My Awesome, Smithsonian-Worthy Pandemic Experience Getting My First Vaccine

Welcome to the blog that was summarily dismissed by the Smithsonian Institute for who knows why? I'm Anne Johnson (really), and today I'm going to walk through my experience getting my first COVID-19 vaccine! I know this process varies from state to state, so your experience might be different. Up to a point. And then your experience will be exactly the same as mine. We'll get to that.

Step One: I signed up online with the state of New Jersey's official COVID website. I put in all the info, like being a teacher, and a lady of a certain age and weight. I got told I was 1C. Then I heard nothing else.

Step Two: My younger, more computer-savvy colleagues found a county registry. It was through Cooper Hospital system, which I don't use. But I registered anyway, and they gave me a date of March 27. I think they were fast-tracking people already in the Cooper system, because all of my younger, more computer-savvy colleagues got earlier appointments.

Caveat: Your experiences of signing up will vary. I had lots of help.

Step Three: On a Saturday afternoon a month ago, a younger colleague sent another link in a text message. This was through the hospital system I do use. And the vaccine site was closer too! I went through the online registration and got a date of February 24 ... more than a month sooner than the first site where I registered.

Step Four: I fretted and fretted that something had gone wrong with the online registry, because I grew up in the 20th century, and we used telephones and paper.

Step Four: On Vaccination Day, Mr. J and I drove to the vaccination site at Moorestown Mall. (I signed him up the same time as myself. Wasn't that smart?) The gig was set up in the empty Lord & Taylor department store. Enter one door, exit another. We parked and went to the entrance.

Step Five: A member of the National Guard met us at the door, made sure we had an appointment, took our temperatures, squeezed a little hand sanitizer in our palms, and directed us to a clearly-marked line.

Step Six: There were about 25 people ahead of us in line, but the line moved quickly. We were in it about ten minutes. Then we came to another member of the National Guard, who asked us if we were able to come back on March 17. When we said yes, he directed us to the numerous and well-run registration kiosks, all of them manned by the National Guard.

Step Seven: We both signed in with an extremely mannerly and cute National Guardsman (cute even through the mask!). Can you believe it? The magical Internet had indeed saved my applications! A few questions, driver's license, insurance card (optional), sign here and here. We were then directed to clearly-marked vaccination bays, where right next to each other, we

Step Eight: answered questions about how we were feeling, whether or not we had COVID, if we were allergic to ingredients in shots, and had we had any shots in the last two weeks? (I'm pretty sure they weren't talking about whiskey.) This was the only place manned by health care workers not in fatigues. My vaccinator's name was Kelly, and she loved my fairy sweater.

Step Nine: Here is the part that you and I will have in common... I got a shot! Little dab of alcohol, little pierce, band-aid, informed that it was the Pfizer item, told to follow the clearly-marked yellow pavers to the waiting area.

Step Ten: We were directed by another courtly National Guardsman to seats that were six feet apart. We were given a sticky note with 4:35 on it -- the time we could leave. We sat there until that time, and then we were dismissed. We were asked if we wanted to make our next appointment online. OH no. So we were directed through another clearly-marked area where a nice National Guardsman made our next appointment, which is on St. Patrick's Day.

Step Eleven: Out the door, with actual paper cards to bring with us to our next appointment!

The entire process, from going in the door to leaving, took about 45 minutes.

Readers, I am used to the Department of Motor Vehicles and the Camden County justice system, where I go way too often for jury duty. Both of these entities are maddening in their inefficiency. People line up at NJDMV at 5:00 in the morning. I kid you not -- I did it with Heir last summer.

This National Guard dodge was completely different. I never saw anything move more smoothly. I felt like my taxpayer dollars were being well-spent. Additionally, there were lovely motivational posters hanging everywhere, but the signs said not to take any photos.

EXHIBIT A: FACSIMILE OF POSTER AT COVID-19 VACCINATION SITE

Mr. J and I emerged into a seasonably warm late winter afternoon, not a cloud in the sky. 

That was yesterday. Today I feel fine. My arm isn't even as sore as it gets with the seasonal flu shot. I don't have much appetite. That's the only change I see.

It does appear that my school district will be hauling the teenagers back to school very soon. I feel like I'm ready, though. I've done my part.

I have no idea how to cancel my March 27 appointment. 

More Free Advice: Have One? Get One!

 Welcome to the latest installment in "The Gods Are Bored!" Today, more helpful advice from someone who has been around the block so often that there's a groove in the sidewalk.

When I was a kid, I recall that my parents got a new kitchen appliance that they absolutely adored. It was an electric can opener.

The thing was a marvel. The can stuck to a magnet, and when you pushed down on a lever, it rotated and got cut open. There was a whirring sound that the cats learned quite quickly.

