HIGH ANXIETY!!!!

Ok, so I had a perfectly fine blog post almost written, and I was going to publish it last Thursday, but on Wednesday I did my civic duty and stood in line and voted early for my Preferred Candidates, which made me wonder how many other people were standing in line and voting early for their Preferred Candidates, and if so, who WERE those Preferred Candidates and how were things going for all of them,  and so I started flipping back and forth between CNN and Fox to try to get a Balanced View of Things, but the polls were one way on one channel and another way on another channel and then I started getting a little anxious and on top of that, see, my Preferred Candidates and a bunch of their best buddies kept texting me for money day after day and sometimes hour after hour which made me feel like I was the only one in the world who could save them, which is in fact what they kept telling me, and so I kept sending money to them but it was never enough, you know, never enough, they just kept texting, and so I finally started texting them to STOP IT for godssake, which only added to my guilt, but then I thought hey, why should I have guilt since I DID write one hundred postcards telling the Florida people to get off their rear ends and vote and I also mailed the postcards on October 26 EXACTLY AS I'D BEEN DIRECTED in case my house was bugged and someone was watching me, which I kind of think they were, not that I really believe that a bunch of stupid postcards are going to make a difference, plus even if everyone DOES vote, there are all those fake drop-off boxes and also ballots floating in rivers except maybe that's a lie and I don't have to worry, except what if it's NOT a lie and the rivers are absolutely CHOKED with ballots, all of which have the name of my Preferred Candidates on them, so it's no wonder I haven't been sleeping even when I take a buttload of Unisom, and it is furthermore no surprise that I keep having that old song going through my head about how "THEY'RE COMING TO TAKE ME AWAY, HO-HO HEE-HEE HA-HA" which embarrasses me because it's a very tone deaf and insensitive song except at this point I would indeed be happy if those nice young men in their clean white coats took me somewhere where life is beautiful all the time and the election was very many years ago and I did not have nasty awful stress,  and where I could publish an innocent post, which of course I'm not doing now, Mister Man, because who wants to read a stupid lighthearted post when THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT COULD END ON TUESDAY???? 

So, anyhow, I just wanted to explain to you why I didn't post last week.

QUIZ: ARE YOU STILL CIVILIZED?

Okay, so the weather is getting colder, and our dining options are once again becoming limited. We will soon have to forsake the delights of semi-safe dining in converted parking lots and spend perhaps the rest of our lives eating inside our own homes.

Now for some people, this is not a hardship. It is an Opportunity, a chance to spend many blissful hours in the kitchen happily trying out new recipes. These are people who use words like "saucing" and "infusing" and "carmelizing," and who to love to invest in things like $400 Le Crueset Signature Enameled Dutch Ovens. My nephew is one of these people, and this, for example, was one of his recent posts on Instagram.

I used to like my nephew. 

Other people are okay with the indoor thing because they are able to create aesthetically pleasing dining experiences no matter what the situation. The other night, for example, we brought Chinese take-out over to my mother-in-law's. When we arrived, her table was set with woven placemats, gleaming china, her good silverware, linen napkins (rolled inside of silver napkin rings) and crystal. The lights had been dimmed, and two candles glowed softly. 

I used to like my mother-in-law.

As for the rest of us, I think we're worried about being trapped indoors again because we have already given up the fight to stay even moderately civilized when it comes to eating. If you are not yet sure which group you belong to, see whether option A or B in the following descriptions best describes you. 

Planning 

A You scan websites like Bon Appétit or go through your personal collection of treasured family recipes to determine the menu for the week. You then order ingredients from Sunset Foods or Mariano's for delivery. 

B Planning? 

Preparation 

A You gather the necessary ingredients for your dinner, sometimes beginning your prep the evening before the actual meal. You chop, marinade, sauté, smoke, or braise, as necessary. 

B The night of the meal, you open the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets at 5:45, hoping to find something edible and/or unexpired. At 6:00, you call Grub Hub. 

Before the Meal 

A You lovingly set the dining table with complete place settings and perhaps a vase of flowers. (See description of mother-in-law's table, above.) You then bring out serving dishes with aromas so tantalizing that you don’t even have to call people to the table. 

B You go into the family room and sweep the newspapers off the coffee table in front of the TV. 

The Dining Experience 

A You begin the meal, ask about each other's day, and perhaps have a good-natured debate about current events. 

B You shovel the take-out food onto paper plates, tear off a few Bounty paper towels to serve as napkins, head to the coffee table, and turn on the TV. 

Après le Dîner 

A You clear the table, pour a glass of wine, and linger over dessert, just to enjoy each other's company. 

B You throw out the paper plates, instruct the dog to finish cleaning the coffee table and the floor around it, and continue watching whatever TV show you've turned on. 

Now maybe you don't fall into either category, exactly. Like, maybe you order from Jewel instead of Mariano's, and maybe you're still making a half-hearted attempt to COOK the meals you eat in front of the TV. But if you are already well on the path to Category B, what the heck, just embrace it. Your dog will thank you for it.

MY HUSBAND TAKES A STAND!

A few days ago, I posted dark thoughts about watching TV with my husband during the pandemic (See "MURDER, She Wrote"). Not long afterwards, he approached me with a serious expression on his face and a sheet of paper in his hand. 

"We have to talk." 

