Self-Isolation Day 45

Today is Day 45 of my self-isolation.

The world has not yet exploded into green, and the upcoming weekend is supposed to drop below zero again, but the latent beauty of spring buds is visible on the ends of the dull brown branches. Every year I have that moment of almost giddy happiness when I realize that everything is suddenly in bloom. The sight of magnolias, flushed and feminine, never fails to bring tears to my eyes. The glory of southern Ontario in spring can't come soon enough.

My sleep schedule is erratic. I go to bed anywhere between 11 p.m. and 3 a.m. Some days I'll sleep until noon, some days I'm up early enough to watch the light creep into the sky. (I am not a morning person, but I do enjoy the peacefulness of dawn.) Almost everyone I know is suffering from insomnia in varying degrees, so at least I'm not alone. The last time I took a sleeping pill I peed the bed, so I've been avoiding that thus far. Sometimes I'll pop a melatonin tablet under my tongue and hope for the best.

I've learned over the past few weeks that nobody can sing happy birthday on a zoom call with any degree of proficiency. Everyone is always self-consciously looking at their own face instead of focusing on the song, so it sounds like a 45 played at 33. I suppose it's good to be able to see how others see you in case you aren't wearing pants or there is something inappropriate in the background (a sinkful of dishes or a stack of porn or a pile of dirty laundry), but if this feature could be removed, video conversations would be much more natural, as we can't see our own faces in real life interactions for good reason. We're all such narcissists.

On Sunday I went for a drive alone down county highways, the Sonny Vincent tribute record blasting on the stereo, the window rolled down, the sun and the wind warm on my bare skin. I sunburned my left arm, but it was worth it to forget confinement for a couple of hours. Just a girl and a car and the open road. Fucking freedom, man. 

It's easy to forget that the world's gone mad when you're reading or fucking or picking weeds in the backyard or driving alone down an almost empty highway on a warm spring day, but the bliss of forgetfulness is ephemeral and, as soon as you turn on the TV or the computer, reality suckerpunches you in the face in the form of a restaurant delivery commercial. 

I no longer compulsively watch the news. Headlines are enough. I don't want to watch any more feel-good stories about how people are coping. I don't want to watch any more balcony singers or read any more historical comparisons. I don't want to watch musicians performing live from their living rooms. I don't want to hear "PPE" or "flatten the curve" or "frontline workers" or "contact tracing" or "we're all in the same boat" or "stay safe," even though I frequently use that last one myself in written correspondence. I don't want to be reminded of the stages of grief and assured that I am fine at whatever stage I am in. I just want someone to tell me when it's over.

My dad sent me a photograph of himself in sunglasses and mask on a moped on a street in Thailand, giving a thumbs-up. I had no idea sobs were lurking so close to the surface of my otherwise rock-solid facade of cool until they burst unceremoniously forth when I opened that particular email.

The beauty of spring, a good night's sleep, birthday celebrations instead of death notices, a Sunday drive, a photograph of one's estranged father: there is reason to hope. Riot on. xo

Self-Isolation Day 32 (mostly a rant, so read on at your own discretion)

Before shit really hit the fan, people were telling us not to wear masks. For god's sake, DON'T wear a mask, they said. In a facebook post, I commented to one of my nurse friends who advised me not to, "Don't worry, I won't wear one of those stupid masks." Now we can't go out in public without one. For god's sake, WEAR A MASK, they say. Why is it imperative that I wear a mask now, but imperative that I not wear a mask a month ago? It just makes sense, then and now, to wear a mask if you are going to potentially cough or sneeze or breathe or speak moistly around others when dealing with a respiratory virus. 

If grocery store cashiers washed their hands between every customer, their hands would fall off. Well, maybe not fall off, but they would develop cracks so painful they would have to take time off from work. (I know this from my magazine experience. I washed my hands so often dealing with all that printed matter that the tips of my fingers split open. Cracked, bloody fingertips probably aren't overly hygienic; plus, they fucking hurt.) Also, I don't understand how you think this would be feasible. Should they run off to the bathroom between customers? Or bring in those foot-pump hand wash stations they use at outdoor concerts? Wearing gloves, even if they never take them off, means they probably aren't sticking their fingers in their eyes or noses or mouths and then rubbing their COVID all over your tomatoes. Wash your own damn shit when you get home.