This was back in the 1960s, when even small appliances were built to last. If we got the can opener when I was five, we still had it and used it when I left for college.

I don't recall anyone ever cleaning it. My mother's kitchen was a multi-hazard zone.

My second year of college I moved into an apartment, and I got one of these lil babies, probably at Goodwill.

Reader, this gadget is a marvel. It clamps down on a can, and you turn the crank (seen in rear of unit in photo), and the can opens. There is no sound, and you can immerse it in water and wash it after every use.

I won't say these puppies don't wear out. I think I'm on my second one in 40 years.

Caveat: For some reason this will not open Hunts brand cans. The problem is the can, not the opener.

I love my hand-crank can opener! I've never been the slightest bit tempted to purchase an electric one. And until a helpful reader pointed out that one of these is good to have in an electrical outage -- well, I've used it so long that I didn't even think about that!

Short sermon, free advice: If you don't have a hand-crank can opener, pick one up at any store. You'll have more space on your countertop, and in the event of a blackout you'll be able to get those baked beans open in a jiffy.

You know what I love about this blog? One day we'll talk to a Great Goddess, and the next we'll evaluate minor kitchen tools. Anything and everything, that's me.

Buy Bins or Barrels

 Hello and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," natural disaster edition! I'm your host, Anne Johnson, and today (for once) I'm going to be serious.

When the forecasters began to predict Hurricane Sandy in 2012, I did something that caused no end of derision within my household: I emptied all the bins of fairy costumes and Christmas ornaments and school mementos, and I put all the empty bins out in the back yard, topless.

When the storm clouds gathered and the wind picked up, I filled the bathtub and the washing machine to the tip top, and I filled every large pot to the brim with water. I used the hose to fill the bins.

And oh, was I ever disrespected for it! Mr. J and The Fair thought I was being alarmist and ridiculous.

Hurricane Sandy made landfall on Samhain and wiped out power for 8.7 million East Coasters. A cold front came after the storm (really cold). Some people were without power for a month. A colleague of mine lost her whole house to the ravenous waves.

Turns out I didn't need all that water I poured in the bins and pots. But what if I had needed water?

Water is taken for granted in most of America. You turn on the tap, and out it comes. You flush the john, and off goes the waste. You jump in the shower, and voila! Minty fresh!

But what happens if your water supply is cut off? I mean, open the tap and nothing comes out? This could happen anywhere.

Even with low-flow toilets, you need about two gallons of water to flush. This was what I had in mind when I filled all those bins. Three people were living in my house during Hurricane Sandy, and I would need to flush the toilet at least once a day. Even my meager math skills were sufficient to see how much water we would need.

And then there's tooth-brushing, and minimal washing, and just plain old drinking.

Humans can survive a few weeks without heat or food, but nobody's gonna go that long without drinking water. And let me tell you from experience: Life with a restricted water supply is really, really different than what we take for granted here in the USA.

Call me paranoid or alarmist if you like, but I know the location of every spring in my vicinity, the flow of the spring, and ease with which I could fill water vessels from its banks. I hope I never have to put this knowledge to the test, but maybe I will. Gods know I won't give myself much of a chance of survival if I have to drink New Jersey spring water straight from the ground, but I sure could flush a toilet with it, or boil it, or just take a leap of faith and drink it.

My free advice to you, valued reader, is this: When a weather forecast is very dire, and the worlds "widespread power outages" are used, that's the time when you should get out your bins and your pots, and fill your tub and your washing machine. It's even better if you have a rain barrel or a few trash cans that are on the clean side. What harm does it cause if you fill up all those vessels against a dire emergency?

If you live in a relatively moist area (like New Jersey), take a look around your basic neighborhood, within walking distance. Is there a water source? How clean is it? Could you carry water back from it to flush your crapper? These are things you should consider.

This preparation won't keep you from having to stand in line for bottled water, but it will be very helpful in keeping yourself and your bathroom clean.

As long as we're on the subject, latrine pits can be dug if the ground isn't frozen. Not pleasant to contemplate, but hey. Our ancestors survived it. Heck, I survived it.

Water is more valuable than petroleum, diamonds, sportscars, and mansions. Make sure you're prepared in an emergency. If you don't have bins full of fairy costumes and Christmas ornaments, go out and buy a few. Bins, that is ... not fairy costumes. It's no skin off your nose if you find yourself with a well-watered lawn in the wake of a disaster. But it could be quite dire to find yourself waterless while everyone else around you is waterless too.

This advice is offered free of charge, because you are all such wonderful people! Peace out.

Rush To Judgment

I heard about Rush Limbaugh before I heard him on the radio.

And the first thing I heard about him is that he said that the vast majority of Americans are conservative. Which had to be true, because Rush said it.

