If you have an HOA...

According to the Covenants, Conditions & Restrictions (CC&Rs) of our Homeowners Association, we must seek approval from our immediate neighbors whenever we plan to make changes to the outside of our homes. Even, it seems, if the change is to a fully enclosed, private backyard. I learned this when a neighbor requested my signature on a form for such a purpose. The neighbors, it seems, wish to install a pool.

In response to their cover letter, I responded:

Dear Neighbors!

Nice to "meet" you! We are also full-time residents and, like you, find our street lovely. Ah, the warm breezes, construction dust, roosters, and traffic noise. Soon, we shall also have street lamps to light our night skies. And to think, all of that at no extra charge!

If you would kindly schedule your construction while we are out of town, we would appreciate it. Otherwise, we may need to turn up the volume on our karaoke and, surely, you wouldn’t want that. 

We are feeling left out, however, as we may be the only ones on the street with no pool. You wouldn’t mind putting in a gate in our common wall, would you? We’ll bring the chips! (Also, you don’t mind if we swim naked, do you?)

We appreciate you letting us know about your backyard improvements as we were not aware that modifications to the backyard were subject to our HOA's robust CC&Rs. With that in mind, we must let you know that we are building a rocket. We will be very conscientious of the noise moving forward and will let you know when we start taking delivery of rocket fuel. While the rocket itself is only temporary (we hope to launch sometime in 2022), the launch pad itself could be considered permanent. Perhaps we can re-purpose it as a stage for live music. It’s certainly something to think about.

We are most happy to sign your form. If you have any concerns about the rocket, feel free to notify the architectural committee. (There’s no need to notify our other neighbor since they have moved, prompting us to wonder if they knew about the rocket.)

Your form is enclosed. Please feel free to disregard everything else. 

:-)

We have not heard from our neighbors since and have left town in case they have notified the authorities about the rocket.

Pinch me

I remember reading a year ago how adults were telling their senior parents to stay home, to stop getting together with other people, to be safe. But, no. They wanted to party.

Not me. I stayed home. I neither warned my parents to put away their party shoes, nor was I warned by my own kids. It seemed simple enough at the time. Stay home. 

And, so I did.

Then it was masks and social distancing for so long it verged on what I began to think of as normal. No big deal, right?

And then the masks came off which made me nervous. Can we hug people now? Do we shake hands or are we still twisting our arms around to bump elbows? It still felt natural to keep six feet of distance from the next guy in line for coffee or a register but I felt a little naked, at first, without the mask. The instinct to double check that I had one in my purse was real.

And, then, my first party in over a year. I am not talking about a genteel gathering. This was a full-blown party with a live band. People crowded together, leaning in with their drinks, faces mere inches apart so we could hear each other. We breathed the same air, each other's breaths. It was bizarre after so many months of near isolation.

That was a week of starved zombies coming out to feed: pool party, live-band party, karaoke party. We couldn't get enough.

Yes, karaoke. Yes, I sang. 

And, yes, we all shared the same microphone without wiping it off in between.

Have we all lost our minds or have we forgotten what normal looks like? Just yesterday, I sat at a bar and sat next to a dude. Did I mention:

A) at a bar?

B) next to some dude? Next. to. some. dude!

Maybe I'm not ready for all this.

Maybe it was all a bad dream.

True Story

We meet a guy who appears to be traveling with his girlfriend. His name is Champagne. He gives us his card. His name really is Champagne. He is a traveling salesman and he sells seeds.

His traveling companion, Lily, is a Hooter’s bartender. She is also a real estate agent. It turns out she is not Champagne's girlfriend. The traveling seed salesman has kidnapped her. We decide to buy them a drink (why not?) and they tell us their stories.

Champagne speaks to Hubby while Lily bends my ear. When I tell her where we’re from, she tells me she has a golf tournament in our city soon. I ask her what her handicap is and she says it’s 7 or maybe 5. I think she must be a pretty good golfer until she says her handicap depends on how long the hole is, that she prefers her shorter irons to the the longer clubs. I wonder if she's as talented at real estate.

Champagne says Lily is a terrible bartender. Lily shoots back that’s because she’s just being professional and she doesn’t want him to get drunk yet it’s clearly apparent that they both are currently. 

They tell us they were drunk last night as well when they spent the night together (not sleeping together, she assures us, saying she is one-third virgin). The night involved being stalked by her ex-boyfriend of three months, six months ago, who kicked in her door and took her phone. Then there is something about how she couldn’t drive her new car, not because she was drunk, but because she bought a car with a manual transmission and she doesn’t know how to drive a stick shift. In any case, Champagne rescued the bad bartender by taking her to his house, possibly driving her car, where they drank until they fell asleep. 

He woke up early because he had to hit the road. He had to sell seeds but she was sound asleep on his couch. So he loaded her into his truck and took her with him with nothing but what she had on. It seems she was agreeable enough to the arrangement when she came to because she was still with him after a shopping trip to Target to get a bathing suit and a change of underwear.

As we take our leave, I remind myself to see if there's a Hooter’s golf tournament coming to our town in the next month. We say our goodnights. They are arguing about how there’s no chance they’d ever sleep together considering she’s such a bad bartender and he’s the doofus who kidnapped her which is okay as long as he gets her home before her next shift and she can borrow his phone so she can check social media to see what her ex is up to.

We wish them luck.

We bet they sleep together.

Hubby Is My Coffee Dealer

Hotel room coffee is sketchy, at best. You make it in a well worn seasoned coffee maker that pumps artesian, unfiltered water through a plastic pod containing wood pulp coffee grounds into a sterilized, plastic-wrapped paper cup.

Imagine, then, that we were presented with a choice whilst on the road. No, not like a choice between caffeinated and non-caffeinated wood pulp coffee but a between regular and dark roast wood pulp coffee. But here’s the catch. We had one regular wood pulp coffee pod, one dark roast wood pulp coffee pod, and one tea pod. (Which, upon reflection, was probably all the same wood pulp thing.)

We both wanted the dark roast (which, again, upon reflection, probably made no difference.) So Hubby, in a self-preservation, if he knows what’s good for him when it comes to coffee white knight sort of moment, went to find someone who could help him out. Don’t come back without the real deal! I shouted.

Housekeeping was done for the day so he went to the Front Desk.

The Front Desk only had the regular coffee-like stuff. Nervously, he accepted two pods. He headed back to the room with coffee but not the right coffee so he had to think fast. 

