wife of the ex-Saint Louis policeman talked about how he was killed by those they kept calling “The ‘Peaceful’ Protestors” (air quotes implied), I got a little sniffly.

The link above centers on how the late policeman would have been appalled that his death was used as ammunition at the RNC. He daughters have made it clear, but that doesn’t take away from the emotional appeal. If it got to me, how would it affect someone who was undecided?

Bacon Burner

This pan was despised in Mom’s household.

We called it the Bacon Burner. I was well into my marriage before I learned it is officially called a broiler pan, and it usually comes with a new oven. It’s like an oven fetus you don’t expect when you buy a new oven, but there it is.

Mom hated it because it was entirely too heavy for her polio arms to pick up. (She would never have deliberately bought anything that heavy.) The weight meant if Mom wanted bacon, she had to rope one of the family into lugging the pan around. That meant they would also want bacon, and that would ruin everything.

I hated it because of Mom always picked me to be in on the bacon scheme because I ate less bacon than my father and brother.

Not only did I have to get the Bacon Burner out, I had to enrobe the bottom pan in aluminum foil, and then similarly swathe the top grill, and then take a knife and cut slits in the foils to correspond with the slits in the rack, because bacon would stick if you didn’t. 

Mom would lay out the bacon, and then I would put it in the oven, take it out, deal with the grease, and clean it, which was only a little easier because of the aluminum foil mummification.

As an adult, I’ve always fried up two strips of bacon at a time, but of late I have have desired a bacon burner of my own, having thrown out the one that came with the oven I bought in 2011. 

I bought one for fifteen dollars: non-stick, lightweight. It only held 2/3rd a package of bacon. It was fine the first four times I used it, and then the non-stick flaked off as I washed off the stuck, burnt bacon. Trash.

That’s went I invested in this.

Yes, a fifty (choke) dollar pan exclusively for cooking bacon. But people. People. I want to believe in God again so my mother will watch me from heaven using this dream of a pan. If you spray it with cold water right out of the oven, it does not warp, instead the burnt bacon vanishes. It slides off. If you let the pan sit until it’s cool, just apply a little light rubbing with a nylon pad and the burnt bacon comes off. It holds a full package of normal bacon and even thick-cut bacon fits with a little overlap. I’ve had it a year and it shows no wear.

My childhood bacon trauma is resolved with this pan.

Stop Me If I’ve Said This Before: drafts

I see other bloggers refer to posts they’ve found in their Drafts folder. I think, “I wish I had a Drafts folder. I publish everything, no matter how crappy it is.” 

Evidently not! A recent search to see if I have have yet bragged about how much I love my new bacon burner (broiler pan) pulled up an incoherent, unpublished draft post about religion. 

They were very drafty. Many posts I found in Draft status had already been merged as a bullet in another post, so I immediately deleted them when I saw them.

A number of posts were nothing but the title:

• fire and George - these were a pair of artists Gary and I encountered over thirty years ago.  Fire wrapped a silver wire through her coiffure. I know I’ve mentioned them before.
• Dog autism hard cuddle - this dates all the way back to when I had dogs. I think I was about to compare thunder shirts and weighted blankets to the deep pressure that soothes some people with autism. It must have occurred to me that is offensive, thank god, because it is.
• Striesandeffect / Aniston  efect? /hilary eggevt? - I know I mentioned the Streisand Effect. But I’m pretty sure I didn’t mention the Aniston Effect - “using heartbreak as a catalyst for growth.” And the Hillary Effect is the name of a book, that’s all I know.

Somehow, along with the dismissed or deleted, there are seven draft posts, and thus we have a Friday series called Stop Me If I’ve Said This Before. (I vaguely remember posting some of this garbage before, but the search says I haven't.) I will include the draft stream of consciousness post, and then a translation of what the hell it might have meant. We’re all about the process here. 

Well, not ALL about the process: you haven’t heard me learn to play the guitar.

Then again, publishing the draft posts is scraping the very bottom of the barrel. Perhaps someday I will record my plunky attempts to play “I Vow To Thee My Country,” the song I’ve been working on for five years.

Weekly Paint Progress: 8/27

This week the crypts went from this ...

... to this:

... and the new project is pears! This is from the glazing book, so there will be dozens of layers of very thin paint.

I zoomed in on that. All I have right now is very sketchy sketch.

 

Breathing Update

Well, last week I had work worries and brother worries weighing on my diaphragm, and I was unable to take a deep breath. You know, when you feel like your yawn impulse is suppressed. I know many people can’t catch a deep breath when they are stressed.

