FOR WHOM THE SCHOOL BELL TOLLS

IF NOT FOR WE...

I remember hearing the bell for the end of class, and almost always being happy to flee. But kids are really longing for school these days. Online learning has a place, but it cannot replace the actual classroom full of funky artwork, chemistry beakers, quotes from admired thinkers and all the stuff of learning and friendship.

So how about it?

Don't you think that priority should be given to opening the schools safely? It would be amazing for the economy, since parents could go back to work. It would be terrific for the kids, since they need the education, the socializing, the socialization, the lunch.

Putting the bazillions of dollars into the schools will help in bazillions of ways, too. Most who study the issue believe that smaller class sizes benefit students, and that would be a given in a coronavirus-savvy school. Cleanliness? Always a good thing. Kids miss their friends and many pediatricians say that the harm for kids not being in school is worse than the illness. Child and spousal abuse are sky-rocketing and getting the kids out of the house for most of the day cannot but help mitigate that situation. 

I've heard interviews on the news that say it can be done. The schools can be safe. Sure, tracking takes money and science--how's that for a teachable moment? If kids learned nothing except about the science of epidemiology, it would still be wonderful. 

Here is a cute example: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d-5BRf3cYWo

Schools can be better than ever. They can promote equality and diversity in a way never achieved. In this new awareness of Black Lives Matter, putting the money into the schools can be a good start to teaching, and learning, that centuries of harm to a group must be corrected. Can be corrected. It is amazing what knowledge and good will, and yes bazillions of dollars can do. Must do, and the time for doing is now. 

A lot can be done in our schools.

Our kids need good schools. We need them. What better place to put the money for economic recovery? And once we relieve parents of the job of teaching, which is driving them crazy, and which most are not doing well, and probably giving kids and parents both PTSD, they can take a breath.  And start thinking about the new ways we need to run our lives if we are to keep ourselves, the economy, and our planet safe.  

TENNIS MUMUS ANYONE??

I AM HAVING A TERRIBLE TIME WORKING

OUT!

I just can't force myself.

You'd think with all this extra time on my hands, it would be easy. Well, the first days of staying home were kind of like a reprieve. We were terrified of getting sick, the world ran out of toilet paper and coffee filters, as well as anything with bleach or isopropyl alcohol in it. My local Pavilion's even ran out of my favorite inexpensive cabernet! 

Yeats said it pretty well:

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming!

The center clearly could not hold. 

(Second Coming is meant as a hopeful irony.)

So I could hardly be blamed for skipping my workout! 

Right?

Then, about two weeks in--we were still working in 2-week increments, mentally--I found several

 

 core barre, yoga, and Pilates routines online, and started doing them. 

 

Every day.

Then, every other day.

Then, oh, well, a little walk would do. After all there are those who claim walking is the best exercise.

Parenthetically

 I do not dis the walkers. But my former workout week was 3 core barre classes, one fast yoga class with loud music, one swim and 2 or 3 sessions of Live-Ball Tennis.

So, friends, it diminished but I did not. I mentioned before my CABERNET-19, but the truth is I won't go near a scale.

But I recently found a combo that just might work!

There are a lot of wonderful and free workouts online. In my better days I would randomly pick one and just do it, to coin a phrase. That was before the siren call of the after-breakfast nap. 

Parenthetically

I used to fast in the morning--do my workout, play tennis and then have some food. I'd drink a green concoction, take some supplements, and only have coffee. Now, lavishly buttered baguettes or almond croissants go with the coffee.

I just read in NYT an article by Gretchen Reynolds, a regular reporter on health. You can find it titled HOW WEIGHT TRAINING CHANGES THE BRAIN. 

(www.nytimes.com/2019/07/24/well/move/how-weight-training-changes-the-brain.html?referring Source=articleShare)

I know, dated 2019 but it was in this week's paper.

Lifting weights actually changes the brain, creating NEW neurons in its memory centers.

A wonderful article that may keep me on track because I found a good half-hour yoga workout and a 15-minute beginning weight training video, and there is enough variety, and, this is key, the combo is short enough, that it's doable. Added benefits are to other aspects of memory that most of us find fault with as we age. 

