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

Morning in Johnsonia

 It's a blustery morning here in the Independent Republic of Johnsonia, and the Grand Wazoo has a day off.  I, Anne Johnson, am that Wazoo.

I'm very glad to have my own country, because it is Election Day in the United States of America, and if I was still a citizen of that nation, I would be FREAKING THE FUCK OUT.

Instead, I'm busy with affairs of state in my own dear country.

Several prominent blue jays have hopped forward for Cabinet positions. To balance out all that blueness, I have also engaged four cardinals to dispense justice and to see to an even distribution of government-issued rations.

Squirrels are the opposition party. No surprises there.

Gamma the cat is now Secretary of the Interior. He is a known polluter, but he promises to keep Johnsonia free of disease-bearing rodents.

My firstborn daughter has agreed to be Ambassador to the United States, and her somewhat baffled boyfriend is now Ambassador to the E.U. (He stood for our national anthem but had to be briefed on the whole secession thing afterwards.)  If daughter Fair is interested, the ambassadorship to Canada is still open. If she's not, I'll appoint a blue jay.

Johnsonia just celebrated its first Samhain -- Druidism is the state religion -- in a very depressing manner. While a record number of American trick-or-treaters took candy from a basket in front of the house, we citizens hunkered around a bonfire out back.  The U.S.A.'s cavalier response to the pandemic is one reason for secession, and on Samhain we felt it keenly.

Johnsonia wishes its neighboring nation a free and fair election and a peaceful transition of power. Thank goodness none of that matters to us!

Stop a Moment

 Stop a moment and think back to April 1, 2005. Think about what you were doing, how old you were, and what your hopes and dreams were.

Now imagine that a stranger walked up to you and said, "In November of 2020, President Donald Trump will appoint a third Supreme Court justice a week before the general election in the midst of a pandemic that has taken 225,000 American lives in six months."

Imagine.

I'm surprised more people aren't seceding and starting their own countries.

Johnsonia Update and National Anthem

 Welcome to the Independent Republic of Johnsonia! If you recall, we seceded from the United States of America (irreconcilable differences) and became a country on 1 October 2020.

I, Anne Johnson, have been appointed Grand Wazoo. It's a lifetime appointment.

We've been incredibly busy with affairs of state, including collecting revenues through our Wazoo's unceasing labor. We have also undertaken infrastructure repairs ... and you know how that goes. Always more time and money than you expect.

We have, however, found time to write our National Anthem. It is to the tune of "O Canada," because you know it's okay to steal awesome national anthem tunes!

Ladies and gentlemen, please rise for the singing of the National Anthem of the Independent Republic of Johnsonia!

Johnsonia

Our fertile faithful ground,

Beyond compare

The greatest land around!

From the parking drive

To the hornet hive

To the roof that needs repair,

From the sidewalk crack

To the shrine in back

We stand beyond compare!

Johnsonia

Stand up and sing!

Johnsonia, we will let freedom ring!

Johnsonia, we will let freedom ring!

Play ball.

Well, Looky There

 Can you believe this? A guy who called the whole pandemic a joke, then said it would be over soon, then refused to wear a mask and belittled people who do? A guy who said it was no worse than the flu? Yeah. I knew it was a matter of time.

But you know, we Heads of State have to issue statements in situations like this, so here goes:

We the people of the Independent Republic of Johnsonia extend our best wishes to President Donald Trump and his wife Melania, for a speedy recovery from the novel coronavirus. We recognize that President Trump has many risk factors for having a worse case than average, and he may be laid up for quite some time, but yo. Feel better, dude!

Anne Johnson

President, Independent Republic of Johnsonia

Declaration of Independence, Republic of Johnsonia

 When in the course of human events it becomes obvious that the nation one inhabits has failed to address and respect the well-being of its citizenry, it becomes necessary to declare independence from the same. 

We hold these truths to be self-evident: that all human beings are created equal and that they deserve to be considered so throughout their lives. That the planet, being the only place these people are able to live, should be revered and protected. And that leaders should concern themselves solely with the prosperity of their citizens and the preservation of the planet.

The current governing bodies of the United States of America, including its president, are deficient in all these respects. Therefore, we the citizens of *** ******* Ave., Haterfield, NJ, do hereby declare independence from the United States of America.