He tailed spotted a woman who was just dragging her luggage into her room. He approached her carefully saying, “I don’t want to scare you but do you drink coffee?” What ensued was a trade: his two regular coffees or her two (how is it that she had two?) dark coffees.

The deal completed, he returned. 

The monster within me was sated and the world turned.

Honestly? The coffee wasn’t that bad.

(This is just a draft - needs to percolate but I think it’ll get stronger.)

A thought that counts might not pay

In an effort to be less lazy at work, I got up early - before six. It was already too hot to think about working out (we're headed for 120 degrees today), so I found the coolest spot in the yard to drink a cold coffee and read the paper.

Then, as is my morning routine, I checked the emails on my phone. There were several interesting items that seemed to warrant further investigation. a Facebook post from a niece which lead to investigating a post from the Vancouver Beer & Wine Fest which prompted me to see what was happening at other northwest venues (Esther Short Park, Sunlight Supply Amphitheater, Edgefield). Of course, this necessitated looking at AirBNB to see where we might stay if we were going to get out of the hot desert in August.

Then, there was an article about Ajijic, Mexico, which, again, necessitated another investigation into AirBNB. There were e-mails from LaQuinta Brewing, and San Diego Beer News which both seemed important considering it's Friday and there's a whole weekend ahead of us. 

At 8, it was still early - an impressive time to log into work this time of year. I powered up my desktop and found more required reading at 76003.1414. There might have been some more AirBNB inquiries. A personal email. A chair at Ikea I was interested in buying. By 8:30, I was seriously thinking about logging into work, though, but I recalled that I hadn't brushed my teeth yet. Working from home, I attended to that easily when Hubby let me know the installers for the ceiling fans were on their way. Since one was to be installed in my office space, it didn't make sense for me to log in until they were through.

It was nine now. Still plenty of time to get to work at a decent hour (considering I haven't had much luck logging in before 10 since the tax deadline passed). I made toast for breakfast. Then a latte. Then, I considered the irony of waking up early and logging in late (the inspiration for this post). Writing this seemed to be a good use of my time while the installers finished their work.

And, like magic, it was 10 am and I was late for work again.

I should have just slept in.

Outsmarted, in the end.

There are some things I don’t want to do on a public wifi such as any kind of banking transaction. Or any kind of download of any kind regardless of the source. On a recent trip (and on many such trips), I find that WiFi is available but the security is - well, is there any? At least if I have to give up my name and room number, that’s something. (Isn’t it?) Sometimes there’s a password but it’s the same password for everyone. Do they change it on a regular basis? I guess if it’s a hotel you go to on a regular basis, you would know that but what if you’re just passing through?

Anyway, I had an idea for a post and I wanted to draft it so I opened my laptop and searched for a connection. No one is going to steal this post but, still, I didn’t want to open an open line to my what-feels-like-my-entire-life. So I tried to connect to my phone as a hotspot which I can do on Bluetooth but for some reason (which probably has to do with getting both a new phone and changing cellular networks), it wouldn’t connect via WiFi and since I didn’t want to connect on a public WiFi, I couldn’t look up how to resolve this on the interwebs. (I tried looking on my phone but didn’t type in the correct phrase to elicit an immediate solution.)

All I wanted to do was draft a post. I was about to give up and thumb tap it out on my phone when I realized *forehead slap* that you don’t need the internet to write.

Waaaaay back in the day, we called it “word processing.” It was made-up PR jargon that meant “typing on a computer.” And you know what? You can still type on a computer. Without the internet. It’s like writing with a pen on paper.

It’s so archaic.

But here’s the thing. It still works.

(And it’s secure.)

This word processor disagrees.

Life after tax season

Life after tax season is all about getting your life back: sleep, personal hygiene, exercise, proper nutrition, and conversations that do not include the words "bond premium amortization." I would include detoxing from caffeine and chocolate here but that's generally a permanent condition.

In this comic strip, Pearls Before Swine by Stephan Pastis for May 26, 2021, Rat begins the practice of daily meditation which makes him late for work. It reminds me of my own attempt to regain the mental and physical aspects of my life. Immediately after tax season, I thrust myself headlong into my old workout routine but without any sense of time or priority. There was coffee to attend to first and probably a load of laundry. There was a period of wandering about the house not understanding the lack of pressure to do anything by any specific time.

Everything seemed to be going fine. It was 7 o'clock in the morning. Still, plenty of time to work out and get to work. Somehow, it became 8 o'clock which was fine. I don't know how it got to 11 o'clock before I signed into work or where those hours were lost like blank pages in my journal. Perhaps there was a disruption in the space-time continuum. The lost time was baffling.

The only good news, with respect to my boss's approval or disapproval, is that everyone else in the office is going through the same thing, each of us reintegrating with her life the best way she can. It's like re-entry from outer space. It can be a little bumpy, abrupt, and disorienting.

As a collective, we should be back to normal in about a week. In the meantime, I'll be floundering in that general direction and maybe I'll get to work by 10.

There's ping pong where I work.

 

It just happens to be on my dining room table.

1

One more day until the magic happens. Not that there hasn't been plenty of bandwidth magic. The magic is always there but the real magic - the "I don't know how they do it" magic - happens in the last few days. We become one tax preparing organism. It's like sharing the same thoughts, helping each other out, knowing what needs to get done and stepping in where there's a gap. It can't be explained but it's always there.

Today is the last real dig into the reserves. Most of those reserves were used up yesterday in an all-day, late night session - people going above and beyond. One more bleary-eyed, coffee-fueled day. One more day of forsaking family, chores, and (in mild cases) personal hygiene. One last day of delaying self care - the stuff that won't hurt if put off but will catch up with you if you put it off too long. Like sleep, exercise, and a diet that consists of anything but coffee and chocolate. 

That's today.

Because tomorrow is tax day. Tomorrow is the day for double-checking lists and waiting until we can lock the door. There's always that one guy that comes in at the last minute but there's got to be a limit. The tax filing deadline might be midnight but we're locking the door at five. We're going to go get a drink. We're going to get reunited with our families and our better selves. We're going to get some sleep. Heck, we might even take some time off! Maybe some self-pampering. What do you think about that?

But we still have to get through today.

One.

more.

day.

2

Do you ever dream about tax returns? 

No?

I don't recommend it.

3

 The rule used to be "don't speak to me before I've had my coffee." 

Now it's "don't speak to me until Tuesday."

4

 There is a light at the end of the tunnel.