The heaviest weight I use is 12 pounds in each hand. I repeat a series of 6 exercises three times, and I'm done. Perhaps I may not need to create my own line of tennis mumus. 

Now where did I put my phone?

THE CONSTITUTIONAL RIGHT TO BE STUPID

THE RIGHT TO BE STUPID

Is it a constitutional right?

I realize that the economy is in tatters, and that this is the sole fact for many. I know the terror of not having the rent money with prospects for future rent not good either. I would understand if people, suffering PTSD from multiple crises all at once, covid, unemployment, no pub respite, ranted against the powers that be. Yet to fulminate about mask-wearing? Yeah, masks are hot and fog my glasses, and not glamorous. My lipstick gets mussed and left inside—yes, bite me, lipstick! The only good thing about the masks? They cover the lower, most age-revealing part of my face. Oh, and they save lives.

CABERNET-19

CABERNET-19

Husband and I have been happy together for a long time. More than 30 years. And while it is a second marriage for both, 

it's probably the last as well. 

Many who meet us think we are newlyweds. People ask how we do it. And while I usually give the true answer that it is him, that I completely trust him and he is easy and non-judgmental--not to mention handsome--there is more. And it may not seem like anything, but IT COULD HELP 

WE ARE SILLY. 

Right. I think that if we were recorded during our day, we would be embarrassed. We do back-and-forth puns, make noises instead of words, to avoid answering awkward questions or commenting when we'd rather not. 

About this, parenthetically. Making meaningless sounds is satisfying in a weird way. I mean it's weird that it works. 

I even use the nonsense sounds to cover an angry thought. 

Exaggerating an angry thought to an absurd point is good for a laugh. 

I won't say laughter is the best medicine, but it may be the best relationship-preserver/extender.

Every time we walk by we either kiss or air kiss. Or double air kiss. Or we touch each other, a glancing caress, a small pinch, something a teensy bit suggestive, maybe.

The reason I mention all this silliness is that it is so very easy to do. It does take a bit of thought, and probably an investigative conversation with sig oth. Otherwise, let 'er rip!

Which is not to say that that the Covid-10 isn't the Cabernet-19 for me--talking pounds here.  

THE MUSEUM OF BAD PEOPLE

EVERYONE'S WONDERING WHAT TO DO WITH THOSE STATUES THAT MISREPRESENTED HISTORY--THAT'S EASY. WE NEED A NEW MUSEUM: THE MUSEUM OF BAD PEOPLE!

TALKING TO STRANGERS

Strangers, cont’d.

I want to talk about my other favorite podcast, the one who got me hooked on them to start with. So there is no unnecessary suspense, it’s HIDDEN BRAIN always wonderful.

Now podcasts are so valuable to me, it’s hard to imagine what it was like before. Before, I might lie awake trying to sleep. Now I lie in bed, trying not to sleep because the podcast is so interesting.

But I can’t. I must talk about Gladwell’s book.

Talking to Strangers

AT first, you wonder what he’s after. The many stories he discusses have been widely covered. But as we know, he’s always got something up his sleeve. And by the time he’s done, after many go-rounds and interweavings, everything is in a new light. Often in an unimaginable way. Things you think you understand, believe me, you don’t.

Also, many of the discussions are so pertinent to what’s happening today, it’s almost as if he just wrote on the heels of the recent police murders.

The tag line of my radio show was CONTEXT IS EVERYTHING. And this has proven to be a necessary adjunct to any effort to learn the truth.

Podcast: Malcolm Gladwell's REVISIONIST HISTORY

REVISIONIST HISTORY: Malcolm Gladwell's Podcast

I'VE BEEN DRIVING MYSELF CRAZY

So many topics, such a lazy bum...

From women and guns to no police to why I hate literature to drinking so much. And those come to me when I'm not even properly thinking about it. Oh, and then there is Ruthy's 96th birthday, celebrated on Zoom. Without me, but she says I was a presence.