Rush, in this case, was whispered with reverence. The hapless soul doing the whispering was my Uncle Foggy, who had tuned in to the radio one day in 1988 and never looked back.

By 1988 Uncle Foggy had been unemployed for 10 years. It wasn't his fault that he lost his job. His line of work (lamp manufacturing) was off-shored. He was in his 50s when he got laid off, and then as now, a person that age wasn't going to waltz into another good-paying job.

So Uncle Foggy moved in with my grandparents in their home on Polish Mountain and took care of them as they aged. After they died, my dad and my other uncle demanded that our family allow Foggy to live out his days in the house on Polish Mountain without having to pay rent.

This was not a hardship for me. I loved my uncle Foggy, and I loved going to see him. He was well-read and affable, and a good cook to boot. Not a bad senior citizen to subsidize with my private income, in the form of taxes on an appreciating property.

And then came Rush.

My formerly affable uncle became argumentative. Snarky. He said mean things about liberals and feminazis. He reserved special ire for people sucking the government's tit.

The man was living on $500 a month in Social Security, as well as Medicare and Medicaid.  If not for the privately-subsidized family roof over his head, he would have needed food stamps and SSI. But he couldn't see that Rush (reverent whisper) was talking about people like him.

Point of pride, I have never listened to more than 10 minutes of a Rush Limbaugh broadcast. I knew poison when I heard it. The inside jokes, the "we get this because we're special" jeers. The predator seeking lonely rural people and then inviting them to his toxic worldview with chummy hatred.

I stopped going to see Uncle Foggy. To me that poor man stands as a microcosm of the brutal fallout from the ending of the Fairness Doctrine. So many people who should have known better got sucked into the Limbaugh orbit, and that orbit spins directly into what happened on January 6 of this year.

Therefore, I, Anne Johnson, Grand Wazoo of the Independent Republic of Johnsonia, hereby decree GREAT REJOICING at the DEATH AT A RELATIVELY EARLY AGE of the MENACE known as RUSH LIMBAUGH. To Hell with him, and speedily!

I would love to think that this PUSTULE ON THE BUTTOCK OF SOCIETY won't be replaced in the American psyche, but alas, HE HAS SPAWNED A DEVIL ARMY OF CLONES. With more to come, I'm sure!

It's ironic that this creature died of cancer. His words were cancerous, they spread throughout the land, and they POISONED THE WELL.

The Christians get him for eternity. And if that isn't a good pitch to become Pagan, I don't know what is.

WOOT WOOT! Let's get this party started!

Trouble in Johnsonia

 It's not easy running a nation, even if that nation is a quarter acre. We've had some trouble here in the Independent Republic of Johnsonia.

On Groundhog Day, which is also Imbolc, our resident groundhog emerged from his lair, saw his shadow, and became furious at the thought of six more weeks of winter.

He lumbered out into the yard and called together a pack of savage (but not particularly intelligent) possums.

The groundhog whipped the possums into a frenzy by suggesting that after six more weeks of winter they would be dead of starvation. They wouldn't have their lives anymore! Then the groundhog pointed at the Gray House (where live the Wazoo and First Man) and said that the possums should go in there and help themselves to the foodstuffs!

In the darkness of night (because that's when possums operate), the beasts attempted to storm the Gray House. The only sentinel on alert that night was Gamma the cat, who fears his own shadow and is not inclined to move far from the fireplace. He was no help.

Fortunately, possums will take the course of least resistance. Finding the doors locked on the house, they raided the trash cans. And since it was just shy of pickup day, the cans yielded the kind of dross that possums just crave. They sated themselves on chicken bones, potato peels, and some pork roll that had grown a patina of furry mold, and then they dispersed. Left a mad mess behind, of course.

No harm, no foul. Just possums being possums.

But that groundhog. He's a troublemaker. He's gotta go.

We held a Tribunal about the groundhog. Rude Gamma just slept right through it. Nevertheless, the vote was unanimous. Groundhog has got to go.

It's a matter of borrowing a have-a-heart trap, luring that dangerous groundhog into it, and carting said hog deep into the Pine Barrens, where he will trouble the Independent Republic of Johnsonia no more.

That groundhog has been a source of frustration for years, but this whole possum thing was a bridge too far. Know what I mean?

Anne Johnson

Grand Wazoo, Independent Republic of Johnsonia

Interview with a Bored Goddess: Queen Brighid the Bright

My goodness, have we ever strayed from our Mission Statement here at The Gods Are Bored! How long has it been since a deity sat for an interview? Can't even recall the last time. Thankfully, Imbolc is upon us, and Queen Brighid the Bright has settled in by the fire with a piping hot cup of Irish breakfast tea. Please give a warm and wonderful "Gods Are Bored" welcome to the Goddess Brighid the Bright!