We do this because our wishes as citizens of the United States of America have been belittled and overlooked for too long, and we see that this state of affairs will get far worse in the years to come.

Therefore, this Declaration of Independence will go into effect on 1st October 2020. We pick this date because it's easy to remember.

Our nation will be called the Independent Republic of Johnsonia. May it never perish until its founders do, and after that we don't particularly care.

An Equinox That Isn't

 This is that moment in the year when light and dark are equal. We look to it for a sense of balance.

But the dark is ascendant now, and I find that the dark is so ascendant that it is threatening my health and life.

I'm talking about COVID-19, of course, which a lady of a certain age must be mindful about. I am also talking about the absolutely dire turn of events brought about by the death of Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

I cannot find balance. I cannot find equanimity.

A few weeks ago, so overcome by stress was I that I could not eat and could hardly breathe.  I said to myself, "I wonder what this is doing to me on a cellular level?" I haven't looked it up in a scientific journal, but I'm pretty much certain the answer is "Big Fucking Damage."

Therefore, I must turn off the television and listen no more.

Of course I will vote - I've never missed a presidential election. But I have to look away.

The very people I ridiculed so blithely in this blog when I began it are seizing power using any means necessary. They are succeeding. Can we infer that their Prayer Warriors have moved jealous Yahweh? Or do we owe this moment to the oligarchs?

I may be insulated from the worst damage by living in a blue state and by being past my prime. But my daughters ...

See? My mind misgives.

Therefore I am hereby declaring my 1/4 acre of land to be the Independent Republic of Johnsonia. The citizens of Johnsonia will not concern themselves with the affairs of other nations.

We will release our Constitution at a later date.

24 Hours, 9 Emotions

 *5:25 p.m. September 18, 2020

Had chili for supper. It was good. (Satisfaction)

*6:25 p.m.

Splayed into recliner, too tired to join Mr. J on a simple walk around the neighborhood. Promptly fell asleep in chair. (Exhaustion)

*8:25 p.m.

Awakened by daughter The Fair. Looked at t.v. RBG dead at 87. Went from sleeping to full freakout in 20 seconds. (Panic)

*9:25

Total freakout mode, panic attack, predicting the end of the nation as we know it. (Panic)

*10:25

Congratulating self on not drinking the cooking wine, but did take a sleeping pill. (Fortitude)

*5:25 a.m. September 19, 2020

Nightmare that my daughter's car was stolen. (Fear)

*6:25 a.m.

Feeling a strong urge to engage in a fracas with fascists, knowing that there is a Proud Boy rally scheduled in Philadelphia at 1:00 p.m. (Fury)

*7:25 a.m.

Persuaded by spouse to abstain from rioting in the city. (Disappointment)

*9:25 a.m.

Bought some flowers at the farmer's market. Asked for a funeral bouquet. (Sadness)

*10:25 a.m.

Bought and drank some fresh cider and had an apple cider donut at the Berlin Farmer's Market (different from aforementioned farmer's market above) ... (Satisfaction)

*11:25 a.m.

Stood with my back to the Trump merchandise booth in Berlin so the vendors could see my Gritty cross stitch jacket and Black Lives Matter pin. Stood there awhile. Then a little longer. Then sauntered away. (Fury)

*12:25 p.m.

Sat in the sun wondering what it must have felt like in the USA the morning the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Told self it must have been worse than the death of Notorious RBG. Then told self that the attack on Pearl Harbor brought out the best in Americans, while the death of RBG will probably bring out the worst. (Pensive)

*1:25 p.m.

Saw Trump's tweet that he would seat another judge on the Supreme Court because that was what he was elected to do. Replied: "Say it louder so the moderates in the back can hear you." (Fury)

*2:25 p.m.

Got a package of new clothes and they all fit. Talked to The Fair, who is on a hike with a new gentleman caller. (Dim happiness)

*4:25

Back to the recliner to read about the Proud Boys event I was dissuaded from attending. Reports indicated that over 500 residents of Philadelphia turned out to counter-protest, and if the Proud Boys even showed up at all they retreated like egg-sucking dogs without being seen. (Satisfaction)

*5:25 p.m.

