Chocolate ice cream is my drug of choice…


This is actually a picture of vegan ice cream. I’d like to go on record as never being a vegan and never considering eating vegan ice cream. I, frankly, don’t see the point. Nonetheless, this picture belongs to and was made available via Flickr

I refuse to get my hopes up (while they are obviously up). This four year national nightmare may very well turn into a prolonged descent into a bizarre 21st Century, newfangled fascism. And I’m flailing around, grasping at sanity, clawing toward productivity, struggling to maintain a semblance of normalcy, and eating a ridiculous amount of ice cream and/or brownies while experimenting with other drugs such as Little Debbie Swiss Rolls (dear god in heaven in whom I don’t believe!).

I stole this picture from

I’m fat. Like a toad. Again for Christ’s sake. Fuck it. It’s not like I have anywhere to go.

First the sewing expo was canceled. Then the family picnic. Next, the Decatur Book Festival. The Florida Writers Conference has gone online only. I haven’t heard anything about the Miami Book Fair, but I’m certainly not going to participate in a street fair with COVID-19 particles zipping about in the air. Forget that.

A planned trip to visit the oldest kid and wife in their new home. Canceled.

That’s the real Cancel Culture we should be worrying about, folks. All of our hopes and fucking dreams–trips, family get-togethers, and democracy. CANCELED!

I hadn’t seen my youngest since February. Do you know how hard it is to not see your child when you’re used to seeing him at least once a month? You know. I know you know. Because we’re all living this. But he did come to visit us. To pick up an espresso machine he inherited from his grandmother who just died. (That’s an upcoming post that requires more thought and care than this one, so later.) I mean–we have our priorities. 

A lot of planning and questioning and confusion went into this visit. Should he just come to the door and we’ll hand off the machine? Should we let it sit out on the front porch for two days so any COVIDs attached to it can die before he arrives to carry it back to his place? If he comes into the house, should we all wear masks? Should he stay only a few minutes?

We finally decided to just fuck it. As long as none of us had a fever, or symptoms, we were going for it. He came over. He was wearing a mask, but we told him to take it off. He spent a few hours with us, we fed him, we acted as if everything was normal. And we sent him back home–no hugs–so that we could all wait a few days to see if any of us gave the others the Trump Virus. (And I told my son in no uncertain terms that if I should get it and die, he was not to blame! Imagine having to tell your child something like that.)

And that night, I ate an inordinate and probably unsafe amount of ice cream after everyone else went to bed. They say that eating ice cream alone is a real sign of trouble.

One of these days, there will be a vaccine and life might get back to some semblance of normal. Sometime after November 3rd, we may have a better future in this country to look forward to, and just a few long, horrific months to slog through until it can get into the White House. One day, I’ll see my oldest son and visit my youngest as often as I want. One day, I’ll visit North Carolina again. One day. Hopefully.

In the meantime, I have ice cream to comfort me.

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