Anne: How's the tea, great Goddess?

Queen Brighid the Bright: First rate! Your firewood is not well seasoned, though. 

Anne: Our first shipment was so well-seasoned that we burnt through it all. Now we're stuck with this smoky stuff that sizzles and leaves creosote in our chimney.

Queen Brighid the Bright: Well, we can't have that, now can we? (Blows on the fire, and it leaps with purple flame.)

Anne: Snap! Thank you!

Queen Brighid the Bright: Anne. Anne! What's this?

Anne: Emmm .... the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle? (hides her head)

Queen Brighid the Bright: Well! I'm not inclined to scold you, Anne, but what the hell?

Anne: It's a pandemic, Goddess. I'm basically in quarantine. So I sit around here and cross stitch and do the Sunday crossword puzzle.

Queen Brighid the Bright: Like a geezer.

Anne: Oh, you cut me to the quick! Don't think I don't know that these stodgy hobbies are pathetic. But take it from me, they beat Twitter.

Queen Brighid the Bright: Twitter? You mean the sound birds make?

Anne: Close enough. But fear not, dear Goddess. I have enrolled in an online course called "Navigating Tower Time". I'm going to start it tomorrow.

Queen Brighid the Bright: Well, see that you do! We don't want to get lax in our spiritual path, do we?

Anne: It's hard not to get lax in everything when I'm pent up at home, day after day, week after week, month after month.

Queen Brighid the Bright: Chin up, Anne! Imbolc is here, the lambs are being born, it's halfway to equinox, and my goodness! Your larder is bulging.

Anne: Pandemic supplies.

Queen Brighid the Bright: What are these six bottles of Clorox all in a row?

Anne: Five mistakes based on a shortage.

Queen Brighid the Bright: Four dozen rolls of toilet paper?

Anne: We ordered it in bulk from Amazon.

Queen Brighid the Bright: How are Amazons to work with? I should imagine they drive a hard bargain. I've never met one.

Anne: They're ruthless, and they dominate the landscape. Great Goddess, will you listen to a petition?

Queen Brighid the Bright: Of course! I'm not as bored as I used to be, but I still grant petitions! What can I help you with, Anne?

Anne: Place your gentle hand on my daughters.

Queen Brighid the Bright: Done. Anything else?

Anne: Protect me from COVID-19.

Queen Brighid the Bright: Perhaps The Morrigan would do that better. She is crackerjack with corvids.

Anne: COVID-19 is the name of the disease. It doesn't have anything to do with crows.

Queen Brighid the Bright: What a ridiculous name! What happened to descriptive disease names like smallpox and yellow fever?

Anne: Good question. Maybe people would take it more seriously if it was called "drowning on dry land."

Queen Brighid the Bright: Well, whatever it's called, I'll protect you from it. Looks like you've got all kinds of solid Appalachian magic going on already. But I'm always glad to pitch in.

Anne: I imagine you'll be really busy on Imbolc, but if you have a chance, pop in. I have a wonderful smudge stick that my daughter The Fair gave me for Yule. I'm going to purify the whole house.

Queen Brighid the Bright: As well you should. And keep the faith, Anne. Quarantines don't last forever. It only seems that way.

Anne: And how, Goddess. And how.

WWG1WGOTR

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," broadcasting from the Independent Republic of Johnsonia! Did you watch that fluffy inaugural celebration on Wednesday night? I did, and I wept the whole way through. Seriously, Jon Bon Jovi singing "Here Comes the Sun?" And did you see Yo Yo Ma? For the love of fruit flies. And then fireworks at the end. Johnsonia is going to send the Biden administration a nice pecan pie!

Don't know about you, but when I was growing up I had lots of cousins that were good friends to me. Now they're all scattered to the wind, and I don't even try to keep up with them. I carry a grudge against my father's people for wanting to sell the farm, and some of my mom's nieces and nephews climbed on the Trump train. Meh, cousins. 

Therefore I was decidedly unenthusiastic when I got a text message from one of my cousins, asking if she could give my phone number to her older brother. This particular brother was a blister on my heel growing up. I have no fond memories of him. But I'm not heartless, so I said sure, fling him my digits.

He called a few days later, and it happened that Mr. J was out. So I picked up the call.

Y'all see me here, I can blather on and on with no brakes whatsoever. But get me in a social situation, or on a phone line, and I have next to nothing to say. Mostly that doesn't matter, though. My experience is that the most I ever need to say is "uh huh" and "oh yes, you're right." And that covers it.

So this cousin starts off somewhat sane, politely asking me about my family and telling me how much I meant to him back in the day (not mutual). But it soon turned out that his real reason for calling was to see if I knew about The Storm.