Still sitting in recliner, writing blog post, wondering why my words aren't historical enough for the Smithsonian, wondering if I'll die of COVID seeing as how I have hired a Goddess who presides over the death of women. Wishing I had asked my parents how they felt when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. (Sadness)

Artemis Brauronia Reports for Duty

 I've interviewed quite a number of bored deities over the 15 year span of "The Gods Are Bored." I've had chats with my great-great-grandmother and heard stories from Anansi the Spider. But never have I ever needed a Goddess more than at this present time.

Funny thing is, when I need a Goddess to perform a specific task, I often get help from the Graeco-Roman deities. And that is what has happened just now.

Some people have ecstatic religious experiences where a God or Goddess reveal themselves after long periods of preparation, devotion and study.

Me, I open my monthly Patreon mailing from Thalia Took.

For a very modest donation, the talented Ms. Took will send you a Goddess card every month in the mail. I have amassed quite a stack.

Last week I came home from the first day of school, and there sat an envelope that was clearly from Ms. Took. Being a super religious and deeply studied individual, I said to myself, "Whatever Goddess is in this envelope will be my protector in the COVID trenches."

Wouldn't you know, there were three cards in the envelope! I think Thalia missed a few monthly messages.

Thank all the bored deities of all the pantheons I already had Thalia's Hel card! Because there was another Hel card in there -- I would have curled up in a ball and cried. But since I already had a Hel card, I could pass Her along to the stack. Whew!

The second Goddess was Korean. I wasn't feeling Her. Now that I've said that, I'm determined to have Her in for an interview, because I don't want to feel like I'm discriminating against Asian deities.

The third Goddess was Artemis Brauronia.

EXHIBIT A: ARTEMIS BRAURONIA, BY THALIA TOOK

Artemis Brauronia is the Goddess Artemis as She was worshiped in the ancient Greek city of Brauronia. In that city's festivals, young girls would go through stages in a ritual that at times required them to dress like bear cubs and at other times required them to wear saffron-colored robes. It was a coming-of-age thing, so to speak.

The minute I laid eyes on Artemis Brauronia, I knew She was the perfect Goddess for my current needs. I mean, look at that intense gaze, that saffron robe, that gentle cradling of a baby creature! And wowsa, is She ever bored! Her chunk of the Acropolis is all that's left of Her influence. She's keen for an assignment as challenging as keeping an older school teacher safe from a novel plague!

I have taken my image of Artemis Brauronia in to my school and installed her at my right hand, literally. I even went to the thrift store and got a beautiful jeweled frame so She will be protected from the mice and the elements.

In the past I have called on Queen Brighid the Bright in times of need. But there's something so much more intense and fierce about Artemis. Right now I feel like I need a fighter in my corner. Here's another Thalia Took image of Artemis that I just love:

EXHIBIT B: ARTEMIS, BY THALIA TOOK

Nobody's going to mess with this Goddess. Nope.

Now, for those of you who Take Your Religion Seriously Thank You Very Much, don't look askance at me. It's a grand hillbilly tradition to stick your hand into a deck of cards and draw one out as an omen. It's just the way mountain people do things. You get an envelope and you need some help? Might be something in the envelope, if you intend it to be so.

I intended it to be so, and Artemis Brauronia has arrived to help me through these troubled times.

Labor Day 2020

 Dear Pandemic Diary,

Today is Labor Day, and on every other Labor Day since 2008 I have marched in the Philadelphia AFL-CIO Labor Day parade. One year I made the march (about a mile and a half) one week before a total hip replacement. That's where I got this bag.

Last year it was hot as ever loving fuck. I think I got a touch of heat stroke. But even that was better than sitting on my front porch doing yet another virtual holiday on the computer. One can only click the heart button so many times, you know?

And speaking of virtual, my new life as a virtual school teacher begins on Tuesday. I had all last week to prepare ... except not really, because the district scheduled 3 hours of meetings a day, and on Friday they had a 90 minute meeting about taking attendance. Therefore I did not get the kinks ironed out of the dodgy technology they gave me to use. It worked on Thursday, but not on Friday. So I'm not going to trust it on Tuesday.

The district offered us the opportunity to come in on Labor Day to prepare. To which I say

I. Will. Never. Work. On. Labor. Day.

United we bargain, divided we beg.

Pandemic Jean Jacket Done!

 I should have been out walking. I should have been working on my memoir. Instead I slid into the comfort of cross stitch, a talent my dear grandmother gave me back in the 1970s.

