Friday, 27 March 2020

Musings from Self-Isolation-Day...I No Longer Give a Fuck (Day 11)

Day...I've lost count. Whatever the fucking day it is, it is.

I had an interesting conversation with my mother yesterday. She and my dad are also self-isolating in their apartment following their snowbirding south and are a day behind us. Not that it matters all that much. My mother, a retired nurse, asked me what I thought would be different at the end of our fourteen days. After about a second and a half, I replied,

"Not a fucking thing."

Yes...I have taken to swearing during conversations with my mom. And no, she isn't at all impressed by it but she understands where and why I feel I must.

She readily agreed. After fourteen days we will still be stuck in the same places where we are right now.


Because this misery doesn't follow our timelines. As much as the Auburn Asshole to the south wants his hypnotized minions to believe that it will all be over by Easter, the science tells us a vastly different story. Many of us would like to pretend that it isn't so, but science doesn't pick political sides. It simply is. The waves and crests coming out of China, Italy, Spain, and other world hotspots, have shown that despite the rantings of The Really Unstable Genius, the only way to stop the spread is to socially isolate and shut it all down. The stories coming out of Florida, Mississippi, and Louisiana are positively dystopian. Obdurate governors in southern states who are overturning stay-at-home orders from mayors and county officials are simply blinded by the politics and cult of the Umber Imbecile. I have no doubt that they will all have blood on their hands and will one day have to answer for their stupidity.

Please. I'm begging all of you.

Stay in place. Don't visit. Don't plan for in-person Passover Seders, even with your closest relatives. If they don't live with you, they can't join you. Don't bring children to visit their grandparents. Shop online if possible and have it delivered.

In other words...


So, in answer to my mom's question as to what will change after fourteen days...very little.

I would like to walk outside for five minutes. I haven't even seen our newly renovated lobby in our building.

My mother would like to do some laundry in the machines in her building rather than washing her undies in the bathroom sink.

Unless I am dressed in a fucking hazmat suit that has been double-dipped in bleach, I'm not going to any stores. My personal risk is simply too high.

Given the magnitude of the crisis, we need to be mentally and physically prepared to hunker down for the long term. Very little is going to change at the end of our fourteen days.

Some random thoughts.

I am hitting my tolerance limit when it comes to positive affirmation statements online. I have taken to rewriting them. Today's gem. "You're not stuck at home. You're safe at home." To which I wanted to reply, "If he's so safe at home with me, then why is The Husband hiding in the closet?" Really, people. When this is all over, I am coming for all of you cheery, positive people. I'm going to bring a bit of hard-assed anarchy into your lives. Count on it.

I aggravated my sciatic nerve yesterday because of course, I needed a bit more discomfort in my life right now. I haven't had a flare-up in more than five years. How did this happen, you may ask? I have no bloody idea. I just know that I was playing guitar when it wrenched and sent blistering, coursing pain down my right leg. The moral of the story? Music doth not have enough charms to soothe the savage ache. I'm sitting on an icepack as I compose this post.

Does anybody in the GTA really believe that Pusateri's just made a "mistake" in jacking up the price of Purell by ten times its norm? C'mon! If you believe that, then I have a Covid-free toilet for you to lick. This is a store that regularly charges its customers eight dollars for an apple and six bucks for a carton of OJ. This wasn't a mistake. They finally got caught gouging their customers and it came at the worst possible time for them. The public shaming is well-earned.

I am in absolute awe of all of you who have self-isolation schedules and are sticking to them. All of these photos of kids cooking with mom or settling in to clean out your closets are positively inspiring. Today I managed to change from my black sweatpants to my grey sweatpants. That's only partially true. I also changed into a clean sweatshirt, sans bra, of course, and I dried my hair for the first time in three days. I also ate peanut butter. I hate peanut butter. It's the end of the world as we know it.

For those of you who have asked, both online and off, about The Husband and His Twin Son converting the distillery over to produce hand sanitizer, the answer is a resounding yes. They are partnering with another friend in the business to make, bottle, and distribute the gelatinous gold to first responders of York Region and other essential services that need to remain open during the crisis.  Hospitals and first responders are receiving it free of cost, a small thank you for the yeoman's job they are all doing. THEY WILL NOT BE SELLING TO THE PUBLIC. So, please do not, I repeat DO NOT, under any circumstances, visit the distillery in search of it. There are organizations and front-line workers who need it far more urgently than does a Thornhill, Boca-babe wannabe who is just looking to stockpile and hoard. I am so very proud of these guys. The Husband, Twin Son, Older Son, and the others in the distillery are true mensches. They are contributing to the fight and they are doing it with heart, soul, and a pure sense of Tikkun Olam, the reparation of the world. Carry on, gentleman.

Today's music break comes from Broadway. Multiple Tony award-winning uber writer, Terrence McNally died this week from complications due to Covid-19.  He was equally adept at writing books for major musicals like Kiss of the Spider Woman and Ragtime, and plays like Master Class and Love! Valor! Compassion! He will be truly missed. Here is the prologue from his masterpiece, Ragtime. One of the great opening numbers in Broadway history.

Wash your hands. Don't touch your face. Be kind. Stay healthy.

Shabbat Shalom, to all who observe.

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