New skills

I’m turning a corner, I tell you what. Last week, when the dreaded password change prompt popped up on my screen, I stopped what I was doing, changed my password, and cached the new password so that my password and smart card logins would sync. I do this every two months or so, but I usually wait until the last possible minute, when the old password is either about to expire or (God forbid) when it has already expired. I told myself that I was a no-drama, no-nonsense person who just takes care of minor shit when it needs taking care of, rather than panicking and procrastinating and avoiding until doom is inevitable; and I believed myself for a minute. 

I don’t know if this post looks different or not from the reader’s end, but the text editor and back end are different because I also switched to the new Blogger while I still had a choice, rather than waiting for Google to force my hand. This is an unprecedented level of reason and good sense. Who knows what I will do next? Call a doctor when I’m sick? Clean in response to the presence of dirt rather than as a compulsion? The sky is the limit. Anything is possible. 

*****

You know what I can’t do? I can’t stop trying to tell my son what to do. At 19, he should be starting to manage his own life but he is struggling with this; struggling with how to manage school and work and getting out of bed at a reasonable time of day. I can’t stop hovering over him, asking him about his plans for the day, reminding him about what I think he needs to do, encouraging him, exhorting him, pushing him. It’s too much and I know it’s too much but I can’t seem to shut myself up. We’re driving each other crazy. 

My sons and I are very close. We always have been. The lockdown has been hard on both of them, but in different ways. Last fall, my older son was taking classes, working part-time, and managing everything well. And he was happy. And then all of a sudden, the pools closed, so he didn’t have work; and all of his classes moved online, and that was a disaster for him. He’s retaking a class now. He’s starting to learn how to deal with the lack of hands-on instruction, but if he has to take a full semester of online classes again in the fall, it’s not going to go well. 

And I feel helpless; helpless to help him. 

*****

So it’s the next day now, and my son straightened some things out, and figured some other things out. He drove his brother to a swimming quarry near Baltimore, and so they’re both out of the house today. And that’s been a big part of the problem all along. He’s the same boy he’s always been and I’m the same obsessive-compulsive insane neurotic that I have always been, but we’ve been in each other’s faces for four months and it's too much. One or the other of us had to get out of the house for a bit. We need to be out from under one another’s feet. 

Tomorrow, I’m going to try something altogether new. I’m going to let him do what he’s going to do, figure it out on his own, without any interference or “helpful” advice from me. This approach runs counter to my instincts; this is how I know that I”m probably on to something. I’ll report back at another time. 

Overcome

Who says that you can't have a swim meet during a pandemic? Not the Strathmore Bel Pre Dolphins, I tell you what. Yesterday, our team pulled off a socially distant, mask-wearing, sanitize-everything-in-sight, swim-in-shifts honest-to-God swim meet, and it was amazing. 

Dolphins' backstroke flags through
the business end of a clipboard. 

Late in May, when it looked like pools might remain closed all summer, I tried to remember my older son's last race of 2019. It might have been his last swim race ever, and I couldn't remember it. If I'd known at the time that it could have been his last race, I'd have remembered every detail. But I couldn't even remember the event. 50 backstroke? 100 IM? No idea. His swim career was likely over and I couldn't remember his last swim.  

*****

But we had a plan. Our team decided that if the pool opened, we would have a swim season, one way or another, hell or high water. Even if we had to compete against ourselves, even if we had only one meet, even if the league canceled the season, we were going to do something. Most of the local summer leagues actually did cancel their seasons. Ours did not. Half of the teams wanted to hold a season, so the league quickly rearranged divisions, and we came up with a plan for virtual meets. Each team would swim at its own pool, and the coaches would then exchange times to determine a score. 

But our county is also enforcing a 50-person limit for gatherings, and a swim meet is nothing if not a gathering. Even with half of the normal number of people on deck, we would still have been well over that limit. So we broke it down even further, with three separate sessions by age group. If you know anything about scoring and order of events in the Prince Mont Swim League, then you know that this took some doing. And we figured it out. By "we," of course, I mean people who are smarter and better organized than I. 

*****

It was nice to be up and out first thing on a Saturday morning in July, My kids left the house at 6:50 and I followed about 15 minutes later. Music was playing when I arrived at the pool, and parents were singing along with Van Morrison. I didn't start to cry until I tried to sing "Saw you just the other day / My, how you have grown." It's been so long. I hadn't seen some of these beautiful kids in months, and my how they have grown. I'm overcome just thinking about it. 