Anxiety, I said, and I did what I could to calm myself. Twice I traded dinner carbs and calories for a glass of Moscato. Did no good. Every few minutes I would bend over a chair and catch my breath. It’s a good trick, if you are so afflicted.

Well, let me report that the important work deadline has been met and evidently ...  that was the issue! All my breathing is back. My brother is not particularly better. Hah! Looks like keeping the stressors to one at a time is the trick.

Biden Time

I have a long history with Candidate Joe Biden.

I didn’t know much about him until the end of his first run for President in 1988, when he decided to lift a section of a British politician’s speech without using the words “quote” or “unquote”.

I thought (quote), “Plagarist.” And I wrote him off.

In ‘91, during the Anita Hill hearings, Mom told me she wasn’t watching the hearings because “I can’t stand looking at Joe Biden’s hairplugs.”

I immediately ran to the TV, expecting to see the scalp version of this:

So when he ran again in 2008, I thought, “Oh, the plagiarist with hairplugs.” And after that run failed, Barack Obama picked him as Vice President, and I thought, “I like Obama, so I guess I’ll give the Hairplugged Plagiarist a pass.”

Of course, now we’ve had a dozen years of him in the spotlight. I love him now, because we both cannot keep the thoughts inside our mouths.

Yet even if Biden had never been Vice President, I’m pretty sure that if Trump was the other choice I’d still be all in for President Word-Pirate Baldy McBiden. 

Girls Night In: Covid Edition

Back in the days of the Girl’s Night Out, it seemed that every GNO had a theme. Girl’s Sabbath Out. Conservabration. Biblical GNO. Mormon Inquisition.

The GNOS have fallen off of late. Now that the Covid makes them impossible, of course, we want them.

Initially the Friends wanted a socially distant in-person get together. Six feet apart, masks on except when eating or drinking, so, masks off, essentially. I said unless you can put me in an iPad and prop me up on a table I am not interested.

So Saturday was the Girls Night Out / In / Covideo Conference. We covered the standard complaints, and then talk turned to our various Covid coping mechanisms. Friend #2 wins, because she’s occupying herself with charitable works, yoga and biking and other forms of self-care, and meditation. She didn’t put it that way, of course, but that’s the deal.

I mentioned I was being somewhat meditative when I paint or play the guitar, in that I’m not dwelling on negative thoughts, but it wasn’t like I was being helping myself or anyone else.

“But you’re creative,” they said, “That’s a form of self-care.”

“Well, it’s meditative, because it turns off my mind, but most of what I’m doing isn’t creative at all. I’m just plunking out a song that someone else wrote. I didn’t create it. I’m not even good enough to put a creative interpretation on it. And each painting is either a step-by-step copy of a painting someone else made, or a copy of a photo I took.” Try to compliment me, friends! Hah! I’ll show you! 

So what did I do the next day? I worked on the novel and created all kinds of nonsense.

 

Delusional

I apologize if I have mentioned this before. A few months back, Gary was driving back from his family’s house and became convinced he had flies in his hair and (giggle) a snake in his pants.

He told me this story when he got home, I looked up “delusions in older men,” and I became convinced he has Parkinson’s. There are even tremors (which he claims he has had all his life).

This morning, we were getting ready to leave for the family homestead, we were discussing some strange sound and he said, “Oh, that’s the bathroom fan. I know, it sounds weird. At first I thought that was one of my delusions, like the hair flies and the pants snake —”

“So you’re still having the delusions, then?” I asked. 

“Well, I’m still taking the medication, so I’m still having the delusions.”  And then he blinked at me as if to say, we talked about this, right?

No. We had not talked about this. And we didn’t talk about it this morning either, because I asked if he had confirmed this with a doctor and he huffed at me. 

Come to find out that of the four medications he is on, guess how many list delusions as a side effect? Four! I’m amazed he isn’t petting the ferrets that are nesting in his chest hair.

Prime Watch Party: Opera

So, last night Friend Anne and I watched The Barber of Seville. It is a cousin of the Marriage of Figaro, which is by a entirely different composer. Both use the same set of characters, given they are both based on the same backstory.

I’ve only ever heard the “Figaro” song from this opera (“Figaro Figaro Figaro FigaroFigaroFigaroFigaro Fiig-aaaa-roooo.” That one.)  

It had the same cocky royal barber character you see in the town square in Sweeney Todd, which is based on a really old story too. Barbers must have been fascinating people: part doctor, part celebrity stylist.