Right?

5

6

7

 ... or 8, depending on how you look at it.

8

9

10

 For real this time...

May the fours be with Hugh.

 https://www.gocomics.com/pearlsbeforeswine/2021/05/02

Work is unavoidable.

... for the next two weeks.

 

Siri was pissing me off so I downloaded Alexa to my phone. Now, neither one will talk to me.

I just got a new phone and the iOS that goes with it which, apparently, also updated Siri. I guess the idea was to make him seem more conversational. (My Siri identifies with he/him/his.) Problem is, he’s a little too relaxed. I think he might be high, in fact.

When I say, “Hey, Siri” a full second or two will pass before he says, “Yeah.”

Yeah? Is that a proper way to respond? To anyone? I might start a request and then I’m interrupted with, “Yeah.” I’m not even sure it’s a question. It’s more like a “Yo” than a “How can I help you?”

But, then Alexa arrived in my life. While Siri lives on my phone, Alexa lives on my kitchen counter. Whenever I was cooking and noticed I was running low on something, I would go back to my office and ask Siri to add the item to my grocery list, whenever he deigned to answer me at all. It quickly became obvious that it would be easier to just tell Alexa to add the item to the list. And, since Siri was being rather aloof, it made sense to put Alexa on my phone as well.

Except she doesn’t like my phone and Siri doesn’t like Alexa and now nobody will talk to me. Except Samuel L. Jackson which is pretty fun. 

I’m just saying, nobody’s expendable. Got that, kids?

This is not a tax deadline.

 If this was an actual deadline, you would have been directed to: 

Just like that, the beautiful mess was gone. The dynamic changes again.

On day three, the dynamic changed when the oldest decided he didn’t want to participate in the herd anymore. He’s practically a teen, you see. The herd dynamic changed and new alliances formed and feelings got hurt when one was left out. They were tired and worn out from hours in the hot sun, turning pink, their feet bleeding from rough surfaces, soldiering on so the fun wouldn’t end.

Day four, the oldest opted out again but the herd adjusted. He was missed but no longer crucial to the functioning of the herd.

And then it was over. Half of the herd left and the dynamic is fated to change again. Seven became four. The teenager wants nothing to do with his sister. The adults are busy with work. Order is restored and fun is left to each own’s devices (generally, electronic these days). Boredom and frustration set in. Adults check their watches frequently, wondering when they get their lives back. Tick, tock - don’t tease your sister!

We’ll probably go to the pool again, risking skin cancer and permanent damage to the soles of their feet in the hope there will be other kids there who can join our herd. Until 27 days from now, the youngest of our herd predicted, when they will flock back. For a week, he says.

Sounds good to me.



(How about Labor Day weekend?)

Herd immunity?

More of the same. I was up first and went straight to work. The day was busy and consisted of feeding, cleaning, swimming, herding, feeding, cleaning, crafts, and freestyle wrap by Chicken Nugget (aka C-Man). The rest of the stage show included themed clapping (cheer clap!), and dancing in the kitchen.

At the pool, the kiddos multiplied. We started with four and ended with four (thank the heavens) but in between they swelled to an alarming number, especially when you consider we live in a retirement community. Where did they come from? The under 10 year-old-crowd outnumbered the over by, dare I say, 10 to 1. 

There’s a funny line between your space, ordered the way you like it, and another muddled space where you don’t really care about the line. Most of the time, the line is a defended border. When the border is breached, the mess can be beautiful.

I’m now immune to the herd (or, quite possibly, I’m numb from the wine). I will feel a hole when the herd is gone. Peace and order will be restored. The border will be re-established and I will need to be inoculated again.

The dynamic changes when there’s a herd. They mostly take care of themselves. Well, except for the feeding, cleaning, transporting, supplying, washing, folding, limiting… 

Somehow it all comes together.

Day two.

This is when I would normally post "10"

... but it's really 42.

Forty-two .... 

Ugh.

Could be worse. 

Could be 10.

Spring Break

A collaborative day. Three adults and four kids. A decent match. 

I was up by 6 and started work by 6:30 am. D was the second to rise at 7. The rest followed and soon the day was a hive of activity. Breakfasts, commutes, pick ups, drop offs. Work, play dates, indoor activities, outdoor activities. Juggling schedules and covering for each other. Sunshine, exhaustion. Clean up and do it again. Snack. Build a fort out of blankets and cushions and leave it there because it’s no longer worth the effort to pick things up. Dinner and clean up again. Laughter, games, loud. Decibels up. Decibels down. 

Slowing down, the adults unwind, the kids settle into quieter activities. I find a moment of silence. (This one, now.) A breeze. A fountain. (A glass of wine, thank goodness.) Sleep is not far behind and I am not afraid that the kids may have to fend for themselves.

Surrender.

It was great.

My creation is completed.

Yesterday morning, I woke up first as I often do. I had poured myself a cup of cold coffee and was reading the paper when I heard Hubby stirring. I really like a hot coffee on the weekends and he prefers cold so I poured my joe into his cup (reading, "The Man, The Myth, The Legend") and prepared to greet him as he shuffled into the kitchen.

The sun was streaming in the windows, the day was young with promise, the fountain on our beautiful patio was beckoning us outdoors. My heart was full with gratitude for all that we have, not the least of which being each other. 

I prepared to welcome him into my open arms and greet him with a kiss but he reached for the coffee cup still in my hand. It was only a second before he realized the error, if you could call it that. He relaxed into my embrace and then went for the coffee but not before I noticed the shift in priority: coffee first, hug second.

I completely understand. My work here is complete.

It's like I've never made coffee before.

Maybe it's a sign that my mental acuity is in decline but I temporarily forgot how to make coffee. 

On my first attempt, I forgot to put the top on the carafe before pressing the brew button. This is a problem because without the lid, the coffee won't pass from the filter into the carafe. The idea behind this feature is if you pull the carafe out while it's still brewing you can pour a cup of coffee without the still-brewing coffee dripping, searing, onto the hot plate below. (In the old days, if you couldn't wait to get your first cup of coffee, try as you might, coffee would always - always - sizzle on that hot plate.) Without that lid, the water just floods the filter basket and eventually overflows wet coffee grounds all over the counter.

I pulled the plug, cleaned up the mess, and started over. This time, I forgot to put the coffee grounds in. I figured out my mistake when I noticed the warm fluid in the carafe was completely clear. I panicked and tossed the coffee grounds in the filter basket after it was already about half through the brew cycle. I ended up with a very translucent brew that looked more like tea which is the definition of weak coffee. (I like coffee dark and thick enough to chew on.) I tossed the whole batch out.

