Day 191, self quarantine:
Monday, September 21, 2020
Happy autumn.
Cool, cool, we’ve now been in quarantine during all four seasons.
Oy.
Monday, September 21, 2020
Happy autumn.
Cool, cool, we’ve now been in quarantine during all four seasons.
Oy.
So I read this article yesterday and it fascinated me. Musicians are now doing virtual house concerts.
I am so here for that. I told Julie last night we’ll be her first customer.
I think it’s a fabulous idea.
Groups of friends could even chip in for a private show and watch from their own respective homes.
In other news, I’m a little surprised to be writing here this morning.
I thought I’d be in the shower.
Haha, let me explain.
Before he retired, Gary was in the wholesale plumbing business. His customers were everyone from builders to high end hotels.
He used to drive me nuts with his stories.
“Rob, you should see the cedar wood saunas I sold a condo on Rittenhouse Square. They’re called therapy lounges.”
“Wait, what? You sell something called therapy lounges?”
“Yeah. I just told you that.”
“Would they fit in our house?”
“Well, yeah, I guess. Why?”
“You sell something called a therapy lounge and we don’t have one?”
I glared at him. Seriously? How could he possibly think I wouldn’t want a therapy lounge?
It always happened. I would hear him on the phone all the time telling customers he had top of the line awesome everything.
Meanwhile, we had a forty year old one piece Corian shower and a broken garbage disposal.
“Why would you want a sauna?” Gary asked. “You never want to use them on vacation. You always told me you hate them because they make your hair frizzy.”
This is true.
I also hate being hot.
But still, Gary sold cool stuff and all I ever got was a new toilet seat.
Until now.
Apparently sometime last year I bitched about the quality of our shower head.
Gary just happened to have a groovy new Kohler model at work.
He brought it home, never told me, and like most home improvements at Casa Slick, it sat in its box unopened in a place only Gary knew about.
Until I recently bitched again.
“Is there something wrong with our water pressure?” I asked. “My shower was horrible. The water came out in choppy spurts.”
Ugh, is there anything worse?
“I have to clean the shower head,” Gary said.
I scowled.
“I bet therapy lounges have good showers,” I said.
“What? Therapy lounges? Are we back on that again? There’s no shower in a sauna, knucklehead. Oh never mind, I’ll fix the shower, calm down.”
Grrr...is there anything worse than being told to calm down?
Anyway, I did. Calm down, that is.
Quarantine arguing is horrible. There’s nowhere to go and you really don’t want to piss off your only real human contact.
But woo hoo, it made Gary remember he brought home a new shower head and while I was downstairs sulking, unbeknownst to me he installed it.
I’m a hedonist. The minute I stepped into my next shower, I felt that new awesome spray. I looked up, was shocked to see the reason but put two and two together, and then stood under it happily for what felt like an hour.
Hot damn, I think I may have even asked that shower head to marry me.
I came downstairs smiling and happy.
It’s the little things.
Speaking of finding joy in the little things, yesterday it was birdapalooza in our yard. Georgette and Lou perched in our tree and nuzzled while their babies sang and munched seeds on the ground below and Gary and I kvelled like we were watching our own real kids. We clutched each other’s arms and whispered excitedly watching the two lovebirds.
“Gary, take a picture,” I said.
“I’m trying, I’m trying. If they see us, they’ll leave.”
Haha, we stood at the backdoor a long time.
Gary didn’t even watch football.
I know. I don’t believe it either.
We were two lunatics, hiding on either side of the screen door, watching birds.
But oh they’re so gorgeous. I still can’t believe a husband and wife cardinal visit our goofy apocalypse garden every day.
It’s so fitting, isn’t it?
❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️
Okay, that’s a wrap for today. I’m trying to stay away from the news, it’s too grotesque right now and my anxiety rises every time I think about the election.
It’s just six weeks away.
Peace out, and if it’s not an oxymoron, happy Monday.