I wonder if there are other barber-based works beyond the two Figaro operas and Sweeney Todd. It seems like there should be a barber in Shakespeare or something.

Prime Watch Party: The Scottish Play

A few days ago Friend Anne and I watched Macbeth. We didn’t go to a theater or even a drive-in, we both logged in to Amazon on our PCs and there was an option for Amazon Prime watch party. One person invites the other, and if you are the other, you must use your Amazon Prime login to get the movie to open. (“MacEllen, Thane of Saint Charles” will be rejected.)

Then, after the movie launched, we started typing in the chat window on the side, and it was like Mystery Science Theater 3000, MacBeth Edition.

Macbeth rides a horse without wearing any pants. (That’s going to chafe.)

Macbeth takes a bath in a pond and we simultaneously typed “Well, hello.”

Macduff mourns the death of his wife and all his “sweet chickens.” (MacChickens.)

It was so pleasant we’re doing it again tonight. Not Macbeth this time, but an opera.

Weekly Paint Progress: 8/20

This week the crypts went from this ...

... to this:

Look, Toto, color! The only other colors are going to be touches of rust and a thin wash of brown on the cement. (And I overcorrected in the white scumbling in the cement so now that walking surface has to get a dark wash.) There is also some brick interest I am just ... skipping.

It is almost impossible to take an accurate photo of this. It’s so big, and the phone keeps auto-straightening. I swear it’s much straighter than it seems.

The flowers went from this:

... to this:

It seems like the leaves are competing with the flowers now, but that’s what the book said to do. I think I got the leaf colors wrong. Here’s what’s in the book:

 That’s done then. I think the next small one will be from the glazing book. The next big one might be from life, though.

100 Percent

So I’ve been having some shortness of breath. It happens every once in a while. It’s anxiety-based. 

”IT’S COVID!” Gary said.

“No, it’s not. It’s just Dave being sick and work stuff on top of the global pandemic —“

”CO! VID!”

After a few rounds of this, he went away and came back with his fingertip pulse oxygen meter. 


Like the image, my pulse rate was 75. But the blood oxygen? See how the image displays 99%? Like that’s a goal? Guess what my pulse oxygen was.

One hundred percent. 

“Like Apollo 1,” I said.

”What?” 

“I’m pumped full of pure oxygen. Don’t leave any tools near me. They could spark and I would spontaneously combust.”

He didn’t laugh, but I’m sure he was just grumpy because his pulse oxygen was only 95%.

Updates: Strawberries, Brother, Novel

Update on Strawberries

Well, the squirrel pole vaulted to the strawberry container five feet off the ground and triumphantly hurled one bare root strawberry to the patio, but I will get back at him when I snip off all the runners so no strawberries come to fruition this year. (They say that makes for better strawberries to next year.)

Update on Brother

My brother went in for surgery almost a month ago and just today he got back to his home. He’s still got a long way to go. Ruth Bader Ginsburg just had the same bile duct procedure that Dave had in January. Still, if RBG at 95 keeps pace with my brother, she will still be around on January 20, 2021. Not in top shape, but around.

Update on Novel

Well, since I complained about lack of progress, I almost filled up the Plot Whiteboard. That’s enough plotting to get started writing. I’m not concerned about those two blank spots, supposedly the pinch points are the last two parts to write anyway.

Saint Louis Amusements

Recently, there’s been a run of news for Saint Louisians who want to entertain themselves.

If you are a child and you are looking to pet some goats, the Children’s Zoo at the Saint Louis Zoo is closing. (It does seem odd to have a section of a zoo dedicated to children, like a children’s room at Chuck-e-Cheese.) While they work out what to put in its place, they’re bringing back the animatronic DinoRoarus exhibit. In twenty years there will be a generation of college students arguing dinosaurs are not extinct, they just live in Africa along with the rhinos and all the other animals they saw at the zoo.

If you are a soccer fan, the name for the forthcoming Saint Louis soccer club has been announced, and the name is “Saint Louis City Soccer Club.” I don’t know, I was expecting something alongside the lines of the San Jose Earthquakes or the Colorado Rapids. I know the rest of the world names their teams this way, and you don’t want the Saint Louis Budweisers playing an exhibition game against Chelsea or Manchester someday. 

If you like musical theater, the Muny (our very old outdoor municipal “opera”) has opened up a YouTube channel in lieu of a normal 2020 season. What is the Muny, really, without the sticky heat and humidity or rainouts? It’s live theater, and so they went with a YouTube channel. Show up at 8:15 on certain days and you’ll get something live plus taped performances. Of course, I only heard about it at the 11th hour, just in time for the last week of performances.

