These are difficult times.
My to-do list written throughout the years for that time I’d be free for chores and projects is now at the Smithsonian, a historic relic next to Pinocchio’s early promises.
For some, the days are leisurely. For me, since my refrigerator knows my name, my step counter stepped out the door from exhaustion. At first, this appliance would say, “Hey Jan, come take a look. You don’t have to pick anything, just look.”
Then it would taunt me to take a quick peek behind the salad. “Janny babe, remember the leftover pizza which you called phenomena since you never have leftover pizza? Well, it’s waiting for you.”
Because I’m an appliance pleaser, the pizza plus the surrounding food would be heated and a treat to my gourmet taste. This happened repeatedly. After a while though, I did not need prompting and my Kenmore said “Enough! Step away from the fridge.”
I tried wearing my mask figuring it wouldn’t recognize me. That actually worked a few hundred times, then my empty shelves offered me no solace.
Thankfully, markets started to deliver food which prompted a reprimand from Instacart© stating that my frequent purchases of junk food was leaving the shelves bare for other customers.
I was nostalgic.
In my reverie, I recalled my romantic walks down the snack aisles and … sorry for the tears, I became lost in my memories.
In this solitude, it seems my home became a warzone. The issue with my talking scale was that it wouldn’t shut up. “One at a Time.” “Get off me,” and then me having to call security about my now missing scale. The guard asked me to describe mine as Laguna Woods had 287 scales that had been reported lost.
Since I didn’t have to listen to constant criticism about my new chubbiness, I wrote another book called “How to Turn a Tent into a Mumu.” I already have pre-orders.
After spending hours on my recliner watching television, I joined the directors guild since I tell most politicians where to go, dressing appropriately, because it will be hot.
While judging newscaster’s home décor or makeup I give suggestions, but do they listen …?
As for my own nonbeauty routine during isolation, I have concluded that brownturnedgrey hair and new mustache are a small price to pay for all this wisdom and career change.
Humorologist Jan Marshall, a village resident, is author of Satirical Survival Books. The current one is “Dancin’ Schmancin’ with the Scars. Finding the Humor No Matter What!”
Source: Orange County Register