At this point, I was out of ice.

The coffee I was making was what is sometimes referred to as Japanese Iced Coffee or flashed chilled coffee. Using this method, you substitute half the water in the carafe with ice. After pouring the water into the coffee maker, the coffee is brewed directly onto the ice.

But I was out of ice so I so I had to wait.

Thank goodness I have an espresso maker because waiting will not do.

And, thank goodness I remembered how to make that because the situation was becoming dire. (Lives were at stake!) 

Later that day, I was able to make my flashed chilled coffee and order was restored to my refrigerator and to my coffee cup the next morning. And the world was safe again.

Off the grid is great until you need a pizza

The idea of getting off the grid, unplugging, having some privacy from the digital world that follows you around in your pocket, is appealing. Some people do it. Many have envisioned it. There are practicalities to consider like services that you hope you will never need but if you do, you really, really need. Like emergency services.

Or pizza. Trying getting DoorDash when you don't have an address. Or Amazon Prime. Sure, these are things we can live without but we sure have become accustomed to instant gratification, delivered, haven't we?

I just purchased a new address that didn't exist. We moved, actually, to a brand new home. So new, the neighborhood is still being built around it. So new, Google didn't know it existed.

Let that sink in a second. Google didn't know my address existed. It felt like I had disappeared in a sense. In the sense that Google couldn't find me. Of course, they could but it was harder to be found by the people I wanted to find me. Like family. Or pizza delivery. Or, more importantly, furniture delivery.

In the satellite view in Google Maps, our house is still being built but anything north of us is still dirt. Those homes don't even exist on the satellite images yet. Interestingly, Apple Maps had already had our address. Google was behind the curve.

Now I know about Plus Codes and pins. These are features inside Google maps that allow you to share a location without an address. Or, you can share a specific location even if a building has an address. Like a specific entrance to a large building or venue.

I actually asked Google to take me back. "Please, Google, put me on the map." Which, of course, they did. Whatever momentary illusion to privacy I held is gone. But, I got my pizza and if I'm lucky the furniture will arrive later today so I'll have something to sit on when I eat it.

Thank you Google. I'm sorry I ever thought to leave you.

Time Flies By

 The Earth Orientation Centre has announced there will be no leap second added at the end of June 2021. Leap seconds have been added roughly every year and a half to adjust for the difference between atomic clocks and the time it takes for the earth to complete one revolution around its axis. Now, we have too many. Seconds, that is.

Despite how it seemed to drag on, and the Leap Year, 2020 was unusually fast.

The 28 fastest days on record (since 1960) all occurred in 2020, with Earth completing its revolutions around its axis milliseconds quicker than average. 

Space.com | Earth is whipping around quicker than it has in a half-century

 This raises the question of whether a negative leap second will be introduced. Should that happens, the last second of the year will disappear. Ryan Seacrest will count down, "... five, four, three two." That's it. Anyone who was born in the last second of any year, will be skipped over for birthday presents. Celebratory kisses will occur one second earlier. Whatever 2021 brings, good or bad, will be over.

 The night will be that much shorter. Coffee will reach my lips that much sooner. And we will all be older, regardless of how you measure it.

A perfect end to an imperfect year.

We had no plans to celebrate the end of the year. There wasn't much to celebrate other than it was finally over! For dinner, we made a steak in our cast iron skillet and served it with sides of mashed sweet potato and peas. And just because it was still 2020, and because the question of what else could go wrong left open the possibility that something would go wrong, the cast iron skillet exploded on our induction burner resulting in a crack halfway across the pan.

The steak, thankfully, was still fine and dinner was delicious. The pan, like 2020, is ruined.

Also on the last day of the year, I received a phone call from Eisenhower Health. Apparently, while I was at the hospital for a high fever earlier in the month, I may have been exposed to the coronavirus. They were required by the county to inform me of this and to find out if I had any symptoms. Luckily, I never developed any other than the fever and I had self-quarantined for ten days. Nevertheless, the irony was not lost on me: Best not to go to the hospital if you can help it. This was true, more than ever, in 2020.

When I think back to all the events of 2020, both personal and global, I liken the past year to living on a deserted island. Thrust into a situation of no one's choosing, we were isolated, lacked toilet paper, suffered mental challenges, found new ways to toil but found money useless: We could not travel off the island and there were no restaurants. We went gray and or grew beards. Personal grooming became meaningless.

There were other events that were exactly the opposite of a deserted island - or maybe a divided one, much like my cast iron skillet. Riots raised our awareness while the election made us want to cringe from awareness. 

I haven't even touched on the wildfires or murder hornets. There was a pandemic, for crying out loud - the storm that landed us on our islands.

There were births. There were marriages. Love was transmitted through the ether to family and friends who were on their own deserted islands. We made an effort to connect however we could. There were bright moments. 

The pan cracked but it didn't break apart.

Take the 7-day poop challenge!

I can't remember where I heard about this but I jotted it down in a notebook I carry for such things -  funny things I hear, see, or read about. The problem is that when I finally get around to reading my notes, I forgot where I heard or saw whatever I've listed or what my notes even mean.

One item, I set up as a reminder. Once a month, I would get a notification on my phone that read, "Stop doing that shit." I didn't know what my phone was trying to tell me or what shit it caught me doing so I would reset the reminder for a month later. Four weeks would pass and again I would be reminded to "stop doing that shit." I started getting paranoid.

Finally, I typed "stop doing that shit" into a search engine and discovered it was a title to a book: Stop Doing That Sh*t: End Self-Sabotage and Demand Your Life Back. Apparently, someone recommended the title to me. All I typed into my phone was "stop doing that shit" and then forgot all about it. (It was a good book, by the way.)

Speaking of shit, I have no idea where the 7-day poop challenge came from but decided to type that into my search engine. 

Remind me to to stop doing that shit.

May Fred be with you.

The Danish word for Peace is Fred. It's pronounced frell but as if you had a mouth full of mashed potatoes. 

I like Fred. (I also like mashed potatoes.) I think we could all do with a little more Fred. (Come to think of it, more mashed potatoes would be okay with me, too.) 

I hope you experience Fred in 2021. We invite Fred into our lives, our minds, and our hearts. And may there be Fred between you and I.