Malcolm Gladwell has a nice voice. There is a lot of melody and affect, and a free use of colloquialism. There is no sentence too compex to understand. Which is why it's so wonderful that he delves into the most complicated matters with joy and curiosity, and fully brings us with him.

The phrase "revisionist history" is often misunderstood. I wonder if he knows that and is having fun with his title. Revisionist sounds like a bad thing, like what we were taught the Soviets did, rewriting their so-called history books to reflect well on the regime and leave out inconveniences like starvation, failed farms and factories, etc. 

But in truth, revisionist history is the opposite. It is the revised history made possible, nay mandatory, by new knowledge. What Gladwell does is look at events, ideas, whatever, that in many cases have already been looked quite a lot, and he re-examines them in light of new facts and theories. A lot like the spirit of FREAKANOMICS.

I always read him, the science writer, starting with THE TIPPING POINT, which I read in excerpts in The New Yorker. This was wonderful to me because it explained unexplainable things, like why a neighborhood would fail. I understand just enough of quantum mechanics to be intrigued, but not enough to explain it to someone. More about that later. But it seems like many things do not change gradually. But in quantum leaps. Suddenly it is ice when a second ago it was water. This may not be a scientific analysis, but it's easy to understand. I loved OUTLIERS, too. A much better explanation of certain kinds of success that the usual bromides involving bootstraps*, or possibly worse, "you can do anything" when nothing is explained. 

I put the links below to two of my favorites. The King of Tears is about why country music makes you cry, as opposed to Rock. And the second, Chutzpah vs Chutzpah is a primer to understanding Israelis.

More later. I must go make a salad and some lemonade for a socially distant dinner party now. 

revisionisthistory.com/episodes/16-the-king-of-tears

revisionisthistory.com/episodes/39-chutzpah-vs-chutzpah

Listen to "Chutzpah vs. Chutzpah" Season 4 Episode 9 of The Revisionist History Podcast with Malcolm Gladwell.

*The origin of the phrase picking oneself up by the bootstraps came from the self-evident fact that such an action was impossible. It was meant to describe something that couldn't be done. And somehow it has come to mean its opposite. A cat o' ninetails used to whip people into frenzies of guilt when they can't pick themselves up, I think mainly used by Republicans agaainst the poor.

RATIONAL RIOTING

RATIONAL RIOTING

I’m putting this up now unedited because it is now. I’ll fix it later.

In Santa Monica, which I think is the best place in the world to live, was the scene, today, along with a few other LA neighborhoods, of peaceful protests and looting. The intersection of Ocean and Montana Aves was the site of a protest about the death of George Floyd at the hands, or rather the feet of Minneapolis police. 

Three blocks away, at the 3^rd St. Promenade shopping area, 3 blocks of walk streets lined with boutiques and fancy national chains, looting occurred. The thieves attacked mainly corner stores, since 3^rd St. itself was cordoned off by police. Consequently Vans, on one corner, REI on another took most of the hit. Bloomies and Nordstrom, in Santa Monica Place were hit too, a couple blocks south.

It’s just past 4pm, the official start of the curfew. The crowd of protesters on Ocean had been divided into 2 or more smaller groups when police started firing tear gas and other non-lethal projectiles. When the 4 o’clock curfew was announced, around 3pm, superceding the 8PM one established by LA Mayor Garcetti, many in the crowd started leaving. Those remaining stayed and cops stayed, the lines established. Some protesters started setting off red powder bombs, and huge rocks, a few, were thrown at police.As I write this, the situation changes.

Our condo building has additional security and a police presence.

What I meant by rational rioting.

On May 4, 1992, I rode back from Studio City, where I had just done my live radio program, BENEATH THE SURFACE, a drive time call-in show on current events, that I did several weekdays at 5pm. The usual format was a half-hour chat with newsmakers and half-hour of call-ins. Pacifica Radio, the station owner, did not budget for call screeners, so it was always a free-for-all. My guest was Paxton Quigley, author of ARMED AND FEMALE, first published in 1989, but I think paper came out in ’92.