******

I forgot how much I love watching my sons swim until I saw my oldest step up for the first race of the morning. He wasn't as fast as usual. None of them are. Practices are shorter and less frequent, and they are all a little out of shape. But they still swam a great race and the cheers were almost as loud as ever, even with so few people on deck, and even with masks muffling the sound. 

This really is my son's last year of swimming. He ages out this summer, and that's it. We have three more meets, and I'll be watching every race. I won't miss anything, and I won't forget. 

Like we're running out of time

I always used to feel that holiday weekends pass by too quickly. And when July 4 rolled around, I always lamented the speed of summer’s passage. Halfway over, I would think--where has the summer gone?

But It’s day 3 of the Independence Day holiday weekend and it seems that this weekend started weeks ago, and it feels like this summer will never end. We’ve come to a sad pass when I of all people am ready for summer to end.

*****
I watched Hamilton last night and it lived up to the hype times ten. I’m no fan of musical theater, but Hamilton is magnificent. And Elizabeth has survived smallpox and is still managing to withstand pressure to marry. It is strangely reassuring to read about the 16th century and the periodic summer outbreaks of disease that would suspend festivals and gatherings and postpone the Queen’s summer progress. We’re not the only ones, right? But of course in the intervening 500 years, we should have learned enough to know better. Still, it’s reassuring to know that life eventually returned to normal or whatever passed for normal in Tudor England. Like we’re so much more advanced now. Ha.

*****
Why do I write like I’m running out of time? Day and night like I’m running out of time. Hamilton is in my head now. It’s Monday morning and I might work today or I might not. I don’t have to work day and night like I’m running out of time. We’re all running out of time. I’m not sorry that the holiday weekend is over but I’m sorry that I have to return to the year 2020. But it’s halfway over now, and maybe 2021 will be better. I don’t want to say that it can only go up from here because that would be tempting fate. But I’m optimistic, or at least hopeful. Those are two very different things. I’m going to work for a little while. I have things to accomplish and I’m running out of time. We’re all running out of time.

Old news

It’s Friday, July 3, already blazing hot at 11 AM, with the kind of dense, still, tropical humidity that makes it a real summer day. I’m trying to make the best of a summer that isn’t like any other summer. Last year, on this very day, I spent the day preparing for my son’s graduation party, which we held on July 4th because why not? For the past dozen years or so, I’ve spent part of every Saturday in June and part of July at a graduation party, but  I haven’t been to a single graduation party this summer.

*****
Still, it’s a three-day weekend. I can watch “Hamilton” on Disney Plus. I can reserve a lane and swim for an hour. I can read about Elizabeth I. I don’t have to meet with anyone via WebEx, Teams, or Zoom. And of course, I can do this.

When I started with this idea that I would write every day, 7 days a week and 365 days a year no matter what, it almost immediately became the proverbial millstone around my neck. My whole schedule, my whole to-do list, and now I have to do this, too? And of course, being me, I allowed daily writing  to become a compulsion-driven source of stress and anxiety. But three or so years in (I don’t know, actually--maybe it’s been longer), and this is almost always the easiest part of my day. I almost never struggle to find something to write about because I can write about anything or nothing.

*****
Independence Day, July 4.  It's 9:30 AM and I am the only one awake in the house. I'm reading all about a scandal involving people at the very highest levels of power. There are a lot of steps to retrace and a lot of witnesses to question and a lot of correspondence to scrutinize and a lot of people who need to answer for what they knew and when they knew it.

Lady Amy Dudley probably died of natural causes or suicide but we can't rule out murder for hire commissioned by her husband Robert. Queen Elizabeth I will probably have to lay low for a bit and cool things off with Lord Robert, unless she wants to end up back in the Tower, watching someone else take the throne.

*****
My son and I have a swim lane at noon today. Later on, we'll eat hamburgers and fresh watermelon and strawberries, and I'll immerse myself in more tales of power struggles turned deadly. And when Aaron Burr finally shoots Alexander Hamilton, I'll return to Elizabethan England, there to remain until at least Monday. It's Independence Day 2020 but I don't plan to follow events beyond the 18th century until next week at the earliest.

I told you that I could write about anything or nothing. If you kept reading after that, then you can’t say that you weren’t warned. Caveat emptor, and Happy Independence Day.

