Syllabus #85

 This is it.  The last one of the year.  Calling something the last anything of 2020 feels like a victory.  The last sneeze of 2020.  The last time eating cereal of 2020.  The last panic attack of 2020.  If we made it this far, maybe we can keep going.

And you know what, I really wanted to go out on this last syllabus of the year with a bang.  I thought that to myself, way back last Sunday when I opened up the editor and titled this post, and wrote that first paragraph.  I thought we could just wade through the cesspool of 2020 for the next 9 days or whatever, and not that 2021 will be magically better, but there's reason to hope it might not be as much of a disaster.  And then we went to visit our families, after two weeks of diligently isolating and getting negative tests a couple days before we made the 6 hour drive without stopping once for nary a drop of pee or gasoline.  

We were having such a grand time, I barely opened my laptop.  So I collected no links.  And then Christmas morning happened.  So strange to watch your city make national and international headlines, and stranger still when you are not home yourself and can only watch from afar.  If you're not all donated out from this turd rollercoaster of a year, here's a place you can help:  Hands On Nashville

Peace out 2020.  Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.  Except, do.

Syllabus #84

We've nearly reached the last syllabus of 2020.  One more after this, and then we can turn our backs on the acrid dumpster fire that has been this entire wretched year.  That's not to say things will instantly be better at the stroke of midnight on January 1st, but we have some hope on the horizon.  There's a flickering light at the end of the tunnel, and it might be a mirage, but dammit let's wade through the sewage and dodge the hungry rats and hurry up and find out.

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Well here's your obligatory heavy shit - New York Times' 2020 in pictures.  It's hard to believe all of this shit happened this year.  

The line forms...where exactly?  That orderly queue is gonna look like the Apple Store on New iPhone Day but replace skinny tech hipsters with every contractor and labor leader in the state of New Jersey.  So basically a scary scary line full of Tonys and Larrys.  Basically exactly the kind of angry mob that I'd love to see take down anything DT has ever once touched.

Hey this looks familiar...I have these bowls! (Thanks, Mom!)  However, I was shocked - shocked - to read that they are dishwasher safe.  I've had mine for a few years and unless they've changed something about their composition I was under the impression they had to be hand-washed.  I'm always getting on Andy's case for using them for something dumb like a handful of almonds.  Like, thanks for giving me another chore to do, guy.

"There are several things wrong with Malcom Gladwell's Defense of Masturbating in Front of Co-Workers" is not a headline I ever expected to see, but then again, neither were most of the headlines published throughout 2020.  Brings new meaning to the idea of 'the tipping point,' doesn't it?

I'd like to think Sinatra died the night of the Seinfeld finale because his heart just broke knowing the show was over...

HOME ALONE IS 30.  THIRTY.  3-0 years old.  Nothing has made me feel older.  Not the grey hairs, not the veiny legs, the crepey neck skin, the paying of taxes or the deliberate consumption of fiber.  Kevin foiled the Wet Bandits 30 years ago, and I still can't leave my own house for the holidays without waking up in a cold sweat that I left behind something very important and/or a home invasion is actively in progress.  Damn.  Also, how beautifully has Catherine O'Hara aged?

Analog Reading:

Finished How to Be An Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi.  I'm glad I read it, and the ideas it contains are important, but it definitely wasn't a light read.  Duh.  It took me a lot longer to work through it, but that's probably a good thing.

Wolfed down Via Negativa by Daniel Hornsby.  'Wolfed' being a mild pun because it's a book about a former priest driving around the country in his Camry with a wounded coyote in the backseat.  It was a fast read, and not something I would have normally picked up, but Andy asked me to return it to the library and I was all, well, first lemme take a look...

Syllabus #83

What's going on in your world?  Anything joyful or exciting?  Or has 2020 continued to surprise and delight you right down to the very bitter end?  That's what it's trying to do over here.

Last week we had some outgoing mail stolen.  I actually watched it happen, and was so confused about what I was witnessing that I didn't fully process what happened until the thief was back in his car and driving away.  Unfortunately for my neighbor but luckily for me, the guy hit both of our mailboxes and she happened to see him, too.  

After she came over and we had a brief exchange of "Can you frigging believe this shit," I knew I wasn't having some Rear Window-style hallucination from too much time locked in my house.  Validated, I called the non-emergency police line like a goddamn Karen.  The rest of the day was a blur of too much time spent on the phone filing a police report and contacting the bank to get a new checking account.   Now I have no checks so I hope I don't owe anyone money!  Y'all take Venmo?

But wait, there's more!  Changing my direct deposit information for work kinda fucked up my paychecks.  I mean I'll still get paid but it's going to be a hassle for a couple pay periods.

Andplusalso, our kitten's butthole is falling out. 

That isn't entirely accurate, but we sure thought so for a minute.  See, and this is TMI, she's had various intestinal issues since we adopted her from the cat rescue, because she had picked up a parasite from one of the other cats there.  We thought we had it all sorted out after a few vet visits and various medications.  Between our three animals, it's gotten to the point with this vet where, when I'm sitting the parking lot during the no-contact appointments and they call to collect payment, I'm like why don't you tell ME my credit card number, YOU SHOULD KNOW IT BY NOW.  