 AS one of my radio colleagues, Cindy Friedman, said at the time, you can have timely radio even when planned in advance. Paxton, a gorgeous blond, at that time (I’VE SINCE SEEN PHOTOS OF her as a red-head), worked public relations for Smith and Wesson, I think. She took me to the firing range a couple of times and is a serious advocate of women owning guns. Hey, she convinced me. This was all in the early days of the NRA vice-grip on legislation, but most liberals had knee-jerk reaction to gun ownership, from I HATE GUNS to fear of them. 

It’s good to fear a gun aimed at you. 

But knowing how to handle one is a useful 21^st century tool.

Some other time I’ll get into an analysis of the I HATE GUNS locution.

Just now, I went on line to find out who made the curfew (now LA County has changed its curfew to 6PM) but only find that it was done by Santa Monica Government. EG Mayor Garcetti did the LA one, and Sheriff’s Dept., the LA County one.

While I drove through the canyon that beautiful May evening in 1992,  I gradually became aware (radio on) that a few miles south, LA was ablaze. The verdict exonerating the cops who beat Rodney King had come in. They had gotten off,

 even thought there was full-on video of what had happened,

 and he was beaten for no reason by cops, with other cops standing by and looking on.

AS I say, riots. The city was aflame. Businesses in the black neighborhoods were looted and torched.

Very irrational, it seemed to me.

But who riots rationally? Oops. More about that in a minute. But my question really is why burn your own stuff? Why not attack the police, the establishment? The rich?

Well, they did. And I fear this is just the beginning. So far there is little damage and injury (the night is young) but there were clearly some who planned. Looters had hammers. Their cars had licenseplates covered up so they could make anonymous getaways with loot.

I saw a bicyclist tear off the covering of a looter’s license plate. The car owner came after him and socked him in the face, but he still rode away. I hope unhurt. Other protesters stood in front of stores trying to dissuade looters for the sake of the real cause.

At the same time, the police were monitoring the protesters and had no presence at the stores.

AS I said, rational. Or, less irrational.

I think this is more rational rioting. And I think it's coming soon to a neighborhood near me.

STONED—POSTPONED

I apologize if I left you fearing for my sanity.

Stuart Woods had the kindness to write 54 Stone Barrington novels, so what I fear most—running out of them while still quarantined, may not happen. But a discussion of that topic is for a different day.

Today,

Freakanomics, the podcast.

First, I loved the books. FREAKANOMICS (2005), and SUPERFREAKANOMICS (2009) were not only fun to read, they were intuitive even in their counterintuitivity. I also love that they apply statistical analysis and pattern study integrally in their work. There is no nonsense, of the sort that used to dominate the study of economics, that assumes people, groups, nations, classes, et al, decide on their behavior rationally. I refer you to the last presidential election which is an example that includes a tangential relationship to economics, plus more. When it comes to anything, but especially economics, reason does not reign.

I just discovered HOW TO THINK LIKE A FREAK, which I plan to immediately read. 

Meanwhile, the podcast.

Usually running between a half-hour and an hour, Stephen Dubner, the writer of the 2 authors, hosts a show, and Steven Levitt, Professor of Economics at the University of Chicago, with many many other credits, is an occasional contributor. Dubner will run an entire cast on one to three subjects, and the take is refreshing, entertaining, and sticks to fact.

They will also re-examine issues that have caused controversy, such as the analysis that discovered that the reduction in crime, that occurred in the 90s was a direct result of widely accessible legal abortion. As you may imagine, quite a hue and cry arose from many interested and agenda-ed parties. So, a few years later, the two Steves made a new analysis taking into account the criticism that the first printing, etc., engendered. And yup. The facts led to the same conclusion. Interesting, many women seem to know whether or not it is good for the world, for them to bring a child into it. Or perhaps a good world for the child.

STONED…in 2 or more parts

I AM LIVING IN TERROR

As I mentioned before, the corona quarantine plays to my strengths. I like nothing better that lazing around, wandering from one cozy place to another, drinking excellent coffee, until, of course, it is late enough to start drinking excellent Cabernet. I have a series of fluffy, faux fur blankies, and one actual cashmere one. I pile cushions and pillows as needed. I’ve even taken to using a pillow between my legs at night to alleviate a strange hip pain that I was seeing a therapist about before. That’s no longer happening.

