In January, I got a haircut. I haven’t had one since, but have learned to strategically position seven mirrors, while contorting my body into a new yoga position I invented, to enable me to trim the back of my neck, with a minimum of bloodletting, after sufficient warmup, stretching, and prayer.

In February, I had a few people over to watch the Super Bowl. No one has entered my apartment since, but I saved the garbage as a memento, and to use as a continuing test of my sense of smell.

In March, I made a hole-in-one at the Old Course at St. Andrews on an indoor golf simulator, received a very nice credit to be applied toward further visits, and then received notice that the facility had shut down due to the virus.

In April, starting to feel very isolated and uncertain of the meaning of life, I sustained myself by concluding that, I Zoom, therefore I am.

In May, my car wouldn’t start and my plant died, but I soldiered on.

In June, I sucked it up and went to the dentist.

In July, I got together with friends (outdoors, with a tape measure), which, if memory serves me, used to be a thing.

In August, I ate my first quadruple chocolate cookies from Big Fat Cookie, giving me a reason to live while waiting on a vaccine.

In September, I played Pickle Ball for the first time in my life, and walked away uninjured, for the first time in my life.

In October, I changed my clocks, though my attempts to do so telekinetically failed.

In November, I recycled some light bulbs. It’s the little things.

Finally seeing hope for the future, in December I hope to start my own pre and post natal drum circle business.

With the oracular expectation of shortages that would result from another run on stores as we entered the fall and experienced a rapidly increasing number of COVID cases, I overstocked on everything I could and, not surprisingly, ran out of storage room, so that I had to clandestinely slip into the park in the dead of night with flashlight and shovel in hand and squirrel away dozens of frozen pizzas and rolls of toilet paper in a series of unmarked consumer staples graves.

I considered sketching a map to aid in later finding my stashes, but instead felt compelled to match my abilities against those of scatter-hoarding squirrels, who, while they may have memories that would put an elephant to shame, don’t, I think, have the advantage of being able to create mnemonic devices to help them find their buried treasures.

I experienced a moment of concern as to whether some hungry, little gray member of the family Sciuridae might accidentally happen across and then feast upon one of my Margherita specials. But Internet research allayed my fears, as there is no evidence of the creatures being able to operate an oven.

I realized that I also could turn a profit on my hoarding by converting the adventure into an online-based treasure hunt for people to while away the hours they might otherwise spend searching for a bar still open in violation of the latest governmental orders.

To that end, I signed up for a class on computer coding and another on starting a business out of your garage, which importantly includes advice on protecting your ideas when it’s a shared garage, as mine is.

It’s been over two months since I last posted something new, so I feel proud that nobody has asked for their money back to this free-to-access site, though a little disappointed that one has noticed (especially in China, where my daily hits have not taken a hit).

It’s a clear sign of COVID online shopping fatigue that I’m considering buying a gold-leafed spoon holder.

My new thermal gloves with texting fingertips are disappointing, as they don’t text on their own, and still require the use of a phone.

I bet no one else has thought of eliminating skin problems by wearing a U-V clean portable sterilizer on their face in lieu of a mask.

I’ve gained a whole new appreciation for the witches in Macbeth as I try to create the perfect poultice to remove a stain in a granite countertop, without the mixture eating through to the unit below.

My new oversized silicone oven mitts might or might allow me to rush into conflagrations to save small puppies (the product disclaimer says not to try that), but they certainly provide me with a flow of self-amusement as I pretend, ala Jonathan Winters improvising on live tv, that they are everything from car mufflers to penguin flippers.

As everyone knows, a major COVID-19 vaccine study has been put on hold due to a suspected adverse reaction in one of the participants. While such holds are routine, I’m worried about the rumor I heard that the occurrence was the growth of a six-toed left foot out of the right side of someone’s head, and that the growth of a left foot from the left side or a right foot from the right side might not have caused enough alarm to shut down the trial given the rush to get the vaccine to market.

Despite the fact that such a growth has never before been witnessed in the known universe, the possibility that it was unrelated to the vaccine is being thoroughly investigated before any conclusions are drawn, because, after all, we know nothing about life on other planets.

Meanwhile, rumor also has it that some of the richest families in America are combining resources to buy out several large hotel chains that are on the verge of bankruptcy in order to use them to house tribes of students, under guard, who are being kicked off college campuses for ignoring COVID-19 rules, thereby keeping those imps from returning home.

