This is how we feel about the fucking pandemic.
I am not sleeping on the grass because I would have to make room in my Covid-obsessed brain to be worried about ticks. And, obviously, that would not be possible so, instead, I photographed my partner’s fatigue with it all. The dog always looks like that.
My new shorts are the single dorkiest item of clothing I have ever owned. They looked great on the model in the Land’s End catalog. Lord knows, I needed new shorts, only three pair being in my rotation, one a pair of skinny shorts that are increasingly mimicking tourniquets on my upper thighs. The new shorts are royal blue, made out of some kind of old dad polyester, and are (you can see this coming, right?) pull-ons. Hideous. So, my plan was to let them sit on the shelf in my closet for a decent interval and give them to Goodwill but then this morning, I said, “Fuck it” and put them on. Super comfy.
My husband is watching old episodes of “What’s My Line?” on his phone. Sometimes he watches Dragnet or the Beverly Hillbillies. The other day he recounted to me the very first episode of Beverly Hillbillies, you know, the one where the Clampetts move into the big house in Beverly Hills that Mr. Drysdale bought for them and they think the gardeners are prison guards. Anyway, back to “What’s My Line?” The panelists are all blind-folded while they question who turns out to be Mortimer Snerd, Edgar Bergen’s dummy. Darn. You just never see a decent ventriloquist anymore if you don’t include political metaphor.
We’re going to mow the lawn in honor of the 4th of July. Then we’re going to put the two American flags we have somewhere in the garage next to our Black Lives Matter sign and sit on the porch and watch people drive by admiring our work. It’s going to be swell.