 

Spot the Difference

The container on the left is the one I found in my pantry last March.

The one on the right is the one I just got at Target when I was there getting my second Shingrix vaccination.

It looks they no longer make any promises about killing specific viruses, and have instead decided to reassure us that our furniture will be safe.

Dr. Pepper Shortage

Well, now it’s personal.

Actually, the impending Dr. Pepper Shortage in the link above comes at a good time for Gary. For years doctors and dentists have  questioned Gary’s Dr. Pepper habit, and he finally began to listen to them. For three months he’s cut his Dr. Pepper consumption in half, if not more.

Perhaps he will start sipping them now like a rare fine wine.

Birthday Gift

This Amazon package of sugar-free candy was initially scheduled to arrive on my birthday. It came from a third-party seller, so this isn’t an example of Alexa spying on me to or Amazon being overly familiar. It’s probably a coincidence, but it still made me smile.

For my actual birthday gift, Gary got me my own grimoire. This is in keeping with his habit of finding something he likes and buying it for everyone he knows.

He also got me an inexpensive fountain pen. It’s not a fancy wooden one. It’s all matte and military-industrial and it can be dismantled. It makes a very satisfying snap when you put it back together.

The shaft is the kind with tiny nubs so it isn’t always flying off the back swing.

It’s like a fountain pen from some future where the pen is truly an alternative for the sword.

Weekly Paint Progress: 8/13

This week the crypts went from this ...

... to this: ...

The flowers went from this ....

... to this ...

River Cruises

The Viking River Cruise brochure arrived in the mail, and this time, instead of snorting at the idea and throwing it away immediately, I opened it, just to see how much the prices had been discounted. Not that I would think of going, just to comfort myself that there might be a viral silver lining.

Evidently the prices are not discounted at all. I suppose that’s because they are restarting after being stalled since March, and they need to fill the coffers. Plus, anyone who thinks the pandemic has ended, and goes on a cruise, Given that the pandemic started on a cruise, that person is probably deluded enough to pay full Viking River Cruise prices.

The prices are still insane. This from the woman who paid $25 for a raw eight ounce steak.

 

 

 

Fifty-eight

Yesterday I turned 58 years old.

In a strange incident a few days ago at work, my imminent birthday was mentioned and the Young People at work said, “You mean your ‘27th’ birthday, right, Ellen?” 

I was perplexed. Are people still doing that nonsense where you don’t acknowledge that you left your twenties? Plus, the joke is the eternal 29th birthday, not 27th. 

Then, later, because they are Young People, they texted me “Happy 27th birthday” wishes. 

I texted back, “I look really bad for 27.”  Which is true. God forbid a person in their thirties look like her face has slipped its tethers and is floating on top of her bone structure, soon to be dragged inexorably down by the repetitive swing of her wattle.

Balancing the sprouts of grey and the frown line are skills I never dreamed of at 27.

Progress and the Lack of It: Rewriting the Novel Edition

So, other efforts have been progressing at a rate of three-steps-forward-one-back, while Jerry’s novel has been a baby gripping the coffee table.

I’m not too concerned with how slowly it’s going. (You too can play the guitar in only 13 years!) Still, I wonder why the shiny new hobby isn’t taking the place of the painting and guitar hobbies.

I think the painting hobby appeals because it fills my head entirely. If I’m deciding what color to put where over and over for hours then there’s no room for anything else, and I find it very meditative. After a stressful day I run to the basement to dwell on nothing but runs of color decisions. Essentially, it’s an adult coloring book.

The guitar has the opposite appeal: it doesn’t require decisions at all. It requires muscle memory and just enough attention to follow notes in a page. It’s best for me not when I’m stressed, but when I’m stupid or sad. I just go from one note to the other without thinking about it. And then the notes float away, unlike the paintings, which mock me from their stack in the basement.

The novel, though, doesn’t help with stress or stupidity. It’s ... it’s like work, like programming, not a hobby. A thousand pieces that need to fit together, and you better start with an schema and specs or else you are doomed. 

In addition, I feel obliged to work on the novel, not free. It’s not a hobby if you have to work on it. Then again, I wonder, if Jerry had left a guitar, would I have felt obliged to play the guitar? (Of course I would.) Still, having the art supplies from my Aunt Dolores was a similar inherited obligation, and I got over it.