Soap and water

I don’t sleep well in June. The sky lightens very early, and I find myself awake at 3 or so and up for the day. This usually goes on for three or four days until I get tired enough that I sleep almost through the night, and then the cycle resumes.

I had a dream on one of my sleeping nights. In my dream, some kind of disaster was underway. I don’t recall if it was manmade, like a war or a terrorist attack;  or a natural disaster of some sort. If the latter, it was a dry natural disaster. Maybe an earthquake. I don’t remember any water.

******
Although come to think of it, there was water, but the water came in the form of a shower; or rather, the lack of water came from the lack of a shower. In this dream, I was surrounded by a desperate crush of escaping humanity; escaping from what, I don’t remember. And I was the only person trying not to escape, because I wanted to take a shower, and that was all I could think of. Even as the situation grew ever more serious and urgent, I dithered around, gathering my soap and my shampoo and looking for a shower.

I had to look for a shower, because I wasn’t at home. I was near or in a hotel of some sort. I don’t know why I wasn’t home, but I know that I wasn’t staying in the dream hotel. It’s now been over a week since I had this dream, and the details have mostly faded, but I remember that my dream self knew that I had no right to be in that hotel or to use its shower.

As I schemed and plotted and planned my illegal shower, the wild animals began to stampede, two by two as if Noah’s Ark had just come into port. Was there a zoo nearby? I don’t know; I just know that animals joined the humans until the street was teeming with creatures desperate to be elsewhere. I remember that I was also planning to join the exodus; I was just determined to take a shower first.

I saw people I worked with in the hotel; two of them are remote teammates whom I have never met, but whom I recognized immediately. I wondered what they were doing and why they weren’t running; and I’m sure they wondered what I was doing and why I wasn’t running, but no one asked any questions. Maybe we all just wanted a shower. It’s not unreasonable to want to be clean, even when you’re running away from a mass extinction event.

*****
I never did find out what the disaster was, nor why a shower took precedence over escape. I woke up and that was that. But the odd disoriented emergence-from-a-weird-dream feeling persisted throughout the morning. I should have written it all down right away; maybe I’d have remembered more.

*****
There should be a point to this, shouldn’t there? And I suppose there is. Every day of 2020 feels like looming disaster. I wake up every morning expecting the hammer to fall, assuming I slept in the first place. But every morning, I thank God that it’s another day, and that my family and I are alive, healthy, and as safe as we can be. I thank God that there’s a roof over my head and a bathroom with a shower that dispenses clean hot water every time I turn the faucet. It’s an uncertain and scary time, and it’s good to be clean.

Tudors and others

When I was reading the Wolf Hall trilogy, I felt sure that I’d rather be burned than beheaded. That’s not a non-sequitur; there was a lot of heretic-burning and traitor-beheading during the time of Henry VIII. Either, of course, would be better than quartering, but women were not subject to quartering, so at least there was that. But I burned my hand today while I was making popcorn and it hurt like a mother and I think it would probably be better to suffer the axe. God willing, I’ll never find out for sure.

Well, that was fun, wasn’t it?

Right now, I’m reading Anna Whitelock’s Mary Tudor: England’s First Queen. Mary is just one of the many Wolf Hall characters whom I need to know better, and I foresee months of reading about Tudors and Cromwells and sundry other royals and courtiers. I’m pretty excited about this.

Queen Mary, sometimes called Bloody Mary, was Henry VIII’s daughter. Like almost every other woman in his orbit, and not a few men, she suffered terribly at his hands. Henry demanded absolute devotion and loyalty from everyone around him, and he offered none in return.

Henry reminds me of someone. I’ll have to rack my brains for a few minutes to figure out who. It’s right on the tip of my tongue.

Anyway, this is so far a very sympathetic portrayal of Mary. I’m still on her early life, when she was stripped of her title of Princess and declared a bastard. I’ll still think of her as Princess Mary, though, because Henry can’t throw me in the Tower. As a defrocked Princess, she was powerless; but I understand that she did quite a bit of heretic-burning in her own right during her short reign as Queen. I’ll find out all about it soon enough. For now, I feel sorry for the poor girl.

****
I’m still reading. Henry is finally dead and good riddance; but his son Edward VI, Mary’s half-brother, is making her life almost as difficult as it was when her father was alive. To save herself from charges of treason and heresy, Mary submitted to Henry’s assertion of authority over the Church, but she’s not about to knuckle under to her teenage brother and his Protestant gangster friends. It’s about to get interesting in Tudor England.