Yes, that Storm. The lunatic lives in Florida, so at first I thought he might be talking about an off-season hurricane, but no.

He launched into a long diatribe about the Deep State that included the most ridiculous things you have never heard, and me telling him that I did some anti-fascist actions didn't even slow him down. Antifa is "infiltrated," like pretty much everything else from Maine to Hawaii.

And when I called him on his bullshit, which I did frequently, he said, "Anne Janette, you know I'm smart, right?" (Not really) Then he delivered up the juiciest: "It's all over the Internet. All you have to do is look."

Just look on the Internet?

Well, for a hot second I thought he might be right, because hardly anyone believes that the Pacific Northwest Tree Octopus is nearly extinct. I know I've talked myself blue about the tree octopus, because it's all over the Internet.

I finally got the windbag off the line by telling him I had firewood to stack. Yes, readers. I used that very excuse. Wasn't even fake. After getting an earful of QAnon, I grimly stacked a cord of hardwood like it was cotton candy.

Gave this no more thought until the day before Inauguration, when I saw him trying to call me again. I sent him a text and said I didn't have time in my life for advanced crazy.

To which he replied that, if I know what's good for me, I'll go right away and tank up my car with gas and get a big wad of cash and be ready for Judgment Day Armageddon The Apocolypse the Overthrow of America by a Worldwide Papal Conspiracy That Controls Everything. He said I should be very afraid. Where would I even go? Did I know?

I texted him back, "I'll go to Camden. No one cares about Camden."

KaChing! Anne for the win! That shut him up. Because of course it's true.

There's a streak of crazy a mile wide that runs through my mother's family. You can literally trace it backwards in the family tree. All the same, it's sad to see someone so deluded that he thinks the world is going to come to an end because the members of the Supreme Court are pedophiles. What a burden, these delusions of grandeur! ("I know what I'm talking about, I've done my research on the Internet!")

If any of my cousins are reading this, please be aware. My happy writing career was put out of business by the Internet. In my reference book work, I had to fact-check everything. And Gods forbid I misspelled someone's name! No one knows better than I do what a stinking swamp of misinformation can be found on the Internet.

Ever notice that I don't fact-check anything on this blog? I don't have to! It's the Internet!

Gosh, now I can say I know someone who believes QAnon. Where They Go One, They Go Off The Rails.

Really wish these people would be Raptured.

Who Else?

 Who else feels like they can finally breathe again? Is it too soon to be hopeful?

Here in Johnsonia, we're absolutely delighted.

Read This for Laughs! (Do I Ever Lead You Wrong?)

 Well, proving positively that she is a product of my genomic sequence plus someone else's, my daughter The Fair has written a funny little piece about playing pro football! Now, dear readers, it costs you nothing to peruse this piece, but she gets paid by the click ... so won't you click for me? I wouldn't bother if it wasn't just the sort of silly thing we all need right now.

CLICK HERE!!!

Official Statement from the Grand Wazoo of Johnsonia on the Recent Traitorous Rebellion in the USA

 January 7, 2021

The leaders of the Independent Republic of Johnsonia hereby express our dismay at the unsuccessful but nevertheless alarming insurrection in the United States of America that occurred on January 6, 2021.

 For 200 years, the United States has been held in high esteem (not always deserved) as a bastion of freedom and justice. The reckless and lawless behavior of January 6, urged upon a rabble by the sitting president, is a stark departure from the orderly operation of government most often associated with America.

Good leadership is important, and the lack thereof can be catastrophic. The inability of Donald Trump to govern the United States is the entire reason that Johnsonia declared independence in favor of home rule. We see now that our decision in this regard was a sound one. Our thoughts and prayers go out to the citizens of the United States, in hopes that this dark episode will not be repeated in this or any other era.

Respectfully submitted,

Anne Johnson

Grand Wazoo, Independent Republic of Johnsonia

Pardon Me While I Wallow in Self Pity and Nostalgia

 Oh, Wretched New Year! This would have been my 10th year marching in the Philadelphia Mummers Parade. Alas, quite sensibly, the 2021 parade was canceled. Here I sit, on yet another day of self-imposed quarantine, dodging COVID and watching Mummers recordings on t.v.

Strutting down memory lane is the best I can do.

EXHIBIT A: 2017 with The Fair

EXHIBIT B: My 3rd Parade, 2013

EXHIBIT C: OUR 1st Place Finish, 2018 (I'm in the rear in the red hat -- it was 6 degrees F at the time.)

EXHIBIT D:  2019 on Broad Street

EXHIBIT E: 2020 St. Patrick's Day, Luckily Held in February, Most Recent Strut

EXHIBIT F: Gritty and I Need Another Assignment ... Maybe Overthrowing the Oligarchy

EXHIBIT G: 2021

I'm crossing my fingers that 2021 will bring us a new, effective president and an end to this pandemic nightmare. COVID is real, it's a killer, and I wouldn't be in the parade this year if I was the only one missing it.