Then again, the only thing that remains of his original novel are the names, the settings, and the descriptions, so all obligations are gone. It isn’t as if I’m finishing his unfinished novel. It’s all mine now.

Hobbies are supposed to be fun. Are they really, though?

Progress and the Lack of It: Guitar Edition

Well, I have made some gains on my guitar. (And it only took thirteen years or so.) I find now that I get a better tone if I press lightly on the strings and play softer. I can very slowly play any song in six keys up through E Major — not quite the five-sharp pinnacle of B Major, but close enough. 

Of course, because I am perverse, any success makes me take a step back, because how else would I find that frustration that I evidently live for? 

All these new keys have been in the open position, which is limiting. (Open position means there are six notes out of seventeen you can play without doing anything with your left hand.) I really should start playing the more difficult positions.

Then again, instead of leaving open position, instead I could focus on playing a mix of chords and notes and see if I can make the chords sound less clunky. That does mean I probably won’t be able to play “Alcohol” or “I’ll Be That Girl,” which is a shame, but the other Barenaked Ladies songs will sound better.

So, as always, three steps forward, one irresistible step back.

Progress and the Lack of It: Body Edition

Process and progress seem to be my focus lately. 

I’ve been watching what I eat, because the early pandemic carbo load took a sixteen pound toll on my body. I am five pounds down, but no more than that. I reassured myself that I felt less blobby, Gary affirmed that I am less blobby, so I felt the de-blobbification had progressed enough that I could try on the clothing I wore eleven pounds ago. Specifically I tried on 1) the jeans I bought the week before the global pandemic, 2) the pants I bought the night before the global pandemic, and 3) the pre-pandemic fat pants. 

(My Global Pandemic Day Zero is the day we got the simultaneous text message / cell call / landline call from TeddyJ saying the office was closed and we should work from home.)

1) Jeans - stretchy, so they zipped up. Snug around the knees. 
2) Pants - I filled out the pleats but they came over my rear with some wiggling.
3) Fat Pants - fat pants fit, thankfully.

I need to remember Progress for me is three steps forward, one step back. Looks like I evaluated my progress on a day I was stepping back.

 

Life in the Big House: the Miniseries

Gary has a journal.

(He chose this journal because he is a goth tween.)

We had a conversation after it arrived. 

He said, ”I think this has magical powers. I had a headache and then I smelled my grimoire and now my headache is gone.”

”Smelled what?”

”This. My grimoire.” 

”Not a real word.”

”Yes it is! Grimoire.”

I looked it up, fully expecting to see it was coined by J.K. Rowling, but it is a word, and has been a word since the early 1800s, no less. 

He plans to use the journal to document the plots of his very involved dreams, though he refuses to refer to it as a dream journal.

On page one he has written “PLOTS” in large letters. Page two is the first “plot” in which he is driving a car, and it falls into a lake, and when it hits bottom it crashes through to a void. He woke up while he was rallying the other void victims to escape. 

Because he’s a lucid dreamer, his plan is to dream in miniseries style. Before bed he’ll read the latest entry in his grimoire, which will be his “Previously seen on” recap, and then carry on with the dream to see what’s next.

As I always say, this ability he has to control his dreams really freaks me out.

Weekly Paint Progress: 8/6

This week the crypts went from this ...

... to this:

... and the flowers went from this: 

... to this:

Not much happened there. A little detail on the two pink and white bottom right flowers and I tried the handle again.

Amendments

My brother and I were discussing politics, and catastrophizing, and speculating on how long it takes to pass an amendment to the constitution, say an amendment to make Presidential terms be eight years instead of four, or one to abolish the electoral college.

A question came up — how long does it take to amend the Constitution.

Per Wikipedia, the shortest and longest spans from proposal to ratification are the last two amendments, in the 70s and the 90s.

Amendment 26 sets the voting age at 18. (If I recall, the argument was that if you are old enough to enlist in the army and die for your country you are old enough to  vote.) From proposal to ratification? 100 days. The Supreme Court ruled on what the Constitution said about voting age, Congress said, “Well, change the Constitution then,” they proposed the amendment, and the states voted on it in 100 days. Can you imagine? 

Amendment 27 ensures that no bounder can 1) be elected to Congress, 2) enact a law to give himself a million dollar salary, 3) rake in millions before possibly being voted out. It was initially to have been part of the Bill of Rights. I suppose the idea was laughable in 1789 when it was proposed, but quite reasonable in 1992 when it passed, 202 years later. (The story of how it was revived and passed should be a movie starring Timothee Chalamet as the student, Daniel Radcliffe as the TA, and  Swoosie Kurtz as the Professor.)