I don't entirely understand why making a racket has become a sign of appreciation. I mean, I personally can't think of anything lovelier than the sound of a bunch of people screaming and banging pots and pans together, but maybe you could play on recorders or triangles instead? Maybe rattle some windchimes? And if I was a doctor and I suddenly heard a thousand sirens blaring outside the hospital walls, I wouldn't think, "Ah, they love me. They really love me!", I would think, "Jesus fucking Christ, what now? Was there a 40-car pile-up or a tornado or something?" How about we all sing "For you are jolly good fellows" instead? (Lyrics slightly altered for inclusivity.)

Hmm, what else?

If you are an adult who had a full-time job before the shutdown, quit complaining that government assistance isn't happening on YOUR timeline. If you are of able body and mind, it's YOUR responsibility to take care of yourself and at least make sure that you have enough money in the bank to support yourself for a couple of months in case something bad happens to you. If you had money to spend on beer and clothes and makeup and Starbucks and bobblehead toys and a new cell phone and now find yourself struggling, you get no sympathy from me. (Obviously people making minimum wage, single parents, people with disabilities, etc. are exempt from my scorn.) We are lucky we live in a country that is pulling billions of dollars from god-knows-where to help people who really need the help. And if you meet the requirements for the money but don't really need it, don't take it, okay?

Finally, cut the post office workers some slack already. Think of the increase in package volume they are suddenly dealing with as everyone orders things they would ordinarily have gone to the mall for. Will you die if you don't get your Amazon order in 2-7 days, or will you be slightly inconvenienced and have to reread some old books or rewatch a movie you already own? Maybe think about how much you really need those things and wait until this is over before ordering anything to help lessen the load on those workers. And if you must order something (I do appreciate the benefits of retail therapy), please don't bitch about how long it takes to arrive at your door.

This is a tough time. Everything is frustrating. The isolation, the helplessness, the time to do nothing but sit around and wait (if you aren't working), being overworked and underappreciated (if you are working), the contradictory information, the conspiracy theorists (I'm going to save this nugget for another blog), the people jeopardizing the lives of others because they want to uphold their god-given right to go recreational fishing, pandemic be damned.

Maybe it's time to relearn the fine art of patience.

Self-Isolation Day 30

The weather has turned cold again.

Every day, a single male mallard splashes down into the pool, paddles about in the murk of thawed snow and dead leaves, shits on the deck, flies away.

I almost give up on this 1500-piece puzzle of teddy bears having a picnic. All the pieces look the same, and there are so many of them. After seriously contemplating tearing it apart, which is entirely unlike me (I like to finish what I start), I instead leave it alone for a while and then attack with renewed vigor and a sense of purpose for this stupid, superfluous task. I will conquer this fucker. I will. 

I apply lipstick. It looks clownish on my otherwise unmade-up face but it makes me briefly happy.

I have a headache for three days. Shaking acetaminophen into my palm, I realize how easy it would be to overdose. If two doesn't work, maybe four will. Maybe six. Maybe eight. I take two; they do nothing. I try one acetaminophen and one ibuprofen, despite the warnings; they do nothing, either. I drink a Coke. I take some Anacin. The next day I try an oxycodone left over from a surgery. It gives me a not-entirely-unpleasant buzz but still does nothing for my headache. I sleep all afternoon, though, and then I go back to bed after first dinner. The following morning, I feel the headache lurking like a shadow in my brain, but the pain is gone. 

I finish reading A Prayer for Owen Meany. I finish A Boy in Winter. They are both about death and hope and sacrifice, which seems about right.

I play Madonna's second and third records. I don't need to think about these songs; they are a part of me. I get up again, over and over, she sings. I tear up during "Love Makes the World Go Round," which is ridiculous.

There are things I want to do, small, easily achievable things, but I also don't want to do anything. It is a disconcerting feeling, this simultaneous desire to do and not do. I lie down on the couch and hide under a blanket until the feeling goes away.

I play online poker and sing happy birthday during a zoom call and video chat with my girlfriends and drink a glass of wine and watch a DJ friend play records on facebook instead of shuffling cards and eating cake and going for lunch and drinking and dancing. I want to go to the mall, and I hate the mall.

I am tired of updates. Tired of politicians and predictions and other people's impatience. Tired of tirades.