Mr. J gave me a jean jacket for my birthday. A nice one. And then, just a week afterward, we were in lockdown.

So I went to work.

EXHIBIT A: GRITTY IS THE CENTERPIECE

I actually got permission to use this design from its creator.

It says "No Grit No Glory." The green strip just above the bottom is my name, with a snowflake. More about the Phoenix in a moment.

After I finished Gritty, I thought, "It would be really cool to make this jacket monster-themed." And that's what I did.

EXHIBIT B: RAT FINK

I'll bet some of y'all remember this hot rod mascot from the 1960s. This is an iron-on patch, and I must say they adhere better than they did in the past. Technology isn't totally a waste. To the left of Rat Fink you'll see more snowflakes. They are buttons I sewed down the front.

EXHIBIT C: PHOENIX

Iron on patches are kind of cheating, but I could never have done this amazing Phoenix on my own, on a jean jacket. I have plans to add some words above it, but other projects come first.

EXHIBIT D: MOTHMAN

I really enjoyed working on Mothman. Above him is my WVresist button I got from the Women's March on Washington and my "My Heart, My Soul, and My Grave Are In Appalachia" pin. Under the arm is a pin that says "Tax the Rich."

EXHIBIT E: MURDER HORNET AND CTHULHU

My daughter The Heir drew the murder hornet. It is straight-up embroidery. Above it is a pin featuring Otter the River God (long story), and a Jersey Fresh pin. Cthulhu is a patch. And I've never been able to spell his name without looking it up.

EXHIBIT F:  FRONT OVERALL

So this jawn has pins and more pins on it. In no particular order, Union Yes, NJEA PAC, BLACK LIVES MATTER, SEPARATE CHURCH AND STATE, and the others previously mentioned.

When my daughter The Fair was snapping these photos, we totally forgot to take a picture of the Flying Spaghetti Monster patch I sewed on the back at the top.

There's one last monster, and it's the absolute worst of all.

EXHIBIT H: HORRIBLE MONSTER

This says, and I quote, "Any protesters, anarchists, agitators, losers or lowlifes who are going to OKLAHOMA please understand you will not be treated like you have been in NEW YORK, SEATTLE, or MINNEAPOLIS. It will be a MUCH DIFFERENT SCENE."

Followed by the monster's name, the date, and #notmypresident.

Counted cross stitch and embroidery had gone by the wayside, being considered an obsolete granny-driven art form based on platitudes and pretty flowers. But a new generation has taken it up and given it a whole new direction. I'm so glad, because it never would have occurred to me to bend such a floofy hobby to novel ends.

I haven't done this one myself yet, but it's on the radar. Don't you love it?

And fuck the Smithsonian Institution too. To me this post screams "pandemic diary."

The Only Thing Worse Is Death

 If I could inflict a punishment on Donald Trump, I would make him a public school teacher. Yes, that's exactly what I would do.

How Do I Do a Magic Spell against Donald Trump?

 Hello and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" My name is Anne, and today I'm going to be talking to all of you who put this question into a Google search and found me here in my throne room. Not gonna beat around the bush here: If you can't imagine another four years of Donald Trump, you can help defeat him. You can do magic, beautiful you!

Before you doubters say, "How is one little person going to shift the tide of an election?" This is akin to saying, "How come people who do magic don't win the lottery?" You can't beat Trump all on your own. But you can add to the spirit and magical currents already out there. You're not alone in wanting him to lose, and you're not alone in working magic toward that end.

You don't need to know anything and everything about magic to practice it. I'll keep specifically to this topic: using magic against Donald Trump.

First, protect yourself! Don't do magic aimed at killing him! You just want him out of office, not off the planet. I personally don't believe that hexing people in extreme ways has a karmic backlash, but I think that level of spell isn't necessary here. You want him gone, not dead.

And it's so simple.

Magic is all about symbolism. It's about taking an everyday object and charging it to stand for more than itself.

The easiest spell you can do to thwart Donald Trump is a freezer spell. You will need:

1. A Ziploc freezer bag, and

2. A piece of Trump gear -- baseball cap, t-shirt, campaign literature, or even just a picture of him.

Directions:

1. Cut the object into strips using a scissors. As you do, say, "Scattered forces win no wars."

2. Put the strips in the freezer bag and place the bag on the bottom shelf of a freezer, preferably underneath some really cold stuff. Say, "I freeze the support for Donald Trump."