Doesn't that make you want to picture us holding hands with Fred? Let's celebrate Fred! Yay, Fred!

(Yay, mashed potatoes!)

A common question: Who should get the COVID vaccine first?

Of course that's already been decided but among those considered for first in line was Santa.

An early prediction on NPR's "Wait Wait...Don't Tell Me!" was offered by Adam Burke:

"I really hope it's going to be Santa Claus. Given the way he shoves himself down our chimneys, drinks from our milk glasses and ho-ho-hos all over our living rooms, he's superspreading more than just joy if we're not careful."

Valid and more than a little troubling. An invitation, if nothing else, for us to rethink the whole Christmas package distribution and reward scheme.

But before you sanitize the hearth, erect plastic shields around your Christmas tree, and don protective gear instead of festive pajamas consider this: At a press conference on Monday, the World Health Organization has confirmed that Santa, while quite old, is immune to the novel coronavirus according to NBC News. Additionally, world leaders around the world have lifted travel restrictions especially for him on Christmas Eve.

What scientists don't know, however, is whether Santa can transmit the disease. Therefore, the WHO also directed a warning for children:

"Physical distancing by Santa and of the children themselves must be strictly enforced, so it is really important that the children of the world still listen to their moms and dads and guardians and make sure they go to bed early on Christmas Eve," she said. 

Parents who remain awake amidst the paper and ribbon and the last of the 'nog can track Santa's progress around the globe here: North American Aerospace Defense Command Official Santa Tracker.

My short stint as a mule

I discovered two things recently: First, that some Walgreens locations will dispose of your expired or unused prescription or over-the-counter medicines. Second, that I had a lot of unused or expired medicine.

While reorganizing our bathrooms and hall closets, I found all sorts of old cold medicines, pain killers and anti-inflammatories, and toxic opioids that had been prescribed after past surgeries. It was surprising, when amassed together, how much there was. 

Flushing these medicines down the toilet introduces them to our water supply. Similarly, throwing them in the trash not only adds drugs to our soil and water, they can be potentially dangerous to anyone who might otherwise get their hands on them. Nevertheless, the FDA informs that it is possible to flush or throw away unused drugs if a drug take back program is not available. Had I known this, I might not have sought out Walgreens. And, having found Walgreens, I might have paid a little more attention to the information on their website.

Somehow, I got it in my head that the disposal site was nothing more than a cardboard box with markings that identified its purpose. The many reasons that would be a ridiculous idea never occurred to me not the least of which being that anyone could have reached into a cardboard box and taken out a random handful of drugs. Instead, and rightfully so, the box was more like a mailbox with a one-way slot making it possible to deposit but not withdraw. 

Considering I was about to haul in a bag of drugs into a Walgreens - or anywhere else for that matter - I decided to put my thin plastic bag of goodies into a reusable grocery bag thinking that was far more discreet. Again, not considering the obvious reasons for not doing this, I was disappointed that the imagined open-top cardboard box was not prominently displayed by the front door like the RedBox machine. This was not a situation where I could just walk in with a bag of drugs, drop them, and then turn around and leave. No, I had to walk through the store to the back where the mailbox style receptacle was located, near the Pharmacy.

Of course, that makes perfect sense as does the fact that there's always two lines at the Pharmacy. One for ordering, one for pickup. There were only a half dozen people waiting as I made my way to the box. Addressing one gentleman, I stupidly asked if he was waiting. For what, I asked myself later, I don't know. The drug box? Nothing else he might have been waiting for made any difference to my purpose unless he was waiting for a woman with a bag of drugs to walk up looking to give them away as if it was Halloween. 

In any case, he wasn't waiting, so I proceeded with my deposit. One hand being occupied with holding the grocery bag that contained a second bag which contained the drugs, I could make my deposit only with the other hand. I reached for an orange bottle of pills and put it in the slot and heard it rattle to the bottom of an empty metal drum. I reached for the next item. And the next. And the next. (Expired NyQuil makes a particularly loud thump.) At one point a lone, unidentifiable capsule still in its impenetrable bubble wrap fell to the floor and I thought for a split second that I could just ignore it and leave it there but was sure at this point that I had the full attention of anyone who was waiting in line to pay money for some of the drugs I was throwing away while simultaneously wondering how it was a person could have that much to get rid of. 

Instead of pointing out the hypocrisy of my imagined accusers, I scooped up the lone pill and dropped it in the box. I turned to go and thought - perhaps for the first time - that I was damned glad I was wearing a mask.

Toilet paper: Art or political statement?

" The bathroom is a place of social and environmental politics. A single company, owned by Koch Industries, controls 29% of the tissue paper market in North America. With the purchase of fluffy, plastic-wrapped, bleach-white rolls, many Americans are unwittingly aiding in the politically-conservative efforts of conglomerates like Koch Industries, which has funneled millions of dollars into voter suppression, the aiding and growth of the Prison Industrial Complex, and the reversal of common-sense environmental protections. "

Seems like a serious statement for an exhibit at the Marta gallery featuring over 50 toilet paper holders. 

I'm just going to move on to 2021 and call it a year.

"2020 - completely worthless."

I bought three of these calendars. I kept one for myself and gave two away as Christmas presents last year. But then, we put our house on the market so mine went into a box and was never hung on the wall.

We bought a new home in a different state early in 2020 but before we could come home and collect our belongs (which we put in storage after our first home sold), COVID happened. Fortunately, the place we purchased was fully furnished so there wasn't much to retrieve other than clothes, some small kitchen appliances, and items of sentimental value.

It wasn't until September until we defied stay-at-home orders. We drove 1,100 miles, rented a small truck, and trekked back to our new home - a car plus the truck - through some of the worst wildfires the western United States has ever seen.

And, still, most of it remains in boxes. First, we wanted to get some work done around the house. We converted all of our lighting to LED and added ceiling fans and we had the interior completely repainted. Only now are we starting to unpack after living in the same clothes since February.

Hubby unpacked this calendar just last week. It hasn't been hung for nearly 10 months of 2020. Seeing as I can pre-order my 2021 calendar (which includes September-December of the previous year), I'm not sure there's any reason to even take this out of it's cellophane. 

Instead, I plan to donate it Goodwill and mark it: 

Unused Calendar 

2020

Completely Worthless

I wished I lived in a place where the most serious problem is "What is bread?"