But I am so, so grateful that I have money in the bank and food in the pantry and a dude who makes me laugh and books to read and CDs to listen to and a strong internet connection and friends who humour me and wear lipstick for our zoom call and a couch to nap on and a government that is trying and a pool for ducks to shit in and a cat who doesn't know that anything is wrong and still purrs and demands to be let out and then let in again and I'm even grateful for that impossible puzzle of teddy bears having a picnic.

I am grateful to have words as a way to help make sense of my thoughts and emotions and experiences, even if they don't mean anything to anyone else. And I am grateful to you for reading, always. It's comforting to know you are out there, probably feeling simultaneously shitty and grateful, too. xo

Self-Isolation Day 23: How to Do a Jigsaw Puzzle During COVID-19

Step 1: Choose a puzzle from the stack your mom gave you the last time you went to see her. Feel a little guilty because you probably shouldn't have seen her at all, but you have to balance emotional support with physical precautions right now. It's a delicate balance, but neither of you is showing symptoms, you are both cautious in the outside world, and your town has very low numbers so far, so you should be okay.

Step 2: If the box has been previously unopened, slit the edges very carefully with a knife or pair of scissors. Now is not the time for an emergency trip to the hospital! Remove the lid and start to get a little excited about all the tiny coloured bits contained therein.

Step 3: In all likelihood, the pieces are contained in a clear plastic bag. Follow the instructions above re: opening the bag. Make sure you get every piece out, remembering that time you were missing a piece and it ended up still being in the plastic bag in the garbage can. When dude reminds you to check the bag, scoff at him because what kind of dingdong are you that you don't learn from your mistakes? Miss a single piece anyway.

Step 4: Separate the edge pieces from the rest of the puzzle pieces. This means physically touching each of the 1000 pieces (or, if you are lucky, 1500, because, let's face it, 1000-piece puzzles are no match for your superior puzzling skills). This process is an effective introduction to the kind of pieces you will be dealing with. Are they regularly shaped pieces with the kind of edges that line up? Or are they "bits and pieces," the kind with fucked up little shapes that don't look like they should go together at all? Is this the kind of puzzle with pieces that have straight lines that look like they could be border pieces but aren't? Shit's getting exciting!

Step 5: Put together the border. Depending on the puzzle, separate the edge pieces by shape (pieces with innies on both ends, pieces with outies on both ends, and pieces with one innie and one outie) or colour, whatever makes it easiest to accomplish this task. You will inevitably have missed identifying at least one border piece while completing Step 4. Make no mistake, this is a moral failure on your part. You had one fucking job, find the border pieces, and you couldn't even do that properly. Jesus Christ.

Step 6: Allow the border to remain incomplete. Someone will find that piece eventually (unless it's still in the plastic bag, now buried under banana peels and moldy bread crusts in the garbage can).

Step 7: Start with the easy parts, words and small uniquely-coloured sections. Dude will probably get to these before you can, because he's like that. Accept this fact and start hoarding pieces for larger uniquely-coloured sections before he can get to them. Anything that runs the length of the puzzle is another good place to start (the top of a mountain range, a fence, a roofline, the water's edge). Although more challenging than the small parts, a similar sense of accomplishment can be achieved by connecting pieces from one end to the other.

Step 8: Once the fun parts are done, do the rest of the goddamn puzzle. Unless this puzzle is of the pick-it-and-stick-it* variety, completing the remainder of the puzzle is more of a chore than entertainment. 

*The kind of puzzle where you pick up a random piece, find its placement using the picture on the box, and stick it where it belongs. This kind of puzzle takes, like, 4 hours max. Although certainly less fun, non-pick-it-and-stick-its (landscapes with lots of trees and an inordinate amount of sky with few clouds, possibly some reflections, or puzzles in only black and white) will take significantly longer to complete, and isn't that why you're doing jigsaw puzzles in the first place, as a way to kill time until you can meet your friends for lunch again? Alternating a pick-it-and-stick-it with a non-pick-it-and-stick-it is a good strategy to maintain your sanity during this difficult puzzling (both senses) time.

Step 9: You will eventually run into the crap part of the puzzle where the most effective strategy is to arrange the pieces by shape. So what are you waiting for? Arrange those pieces by shape already. (Honestly, you love this part. Your house is so organized already that this process brings you great joy. Creating order from chaos is infinitely rewarding, even if it is only puzzle pieces.) Once you do this, you will have to systematically try each piece of a certain shape into each remaining hole in the puzzle. This is admittedly kind of a drag, but the feeling of joy when you find one is unrivalled.