Stay warm, stay safe, Happy New Year!

Another 2020 Sucker Punch

 In the grand scheme of things, losing your favorite soft drink for all time is a small disappointment. But this is 2020, Year of Horrors, and Coca-Cola's decision to discontinue production of TaB is One. Last. Kick. In. The. Keister.

Yes, here I sit looking at my last two 12-packs of TaB, purchased at great expense from Ebay. By the time the fucking assholes management team at Coca-Cola announced the discontinuation of this worthy beverage, all available stocks of it had been snapped up by opportunists.

I've been drinking TaB since the early 1970s, and it is literally the only Coke product I like. TaB was Coke's first diet cola, and it doesn't taste anything like Coke or Diet Coke. It's not sweet. It has a hint of cinnamon. And until Red Bull came along, it was the best soda to rev up the heart rate.

It hasn't been easy to get TaB here in New Jersey for the past 10 years, but if you had a good eye you could find it. And then you just bought every 12-pack on the shelf. In this way I've kept my larder stocked with TaB pretty continuously. Alas, no more!

So a big, fat FUCK YOU to Coca-Cola! You had ONE product I bought. You DISCONTINUED it. I hope it's the beginning of the END OF YOUR COMPANY!

You know who drinks Diet Coke? Donald Trump. Case closed, the company can drown in rat poison.

A Smithsonian-Worthy Yule Navel Gaze

 We stubborn hillbillies never forget a slight. When the Smithsonian said this page wasn't worthy of inclusion in its ranks, it rankled. Take this holiday, for instance. It screams, bleats, shouts, and roars "pandemic diary."

People are getting tired of observing pandemic guidelines, and the case numbers are rising again. I'm not an ordinary person, though. I'm a stubborn hillbilly. So when my school deemed it unsafe for small cohorts of students to walk in the door, I flung them a doctor's note so I didn't have to either. I've been working at home ever since. I don't like it, but it beats getting the virus. I gerry-rigged the home office I used for so long as a writer, which is weird in the extreme. 

The worst part is having virtual teachers' meetings at home. All those administrators you can't stand? Suddenly they're in your living room. Makes my skin crawl.

The pandemic has put a lot of time on my hands with nothing to write about, so I have returned to the teenage hobby of cross stitch and embroidery. Look at this Xmas gift I made for The Fair! 

She says everyone will ask where she got it!

I've never been apart from my daughters during the Xmas holidays, and like everyone else in America, I wanted to observe traditions. But ... stubborn hillbilly. Luckily, both daughters live in Philadelphia, so on Xmas morning early (between the period of driving rain and the period of plunging temperatures) we convened on the porch of The Heir's West Philly rowhouse. Heir lives on the third floor. We used the porch.

Heloooo? Smithsonian????? How many pandemic photos do you have of ordinary families following the goddamn CDC guidelines?

The other thing I have never done without on the holidays is a Yule tree. About two weeks before the winter break, I bought a little tabletop "fresh" tree from a supermarket. By Xmas Eve it looked gray as a ghost. So I got in my old car (which needed a spin) and drove to where I knew there was a vacant lot with some pine saplings, and I ethically sourced an organic, free range tree. Third time I've done this, and although it's mean to maim a tree, it certainly cheers things up here.

These New Jersey pines aren't fragrant, but I like the long needles.

Here I am, another American affected by the pandemic, but not nearly or even remotely as dreadfully as a lot of people. Now it's just a countdown until the day the USA is rid of Donald Trump (cross fingers) forever. He's bent upon ruining the nation the way he tanked all his other businesses. What a train wreck.

The Light returns, we'll get through this mess, and the next time you hear from me it'll be from a bottomless pool of self-pity. But I'll leave that for later.

Borders Sealed

I bid you greetings from the Independent Republic of Johnsonia! We have reached out to congratulate President-Elect Biden on his electoral college certification and his strong speech thereafter. The coughing and throat-clearing were a bit concerning.

Speaking of concerning, after seeing the case counts rising at her place of work (and after hearing someone in the restroom fail to wash their hands), the Grand Wazoo put in a doctor's note that will keep her working inside the borders of Johnsonia for quite some time.

Whew! What a relief!

Actually I'm surprised how relieved I am, but I am really, really relieved. No workplace can be 100 percent safe right now, and even though mine seemed like a good bet, recently I was not nearly so comfortable.

So Johnsonia is all sealed up, not even allowing our ambassadors-at-large to come home for the holidays. We take public health very seriously in this nation.