 What do I do in these different places? I listen to podcasts, I nap, I read, I cook, I snack, I watch TV. For podcasts, my current favorites are still Freakanomics, Science Friday, Malcolm Gladwell’s Revisionist History (when he’s not talking music, except the one about why country music makes you cry), TED Talks, Making Sense, with Sam Harris, Star Talk, with Neil deGrasse Tyson (when he’s not talking sports) and Gastropod. Now I have added Against the Rules, Michael Lewis’s podcast, and The Rabbit Hole, an amazing series about the Internet and how it influences.

The thing about podcasts is that I can listen in bed, set the timer, or not, and drift off to wise and funny words from some of my favorite geniuses. If I miss something, it’s easy to go back the next day or whenever, and there are a kajillion podcasts on every conceivable area of interest—and probably a kajillion more, after all this enforced staying at home. What better than prepare to verbally assault the world with your thoughts while lying around waiting to get sick?

But the thing that really is getting me through the pandemic, is Stone Barrington and his friends and colleagues. Stone Barrington, former NYPD detective turned lawyer solves crimes and lives an extremely entertaining life, based in an inherited townhouse in Turtle Bay.

  

But most of all, I read Stuart Woods’ Stone Barrington novels.

And my terror is that I will run out of them.

THE NEW REAL

The beaches are open again. Not for lounging or picnics, or biking, supposedly, ‘though I saw all of the above yesterday when I walked there in the late afternoon. It was really good to see people out enjoying the gorgeous weather. With the parks and the beaches closed, we were crowded together on the sidewalks trying to maintain distance.

Now, lots of little kids running around. It looked a little like the beach in Tel Aviv. No one had blankets, just a towel or two, ready in case rousted. In Tel Aviv, that’s what they do. Here, we go to the beach with umbrellas, coolers, beach balls, blankies and tents. In Israel, they are probably wearing their swimsuits under their everyday clothes. They carry nothing. Simply walk to the sand and sit on it. The sand, I must admit, is like velvet. So fine and soft.

Now, to avoid problems with whoever is charged with enforcing the new beach rules, we are ready to decamp at the sight of a police vehicle. I didn’t see any lifeguards in their little towers. Others were using them. The tide was nearly in. It truly was heaven in Santa Monica. Impossible to believe what is really going on for us.

Poor world.

I ALMOST ATE THE WHOLE THING

 or,

 ANOTHER USE FOR WHIPPED CREAM

Do you know how good whipped cream really is? I made some to use as lettering on a birthday cake. Then I added the rest to a bowl for strawberries for a small socially distant dinner party’s dessert. The strawberries are really good this time of year. 

But whipped cream is not just good. It’s useful.

I often whip a pint of cream, add some vanilla and powdered sugar, and use it for Bruce’s Key Lime Pie.I know I keep promising to tell you all about that, and I will. Just not now. In decaf after dinner it is really yummy floating seductively atop the dark French Roast. Eat it with a spoon. It’s almost as if the coffee is sauce for the cream, and its rich bitterness is exquisite in contrast. 

Obviously delicious over fresh fruit, especially peaches and strawberries. That was last night. This morning, I ate leftover strawberries and cream after breakfast. I had a lot of whipped cream left.

I thought I would have just another bite. Or Two. Hm.

Many years ago, husband and I were invited to a big multi-generational Thanksgiving dinner with the family of our oldest son's girlfriend. At the time, everything seemed wonderful. The girl was pretty and smart and her parents were famous songwriters and very rich. Then the earthquake hit. They had a huge house and our apartment building was red-tagged. That means we were not allowed into our place, and police were enforcing the ban.

During the earthquake, which happened around 4am, things were shaking and crashing all around us. Husband and I each leapt from opposite sides of the marital bed, and I ran for the doorway. The thinking then was that there would be significant support from the door jamb. I stopped there, looked back, and saw husband stop to pick up my clogs which were on his side of the bed. His slight, sweet, generous delay caused him to be caught when part of the ceiling fell. Something broke over his head. 

