Signs You’ve Stayed Inside Too Long

You tell me: Have I been hunkering down a little too much?

 1) I spy a foreign object on the sofa cushion. Nonchalantly, I pop it into my mouth, assuming it’s a walnut from my chocolate chip cookie. Surprise, it’s not. It’s a sliver of pepperoni from my left-over pizza last week-end.

2) I marvel at the word nonchalantly and roll it around in my mouth for half-a-minute (along with the pepperoni).

3) The word elucidate comes to mind. I think of the person who introduced me to it and marvel (once again) how that word seems to be popping up in my sheltered life. The Covid Virus has turned the world upside down. It needs more elucidating, but that remains elusive.

4) Last week or 70 days ago, I was out convening (walking) on a nature path with my mask securely in place. A mother with two little girls saw me and fumbled to secure over-sized masks to their sweet faces. I gave her the "please don't bother with the masks" wave. All three were happy to engage a stranger, just as I was happy to talk to them. Clearly, this example has nothing to do with the question above. I just wanted to share a warm, fuzzy feeling.

5) I consider my morning run an outing. If I get a nod or wave from a fellow walker or jogger, the status of the outing is elevated to a social event, akin to a first date. Yesterday, a woman with a fabulous hair cut mouthed “good job” as we ran passed each other. It felt like a second date to me! 

6) If I apply mascara before leaving the house it indicates, “Tammy’s going out on the town,” AKA check'in the mailbox. 

7) I get fixated by TV reporter's homes. One reporter has his book shelves color coded! One shelf is populated with lime green items--all appearing to be books! Another shelf-orange! Reds live on the bottom! Are these objects videos, books, 8-track tapes?  My gawd! How do I find out? I’ll goggle the reporter and tweet him about his home decor. Is he a designer on the side? I need answers!!!

8) I develop a crush on David Faber, from CNBC. I watch him every morning. Nine months into the pandemic, I still don’t know the difference between a dividend and a stock. But damn, the man never has a hair out of place. If I find out that's a rug on his head, I’m going to dye my own hair red! Oh wait, been there, done that. 

9) I spent $78 on a needle point kit that I will finish around 2045 (only if the pandemic lasts that long). 

10) I have eight new jigsaw puzzles in the closest!  I’m not that bored.....yet!!

11) I dreamt last night I was maneuvering myself on a kiteboard. I caught the wind just right and went flying a couple feet above the Atlantic Ocean, tasting freedom and salt water. Today, a delivery came: a board, kite and a box of gummy edibles. My bank account can't handle any more of these middle-of-the-night Amazon orders. Note to self: Hide the damn phone before bed!

12) I practice walking around the house in my FM stilletos for the day when I actually need them. 

13) I’m having a virtual affair with someone, or a bot, on my WWF app (words with friends). When I notice the board is sprinkled with hotel, affair, knickers and lust, I know it’s time to hit delete.

14) I decide to throw caution to the wind and go on a date with my husband--I mean hurricane force category 5 winds. Meaning: we are going all out! We head to the local indoor gun range for a private introductory and defensive shooting class where no one but us are wearing masks. There are no Purell bottles or Clorox wipes laying about to indicate that work surfaces, bullets or guns are being wiped down. Yes, yes! I see the irony here. We are learning to “protect ourselves” in this unprotected environment. (FYI: We’re in Florida, ok!)

15) I am slowly becoming a vegetarian. Considering that I grew up on a cattle farm and ate beef three times a day, this is a hell of a statement. I've essentially run out of beef (and chicken) recipes. Sorry Dad!

16) I am ironing!  I don’t think I need to expand on that! I have sooo stayed in too long!!

17) Six months ago, a friend pointed out the seam on my shirt had pulled apart. I’m considering stitching it. However, it is under the armpit, so———-.

18) I’m picking snails off the underside of my basil leaves.

19) A friend is fed-exing me his sour dough starter kit. I know, I’m late to the game.

20) I’ve spent so much time binge-watching Netflix and staring at the ceiling, that I’ve noticed a fan up there. I’m sharing a secret here with you all. Ceiling fan blades attract dust, lots and lots of dust. Who knew??

Here’s to seeing each and everyone of you OUT and about when it’s safe to do so! 