 

Irish High Court Rules Subway’s Sandwich Bread Is Not Legally Bread | Forbes

Justice O’Donnell, wrote, “This seems a very cumbersome and unnatural description of a hot meatball sandwich. Arguments like this induce some sympathy for the beleaguered draftspersons and for the tortured language to which they sometimes have to resort in order to carry into effect a reasonable statutory policy.” And with that, he dismissed the appeal.

Read all about it.

What the heck is this?

In all my years, I had never know what this was. A strainer? A steamer? What's a steamer? Why does it have petals that open or close? Why are there folding legs?

I would see this thing in other kitchens and wonder what it could possibly be used for. In a pinch, I'm sure I've used it as a strainer but I couldn't fathom what one would steam in it and, more importantly, why. 

The answer, recently, came to me when I discovered that store which is another phenomenon I never understood. (It has been recently criticized as being racist in its branding, ergo "that store"). People who loved it, absolutely loved it. Yet when I went in, I didn't recognize any of its products. Where were all my favorites?

When the pandemic hit, lines would form outside their stores when one could easily enter any big brand store without fuss (other than a mask, hand sanitizer, wipes, distancing, etc.). So what was the big deal?

Until one day, I found myself in that store and I bought a bag of frozen potstickers which is nothing, in and of itself, but that's what brings these two discoveries together: on the directions for the potstickers. "Place frozen potstickers seam side up in a steamer basket over boiling water...." 

Eureka! Everything clicked into place and I had amazing potstickers as well as a use for the spaceship-looking object that lurked at the back of my kitchen cabinet. (It came with the place when I bought it as did a waffle iron which is a whole different delight.)

Here's the real Ah ha! moment: I learned I could steam eggs in it. Okay, why is that an Ah ha! moment? Because, the eggs turn out great and they're easy to peel. Boom! No expensive kitchen appliances needed! Just a little boiling water and this folding spaceship thing.

I imagine I could do other things besides potstickers and eggs but I'm pretty happy with the potstickers and eggs.

I guess I could steam vegetables in there but, then again, who would do that? 

Sign of the times in southern CA

Closed due to pandemic

Now open for take-out!

Now open for dine-in!

Sorry, closed

Open for business!

Wait, now we're closed again.

Schools will open!

Schools might open!

Schools will try to open August 17 but you don't have to come until later!

Schools will August 17 but you don't have to come until later!

Try to keep up.

Why it's important to have beer in your fridge

Fridays.

Ah, but it's more than that. A well stocked fridge is more energy efficient. Just think - the more beer you buy, the more you save! If the beer is cold when you buy it, so much the better.

Here's why: stuff in the fridge displaces the air that would otherwise be filling that space. The less air exchange each time you open the door, the easier it is for the refrigerator to maintain a constant temperature. During the hot summer months, it's even more critical to have beer in the fridge.

Tomorrow is Friday so today is a good day to stop by your local brewery to stock up. And, remember to get some more on Monday to keep your refrigerator working efficiently because the more you save, the more you beer you can buy. The more beer you buy, the more you save.

Doesn't get much better than that.

AI, emphasis on artificial ...

"Hey, Google. Set a timer for one hour," I overheard my husband commanding his phone.

Nothing.

"An hour."

Still, nothing.

"One hour," articulating as best he could.

"Set a timer for one hour," he reiterated, his voice rising.

"Say sixty minutes," I shouted from the next room.

"Set a timer for sixty minutes," he repeated.

"OK," she chirped, "I've set a timer for one hour."

Game Day

Last day of this (extended) tax season. While many are working from home, I have been doing so for about five years so I have a certain amount of expertise in home office equipment. Here's my recommendation if you're looking to upgrade your home office. 

[See Marvin & Family comic for 7/14/20 or use above link.]

2

"Taxes will not magically do themselves." ~ Pearls Before Swine - July 14, 2020

3

Three more days of tax bliss.

... said no one ever.

4

Four days left but yesterday didn't count. Some tech issues gave me an unexpected day off. Whee! 

5

The dreams have started. You might call them nightmares: dreaming about preparing tax returns. Night and day. Day and night. Tax return after tax return. An endless stream of numbers.

Only five days left.

7

Coffee, chocolate, wine; repeat.

8

If you feel like the days are getting shorter, you're right.

Not only that, they won't be getting any longer. 

You probably didn't notice, but there was no leap second added at the end of June. I've just been informed, no such extra second will be added in December either. 2020 will end at the stroke of midnight on December 31st.

It's just as well. I think we've all had enough of 2020. 

Do you think if we could trade in all previous leap years and leap seconds, we could rewind enough to avoid 2020 altogether?

9

Nine more days in not only the longest tax season ever, but I would venture to say the strangest as well.

10

Ten days left in the longest tax season in history.

Frankly, I think it's about time.

Room

The phone booth is making a comeback. (Is Superman far behind?)

Stores are open and BS is on sale!

You wanna bet?

We did a little furniture shopping last weekend and it was interesting to see how stores were handling the process of reopening and how many people were out shopping. In some places, it was very much like going to the grocery store. We had to wait outside until we were invited in because the store was limiting the number of people who could shop at any one time. Signs were posted saying that masks were required and assuring us that customer safety was paramount. Inside, people maintained social distancing for the most part but part of retail shopping necessitates touching things and there was no way to avoid that. In some stores, sanitizer dispensers were prevalent. Other stores seemed less organized, crowded, with long lines at the registers.

On our way home, we passed through the parking lot of an outlet mall just to get an idea of how many people were shopping for things like clothes. Here, it appeared that the retail sector was recovering with much enthusiasm. The parking lot, as well as several others we passed, was full. Small businesses may be suffering or out of business but big retailers didn't seem to skip a beat.

We then stopped at a nearby casino. The lot was about half full in the parking structure where we parked on the fourth floor. We took an elevator which was marked with signs advising only four passengers should enter at a time. Stickers in the corners marked where each should stand to maintain social distancing. Similarly, stickers on the floor indicated where people should wait for their turn. 

We had no trouble getting an elevator and rode alone to the casino floor. There, it was a little more chaotic as we tried to navigate the entrance. There were several security personnel trying to corral people through a chute of sorts, marked by temporary rope (crowd control) barriers. As we funneled through the chute, we were asked to lower our masks briefly so they could take our temperatures, they said, but no one approached us and there were no other instructions. Just a lot of people standing around. We continued walking into the casino wondering which of the security guys had failed to take our temperatures.

As it turns out, our temperatures were taken by a thermal scanner as we walked into the casino.