I was totally unnerved by this. You have to understand that my husband never wants to talk. For example, he would rather wash a hundred dishes by hand after a holiday dinner than converse with stray family members. And even when we're alone, he is perfectly capable of going several hours without uttering a syllable. (On our first dates, when he didn't talk, I fantasized that he was a brooding soul with a mysterious past, like Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights. Turns out, he wasn't.) 

So anyhow, I was nervous. 

"What's wrong?" 

 

"I know I gave you permission to use me as your designated doofus in these posts, but this last one about me and television-- It's just wrong." 

 

"What do you mean?" 

"I mean, you're a lot worse than I am." 

"For instance?" 

 

He raised the sheet of paper, which I realized was actually a list. "For instance. You like to crunch on Snyder's pretzel rods while we're watching a show. I have missed whole chunks of dialogue while you crunch." 

 

"I think you're exaggerating." 

"Am I? Am I really?" He looked back down at his sheet. "You also seem to need to go to the bathroom every 10 minutes." 


"Well, it's hard for me to focus on the show when I have a full bladder." 

"You can't stay focused two minutes before the end of a season finale?" He looked at me skeptically, muttered something about too much Diet Coke, then glanced again at the paper. "There's also the little problem of the running commentary you provide concerning story logic." 

"Hey, I'm sorry if I don't believe that tens of thousands of zombies can possibly be getting enough to eat on a regular basis. Or that none of the Bachelors and Bachelorettes have figured out that there will ALWAYS be a contestant there for the wrong reason."

"But did you have to point out during Finding Nemo that there's no way Dory could have learned to read English? And did you have to tell our grandson?" 

"Well…" 

He sighed. "And then there's your research addiction. When I said that the boss on Killing Eve looked familiar, I was NOT asking you to dive into IMDB at that exact moment and read all her screen credits to me. And when I said I liked that one song on The Morning Show, it was NOT a directive to immediately Google the Episode 6 soundtrack and tell me it was 'Let's Burn Down the Cornfield.'" 

I peeked at my phone. "Sung by Lou Rawls." 

"STOP IT! JUST STOP!" He regained his composure. "But the worst is when we're watching the Bears. I know you're not into sports and that you're trying to show some interest. But telling me that you think the single-color uniforms are ugly, or asking me which side has the ball, or wondering if we really have to watch the last two minutes—I'm telling you, you are dancing with death." 

He put the paper down in front of me. "I'm sorry. But a man can only take so much." 

He turned and strode proudly back to his den, leaving me to reread the list—which went on for a full page-- and ponder what he had said. And, well, he may be kind of right. So I tried to think of a way to admit my guilt and share the truth with all of you. 

This post is my solution. And I pledge to cut down on the Diet Coke and find a non-crunchy substitute for pretzel rods. 

MURDER, She Wrote

It is an inescapable fact of life that people who spend too much time watching TV together during a pandemic are putting their relationship at risk. And now that it seems increasingly certain that TV will be our primary form of entertainment for the foreseeable future, I'm truly concerned about my marriage. Indeed, I'm worried about our very lives—well, my husband's life-- because innocent little things that didn't used to bother me are now making me homicidal. 

Take the clicker, for example. My husband, admittedly, has a master's touch when it comes to the TV remote. Seriously, if clicker control were an Olympic sport, he'd win the gold every time. He can intuit the precise instant at which he should release the fast forward button in order to land us on the opening moment of the next post-commercial scene. 

This is certainly a skill to be applauded, and it is one I do not have. But, unfortunately, he also has a compulsive need to see the first micro-second of the scene that follows each commercial. So, if I happen to pick up the remote when the ads start, two things happen. First, I invariably fast forward us a second or two into the program. Second, a conversation like the following ensues: 

HUSBAND: Hit pause! (Impatiently motions for the clicker) Okay, give it to me. 

ME: Why? We just missed a second or two. 

HUSBAND: Give it to me. 

ME: Hon, I think we are both smart enough to figure out what happened. The elevator doors opened and Meredith walked out. 

HUSBAND: But what if there was a voiceover? What if there was someone important in the back of the elevator? What if someone was holding a cute baby? (He lunges forward and grabs the clicker from my hand.) 

ME: I SWEAR TO GOD, IF YOU REWIND THIS I WILL KILL YOU! 

I realize I may be overreacting a bit.

But in my defense, the clicker issue is compounded by the falling-asleep problem. Now in my mind, if you sit down to watch a show with someone—especially a show that you both have deemed is Quality TV-- you have made a commitment. You owe it to yourself, your viewing partner (me), and the National Academy of Television Arts and Sciences to watch and appreciate that show in its entirety. Yet although, as noted, my husband doesn't like to miss the first micro-second after a commercial, he has no qualms about falling asleep just as you're finding out if Logan Roy's son is going to betray him--which he damn well should!--or right before that final scene in Season 3 of Ozark.

But that's not the real issue. The REAL issue is that my husband does not feel ashamed of his actions or even acknowledge that he has fallen asleep. I'll know that he has, because I'll hear a loud snort and turn to see that his eyes are scrunched shut and his mouth is open. At that point I grit my teeth, pause the show, and punch him. 

"Hon. Wake up." 

"Wh..? Not asleep." (He immediately goes back to sleep.)

"HON! WAKE UP!" 

"Am up. Resting my eyes." 

"You were snoring. You also just muttered something about having to clean Trump's teeth, and then you asked me why my computer was talking to you." 

"Did not." 

"Okay, then tell me what just happened during the last five minutes."

He slowly opens his eyes and stares intently at the screen. "Wait. Who are those people?"

And that's when I killed him, your honor.