Mask Etiquette Or Lack Thereof

Warning: This essay contains disgusting descriptions. Think ten-year-old-boy gross. 

My company just put out a memo that we should should change masks every four hours! Who are they kidding?  When it comes to mask changing, I think like a little kid with dirty underwear. Change those knickers once or twice a week and we’re good to go! I plan on this box of 50 3-ply breathable disposable masks to last well into next year.

Let me describe the “mask scenario” in my household of four, which is my husband and I and our two “kids” that are home from college for their endless break. We come home from our errands, be it the grocery store, walk/run in the park, hanging with friends or most recently, from the office. Most of us will toss our disposable mask on the microwave, the hamper, the dining room table, or the floor. You get the picture. To be honest, it’s pretty convenient. When one of us is in a hurry to leave, there is always a mask to be found or stepped on. 

My husband wears a Marvel characters cloth mask my friend stitched him. He gets so many compliments on it, that he’ll be wearing that thing into the next decade, whether it’s needed or not. (Sure as hell better not be!) The second he walks in the door, the mask goes in his pocket. He does not share! 

My son only throws a mask away if it gets that furry feeling inside. You know, like there’s little caterpillars crawling around on your lips. 

I can’t speak for anyone else’s mask, but mine experiences a lot. It has absorbed my tears, my snot, my sweat, my cough and 70 mph sneezes. Most importantly, it absorbs and camouflages my burps. Luckily, I have yet to throw-up in one! (Never say never, though.) One would assume after a day of use, I would come home and dispose of this soiled, disgusting three-layer mass of bodily fluids, right? 

Well. . . by the time I get home from my latest sweat-stained run or crying jag, the mask has gone from being drench in salty, disgusting wetness to spin cycle and is now rather dry. I forget the ordeal my mask has gone through and toss it on the microwave as I pass the kitchen on my way to wash my hands and splash water on my face.

My daughter sails past me on her way out the door. Five minutes later, I hear her stomping back into the  apartment with “that look” on her face. The look every single one of us have worn. It’s the “I forgot my gawd damn mask” look and had to return home. She grabs my overused, germ-ladened (BUT DRY) mask from the microwave. Apparently the one she dropped on the floor the night before got kicked out the door earlier. I open my mouth to suggest a different mask that is laying about, but she exits so quickly that I just shrug my shoulders as she slams the door. 

We are family, after all. It’s not the first time it’s happened and it won’t be the last. These masks have become part of our family attire and we have embraced (knowingly or not) the “share and share alike” mantra.

Disclaimer: The writer is not an advocate of this practice. She is just sharing how things are. Be well everyone. 

I WILL NEVER . . . . .

Must I constantly eat my words--I WILL NEVER  . . . . . 

Be based in Miami

Drive a stick shift again

Step foot on a cardio work-out machine

Ok, well, I'm in Delray Beach for a couple of months. So I might as well attempt to get into shape. I jog on occasion, so last night in bed I started psyching myself up. I basically just berate myself and grab handfuls of my stomach roll. First thing this morning I reach for Steve Jobs off my night table. He informs me it is 77 degrees, yet feels like 82 at 7:45am! (Yes, I know he's dead, but he reaches out to me on a daily basis.) Maybe if I'd gotten up at 3 am, running could have been an option, but now--forget about it!

As I swing my feet out of bed, I literally step on my running gear. Oh my God! What did I do? Some idiotic lifestyle app must have told me to arrange my work-out clothes the night before. I would never have come up with this on my own. Well, lucky me. I have a gym in the building. I mean, it's like twenty steps from my apartment. And those that like gyms, like my husband, say it's a good one. But that's a topic for another blog. I would love to ignore it, but it's on the way to the elevator. If I really want to avoid its taunts, I take the stairs. But, oh, it's the stairs and then I get dumped out into the ugly alley instead of our superhip, cool, south-beach looking lobby.

So after two cups of coffee, I wander into the gym. Ahh, it's fifteen steps, not 21. Thank gawd, no one is here. I get myself set up on some device, a walky-type thing. Not the tread mill. Gag me! Actually, it's a steppy thing. Elliptical-possibly, probably. There's a big green button, "Quick Start." Kinda seems like a Cardio for Dummies type of button, so I press it. Bells and whistles go off. Well, not really. Just some numbers light up. I elevate and start stepping. It registers time elapsed and my distance. There's also something called crossramp and resistance with up and down arrows. I know what resistance is and we aren't friends. I jack it down to 3. I can always go lower. Crossramp (not a word) is set to 7. I leave it be. I like even numbers and 3+7=10.