It's that easy.

Now, maybe you live in a household full of Trump faithful who might find your spell in the freezer and ask you to explain yourself. In that case, hide a few strips at a time in your pockets or a backpack. Whenever you pass a trash can, throw one of the strips into it, saying, "Scattered forces win no wars." Do this until all of your strips are gone. Don't put them all into the same trash can! You want to scatter them.

I'm not encouraging you to buy Trump merchandise at a retail price. And be really careful about stealing it from your pro-Trump buddies. You want to make sure no one misses it! I got my MAGA t-shirt at the thrift store for two bucks. It has been in the freezer for over a year.

Some magic spells are incredibly complicated, but as I said, you don't have to be a PhD to take part in a righteous battle for the soul of America. You just need to want to do it, like so many of your fellow citizens.

So, go do magic, beautiful you! Add your intentions to the wide and deep spiritual ocean that stands opposed to this dangerous despot and his cronies.

It Didn't Take Long

 My gut told me not to do it, but it's so hard to leave good money on the table when you're a teacher in the summertime.

So I went to a professional development meeting of 2 days duration in a room with 8 other teachers and a consultant.

I took my own hand sanitizer and never removed my mask while there. I didn't share pens or eat in the room, which was air conditioned to near-freezing.

We had ample room to social distance.

Ten days after the meeting, I got a notice from my district that a teacher who was there tested positive. Ten days. No contact tracing in all that time.

I had no symptoms, so I decided to ride it out.

Wednesday the 26th was the two-week marker for this event. Some of the other teachers got tested, but no one else tested positive.

This was 8 teachers. I can hardly wait for September 1, when I will be reunited with the other 60 teachers at my school. On September 8, students start arriving.

It's easy to be hyper-aware when you're bored and cold and well spaced. What about when you have 10,000 things to do, it's hot and humid, and you haven't seen your pals since March?

Well, at least I know that masks work. But now I have to buy plain-colored ones. I'm so bummed. I had a friend make me some beautiful weird ones. Can't use them.

Please continue to petition the Gods and Goddesses for me and all public school teachers. As far as Covid goes, I think it's when and not if.

Coronavirus Navel Gaze: I'm Scared, I Tell Ya. Scared.

 I woke up this morning and realized that two weeks from today I will be going back to work as a public school teacher in a district serving low-income, minority students.

I'm terrified.

Of course I am afraid of catching the virus, but it's not just that.

I'm 61 and I am tasked with teaching 14-year-olds online (from my classroom!) so that they don't fall behind their peers academically. Never mind that my students are already two or three years behind their peers. It's my job to catch them up.

It's my job to compete with PlayStation, TikTok, Discord, Netflix, and Instagram (to name a few) and to inspire young teens to read and write in plain Google docs. And get this: The students in my district have to log in at 7:34 a.m. and go through their whole school day online as if they were in class. What do you think Period 1 will be like? What do you think Period 9 will be like?

*I can't use Personal Choice reading, the backbone of my curriculum, because the students can't touch the books.

*Any literature I use will have to be in the public domain.

*Any YouTube I want to use must be approved by my supervisor. Even a one-minute clip. All approvals must be done individually.

*I will not see my students except as little thumbnails on a Google Meet.

A majority of my students will be baby-sitting younger siblings, who will also be learning online. There will be no "pods" for my kids, no tutors to help them in small groups. They can't afford it.

Anyone who has done it will tell you that great teachers are more or less performers, entertaining the audience and also providing emotional support and personal interaction with each student. How can I do this online? I don't even like talking on the phone, let alone on Zoom.

At age 48 I had to pivot into teaching because I lost my job. I can't pivot again. In any other profession I would be almost ready to retire. Instead I have to work another 9 years. I will be 71 when I submit my papers. If I live to do it.

Usually in late August I'm pleasantly looking forward to meeting 70 new young people and learning about them through their class work and their reading choices. This year it feels like that dreaded First Year of Teaching that shows no mercy and takes no prisoners.

Oh yeah, and Covid. People have already tested positive in the building.

Anyone have any ideas about how to make this work? Bueller?

Tired of Rejection Slips, I Fight Back

 Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," coming to you more than 250 times a year for 15 years and counting! I'm Anne Johnson, and I have been some places and done some things. Lots and lots and LOTS of things.