But we both made it out.

I grabbed my brand new Tony Lama cowboy boots and the hard drive part of my computer.

At any rate, homeless and without clothes or other stuff (we did have car with phone) we drove around checking on family and friends. We found one older friend ensconced in an encampment on the very wide green meridian in nearby San Vicente. Having determined our kids were in good hands and safe, we hit the road to Santa Barbara, where my brother lived. We knew that while he had felt the 7.1 quake, his place was fine and everything normal up there. He welcomed a visit.

We were tooling along Pacific Coast Highway at the start of the 90 minute drive when we had to stop because of something blocking the road.

It was a house.

Sitting right on the highway, having slid in its entirety down the bluff and into the street. There was no other way to get there at that time, so we headed back. But to where? 

My son called to say that his girlfriend’s parents were willing to put us up for a couple days. What a relief!

We headed over to Beverly Hills. They greeted us and showed us to a very nice guest room in their very beautiful large house. But the vibe was so so weird. When they spoke to us, it was as if they were talking to an especially aromatic pair of homeless, which I guess we were. But the other homeless. 

We had to get out of there.

Later. Because one of the couple was in AA, he apologized and said he wanted to make amends. But his idea was saying it, not doing it. But hey. We found a hotel and started looking for an apartment.

Later we heard that they had had a bad experience with some guest who overstayed. Whatever.

My son continued the relationship, hence the Thanksgiving invite.

I made a couple pumpkin pies to bring. The girlfriend told me, as we drove together to the aunt’s house where the dinner was, that she was not a pie person. I plan to do a whole monograph on that locution, "not a (fill in the blank) person." What does it mean? Anyone?

Okay.

We get to the dinner, and it was a huge potluck buffet with maybe a hundred dishes. At the dessert table, I placed the pies, cut them, and beside them placed a huge bowl of whipped cream I had made to go with. Same recipe as above. Nearby were other desserts, and three or four open containers of Cool Whip. Ingredients (partial list):  hydrogenated vegetable oil, high fructose corn syrup, various multi-syllabic chemicals, guar gum, and so on. Okay, fine. Some people can’t make real food.

Later, I went back to see what I might have missed, dessert-wise. All of the Cool Whip containers were nearly decimated, and NONE of the whipped cream was gone aside from what I had taken.

I knew then that this was not the family for us. 

Sure enough, the relationship was fraught, and finally ended. 

Had we been smarter, we would have used it as the diagnostic tool it really is.

So, do you know how good real whipped cream is? I nearly ate the whole bowl.

See's Candies Is Open

CALL WARDROBE

I DON’T KNOW how many of you suckled on Victoriana, those hot-blooded, heaving-bosomed romances of aristocrats and their lessers, or historic murder mysteries, even the venerable Sherlock Holmes may partly fall into this category. Dinner required black or white tie, silk gowns for the ladies.  Morning dresses for, well, morning. Then day dresses, possibly suited to going outdoors. Let’s not even get started on the hunt! Each activity called for a servant-assisted change of habiliment. I realize now that much of that was based in the need to while away the hours and give the servants something to do.

I DO NOT HAVE SERVANTS

 Time, yes. However I find myself in a furiously contradictory state when it comes to clothing. Sweats, all day every day. Of course. But minute differences in actions or locale require sartorial adjustments that the Empress of India herself could favor.

For example, I sleep in a tee shirt and panties. When I wake, I run to the kitchen to start Mr. Coffee, already set up the night before with coffee and water (Peets French Roast and Decal French Roast.) This makes me cold, so I grab my sweatshirt, a hooded one with pockets. Various ablutions ensue, and voila, in 6 minutes my coffee is ready. I heat the cup, pour in 1/3 cup of milk, then back to bed for a leisurely scroll through emails. But the hood of the sweatshirt bunches uncomfortably behind my neck. Not to worry. I have and ancient baggy cashmere cardigan too pilled to wear out and about. I switch the sweatshirt with the offending bulk for this yummy soft garment, and, heaven. I love these few moments with my coffee in bed.