Step 10: When you are down to the last remaining piece (assuming it isn't still in the plastic bag or somewhere on the floor, in which case see Step 10B), put a single finger on it. Get dude to also place a single finger on the piece. Together, gently slide the piece into place, thereby completing the tableau.

Step 10B: Find the missing piece. It's probably still in the bag, because you are an overly confident dingdong.

Step 11: High five.

Step 12. Take a photograph as evidence of all the time you've wasted when you could have been doing something more valuable for the world, but then remember that this is doing something valuable for the world because you aren't outside spreading COVID-19.

Step 13. Leave the finished puzzle on the table for a couple of days. Relish your accomplishment. Fondly remember finding the piece with the cat's face (although dude probably found it before you).

Step 14: Grudgingly take the puzzle apart, making a half-assed effort to separate the pieces for the person who does it after you.

Step 15: Repeat Steps 1 through 14.

Step 16: Stay safe, and riot on. 

Self-Isolation Day 17: Broken Thumbnails

I receive daily email updates from my dude's mother telling me she's doing okay, which are themselves an indicator that she is not doing okay. I respond in a timely manner with reassuring exes and ohs, which is all I can do.

Last Friday I broke my dry COVID-19 with a bottle of red wine and a video conference call with friends from Boston, Seattle, New York, Portland, and Australia. It was lovely to see their faces and hear their voices. (Last Saturday I had a hangover.)

Dude's brother accidentally cut off the tip of his middle finger while working in his garage workshop. (He has COPD.) A friend's wife tripped over their cat and sprained her ankle. (She has diabetes and her husband recently finished cancer treatment.)

Another friend's kid hit a homerun through their glass patio doors on the day that hardware stores were deemed non-essential services. 

I had a partially-used tube of pink hair dye leftover from a number of years ago, so I coloured my hair, even though there is no one but the internet to see it.

I zoomed with my girlfriends instead of meeting for lunch, as was our custom. We exchanged stories about our new routines and strategies to keep depression at bay. (Wearing pants is a good start.) Only one of us had washed her hair that day and no one was wearing makeup. Everyone looked beautiful anyway. 

I baked chocolate chip cookies, even though I prefer cooking to baking. Dude astutely pointed out that baking is a way of taking control of something when so much is out of our control, which might explain the shortage of flour and sugar at the grocery stores right now. Careful adherence to directions (two level cups of flour, a teaspoon of baking soda, a 375 degree oven) leads to a positive result (warm chocolate chip cookies). There is a lesson here: careful adherence to directions leads to a positive result. (Take note, spring breakers.)

In lieu of my traditional drinking and dancing on Sunday, I poured myself a gin and tonic, curled up on the couch with the laptop and a blanket, and watched a DJ friend do a livestream of 80s songs while chatting online with my girl gang and the other bar regulars. Even this little bit of interaction and (sort of) normalcy was infinitely rewarding.

I got my clean hands dirty pulling weeds in the backyard (another act of control).

Last night I dreamt that I had broken my thumbnail down to the quick and the broken nail was still attached, torn and ragged and painful, but hanging in there. We are all broken thumbnails right now.

We Could Be Heroes (not COVID-19 related)

For the past few weeks, a small grey tabby cat has visited our backyard at night. Not every night, but regularly enough that we watch for him. He's quite friendly, if a tad on the frisky side, and, although skinny, rarely eats what we put out for him, so we assumed he had a home somewhere, possibly with a cat door as he is out at night. He doesn't have a collar, but neither does Harlowe, and she goes out at night all the time.

Harlowe is not a fan. She growls and hisses through the glass when he shows up, which is a good way of alerting us to his presence.

Ryan was checking the neighbourhood facebook page yesterday and discovered a posting for a missing cat, a small grey tabby named Roberto. Aha! he thought. If the cat shows up again, we will try to catch him and return him to his owners. We could be heroes.

Ryan got the person's phone number and street address (near our old house, quite a few streets away), and they told him to call any time.

So tonight we had just finished watching The Descent, which is quite a tense film, when lo and behold, here was our little cat friend at the patio door! We had brought the cat carrier outside earlier in the afternoon in case he showed up.

I threw Harlowe into our bedroom and we let the cat inside, luring him with food he didn't really want. He seemed content to explore, rolling around happily on the carpet, purring. He scratched our furniture twice, a sure sign of a family, and wandered around checking things out.