At any rate, the other day, I found myself reading my 16-digit card number over the phone yet again, rendering payment for a vet tech to shove her fingers in my cat's anus.  Her glands needed to be expressed, badly, because her poop has been too soft to uh, milk her anal sacs, according to what I learned from PetMD.  I wish I never had to type that phrase.  Milk her anal sacs.  Forgive me.  So tiny kitty had adult human fingers in her teeny tiny poop chute, and we are modifying her diet to firm up them shits.  We thought all was well.   

A few hours later, conveniently 30 minutes after the vet closed for the day, we noticed that her anus was livid red and bulging outwards in an alarming fashion.  Then a poop just fell right out of her when we picked her up.  So we put her down.  And Freaked. Out.  We love this cat so much and she is the one tiny pinprick of joy in this entire dumpster fire of a year.

Luckily, our friend who is a very patient vet tech accepted a disgusting, NSFW text of a kitty balloon knot and talked us off the ledge.  And today, that little brown eye is nearly back to normal.  Waking up to the joyous discovery that my kitten is not suffering an anal prolapse is the best thing that's happened to me all month.  

You'd look a little surly too 

It's entirely possible that I share a link every week with just the comment, "Well this is devastating," and who am I to argue with tradition?  

WWFPD, y'all?  What would Finnish People do?  That's what I ask myself when I'm trying to stay warm, eat pickled herring, and dust every food with cardamom.

Holiday dispatches from the 1918 pandemic.  Ho ho hold my barf pail.

We got a whole generation of toddlers who will grow up to be as socially awkward as me!  

Analog Reading:

How To Be An Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi.  It's good, it's very good.  It's a lot to digest so I'm reading it slowly.

When No One is Watching by Alyssa Cole.  Sweet Fancy Moses, you guys.  I stayed up until almost midnight one school night, plowing through this book.  I know I'm a snob about what I read, and don't usually gravitate towards thrillers, but I definitely want to check out some of Cole's other books.  Just, holy shit.  The thing is, while this book was wildly gripping, packed with entertaining dialogue, and expertly paced for maximum suspense and questioning of characters hidden secrets and motives, the plot was devastating.  It follows Sydney Green, a 30 year old Black woman living in a historically Black neighborhood in Brooklyn that is being aggressively gentrified, which turns out to be...an understatement.  The true horror, though, is that while certain plot elements towards the end take a hard turn and become a little too far-fetched and not really in keeping with the realistic tone of the first 3/4 of the book, the premise is an utterly realistic representation of the horrors wrought on Black communities by racist power structures.

Syllabus #82

It's December 6th, do you know where your holiday packages are?

You bet your sweet bippy* that I do.  I have a daily neurotic routine where I open every shipping confirmation email and check the tracking on every package.  Especially the ones coming to my house, because mail is getting stolen out here in these streets.  I watched someone steal my outgoing mail the other day.  Afterwards, I had the distinct pleasure of filing a police report and getting a new checking account, because if you're brazen enough to steal a Christmas card right outta my mail box in broad daylight, you're probably not above trying to do some pretty fucked up shit with my checks.

*If you, like me, realized you had no earthly idea what a bippy is, rest assured, it just means ass.  I dunno about you, but every time a weird old catch phrase comes to mind, my first thought is to make sure it's not actually racist or otherwise super problematic.  Because 7 times out of 10, it is, in fact, something terrible.

Stare into the void

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Last night we watched Solaris and when George Clooney arrives at the spaceship he's just wandering around it in a space suit but no helmet.  It occurred to me that I'm as horrified by the thought of bopping around outer space without your astronaut helmet as I am by the thought of entering a public space with other humans and not having my face covered.   

Yea, a real oversight if there ever was one.  This bish has been werkin' 9 to 5 for humanity. 

How do we feel about this?   I'm a shameful lightweight so if I'm filling my wine glass to the brim with anything, cake is probably the safest option, but I still have concerns about this.  

I don't think I ever got the laser background, but damn did I want it.  Also the one where there's a vignette profile view of your face in the upper right corner.  That was legit.  You know what was not legit?  The photographer always whipping out a comb and trying to smooth out my hair.  First of all, lady, put your lice-filled communal comb back in the pocket of your corduroy Lands End jumper where it belongs, and second of all, I know my hair is a hot frizzy mess - this is the 90s and self-esteem is overrated.

Analog Reading:

Finished So You Want to Talk About Race by Ijeoma Oluo.  This is me being totally aware of my privilege and I know how this comparison is going to sound, but this book is like yin yoga for social justice conversations.  It presents some uncomfortable truths and asks you to sit with that discomfort and stretch your understanding, but never in a punishing way.  Sure, it might hurt a little, you might get a little sweaty at times, but it gets easier the longer you stick with it.

Started How to Be An Antiracist by Ibram X. Kendi.  This isn't me just loading up on the virtue signaling.  I placed a bunch of books on hold a while ago and these two just happened to come in at the same time.  That being said, it's interesting reading these two books back to back.  This one feels like it's taking a more academic approach, whereas Oluo's book was, by design, more conversational.