Then it’s time for OFFICIAL WIFE DUTIES to start. Because of the roomy pockets, I switch back to the sweatshirt, put my phone, empty cup, whatever ice-pack I had used the night before for whatever reminder of my age was hurting the night before, in them and bustle off to the kitchen. The sleeves of the sweatshirt are long, so they double as potholders, taking heated blueberry syrup out of microwave, reheating my coffee, etc. Frying pan handle.

I make our “green” drink, curate our pills for the day, and finish making breakfast.

This is where I differ from the Victorians (in addition to no servants) because I do not change outfits to eat. I give husband his bacon and eggs and gluten-free whatever (pancakes on weekend, toast or bagel weekdays—yeah, yeah, what is a weekend? Believe me, he keeps track.)

WE discuss the news if we can bear to, and eat (hot buttered baguette for me!

Crossword finished, I gather up things, using roomy pockets and clean up. Back to bed for 2^nd coffee, so back to cashmere. I fear this is becoming monotonous. Only two outfits so far. I read part of a Stuart Woods novel, so I can vicariously live a wealthy life in Manhattan, and have oodles of climactic sex.

VARIOUS housekeeping chores occupy me, so I switch to sweat shorts and a tank top. I clean, wash, do laundry. Oops, is it noon? Time for my workout. I rush to the bathroom where my exercise togs closet is, switch to a leopard top with shelf bra and black spandex capris.

I roll out my yoga mat, choose a workout online, and force myself through 45 minutes of core barre. 

WIPE down mat, shower, and… tada...

Time for a NEW OUTFIT! Squeaky clean, I select a clean, similar-but-different hooded, long-sleeved sweatshirt, new sweatpants,  and face the afternoon, FaceTime with grandkids, usually, or husband plays online poker with his family in Colorado and New Jersey. It sounds riotously fun, so I plan to join one day soon.

Oh, and I bought a gorgeous tie-dyed mask from my friend Wendy’s online store, Polkadots and Moonbeams in case I need to go out. Last week I was dodging the cops down on the beach, kinda fun, but now they are opening it up for bikes and walkers again. Soon, I think.

Needless to say, going out requires different clothes. The mask is cute, but I don’t even try coordinating with the blue plastic gloves.

HABITS

A few years ago I read The Power of Habit, by Charles Duhigg, a wonderful book about how we form habits, how to unform them, and how powerful they are in our lives. In the intro to his book, the author tells a story I paraphrase here because it is an example of how habits run things that you'd never imagine they had anything to do with.  

A US Army Major used the power of habit (his book title) to stop dinner time riots in Kufa, Iraq. He observed that in late afternoon before the usual riot time, people gathered in the square and food vendors appeared. The crowd would grow restive until someone threw a bottle. Then all hell would break loose.

He asked to mayor to ban the food trucks. Gradually, as the crowd gathered, people looked around for food. Finding none, they gradually dispersed. No riot that night.

Keeping in mind how powerful, not to say insidious, habits are, I'm listing some of the habits I'm going to be struggling with after life returns to normal. Whatever that is.

HABITS I'LL HAVE TO BREAK

I used to do partial fasting a few days a week. This consisted of taking only coffee and various vitamins and supplements, essentially fasting until 1 or 2P.M. I did this 3 or 4 days a week. During the fast time I'd do a 50 minute core barre workout, or an hour of yoga, followed by 2 hours of Tennis live-ball. 

That's the habit I used to have. 

New habit: I've replaced this with slathering a hot baguette in sweet butter

and salt and dipping it unceremoniously into my large cup of French roast--one of as many as five I may have during the day. (See other habit about getting up time.) I cannot tell you how much I prefer this habit over the partial fast. 

I always woke up at 6:45 A.M. unless there was a reason to get up earlier--say a plane to catch.

New habit: I try to stay in bed until husband finishes his virtual workout, around 9:30 or 10 A.M.

I may get some coffee, but I drink it in bed and frequently fall back asleep.

