I wanted to write yesterday. Really I did. But I felt like shit. No, don’t worry it wasn’t the VIRUS. I definitely ate something rotten or swallowed a supplement that my delicate self said “no way!”
I was talking with a friend this morning or maybe it was last night; time seems to be running around in circles for me. Maybe for you too? Anyway my friend said, “I woke up with a scratchy throat and thought “oh no it’s the VIRUS”. So I immediately went to the refrigerator and tasted things, then breathed a sigh of relief. I guess I was sleeping with my mouth open.” I nodded in agreement but we weren’t doing FaceTime so she couldn’t see.
I believe we are all getting a bit obsessed with this scourge… everybody’s sticking thermometers in their mouths (or butts or armpits…or foreheads) and checking for symptoms which to me seems so crazy but then I did that too for a day, and then said “WTF? I’m not getting sick because I’m not going anywhere… so if I feel shitty it’s because of something I ate, an actual insect flew up my nose or some MF bug stowawayed on a grocery bag that I didn’t wipe down with agent bloody orange! I’m gonna be extra vigilant!” Oy.
I also believe we are becoming overly clean… At least some of us are, except when it comes to my showering daily, which I’m not because I don’t give a fuck! Why? because who am I going to see but a masked somebody riding their bike past my house or masked somebody walking their dog, and their dog probably smells worse than my armpits right now and nobody is looking at my hair anyway. So there you have it. A shower every few days.
My hands are incredibly clean, so much so it looks like I’m a “before” ad for handcream, since I wash them for twenty seconds at twenty minute intervals. Is that too much? Did I mention my water bill is also up?
Being home means I’ve made more meals in eight weeks then I made in eight months. I’ve probably consumed more calories but surprisingly I’ve not put on any extra pounds…or Maybe it’s my scale’s elf (who resides within) who doesn’t want me to be more depressed than she thinks I am.
Elves inside a scale? Of course. I certainly wouldn’t keep an elf on a shelf, there’s no privacy there. Maybe the whole elf thing is because I’ve been hooked on romantic fantasies lately.
Yes, being home means I’ve read more books in eight weeks then I’ve read in eight years. By my calculations at 1.25 books per day, that’s over seventy books. Now if you ask me what I’ve read I’d have to say it’s the same basic book written seventy different ways by a dozen different authors. The premise of all nigh unto six dozen tomes? Capable, intelligent, witty and beautiful woman travels back in time or to a parallel universe or another planet, to meet a handsome, initially gruf, sexy, warrior or lord or prince or king or all the above. She is conflicted. Choose Portal #1 Stay with hunk, live without conveniences such as plumbing, feminine hygiene products, ben & Jerry’s and be constantly sated by fan- fucking-tastic sex….or Portal #2 go home to a crap job in the hood and hookups on tinder. To me it’s a no-brainer, take el puerto numero uno…but then I’m seventy and I’ve got pretty good 20-20, plus none of the books have a plague like we’ve got now. Escapism is my go-to right now. A girl must have her fantasies.
GOkay. You’ve heard from me. Perhaps I’m a day late and a buck and three-hundred-eighty sense (cents?) short, but who’s counting? If you are, you’re definitely reading the wrong blog.