*****
Poor Mary died alone at age 42, and I don’t excuse her for one moment for the terrible things she did as Queen. Lady Jane Gray was used by her power-hungry relatives and Mary could have just banished the poor girl to a convent. She probably would have gone quietly. And I am no admirer of Thomas Cranmer, but that was nothing more than revenge. Even though Cranmer recanted his recantation at the last minute, Mary couldn’t have known that he was going to do that. And of course, she burned 300 other heretics, too, despite all evidence that the threat of burning was not likely to deter anyone from heresy. Mary herself faced death threats for years and she didn’t back down an inch. She should have known.

But still, it’s hard not to feel sadness and pity for a woman so alone, who suffered ill health and phantom pregnancies, who was humiliated and threatened and all but imprisoned by her own father, and whose love for the man she married was not returned. Crown or no crown, it was just about impossible to be a woman in the 16th century. Wealthy widowhood was your best hope.

*****

I took a short break from the Tudors to read something else (I’ll write about it later, maybe), but now I’m back for more with Alison Weir’s biography of Mary’s much more famous sister, Elizabeth I. I know very little about Elizabeth other than what I have seen in the movies. I read a biography of Mary Queen of Scots when I was a teenager; and between my sympathy for the Scottish Mary and my Catholic upbringing, I’ve always been inclined to think of Elizabeth as a villain. But she suffered, too. It must have been alternately terrifying and dreadfully sad to know that your father ordered the execution of your mother on very likely trumped-up grounds (who does Henry remind me of? Who?) Anne Boleyn was no angel, of course. Given the chance, she might very well have killed Katherine of Aragon and Princess Mary; and I’m sure that she made life miserable for everyone who offended or irritated her. But just because she was a  mean bitch who probably thought about killing her husband's ex-wife doesn’t mean that she should have lost her head.

Henry VIII was the worst. He reminds me of someone. I just can’t put my finger on it. Meanwhile, I have some reading to do.

PSA

That's what he said!

This makes it easy, doesn’t it? If you are a Trump spokesperson who is tired (OMG, you must be tired) of trying to explain away “Russia, if you’re listening,” and “You can grab them by the pussy,” and “I could shoot someone right in the middle of Fifth Avenue,” and “I wish my people respected me like that” (regarding the North Korean people’s “respect” for Kim Jong Un) and all of the other funny, funny jokes, now you can take a rest. He wasn’t kidding.

He doesn’t kid. He just told you. He just made it clear. I'm glad I could help.

This is a big f*&^ing deal

It’s 4:30 on Monday afternoon, and I’m watching the sky. It was hot today, blazing hot and densely humid, and that’s the way I like it. And I’m thinking about how often I watch the sky at this time on a hot summer’s day, trying to figure out if the rumble that I just heard was thunder; and if it was thunder, will it be a big storm or just a passing shower with a little flash of lightning here and there.

That was definitely thunder.

Anyway, I’m watching the sky as I so often do late on a summer afternoon because I have a pool reservation at 6 and I’m hoping that whatever this is will pass before 6. Yes, the pool is open and even though there are a ton of rules and restrictions and I have to reserve a lap lane in advance, this is still so much better than what I expected, which was to have no pool at all this year.

Yesterday, I went swimming for the first time this summer. I called ahead and reserved a lane (“Oh hi, Mrs. P--I thought that was you,” said the lifeguard who answered the phone). Then I appeared at the duly appointed time, wearing a facemask and ready to hand in my signed liability waiver. With paperwork and precautions out of the way, I proceeded to my assigned spot on the deck, deposited my bag and towel and slid right into the slightly-too-cold water and began swimming. It was hard, because I haven’t been in the water in months. But for half an hour or so, I got to be nothing more than a body moving through the water. If I close my eyes, I still feel like I’m floating.

Happy 19th

Today is my son’s birthday. He is 19, which means that 19 years ago at this moment (3:52 in the afternoon), I was in labor at Shady Grove Hospital, with about two more hours before I would give birth to my first child. Time flies.

Always a Boy of Summer. 

My son is very passionate about politics. He’s a Bernie Sanders supporter and small donor, who just recently reconciled himself to the idea of voting for someone else in his first general election. He voted for Bernie in the Maryland primary, because he was still on the ballot, so at least he has that.