It reminded us the body scanner depicted in Total Recall. We just walked in as an employee in front of a computer screen reviewed our images. (What else could they see besides temperature?) Lowering our masks may have had more to do with the overhead security camera or to verify we were of a legal age to enter. I have no idea.

The casino was packed. Social distancing was out the window. Masks among the customers appeared optional although most were wearing them. There were Plexiglas barriers between some players but otherwise, there appeared to be little concern with regard to movement and separation of customers. 

We weren’t there to gamble. We just stopped in to see the place and to get a drink but the bar was so crowded that we never got served and the lines were long enough that we didn’t want to order ourselves. So, we left.

Leaving was more chaotic than when we arrived. People crowded around to get an elevator back to their cars. In our elevator, a fifth person, not wearing a mask, joined us. She had been on her phone while we were waiting for our elevator and she appeared distracted so Hubby let her know there were only four to a car. She said, “So? You’re wearing a mask. You’re fine,” and continued on with her phone conversation. She had a lot more to say after she got off the elevator on the third floor. She made it clear to anyone within earshot that there was some jackass on the elevator bitching about the rules.

In the comments following an article about the reopening of Las Vegas, there were other people bitching - either about following rules or not following rules. As far as I'm concerned, how much risk versus fear you want to live with is up to you but have some respect. We don’t have to agree but we should try to get along with one another. Maybe there should be a mask optional section and a mask only section in casinos or stores. I don’t know but, personally, I don't plan on going back to that casino anytime soon. It's too hard to get a drink.

Besides, it didn't look like they were hurting for my business. I think they'll do okay without me.

Go back to sleep, honey, it was just a bad dream.

No, honey, nobody's going to get eaten alive. The two little pigs move in with their sister who was the smart one, remember? And she takes care of them (but only until they can get themselves back on their own two feet ... or is four?). You are perfectly safe. Daddy and I have been very careful about protecting our house. You know that, right? Our investment decisions are well researched and very sound. Better than money in the bank (which isn't really saying much these days anymore, is it?). Nobody is coming after us. Not the big, bad wolf (and certainly not SEC regulators ... right, honey, you took care of that?). Okay? Not anyone.

You just get some sleep because you are going to grow up to be successful and smart ... well, you're already smart, aren't you ... just like the big sister piggie. And, no, you will not have hairs on your chin.

That's just in fairy tails.

Not So Cute Anymore

"Not by the hair of my chinny chin chin" is not so funny when you get older. First of all, there are hairs on my chinny chin chin. Second of all, I can't see them anymore. I can only feel them.

And "huff and puff"? That's what happens when we go up stairs.

Forget about blowing my house down, will you? My home represents a significant part of my nest egg. You'd be dooming me to living on the streets. Worse yet, living with my kids.

Then, there's sibling rivalry over who has the better house, who's smarter. Sure, my house may be made of sticks but I'm comfortable, thank you. Think you can't knock over that brick house? House of cards, is what that is. A wolf might not be able to blow it over but an upset in the securities market will collapse that house in a heartbeat. Think you're so smart.... Hmf.

And, really, let's talk about words: pigs, little, and wolf. Are we body shaming or stereotyping? Words have meaning. Let's not belittle and shame the victims of this tyrant and while we're at it, who is this tyrant? Something that can hurt us or something that we're afraid of because they look different from us? Have we really gotten to know this "wolf?" Have we tried to understand the wolf's point of view?

Pull the covers up tight and sleep well, little ones. The story doesn't end well for anyone: everybody gets eaten alive. Get over it. Life isn't fair. Soon, you'll have hairs on your chinny chin chin as well.

Excessive Heat Warning

...EXCESSIVE HEAT WARNING REMAINS IN EFFECT FROM NOON TODAY TO
7 PM PDT FRIDAY...

* WHAT...Dangerously hot conditions with hottest temperatures to
  around 110 expected.

* WHERE...San Diego County Deserts, Coachella Valley and San
  Gorgonio Pass Near Banning.

* WHEN...From noon today to 7 PM PDT Friday.

NOAA.GOV

Hell NO (or Yes, Hell)

We used to call them locusts but they're really cicadas. They gross me out. They're insects that lay eggs in the bark of twigs and branches. When they hatch, they burrow underground and don't emerge until they've matured seventeen years later. After that, they only live four to six weeks during which time they mate. And, terrorize little girls.

The first thing they do is climb a tree and shed their exoskeleton. Leaving a shell of their former selves behind, the males begin their mating song which can be quite loud because there can be, quite literally, millions of them.

After 17 Years of Quiet, an Army of Cicadas Are about to Emerge in Parts of The US | Science Alert

" Periodical cicadas are considered some of the loudest insects on Earth, and scientists say their alien-like wail can reach over 90 decibels, which is as loud as a lawnmower. "

They're not kidding about "an Army" either. In some parts of Virginia, West Virginia, and North Carolina they are expecting as many as 1.5 million cicadas per acre.

I remember when they came to northern Illinois in 1973. I was ten. I was so grossed out, I didn't want to go outside. It was like a zombie apocalypse except it was a swarm of bugs. They aren't little either. They are 1-2 inches long, black with large eyes, and they fly. And, they're literally everywhere.

Cicadas in Illinois | University of Illinois Extension

" In 1990, there were reports from people in Chicago having to use snow shovels to clear their sidewalks of the dead cicadas. "

Eeeewwwww.

I vowed in 1973 that I would not be living in Illinois in 1990, seventeen years later, and I wasn't. By then I was in Seattle - about as far away as I could get - and I haven't seen a cicada since.

I hope I never do.

(My skin crawls just thinking about it.)

Just a heads up if you are living in northern Illinois. The cicadas will be back in 2024. Known as the Northern Illinois Brood, they have a reputation for the largest emergence of cicadas known anywhere.

I'll be somewhere else.

It's Five O'Clock Somewhere (or Tick Tock Not Part Two)

My watch is still dead due to the lack of an available jeweler to replace its dead battery. But my phone works (yay!). The microwave tells me the time but the oven does not. It's in a different time zone no matter how often I try to re-set it. The thermostat tells time but will only follow three of the four instructions I've got programmed into it. It confuses 6 pm with 9 pm. Gremlins.

We also have a battery-powered clock on our living room wall. It is large and easy to read, visible from all parts of the main living space. It annoyingly calls out each and every second with loud ticks. Maybe not so much tocks. Just incessant tick tick ticks. It's incessant and loud. Want to watch TV? Better turn up the volume.