Crap! Someone is setting up shop next to me, on a similar apparatus. "Oh," I say. "I think that tv screen may not work." Just because I couldn't figure it out certainly doesn't mean anything. I just don't want some stranger, sweating three feet from me and more importantly, spying on my cardio output (or lack thereof).

"I bring my own entertainment." She whips out her phone. Up pops a movie and in go the earbuds. Is she going to step for two hours?

It's actually like being at the 10 a.m. movies. The whole damn place is empty and someone has to sit their ass right next to mine! "Go use the thing with the pedals or that row thingy," the bubble above my head screams.

That's it! I'm just gonna blow this joint. She doesn't know if I've been here for 1/16 of a mile or 20! Oh shit! Yes, she does. It's right there, in red neon lights. Three minutes and .04 miles it advertises. If she can look at my stuff, I'm looking at hers! It's kinda like stalking, but this ain't my first rodeo (re:www.tjtumbleweeds.blogspot.com, Kindles, Nooks and Old-Fashioned Books, 4/28/11). Her numbers are set to 12 and 8. Definitely more impressive than my 7 and 3.

And now, what is she doing? She has her arms at her sides. There's all kinds of hand holds to grasp. One set is right in front of my ribs. It should be labeled: grasp if you think you're going to fall. The other holds are shoulder height and move back and forth. They kinda make me feel like I'm swishing down the Austrian Alps. But I'm not. I'm staring out the window at palm trees and sweating. I furtively rest my arms at my sides. Holy shit! I'm bobbing around like a Weebil! My core is trying to engage! Not the core--this mama don't do core! I swear this work-out freak is working her abs as she steps into oblivion. Weebils may wobble and not fall down, but I am not one of those Playskool plastic creatures from the '70's! I grasp the "grasp if you think you're going to fall" hand holds and uh, grasp.

That bitch!

I stay on this thing dancing like Fred Astaire, Steppin' out with my Baby for the next 32 gawd damn minutes! If I had an umbrella, I'd be using it!  Oops, never mind. Different song and different dancer! Next time I come here (like there's going to be a next time), I will bring Post-It notes and wall-paper every damn red blinking neon light in sight. 

TELL ME WHAT YOU WANT TO DO

Tell me what you want to do

Those seven words put me into a tail spin a la Rod Serling's Twilight Zone for a long several minutes.

Tell me what you want to do

I'm in my husband's home office, sitting at his desk. He has two 30-inch computer monitors staring, unblinkingly at me. The one on the right is solid blue. The one directly in front of me is set to Microsoft Word. On the tool bar are these words:

Tell me what you want to do

Well, in reply: I DON'T KNOW!
Stop asking!
Stop demanding!
If I knew, I'd bloody well be doing it, now wouldn't I? Who are you, OptiPlex 5060 Dell, to demand this of me?

Right now, I could be reading, planting, sweeping, working, biking, swimming, volunteering, eating, tanning, talking, traveling, birding, shopping, flossing, manicuring. There really are an infinite  number of things I could be doing. But you're not wanting that. You are demanding that I be introspective. Maybe what I really want is to do nothing. Yes, I'm breathing. I have thoughts in my head. I worry about my brother's hip replacement. I pray for my girlfriend's cancer. But I'm kinda happy sitting here, doing nothing.

Nothing

Sitting here, doing nothing. Unless me staring at you, Dell, staring back at me, taunting me with those words constitutes something.

Tell me what you want to do

But in our society, doing nothing is just not an acceptable activity.

Oh, I know there are people out there who can answer that question. Not only can they answer it, they can execute it to perfection. Hell, they'd be happy to answer the question for me.

Sometimes, I think maybe that would just be fine and dandy. Sometimes, I think I'd like decisions made for me. And I mean, even the stupidest shit.