Quite a range -100 days or 200 years. And don’t forget, some people argue the Equal Rights Amendment is still in play.

My Birthday Month

It is my Birthday Month. During my Birthday Month I supposedly win all arguments. So far I have not won any of the arguments we have had. 

Our current argument stems, again, from Gary’s determination that he alone can work on the house. He is the Noble Repairman; outside repairman are not to be trusted. His biology degree authorizes him to  install toilets or fix patios as well as anyone with experience.

For example, the threshold to the back door is rotting, and I no longer think it is an exaggeration to say that we will soon have a threshold made of duct tape. 

And now, one of the two toilets is leaking. I am feeling quite dismayed because he feels that if there’s a leak, you patch it. I feel that if there’s a leak, you find out why there’s a leak and stop it. 

Right now he is patching a leak in the plumbing, and soon he will come to me looking for praise. Praise for patching after I had to beg him like a housewife to get the problem fixed. 

Infuriating.

Plant Update

The stacked container herb garden has become very lush, though it is a challenge fighting through the growth to find the tags that show what I’ve actually planted. I’ve had some caprese salads that were partially made with mint in addition to basil. 

The three tiers of plants at bunny-level have all been nibbled away. The spinach next to the rabbit hole remains untouched, of course, bastards. I added some of “their” spinach to a salad I made yesterday.

I intended to plant some bare-root strawberries in the tower as well, and foolishly ordered strawberries without researching them first. I was mislead by the wild strawberries that infested Mom’s shady backyard. It’s a weed, I thought. All I grow are weeds. Bugleweed, Creeping Jenny, Trumpet vine. I can grow strawberries.

Yeah, no. Even plant experts have trouble growing strawberries. First, you plant them in the spring or fall, you plant them in special soil with a special Ph, you mulch them with pine needles, you amend the soil with sand, oh my god. 

But, I can try. So I planted the bare root plants into the special strawberry bags and planters, sans pine needle and sand and nitrogen. The next steps are sun and water, and if everything goes miraculously there may be strawberry flowers next month that I shall pinch off if I dream of getting strawberries next year. Which, frankly, I don’t.

Seriously. This is strawberry hospice. Lots of tending with no hope. 

In Which We Stimulate the Economy

Last week we learned the US Gross Domestic Product declined dramatically.

Do not blame me. I spent five hundred dollars on groceries last week. I am stimulating the economy as much as I can. 

There were some purchases that would be alarming in any circumstance, like when you have to replace the bottle of olive oil. I think the small bottle of olive oil is usually $12 a bottle, which is why I use the corn oil to clean the paintbrushes, but this time it was $15. Has to be done, I thought, and that bottle will last a long time.

I ordered cherry tomatoes and they substituted a fancy medley of orange, yellow, and dusky red cherry tomatoes, which were delicious, but a dollar more. Screw it, I thought, there’s a pandemic. Don’t sweat the small stuff.

The weekly eight ounce strip steak cost 16 dollars, though I believe it is usually under ten. But why not get it anyway? Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we could quite literally die.

I have never paid six dollars for a box of butter before, but these are strange times.

Ten dollars for a package of bacon comes out to 84 cents per slice of bacon, which is not bad at all, right? 

Besides, Gary’s potato chips were more than than half off, and we stocked up. Four dollars of savings right there.

After all my rationalizations, the total with tax came to $440, and delivery was free, as one would think. When my heart resumed beating came the decision to tip the shopper the recommended amount, which was $63. Small price to pay, I thought, what else am I just going to spend my money on? Gas money? Vacation? 

Well, if it means that I can contain the Covid and stimulate the economy, I don’t mind being gouged. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Covid Cardinals

Oh, Lord, that was fast. When 18 of the Florida Marlins were found to have the Covid, I think we all said, “Florida. Of course.” Because we expect a little extra excitement from Florida. If there is drama to be had, that’s where it will be. Then the Phillies Coach and a staffer got it, but no players.

Sadly, the next team infected were the Saint Louis Baseball Cardinals. Now this is personal.

They haven’t said which two tested positive. I can say if it is Yadi or Waino (or horrors, Yadi AND Waino) there will be rioting in the streets. There will be flowers piled outside Busch Stadium and black versions of the Cardinals logo and the Weatherbird will send get well wishes. 

Supposedly they are only postponing one game and moving it to Sunday. It will be part of a doubleheader in which each game is only seven innings long. Another weird part of a weird season. I’m ready to cancel already.