On a related note, deans of the affected universities report that attendance has been much higher at campus parties than in classes, causing the deans to consider giving courses more attractive names, such as Physical Fun with Physics and Chemicals You Can Drink.

Welcome to a new live-stream, reality show, available on HBO Mini – Haircuts at House Parties in Highland Park.

Watch as six neighbors rotate hosting the discretionary income hijinks in their backyards, with a different local tonsorial artist each week (competing for the end-of summer Sweeney Todd Award), in an excuse to get together and have someone run his/her/its hands through their hair.

Each cut will be accompanied by a carefully selected wine and cheese combination, recommended by an online college, home economics graduate (whose degree is starting to look better) bagging at the local Trader Joe’s, and pretentiously described in unintelligible detail at the event by a guest, now otherwise out-of-work, incredibly desperate, five-star restaurant sommelier,

Each coiffure also will be shaped to coordinate with the design of the backyard garden, as explained by a lonely horticulturist from the nearby botanical gardens.

If that weren’t enough, the gathering will serve as a celebrity roast, with those waiting their turn in the chair making increasing snide remarks about the person going under the scissors, holding the viewers on the edge of their seats, as attempts at humor lapse into nasty allegations of infidelity, property encroachment, and tax evasion.

 

I thought it might make life more interesting (it doesn’t take much these days – I often rely on a sprinkling of crushed red peppers, using it like pixie dust, though, unfortunately, flight has not yet been attained) if I started speaking with an accent other than my own (as opposed to my previous idea of learning a nonexistent language), and change it each day.

But it occurred to me, after several days of concentrated thought, that I have no one with whom to speak, so I decided I should use two different accents every day, so that I can converse with myself, and satisfactorily represent both sides of the discussion (after obtaining a conflict waiver) without confusing myself any more than necessary.

With enough discipline, I can keep this up for well over two months (by which time I will have ingested enough hand sanitizer to ensure that I’ll never get COVID-19 and can, therefore, fearlessly start attending all-night raves) without having to learn another language, as there are, according to LingoHut, 160 distinct English dialects throughout the world.

As a side benefit, I may someday be able to work carnivals (subject to the CDC Considerations for Traveling Amusement Parks and Carnivals), accurately guessing people’s hometowns, and even neighborhoods, in a manner not seen since Professor Henry Higgins.

Following the dramedy of sports during Covid-19 is much more interesting than the games that haven’t been played might have been. Take, for example, the recent news about the NBA player who was photographed at a gentleman’s club after having been permitted to leave the league’s Orlando bubble for “personal reasons”. It doesn’t get more personal than that.

I, months ago, gave up on any dreams of socializing, in any manner, but have developed a craving for other forms of sustenance, namely one kind of food or another. And, though I’m pretty sure I’m not pregnant, based on researching Web MD, the urges are strong, and yesterday, I may have finally hit rock bottom.

Relying upon the wisdom of Phil Connors that “anything different is good” I bought, and actually ate, a fake milk vegan soft serve (made in a lab using genetically engineered yeast programmed with DNA to produce the same proteins found in cow’s milk, by scientists who might otherwise have spent their time curing cancer), covered with morsels that in shape and coloring, but I assure you not taste, resembled chocolate chips.

At least, unlike the basketball player, I wore a mask while making my purchase, and so should be safe from being outed on social media (since no one outside China actually reads this blog), though, unfortunately, Amazon only carries stomach pumps for fish and horses.

While on my daily walk, I was struck by an obvious opportunity to create a profitable business to support myself when Social Security goes bust, and also do some good. To those ends, I have established the ASPCFM – the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Face Masks.

Everywhere I go, there are perfectly good, discarded masks on the ground. I rescue them, gathering them up while wearing gloves I purchased from Amazon’s hazmat collection, with the intention of giving the masks new homes.

I’ve opened a pop-up mask shelter in a space recently vacated by a now out-of-business merchant. I thought about getting a lease, but determined that there are enough vacant commercial spaces that I can move around as needed when rousted and not have to pay anything.

I wash the masks three times, because everything comes in threes, and then put them up for adoption. Because the older ones are harder to place, if I can’t find one a new owner within three weeks, I send it to China to be repackaged as new and sold to the U. S. government. which doesn’t actually put the masks into use, but rather stockpiles them in 3×3 crates in a warehouse in an aisle behind the Ark of the Covenant.