I went outside to get the carrier and bring it in, but he almost dashed out again, so I slammed the patio door shut as Ryan tried to coax him away from the door. We managed to get the carrier in the house without the cat escaping.

Ordinary cat food didn't really interest him, but I got out the Greenies and tossed a couple into the carrier. He wasn't fooled until I threw the whole bag in, and then he happily stepped in. I slammed the door shut and yelled at Ryan to help me because I was panicking and couldn't close the door.

While I was following the cat around, Ryan tried calling the people, who didn't pick up. It was around 12:30 a.m., but there's a quarantine and nobody should be out of the goddamn house, so we knew they had to be home. Plus, they had said call any time.

Ryan didn't have the exact address, but he had seen their backyard, and since it was in our old neighbourhood, he felt pretty confident that he could find where the cat lived.

Cat carrier safely stowed in the backseat, off Ryan drove to return the little fella to his home. (I was in my pajamas.) We were feeling pretty proud of ourselves.

When he returned home, I asked him excitedly what happened, imagining a teary reunion, much gratitude.

Turns out it wasn't Roberto.

Ryan let the cat out of the carrier once he and not-Roberto got back to our house, and off he bounded across the street to chase a rabbit or something. God only knows what the poor thing thinks of his adventures, but he probably won't be visiting our backyard again anytime soon.

So yeah, we could have been heroes. Instead we kidnapped someone's cat and took him for a drive. Riot on.

Self-Isolation Day 12

It is the first day of April. Outside, spring continues to manifest herself. The grass is visibly greener. Fat robins hop on the lawn. The trees are still bare, but buds are visible if you look closely.

I was out for a walk one sunny day, saying hello to the people I passed, all of us safely on our own sides of the sidewalk but still sharing some camaraderie. The understanding that the world is currently fucked acknowledged with a nod and a smile. (Funny how the things you learn when you are young stay with you. I have never crossed a street without first looking both ways, even if the street is one-way, and I always move to the right side of hallways and sidewalks if someone else is approaching.) A woman was walking on the wrong side of the sidewalk, talking on her cell phone, so she didn't notice me at first. Rather than play a game of pedestrian chicken, I moved to the left side of the sidewalk. When she finally did glance up, she averted her eyes and pulled her scarf up around her face. She was not the first person to avoid direct eye contact, as if the virus is spread by a glance. I bet a scientific study would prove that people who avoid eye contact also currently possess an overabundance of Lysol wipes and rolls of toilet paper.

I went to the grocery store for the first time in over two weeks. An employee stood at the front with a row of freshly sanitized carts. The deli, butcher, and fresh fish sections were closed. There was toilet paper, but they were out of 1% milk and canned tomatoes. Small round signs with the words "Good Neighbour: Limit 1" decreed purchase restrictions and reminders to not be an asshole. I watched a man open plastic containers of strawberries and pick through them, transferring berries to his container with his bare hands. I did not say anything. I just walked past, astonished. Footstep stickers on the floor indicated how far apart we should stand while waiting in line, and a plexiglass partition separated me from the cashier. We exchanged pleasantries like the world hadn't gone mad, and I thanked her and wished her a good day, as I usually do. I realized how much we take for granted living here. I trust that I can zip to the store and pick up a loaf of bread or a quart of milk or a stick of butter when I need one. This is not true for much of the world. It's a good practical lesson to learn.   

Yesterday I was watching the news, listening to the prime minister and reading the global updates and recent death tolls on the ticker at the bottom of the screen, when tears began streaming down my face. There was no thickness in my chest, no sobs wracked my body, just a sudden steady flow of tears. It seems my body had sprung an emotional leak.

Journalists criticize leaders for not giving people a stronger timeline. I understand the desire for a resolution, but we do not know when this will end. (The not knowing is perhaps the hardest thing of all.) We have to accept that and change society and our own behaviours and attitudes accordingly. This is easy for me to say. I live in a house that is paid for with a partner who still has a job. We have a pantry full of food and the means of getting more should we run out. I do not have elderly family members in retirement homes, or a pre-existing medical condition, or children. Still, I do have a well-developed sense of empathy. Hence, perhaps, the tears.     

Some people continue to be ignorant, selfish jerks. Many more people are proving that humanity is better than those jerks. Should I encounter a man picking through strawberries in the future, I will say something.