Also, there's some kind of winter storm on the way. Since Johnsonia is in the coastal plain it usually gets a "wintry mix," which is a nice way of saying "too warm for snow, too cold for rain."

Batten down, foreigners!

In Which I Wax Emotional

 Don't know if you will be able to view this, but what the hell, I have nothing else to say today.

https://flipgrid.com/s/4yXJJSrzJzNCfhyw

Frank Talk about Infectious Pathogens

 We all know that Rudy Giuliani is in the hospital (or was), having been infected -- who knows how -- with COVID-19.

I say "who knows how" because just about everybody around him is as daft as he is. Nobody wears a mask.

Rudy is sick, and the entire Arizona legislature is quarantined because he went out there to pull sneaky shit brief them on his unfounded views of election fraud.

So we all know how germs work. They have to be inside us, and then expelled from us, to infect another person.

Can you imagine getting sick from COVID after being around Rudy Giuliani? Something that was inside him and expelled from him got into your body.

EWWWWWWWWWWWW!!!!!!! GROSSSS!!!!! Rudy Cooties!!! Disgusting.

Have I ruined your day? Sorry.

The Wazoo's Gambit

 Some day, 300 years from now, an earnest young researcher will go to the Smithsonian Institution and ask, "Do you have any primary source material from suburban white women in the early 21st century?" And the curator will look at the researcher with a vacant expression and say, "I don't know. Have you read Joyce Carol Oates?"

In the meantime, this fabulous blog, containing events big and small for more than 15 years, will be relegated to the landfill of American history. I tell you, I'm still peeved about it.

Take this week's adventure, for instance. It is:

a) pandemic related

b) reflective of middle class liberal female values, and

c) a subtle statement on the consumer economy.

You would think the Smithsonian would eat this stuff with a fork and spoon.

Oh well, pish tosh as I always say. Let me tell you about the Gambit that kept me from losing my online teacher mind this week.

Thanksgiving has come and gone, and Yule looms with the same horrible restrictions. The various citizens-at-large of Johnsonia already know that there will be no gathering for Yule. Household members only.

With that in mind, I set out to deck the halls with my usual holiday trappings. Except I couldn't haul them from the basement. Everything brought back memories of non-pandemic times. "I'll only be more depressed if I look at this stuff for a month," I said to no one in particular.

What I needed was some basic new stuff, a few candle holders for the mantelpiece. I could see in my mind exactly what I wanted -- tea light holders like they have in abundance at the thrift store. Trouble is, the thrift store is always crowded, and it's in a former factory that has zero ventilation. I haven't been there since August.

I started shopping online. I looked at JoAnn Fabrics, Ross, Macy's, Target, Marshall's, Williams Sonoma, and Lowe's. Not finding anything, I turned to Etsy. This is where I picked up the term "crackle glass." They have 22,000 Christmas candle holders for sale. And nothing is cheap.

All the while, the little voice in my head was saying, "You know you can get these at the thrift store, right?"

But I resisted. My county is a hot spot. It's irresponsible to put one's life at risk for a candle holder.

Never underestimate the fallout from a bad day in the teacher trenches, though. After receiving a spectacularly lackluster score on an observation that lasted 20 minutes, I pretty much decided what the heck. After school I got in my car and drove to the thrift store.

I strode in. As I knew it would be, all the holiday swag was right in the front of the store. Bip Bip Bip, I picked up 3 candle holders (just what I wanted), a package of tapers, a fake poinsettia, and -- on my way to check out -- an ugly Christmas sweater for the ages. Fifteen bucks, and I was back in my Subaru in less than 10 minutes.

That was three days ago, and I don't feel like I caught COVID 19. In fact, every time I look at my mantelpiece, I feel damned good!

The moral of this Gambit is, when one feels underappreciated one tends to throw caution to the wind. But one doesn't really throw, one tosses lightly. No harm is done, no furniture is stained, and there are tea light holders to boot.

How's the case count where you live?

Thanksgiving 2020

 I've spent the last three hours making side dishes for Thanksgiving dinner. Cranberry sauce too. Ever notice how these recipes make enough for a large family and friends? Yeah, well, this year it's just me and Mr. J and one poorly-behaved orange tabby cat named Gamma. The governors of Pennsylvania and New Jersey have asked residents to limit their Thanksgiving guests to people living within the home.

Every year since 1989 I have hosted Thanksgiving at Chateau Johnson (now an official government residence). That first year my daughter The Heir was 5 months old, and we invited her godfather from Washington, DC. It snowed about 4 inches. Made for beautiful photos.

There was a memorable year when I hosted a couple of principle dancers from the Philadelphia Ballet. Mr. J had just finished writing a magazine profile of Arantxa (who was practicing to be the Sugar Plum Fairy in "Nutcracker"). She and her Russian husband had never been to a traditional Thanksgiving dinner before. He ate everything in sight. She had a small portion of white meat turkey and an undressed salad. They were lovely. Literally.