The hostess at the restaurant dazzles with her perfect teeth. "Inside or out?" Not only do I have to decide between what I really want (a fillet and bottomless glass of Malbec) vs. what I’ll probably order-seabass and Perrier-but now I have to decide if I want air conditioning, which could be perfect or set to 60 degrees or balmy night-time air, which could be perfect or full of mosquitos.

Tell me what you want to do

A friend wanted my opinion. She's trying to decide between sand stone or travertine for her front porch. She says she's a terrible decision maker. What?! She has two successful careers simultaneously.  She's beautifully busted walls down in her house. How is she a terrible decision maker?

Are all (or most) of us just geared to second- and third-guess ourselves?

Tell me what you want to do

My husband's friend has secured a spot on one of Richard Branson's space flights sometime this decade. It's pretty safe to say this guy can answer that damn Dell request.

There is a looking-glass icon next to the request of:
Tell me what you want to do

For those of us not sure, we simply can click.
Instructions pop up: Just start typing here to bring features to your fingertips and get help
A second tool bar invites: Type here to search

ME: Dell, can you tell me what I want to do?

No, I didn't think so.

I'll sit here and do nothing until something pops into my head. If it does.

PYROTECHNICS AND THE SOFT SHOE SHUFFLE

                                     

                                 

I soft-shoe shuffle in my patent leather pumps up to the entrance of the Wick Theatre in Boca Raton. And why not? Tonight's show, Hot Shoe Shuffle, is dubbed a tap dance extravaganza. My husband, Eric, hangs back and rolls his eyes as someone stops me. "They want to keep this area clear," he informs me. "They're bring in pyrotechnics." My brow furrows, as I think of the odd combination of tap dance and fireworks.  "Oh," I nod slightly and reply questioningly. "Uh, cool?" In turn, his white bushy brows shoot up and he shakes his head. I overhear an usher telling someone, "seating in the theatre has been halted temporarily."

The large foyer of the theatre has café tables with spray-painted gold bamboo chairs scattered about. Eric, who is gawking at the over-sized crystal chandelier, leads me to a chair.

"Did you hear that? Pyrotechnics!" I tell him excitedly, now warming to the idea of Roman candles, M-80's, and tap dancing. Had my teacher used this combination 40 years ago for my dance recitals, the audiences might have consisted of more than just guilty parents and cranky siblings!

Eric gives me the same look as the old man, manning the entrance. "Par-a-med-ics!" He stretches out the word like I'm a five-year-old child. "Not pyrotechnics!"

"Oh, I see." I nod my head slowly, disappointed. "Paramedics." I glance around the room at the blue-haired, white-haired, and no-haired patrons milling about. "Mmm, that makes more sense." I knew when Eric and I decided to try "Florida Living" for a couple of months that it would be different than the Upper West Side. In New York, I dance around Bugaboo baby strollers and e-bikes. Here, I run interference with wheelchairs and walkers.

"Everyone seems pretty calm," I say, as I look at the clock on my phone. "Show time is in twelve minutes. Not good." Eric is eye-balling an appetizer menu on the table. "We just ate! Is this place a restaurant or theatre?" I wonder out loud.

He sets the meu down. "Well, it probably happens often," he says quietly. "You know...the paramedic thing."

I watch a woman in a silky, colorful dress, draped in pearls, but wearing sensible shoes, maneuvering her walker across the faded, red carpet. "Yeah, I suppose so." I sigh, wondering about my own future.

I grab Eric's arm in alarm. "Geeze, we're thinking it's one of these old people. What if it's one of the dancers? Do they have understudies?"

He doesn't respond as we watch the paramedics wheel the stretcher into the theatre. After several minutes tick by, the usher announces, "We will continue seating people." I spy the paramedics with a patron on the gurney, exiting stage left.

The show goes on.

I Think We’re Beyond That

I was rushing out the rental beach house when Cindy, my sister-in-law, walked in from her spin class. Her face was aglow and had a look of triumph as she gave me the once over.  Busted! Had I slithered out the door twenty seconds sooner, I wouldn’t be standing here, stumbling over my words.

“Hey Cindy. I, uh. . . this damp beach towel that I’ve already used at the pool  . . .”

“Yes?”

“And is now wrapped around my waist to go to the beach, uh . . . might be yours.”