It's Five O'Clock right here!

Want to take a nap? Tick. Tick. Tick.

Trying to read? Tick, Tick, Tick.

Have a headache? TICK. TICK. TICK.

Just trying to freaking think? TICK! TICK! TICK!

It didn't even tell the correct time! The time had run out on my patience and I ripped its freaking guts out. Yards away, life saving batteries sit on my counter but this clock shall not be saved.

Yet, I've given it new life. A new purpose. I set the hands at twelve and five. Here, in Southern California, I like to call it Calipermication. You can just call it Five O'Clock.

And enjoy the blissful silence.

A Whole Lot of Nothing Going On (or Tick Tock Not)

The battery in my watch died and no jewelers are open to replace it so I'm clueless as to what time it is. It's really not a bad way to go when you live in paradise and there's not much to do. What's the hurry anyway? Besides, it's probably five o'clock, right?

Actually, work keeps me in a routine. I know there are a lot of folks out there who don't have a job right now. I am very fortunate and very grateful to have one even if it means doing tax returns for months on end. This time of year, I'm usually just coming home from a post-tax-season trip to some beach but this year, the possibility exists that there will be no post-tax season.

On May 10, the CPA Practice Advisor reported the tax deadline could move from it's new date in July to September 15 or later. On the one hand, many clients are used to filing in the fall. These are the ones who routinely extend their returns six months from their usual due dates. But, they are not used to delaying paying their taxes. Usually, when you extend filing your tax return, any amounts due are payable on the original due date with any estimated tax payments due quarterly throughout the year.

Now, taxpayers who owe money could end up paying for all of 2019 and all of 2020 at the same time making for a whopping bill. Unless they plan for it, this could be quite a costly reality.

I, personally, hope the tax date gets moved. I postponed my post-tax-season retreat to July this year which is will become difficult if not impossible if I'm working 24/7 trying to meet the deadline. (I know, I know, I have all summer to get them done but we all know it won't work that way, don't we? Taxpayers who procrastinate filing their returns in the spring will be the same ones who will procrastinate in the summer.)

My current struggle (of the First World privileged sort) is that I killed my iPhone. I dropped it in March severely cracking the glass. I'd had it for three years so I figured I was due for a new phone anyway but all the stores were shuttered and the phone still worked so I figured I would just wait.

The longer I waited, the less important it seemed to have a new one. Sure, it was ugly and there were some other minor glitches surfacing in some of its features but it was good enough. Plus, new phones are expensive and almost always a pain in the rear to replace and set up.

Until, I dropped it again. This time, parts of the glass fell clean off and the top half of the touch screen no longer functioned. That meant I could take a call (swiping the bottom of the screen) but I couldn't shut off the phone (which requires swiping the top of the screen). It also meant I was locked out of my phone because the home button, while at the bottom, was also nonfunctional and part of my passcode uses the top part of the screen. Now, I had to suck it up and get a new phone.

Hassles involving the service provider were ultimately solved and a new phone was delivered within 24 hours of my order. The very first instruction for setting up the new phone was to power off the old phone but since I couldn't do that, all I could do was wait for the battery to die.

Did you know that if you can't use your phone it takes days for the battery to die? Days.

I wasn't willing to wait that long so I logged onto my account and wiped the old phone's memory. Same thing as turning off, I figured, except it's not, apparently. That did allow me to transfer all the data to the new phone but not the phone number itself. So here I wait. For the old phone die. And not able to make a call. From either device.

Tick tock goes the clock. Except mine. The battery died.

It's got to be five o'clock by now. Right?

Savings where you find them

With burger and fuel prices as they are, it was less expensive for us to drive across town and idle while waiting in a ridiculously long drive-thru line for a double-double cheeseburger and fries at In-N-Out Burger for $7.00 than it was for us to buy an all-the-way bacon cheeseburger plus fries at the much closer Five Guys for $17.00. In no way did I actually need to consume either of those and then wash it down with a giant chocolate chip cookie from Costco. Total calorie tally = about one million.

A whole can of SPAM (Classic) is 1,080 calories, if you're wondering. And, if you need any guidance on which flavor of SPAM to try, there's an excellent (if not amusing) review at Insider, here.

Lunch choices ranked by calorie count:
In-N-Out burger 1,040
Whole can of SPAM 1,080
Five Guys: 2,010

Now, I just want to shower and brush my teeth and pretend none of this really happened. Maybe after a really long hike. Or not.

Anonymous

In Your Face

We have a neighbor who thinks this whole pandemic is one great conspiracy designed to get Trump out of office, following on the heels of the "fake impeachment." I know there are many people who feel this way but a conspiracy wherein countries all over the world  are willing to sacrifice their own citizens in large numbers to get the Great Orange One out of office seems grossly absurd.

Meanwhile, I'm adhering to sheltering in place and covering my face when I go out. Luckily, I don't have to go out much. Where I live, it's easy to go for a walk and not run into anybody so I don't see a lot of masks in the neighborhood. But when I leave the neighborhood, I wear a mask as do most of my neighbors.

I've seen some creativity when it comes to masks. Some people are having fun with it wearing colorful bandanas, some that look like skeletons, or the mouths of wild animals. I saw one on Facebook that had tiny penises on it provoking this response to the question, "Are those penises on your mask?": "If you can see those, you're standing within six feet. Now, back the eff up!"

If it wasn't so controversial, I would wear a niqab (as if penises on your face wouldn't be controversial). I mean, if we can all go to the grocery store looking like bank robbers, why not a niqab? We've spent so much time being afraid of them that this seems like the perfect time to wear one. The very same people who were afraid of them are now covering their own faces. Why not a niqab? It would cover my nose and mouth, and my hair which is perfect because it would cover up my gray roots. I would do it just for the irony.

I would do it just to piss off my neighbor.

Except I won't.

Does this sound familiar?

People gathered in homes to avoid plague, pestilence, and death. We might not eating lamb but there's been plenty of feasting on whatever we have. Surely, there is wine involved. Waiting for this to pass over, each of us vested with a certain amount of faith that if we stay where we are, we will be safe. Many are abstaining from work. Some have no choice about it while others mindfully avoid work by avocation.

Will this be over by Easter? Decidedly, no. Will this be over in a week? Heavenly, but unlikely. Still, this will pass and who knows what the world will look like when we emerge?

Certainly, the solution is bigger than ourselves but what we make of it is up to us.