Every morning I read the New York Times front to back. A few months ago I saw an article about the Smithsonian Institution soliciting "pandemic diaries." It was a gushy article about how the S.I. wants the experiences of ordinary Americans.

"Well," thought I. "I have been writing about the quarantine AND I have written about everything else going on since 2005 on 'The Gods Are Bored.'"

The Times article did not include a helpful link to where one could apply to be in the Smithsonian. So I researched and researched. Finally I found an email address that I thought would do the trick. I introduced myself, described "The Gods Are Bored," and said it includes entries about the quarantine.

I got an automatic reply that indicated my email had found its mark. So I waited.

Yesterday I heard back from a Dr. Lord, Smithsonian Institution. After careful review, my contribution was deemed unworthy of the august museum.

At my age I thought I'd seen my last rejection. But flick the ol' Smithsonian right on top of the pile ... if you can find the top. I'll lend you a ladder.

Have you ever been treated the same way for so long that you respond to the current case as if all the other cases could be avenged in that one brief moment?

Long story short, I replied to Dr. Lord. To whit:

"Hi Dr. Lord, thank you for getting back to me. I know that every human being alive thinks they have created something worthy of historic preservation. I have done it. Since 2005 I have written a blog called "The Gods Are Bored." It includes political satire, personal experiences (I live near Philadelphia, I protest frequently), and commentary on current events. I'm not unwashed and untutored. I graduated from Johns Hopkins University, Phi Beta Kappa. I know how to turn a phrase and report on historical events. Okay, I'm not Samuel Pepys, but he wasn't Samuel Pepys when he started out. If you have a list of blogs that document life in the United States of America, my blog ought to be there."

Tsk tsk, I didn't hide my light under a bushel, did I? Oh well, like I said, it was a comeback that reflects all the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, from that first short story I sent with an SASE (self-addressed, stamped envelope) to a small literary magazine in 1980, to the unannounced classroom observation by the vice principal at my school last spring. One can only be dismissed with a flick of the wrist so many times.

Dr. Lord suggests I contact my local historical society to see if they would be interested in my oeuvre. That would be Snobville/Haterfield. What do you think? Yeah. Me too.

I'll bet they didn't keep my sign from the Women's March either. Hmph. My tax dollars at work.

Prayers and Petitions To End the Presidency of Donald J. Trump

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," Hurricane Isaias Edition! Ah, 2020! Not even gonna ask if it can get worse.

Yeah, so we're in the bulls-eye for a tropical storm. Earlier this year we had a straight-line-wind event that cost me the ancient oak under which I worshiped. Weather, murder hornets, seeds from China, pandemics ... Gaia is pissed. Yep.

As anyone who has eyeballs and the ability to read the English language knows, I detest Donald Trump. I detested him in 1985 and detest him tenfold now.

What happens when citizens hate and fear their leader? They petition their Gods to dethrone the chump and send him to the landfill.

Did you see that despicable moment when the Orange Menace ordered the use of tear gas to disperse a peaceful protest in order to heft a Bible in front of a church for a photo op? I did, and I about flipped my lid. We Pagans have been experiencing "Tower Time" for a while, and this seemed to be one of those moments when the Tower lost another six feet of foundation.

(For those of you unfamiliar with Tower Time, it's an event that features the crumbling of norms and a shifting of realities, both mystically and in the apparent world.)

While watching the Menace grand-standing with his book, I took to social media and said something like, "All you Christians, your children are watching this, and they are going to be looking for a whole new religion, where shit like this doesn't happen."

I got a huffy reply from one of my closest local friends, to whit: "Not all Christians support this horrible man!"

And I replied: "Well, they might as well, when he does something like this." And it's true.

Fast forward a few fraught months of pandemic, and my local friend sent me a message that she would be in my neighborhood and would like to stop by. I am blessed with a gigantic front porch, so I fluffed the rocking chair cushion and rolled out the red carpet. She visited this week.

Of course most of what we talked about was the election. But the conversation took an interesting turn.

EXHIBIT A: INTERESTING TURN

Friend: Oh yes, I have a Christian friend, and she is very, very devout. She knows her Bible front-to-back and quotes it frequently. She goes to a prayer group every Saturday morning, and all they pray for is the defeat of Donald Trump.