She nonchalantly lifts her sunglasses.  “Yes, Tammy. It’s mine. We’ve known each other 25 years. I think we're beyond that!”  How great are those words? Now, I do believe the subtext here is, “mi casa es su casa.” That’s what I’m going for anyway. I can use all her stuff for the whole week! Her Mac Pro makes my Dell laptop look like Grandpa from the Munsters. Her sunglasses are shadier than mine. Her Honda Pilot is bigger than my rental. Hell! Even her kids are more polite than mine.

This certainly isn't the first time I've been busted. My husband and I have a yearly summer party, maybe 25-30 guests. Now, if you leave something of yours and you want it back, just call. It's even possible I may go out of my way to drop it off the next day or month.

Well, a couple summers ago, a fabulous pair of designer sunglasses appeared at one of our parties and never left. I called at least two friends to see if they were missing a pair of shades. Nope! They weren’t. So, September rolls around. And yes, I’m going to start wearing them. I’m not about to pay $300 for a pair of Burberry sunglasses, (I thought they only made rain coats—who knew!) but the least I can do is get some use out of them for someone else.

Then one sunny, autumn day, my friend Michelle and I meet for lunch. As I recall, she was a guest at our party and perhaps was one that didn’t get called. She takes one look and compliments me, “You look fabulous. I lost a pair of Burberrys just like that.” Now, she and I have been friends since 2002. She is being 100% sincere and not angling to find out if I stole her glasses. (When my other friends meet her, they are, like, "Wow, Tammy! She's friends with you??") I quickly evaluate how important our relationship is. Our children grew up together, we’d throw each other under the bus to sleep with Jake Gyllenhaal, and she can afford Burberrys (the glasses and the slickers).

A decision has been made. “Michelle, thank you." I touch her hand for added sincerity.  "I guess we both just have fabulous taste.”

I am kidding! I did not say that, only the bubble above my head reflects that.

I whip those glasses off my face and stick the end of the temple in my mouth.

“Michelle! These are yours. I called around after the party, but couldn’t reach you! Please! You must take them back. I mean it!”

I chew on the end of that temple like it was one of the tentacles from our calamari salad.

“That’s okay,” she sighs, eyeing the temple in my mouth. “Your birthday’s in six months. Consider them an early present.”

Just like my sister-in-law at the beach. I guess that was her way of saying, "I think we're beyond that!"

“Well, okay.  Let me get lunch.” Now, I was really happy we had shared that calamari salad. But damn! Why did I have to chew so hard on that temple?!

Chicken Shit

I just discovered something about myself. Isn't that what life is all about--being pleasantly surprised, or horrified, to discover a buried piece of your psyche?

I like the smell of chicken shit. I mean, I'm sitting one foot away from a chicken coop and I'm taking yoga-style, lung-expanding deep breaths to enjoy the aroma--the shit. I wish there were an exotic name for it, but there isn't. Bats have the corner on guano. Cattle have cow pies. Hen dung just doesn't roll of the tongue.

Full disclosure here. I'll mention my surroundings other than the chicken coop. I'm a stone's throw away from a medieval Italian village staying at a friend's farmhouse/villa. It's possible the chicken shit aroma might be intermingled with Chianti grapes that are on the vine a few yards away. The chickens peck away at a few olives that have fallen into their enclosure from the branches that hang overhead.

Nevertheless, it seems the smell of chicken shit is the same no matter where one is. This morning, I realize the aroma is one of those smells that remind me of Kansas and my childhood. As I breathe in the scent, time rolls backwards to when I was 10 years old on an airless, hot summer day. I’m outside, in the yard and the buzzing flies are so lethargic, I can swat at them on the back of my leg and smash their guts into my skin. I'm wondering where the nasty black and white spotted rooster is. He lives to terrorize me. He waits until I've come from the hen house with my yellow, rubber-coated metal basket full of gathered eggs. Only then does he charge. The basket bangs against my leg as I scream and run. Eggs break, yellow yolks intermingle with the fly guts stuck to my skin.

The Italian rooster crows, shaking me back to the present.

Here's the long and short of this. I’m here, in Tuscany, gazing at rows of grape vines, olive and cypress trees. Nothing familiar, except the clucking of  chickens and smell of their shit. My childhood follows me, no matter.