We had our usual politics chat today, with the Supreme Court’s DACA decision and John Bolton’s book as the main topics. We’re happy about DACA (but does Donald Trump ever miss a chance to dog-whistle the Second Amendment?)

My son worried aloud about the possibility that the Justice Department will suppress Bolton’s book. My take? Let them. The good parts have already leaked. And there are two kinds of people: The people who are not surprised at all about Bolton’s allegations; and the people who will support Trump no matter what Bolton or anyone else says about him. It won’t make any difference at all. Do you know when John Bolton might have made a difference? When he was actually still working for Trump. He could have testified at the impeachment trial. He could have done something, anything at all, when he was still in a position of power. He decided instead to hold out and publish a best-seller and retire a multi-millionaire. So even though I’m opposed in principle to suppressing a book that is critical of a sitting President, especially this President; I’m in favor of suppressing this particular book at this particular time because fuggedabout John Bolton.

*****
This was supposed to be about my son’s birthday, wasn’t it? And it is, kind of. As I said, he’s very passionate about politics and about the state of the world; and even as I try to tell him to think things through and not react so strongly and so emotionally to the outrage of the day or the hour, I know exactly where he gets it. The apple remains very close to the tree from which it fell 19 years ago. I hope that the next four years will be Trump-free; but even if that’s too much to hope for, I also hope for many more happy years for my beautiful son.

WFH

It’s Saturday morning, and I’m sitting outside, thinking about how an above-ground pool might look in the one consistently sunny corner of my backyard. It’s come to this. It’s just wishful thinking though, because even if I could convince my husband to buy and install and fill and clean an above-ground pool, there are none to be had. Above-ground pools in June 2020 are what toilet paper was in March--scarce and highly coveted.

*****
I like hot, humid, tropical weather in the summer; so today, with its bright blue sky and its crisp September-y air and its cool temperatures, is not my ideal summer day. But it’s really quite beautiful. The grass is freshly cut, the annuals are blooming, and the birds are chirping happily away. They don’t care about coronavirus. I took a picture of an oriole yesterday. Orioles look very much like robins, but they’re prettier--their heads are black rather than gray and their beaks are a yellowish-orange that contrasts nicely with the black head and the reddish-orange breast. Orioles are a Maryland thing. We even have a baseball team named after them. They’re not my team, but they have the best logo in all of professional sports.

He's not wearing a mask, and you don't even want
to know when he washed his hands last. 

*****
It’s Sunday morning now, bright and sunny and breezy again. We’re trying to find another patio umbrella to match the two we have, and patio umbrellas are in short supply. Maryland is starting to “reopen,” whatever that means, but we’re all bracing for at least a few more months of limited interaction with the world, which means that we want home to be as pleasant as possible.

For lots of people, home can’t really be pleasant. Family situations aside, too many people just don’t have the resources that would allow them to have a simple, clean, comfortable home, with enough food and clean water and indoor plumbing and electricity and a little bit of green grass and a few birds chirping. I don’t see why this should be so. There’s more than enough to go around.

It’s a fallen world. We’re human and we suck, so there will always be inequality, for as long as imperfect humans have the responsibility for governing other imperfect humans. But there’s no excuse for how badly we’ve managed distribution of the world’s wealth. It’s all a gift from God. I know I’ll never vote for Trump, but I’ll vote for the candidate who will make it a priority to ensure that more of my fellow people can live in a place that could rightly be called a home. If that candidate exists.

*****
It’s Monday now. I worked in my backyard all day, wearing long sleeves and a jacket, in June. It’s still nice out here in the backyard, just me and my avian coworkers, but I didn’t even think about a pool today. A blanket maybe, or a hot drink, but not a pool. It’s a fallen world and a cold one today, too. I didn’t see any orioles today, but I saw several robins and I’ve decided that they’re much less attractive than their Baltimore cousins. But everyone is welcome. Mi casa es su casa unless you’re a mouse, in which case get out. We finally found a third umbrella, so we’ll soon be able to shade the entire patio if we want to. Now all I need is an outdoor heater and maybe a selective electric fence that will let the birds and squirrels and rabbits in, and keep the mice out. It’s not fancy and it’s not fashionable but it’s comfortable and homey and that’s all I need. That’s all anyone needs.