Because I am, as the French coyly put it, of "a certain age" I must wear makeup. At least some eyeliner and lipstick so I don't look like an unpainted Kabuki mask. 

This has a dual effect of not scaring the grandkids and keeping me in a decent mood. Combined with fading vision, it helps me when I look in the mirror.

New habit: No makeup. Two things, I did try lipstick and when I put on my ONLY medical grade face mask, 

it got all lipsticky inside. 

Because I played tennis and worked out, I wore a bra to keep myself from flopping all over. (See earlier blog about other uses for bra elements.)

New habit: Because I no longer have an athletic life, I've abrogated bra use entirely.

As aforementioned, I am a certain age. I sometimes forget what day it is. In fact I once led a caravan of cars--all packed with edible delights-- to the Hollywood Bowl for a concert, on the wrong night. Come to think of it, I wasn't a certain age then, so this must be genetic. But that was only once in a while.

New habit: I have to ask husband what day it is--that is, if I care, which I don't.

I used to exercise some dietary restraint. I am a small person, and it would be easy to blimpify. Also, I prefer to be healthy. 

New Habit: bask in the glow of my refrigerator light for hours every day, pondering, choosing, daydreaming, and EATING. And let's not forget Godiva.

New habit: It is fantastic and wonderful and probably in a way lifesaving that there is so much free music and art online now. I listened to the Met Gala, especially Va, Pensiero, and I cried. I listened to New York, New York, and I cried. I saw French ballet dancers doing grandes battements in their apartments, and I cried. The new habit is I cry at everything including my grandson smearing himself with pea puree.

https://youtu.be/s7waGhujn44?list=RDCMUCYEMBG1B7K63_d_ZNwGzyzg

My sister lives in Paris. She was always very chic and much more sophisticated than I. But living there has liberated her to new heights and new joy. I visited in December, and it upped my game too. I composed my outfits more carefully. And never just dashed out for a random grocery item without some curation taking place. I brought the new style home and had fun with it even in Southern California where casual is a religion.

New habit: Sweats

I Know you shared my grief

when See's Candies closed just when I was at the end of my little bag of goodies. "Order online," they cruelly yelled at me through the locked glass doors of their Santa Monica store on that fateful day. I went online, looked up a few choice collections, but decided not to be so self indulgent so soon. After all, I wasn't totally out, and a few days off would do my avoirdupois some good.

Applauding myself, it turns out prematurely, for rare self-restraint, I closed the site, leaving some dark chocolate items tantalizingly in the basket, unpurchased.

I'm sure you know where this is going

Later that week I made do with a bag of dark Ghirardelli's I found early one morning at the supermarket--perfectly okay, delicious, in fact, but too many solids--I like soft centers the best. A few days ago, I say, I went back to the inviting website. 

No longer doing business.

Closed for the duration. 

Shopping cart empty!

Yikes!

You feel me, right? So, biting a lot of bullets these days, I bit.

I really bit!

I went to GODIVA.

Yes, Godiva.com. I messed around there for a few days, at first not wanting to spend so much money, working on various justifications, how little money I was otherwise spending, how chocolate is actually good for you, how keeping myself in good spirits was an important think to do in the Time of Corona. Yeah, right.

I selected a few items, and took the plunge. A few days later, this box arrived. Dimensions,
10x28x15 inches.

I let the carton sit by the door a couple days, just in case an infected person had sneezed on it. 

I opened it:

You see what's inside. An insulated Styrofoam cooler, same dimensions as above.

I opened it.

Inside, this gorgeous golden-lettered Godiva tissue paper floated up. I opened that. 

Underneath, bubble-wrapped boxes, carefully ensconced as if they were nuclear warheads. I lifted out my precious cargo. The carton was still heavy. Did they include gifts? So many? At least five pounds. I searched below the plastic to find...

Under the beautiful dark brown (for dark chocolate, my fave) boxes were six ice packs.

I opened it. Carefully removing the cardboard sleeve (they only do that for exquisite items) I lifted the cover. I slid away some delicate tissue paper.

Aah!

AT LAST!