Anne: What a coincidence! I know any number of Pagans who are working on the same thing, But we're not doing it in such a nice way as a prayer circle. We're howling at the moon and building bonfires and pouring libations and making freezer spells.

Friend: What's a freezer spell?

Anne: Never mind.

Friend: Well, the important thing is that good Christians are opposing Donald Trump and will be voting against him.

Of course that is important. If some Christians don't oppose Donald Trump, he'll be re-elected by a landslide. But I stand by my original social media post. Those church ladies sitting in a circle on Saturday morning and praying for Trump to be booted to the curb in November are doing a righteous thing. However, they are not doing everything they can do, or even a modicum of what they should be doing.

Trump will go, one way or another, and the "evangelical base" will remain. It's a voting bloc, and I can assure you that it would never listen to a Pagan perspective. The only people who can curb the evangelical base is other devout Christians. And they aren't doing it. They're sitting in their well-appointed cathedrals on Sunday, singing "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God" and listening to center/left sermons. Oh yes, they vote. But how many of them, when given the choice between a radical left wing candidate and a radical Christian zealot, will choose the r.l.w. candidate? It's a toss-up. Maybe not even.

My friend fails to see the danger for her faith going forward. Her own son is an atheist ... but would he be if he heard Other Voices in Other Rooms?

Listen, you heard it here first: When your faith group behaves in a way that brings harm to others and to the planet, you best get in there and do some in-house discipline. I don't see mainstream Christians having the spines to take this step. And when you don't take this step, when you tsk tsk and pray in a little circle of close friends, you inherit the wind. Your children will look elsewhere for spiritual guidance, or they won't look at all.

Altar Call: If you find the Christian church and its jealous God morally and spiritually bankrupt, fling Witch Annie a comment! You have choices. Can you feel them in the air? Yeah, we call that Tower Time.

Gritty's People Are Amazing

Hello from "The Gods Are Bored" on this day that begins with Y! Don't ask me which day it is. There will be time for that in late August.

Every now and then I do something that I know isn't right, but I do it anyway. This makes me human.

A few months ago Mr. J gave me a jean jacket for my birthday. It's not one I would have chosen myself, being kind of heavy and clunky. But pish tosh, I'm not looking a gift horse in the mouth! I decided to make the jacket more appealing by covering it with embroidery and cross stitch and patches and pins.

So I went to Etsy, and I searched "Gritty Cross Stitch," and the most badass Gritty cross stitch came up. Sadly, it was for a finished cross-stitch made by the artist. There was no offer of the stitch chart by itself, which -- if you do cross stitch you know -- is a necessary element of the proceedings.

I loved that Gritty, though. I loved it so much I downloaded the photo and drew my own chart.

"Now Anne," you say. "That's copyright violation!"

EXHIBIT A: HOW COULD I RESIST?

Yes, it is theft of intellectual property, and I felt sorely bad about it. How would I feel if some up-and-coming humorist cribbed this blog for pithy sayings?

Before I mustered enough guilt to message the creator on Etsy, the entry was gone. Gritty had been pulled!

But all was not lost. There's a badass page on Facebook called "Gritty Memes for Philly Teens" which of course features Gritty in all his Anti-fascist glory. Lo and behold, someone posted iron-on patches that use the same Gritty as the cross-stitch.

I left a comment on the post: Are you the artist of this Gritty?

No, the poster was not the artist, but she knew the artist and gave me the artist's name.

I sent a private message to the Gritty artist, to whit: "Hi, I used your Gritty design on my jean jacket, and I feel like I ought to give you $---. Do you have a PayPal account?"

Two days later, I got a reply.

"GRITTY BELONGS TO THE PEOPLE."

Oh, readers. Sometimes the world gives you bliss. Especially if you are a disciple of Gritty.

Now I can proudly wear my Gritty! And if the slogan around him was a bit unnerving to you, well, it was to me too. Here's my jacket:

EXHIBIT B: ALL IS WELL

Best part is, Gritty gave my jacket a theme; namely, monsters. I have since added a Flying Spaghetti Monster patch, a Cthulhu patch, I'm halfway through a Moth Man cross-stitch, and I put a nasty Donald Trump tweet on the side with the hashtag #notmypresident.

Monsters. All monsters. The word of Gritty for the people of Gritty, thanks be to Gritty.