Those who know me well are not surprised that I have failed to journal daily. Somehow, I slipped down that slippery slope, and I missed writing April first and second. No excuses. But it’s easy to do when during a pandemic you feel as though you are hurtling through space dodging meteors and stars.
My heart goes out to first responders and healthcare professionals… to say nothing of the clerks working in the groceries or the banks or the undocumented workers toiling in the fields where they’re at-risk of contagion or being laid off with no access to unemployment insurance. And the homeless who have no home. And… the list is endless. I can’t imagine that anyone reading my blog, would think that I’m unaware, but just because I try to look on the bright side, I don’t have my head in the sand.
Last week I read that laughing 15 times a day is a good measure of mental health. To that end, I started counting the times I laughed. My 15 laughs will not be useful to any aspiring stand-up comics, but I’ll share. 1.) Trump says that his ratings are “Bigger than The Bachelor.” 2.) Trump says that he’s number one on Facebook. 3.) My husband asks, “Was yesterday, a day without chocolate?” 4.) My husband asks, “Can I be crabby?” 5.) I ask, “If I count Trump’s comments #’s 1 and 2 as separate laughs, am I inflating the status of my mental health?” 6.) Listening to Morning Edition, the author of Muslim Love Story, was asked what attracted her to her husband, and the author and I simultaneously said, “His buns.” 7.) Both my husband and I are coughing, and he asks, “Can I give you a kiss?” 8.) Neither of us can remember what day it is, and one of us said, “Check the computer.” 9.) “Smiles don’t count.” 10. “Hook up the hose to the hydrant.” (context missing). 11.) “Saturday night.” (context missing.) 12.) “What do you call a female detective?” Answer: Dick-less Tracy. 13 through 15 missing. I did, however make it to 15 laughs before lunch. Despite the pandemic, I’m apparently OK.
I advise you to count and record your laughs. If your laughs are anything like mine, the laughs are based on very little. You just have to be receptive to any little thing no matter how small.
I’m on-line looking for home-made mask patterns. The effectiveness of homemade masks is up for debate, but if anyone actually spits on me, I should be safe. I cut out the pattern; I pull out my sewing machine and fabric. I can’t find my white thread. I’m getting crabby. I choose lavender thread instead. I don’t have enough straight pins. In my haste, I didn’t realize that I was supposed to add a quarter inch around the pattern and a half inch to what I’ll call the ‘ear side.’ My crabbiness intensifies. Attending to my error, I cut more masks. My scissors need sharpening. My mother was a pretty grim woman. My sister and I referred to her as ‘stone face.’ I assume my mother’s face. I can’t see to thread my needle. I’ve misplaced my reading glasses. My carpel-tunnel hand is acting up. I’m thinking of running away from home.
Finally, masks finished, we try them on. It is not a perfect fit. But, as I said, “If anyone spits on me, I should be O.K.
Beginning with one of your favorite pieces of art, the Getty Museum Challenge is to re-create it at home using three things lying about the house. As one of hundreds of examples, to the left we have “The Scream” by Evard Munch, and to the right, a potato recreation by Jean-Luc Walraff via Twitter.
Don’t take my word for it. The approximated works of art will take your breath away. Check out the website. The creativity and inventiveness of folks trapped at home will lift your spirits. We are not all homogenized.
Despite illness, death, unemployment, and bills due, we are still exploring and curious. That’s a plus.
The birds are back! Bluebirds in flocks. Walking Oogie south of Hermit, I approached a Bluebird sitting on a T-post. The bird took off, but landed ten posts ahead of me. I continued walking, and the bird flew another ten. Again and again. Not that I’m thinking that the bird had extraordinary match skills, but the constancy and accuracy of his flight gave me pause.
The Buzzards are back. Wings wide in the morning to capture the sun’s heat. Praying for fresh roadkill. None fresh? No matter. And last week I saw a Meadow Lark. Too early. Camera at-the-ready, I tried and tried again to catch the courting hawks up Rosita way. He wanted her badly, but she was shy. Another sat atop a telephone pole. Disappointed, I failed to catch him in flight. Such is life.
It’s too early to smell the roses, but that shouldn’t stop you from slowing down.