Hilary and Helene

Wait, are we still in the middle of a pandemic? The protests have been raging for over a week now and I suppose that the tiny little bright light in all of this darkness is that it’s been days since I’ve heard a word about coronavirus, masks, curve-flattening, hand-washing, or hydroxychloroquine.

Well, that's not true. But I've heard a lot less corona commentary, and that's all to the good. The lockdown continues though, at least here in Montgomery County, Maryland; and I’m worried that I might run out of things to read. I don’t seem in any danger of running out of things to do. I don’t know how I have such a long to-do list and what seems like so little time in which to accomplish everything, but there it is.

I’m finally reading The Mirror and the Light. It’s very long and I’m about 80% through it, so I’m taking my time now, because after I finish it, I’ll be finished with Hilary Mantel’s Thomas Cromwell and I will miss him terribly. The Mirror and the Light begins in the immediate moments following the events of the end of the second volume, Bring Up the Bodies. Anne Boleyn is dead, and her poor ladies-in-waiting are wading through her blood and carrying away her body and its severed head.

*****
“In the old days; that is to say, a month ago…” This is Cromwell, thinking about something that happened when Anne was still queen. It could be any of us, thinking about the old days; that is to say, any time before March 13, 2020; or any time before May 25, 2020.

I read a review of The Mirror and the Light before I started reading the book. Well, I read part of a review. I didn’t want to know too much about the book before I read it, even though I know how it ends. The reviewer wrote something about how the reader can see Thomas Cromwell racing toward disaster, and that everyone around him sees it too; but Cromwell himself only sees it when it’s too late. That is a metaphor for so many things right now. But I see what the reviewer meant about Cromwell. High on his success after helping Henry rid himself of yet another unwanted wife, and elevated to a position in which his power is second only to the King’s, he doesn’t notice that the King might be feeling guilty about putting Anne Boleyn and several of his closest friends to death. (The King is like Donald Trump--when he's mad about something, someone other than himself has to take the blame.) The ruling families of England despise Cromwell, but he doesn’t worry about them because he thinks he’s untouchable. But he’s still a blacksmith’s son from Putney and his failure to remain (or at least pretend to be) humble will bring him to a dreadful end. Now that I’m nearing the end, Cromwell is starting to wake up a little bit, but it’s too late.

In the first two volumes, Cromwell is sneaky. He’s manipulative, he’s devious, he’s underhanded, he’s brilliant and cunning and ruthless; but he’s not a monster. We wouldn’t care about him if he was. In the first few chapters of the final volume, however, Cromwell is proof of the adage about absolute power corrupting absolutely. He’s out of control. But he’s good company, and I’ll still miss him when he’s gone. 

*****
I’ll also miss Helene Hanff. She wrote tons of letters, tons of TV scripts, tons of plays, and some magazine articles, but only four short books. I have already read two of them, leaving two more. I read Underfoot in Show Business and The Duchess of Bloomsbury on Kindle; and I just bought a paperback copy of 84, Charing Cross Road (her most famous book) and I’m saving it for the coming post-Cromwell literary apocalypse. I’ll get a copy of Q’s Legacy, too; so at least I have two more volumes of Hanff to look forward to.

The Duchess of Bloomsbury and Q’s Legacy are both indirectly about 84, Charing Cross Road, making them books about a book. Like meetings about meetings (which I assure you are a real thing), but much better. Helene Hanff was a writer for her whole life, but she became famous as a result of that one book, which she couldn’t have written without having lived her life. I’m sure that Cromwell wrote something about his own life, possibly in letters or a diary, though he would have had to guard them carefully against enemies and spies. I don’t know if he was anything like he is in Hilary Mantel’s portrayal, but I’ll pretend that he was.

I’m lucky enough to have actually written and received real letters, handwritten, on actual paper. I have a few things in common with Helene Hanff and just about nothing in common with Thomas Cromwell, but we do share an understanding of letter writing and letter reading. But enough about writing. I’m going to finish reading.

Tracking number

I didn’t know what else to write about one day last week, so I wrote about packages. I'm keeping a running list of stuff that I ordered online. I cross things off the list as they arrive, but the list doesn’t get shorter because I keep ordering stuff. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I ordered another handbag. Do you understand how ridiculous this is? Do you know how many handbags I already have? No, that’s a real question that I’m hoping you can answer because I lost count. Search this blog for the words “handbag” “tote,” “purse,” and “pocketbook.” You won’t be able to figure out how many handbags I actually have, but you will gain a good understanding of exactly how shameful it is that I should even think about buying another handbag in my life, ever. But there it is, awaiting shipment from some Nordstrom warehouse somewhere. I’ll cross it off the list when it gets here.