On several Thanksgivings the Monkey Man has come to eat with us. Once he brought his sister and her boyfriend. Of course the monkey, Bongo, came too. Therefore, in Bongo's honor, I made banana bread.

When The Heir started working for a sculptor named Kate Kamen, I invited Kate and her husband to Thanksgiving. We learned a lot about spear fishing and other Type A behavior that would have made the ballerinas wince.

But mostly on Thanksgiving I had my mother-in-law here with us. She was an exquisite chef and often brought dishes or dessert, until she grew too infirm to cook. Must have been at least 10 and probably more like 20 years that she joined us every year. She was with us on the fateful Black Friday when Decibel the parrot died.

One year when The Heir was about 22 and The Fair about 17, I had to drive to Baltimore on Thanksgiving morning to pick up Mother-in-Law. It's a good 100 miles from Philly to Baltimore, and then turn around and drive back ... and then put the turkey in the oven. The drive down was uneventful. But coming back -- mind you, 11:00 in the morning on Thanksgiving -- we got into a whopper of a traffic jam on I-95. It was a parking lot, and the clock was ticking on getting that bird in the oven.

When it looked unlikely that I would return to Chateau Johnson in a timely manner, I phoned home to ask for assistance from my grown daughters. The conversation went something like this:

Anne: Fair, I need you to put the turkey in the oven.

Fair: Not me. I'm not touching a raw, dead bird! Forget it! Eww, gross!

Anne: Please? I'll walk you through it.

Fair: No way. I'd rather eat peanut butter.

Anne (turning to an inferior Plan B): Put your sister on the line. Heir, are you there?

Heir: Oh, hi Mom! How's it goin?

Anne: Not good. Listen, I need for you to unwrap the turkey and put it in the oven. I'll walk you through it.

Heir: Uhhhhh ...... emmmmmm ..... uhhhhhhh ...... mmmmMMMMMMmmmmm .... um, Mom.

Anne: Please?

Heir: Ummmmmmm ..... emmmmmmm ..... uhhhhhh .... oh gosh, I ..... ummmmm.

At this point the traffic moved an inch.

Anne: Never mind.

Heir: Oh! You have a great trip, Mom! See you soon! *Click*

Long story short, that was the year I learned to use the convection setting on the oven.

In the time of novel coronavirus, I will not be stuck in traffic on I-95. I won't be making salads for ballerinas or banana bread for Bongo. I won't be going to the shopping mall at 6:00 a.m. with The Fair or to a Christmas tree-lighting in Haterfield with The Heir. My county is a hot spot, so I don't even want to go to the hardware store for new outdoor lights.

But I might do that last bit. If ever there was a year when we have to beat back the darkness, this is that year. We started with the election of Joe Biden, but it's a deep hole we're finding ourselves in, what with Trump tweeting RIGGED RIGGED RIGGED and 70 million Americans believing him and another 250,000 dead of a disease no one had this time last year. 

Light is what we need. Lots and lots of light.

Four weeks until Solstice. I'm here, it's Thanksgiving, and it's just me and Mr. J and a poorly-behaved orange tabby cat named Gamma.

Stay safe!

Important Public Health Announcement for the Citizens of Johnsonia

 Hear the words of the Grand Wazoo of Johnsonia, Anne Johnson:

Effective immediately, the borders of the Independent Republic of Johnsonia are closed. No one will be allowed to leave Johnsonia or return to it except for essential travel.

No non-citizens will be allowed to visit or stay in Johnsonia. This includes outdoor gatherings and holidays.

Essential travel is defined as work-related or food-gathering-related or of medical necessity.

The Wazoo would like to take this opportunity to SCOLD the United States of America for IGNORING and SCORNING the advice of SCIENTISTS who WARNED THIS WOULD HAPPEN. May this plague fall upon the shoulders of the U.S. citizens who most resisted considering it important, while passing over good people who heeded the advice of health professionals!

Wazoo probably gonna be working from home beginning next week. Just a hunch.

Official Pronouncement from the Independent Republic of Johnsonia

 Dear Mr. President-Elect Biden,

On behalf of the citizens of the Independent Republic of Johnsonia, I wish to congratulate you on your resounding victory in the recent presidential election.

We of Johnsonia are looking forward to an era of cordial relations, productive alliances, and mutually beneficial trade relationships.

In all honesty, we're quite relieved at the outcome of the election. When it was announced, our color guard banged pans in the northern boundaries of our nation. We will be honored to send a delegation to your inauguration, if you have a public ceremony in these trying times.

With deepest regard,

Anne Johnson

Grand Wazoo, Independent Republic of Johnsonia