*****
It's May 2020, and handbags are a welcome if momentary and fleeting distraction. It’s hot today and at 3 PM on a hot summer Saturday, I would normally be packing my bag for an hour or two at the pool. I can feel the too-cold early-summer water right now, with the sun sparkling blue surface. Soon, I hope.

****
It’s the last day of May 2020, and good riddance. I’m trying to stay off social media, but it’s hard. I don’t want to think about or talk about what’s going on right now, except that I want nothing more than to talk about and think about and read about and immerse myself in everything that’s going on right now. I’m angry for no reason. I’m angry at people with whom I have no reason to be angry. I want to go very far away, except that I don’t want to leave my house. And where can a person go now anyway? The SpaceX crew have the right idea. Just get off the planet for a few weeks, and maybe this will all blow over.

The house is a little messy right now. There’s laundry that I could do. I vacuumed yesterday but there’s nothing to stop me doing it again. Some books could be rearranged. Some clothes could be folded or hung a little bit more neatly. I can control something.

*****
Now the house is as clean and as neat as it reasonably can be, so the one thing that I can control is firmly controlled.

You know what I can't control? The help desk. No one can. It's Monday now, and I'm on the phone with the help desk. The agent has control of my computer, for what I thought would be a ten-minute software installation. 20 minutes later and I'm still watching files copy, like the embezzlement scene in “Office Space.” He keeps saying "hmm," which worries me a little bit.

The help desk agent just asked me what kind of parakeets I have. I don’t have parakeets; he’s just hearing birds. I’m sitting outside in my backyard because it’s a beautiful day and I needed to get away from the police radio, which is on constantly in my house. The software update just finished and so I guess I have to stop writing and get back to work.

*****
It’s Wednesday now, June 3. When I was writing on Monday, I didn’t expect anything particularly good to come out of the rest of the day but I must admit that I didn’t predict anything like what actually occurred. I wrote about June 1 separately, right here, but I’m still processing it. Did a U.S. President actually teargas peaceful protesters a block from the White House so that he could walk across the street? I still don’t know exactly how many handbags I have, but I do know the answer to that question and it’s yes.

Anyone who’s been here for more than five minutes knows that it would be difficult to find someone who thinks less of Trump than I do but he descended to new depths on Monday, both in his disgraceful craven cowardice and in his place in my esteem. He’s still higher than Hitler and Stalin, with nowhere to go but down.

November is around the corner. Let’s just hope that the administration doesn’t “reschedule” the election.

Oh and my handbag finally arrived. It’s beautiful. Final count? Too many plus one.

Infamy

Yesterday was Monday, June 1, 2020. I worked a normal (what passes for normal) WFH day, went for a walk, prepped food for dinner, and then turned on the news. My husband and I watched live as tension grew between what appeared to be very peaceful protesters, and officers from the National Park Police, DC National Guard, MPD, and Arlington County Police.

The TV reporters, one of whom wore a gas mask, seemed bewildered more than anything else. They kept explaining that the protests were peaceful; that no one was rioting or breaking windows or even throwing anything. They were honestly curious, as were we, about why the mounted officers were trying to push the crowds back, and why people were beginning to panic a bit. When the teargas was released and the flash-bangs exploded, the reporters became agitated. All of this because the 7 PM curfew was approaching?

We watched the President’s short speech, in which he didn’t mention the reason for the protest, but threatened a crackdown and promised to protect the Second Amendment. And not for the first time in recent weeks, I thought about how the Bill of Rights contains ten amendments, but Donald Trump seems interested in only one.

Then we saw the President and his whole criminal gang walking toward St. John’s on Lafayette Square. And it slowly dawned on us that the teargas had nothing to do with the curfew and nothing to do with restoring order. The police and the National Guard teargassed peaceful protesters gathering in accordance with their free speech and free assembly rights because Donald Trump wanted to walk across the street.

It’s all too new to process now. Maybe this is the turning point, for better or worse. Maybe it’s just Trump upping the ante one more time to see how much more he can get away with. Or maybe he’s finally nearing his limit. Maybe starting now, even his supporters won’t be able to pretend that he’s not a weak and despicable coward. I hope for the latter. But June 1, 2020 is a day that will live in infamy, either way.