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Wubba Wander You - May, 2009, from Brooklyn Heights Blog

The rules at Hillside are vague when it comes to the etiquette of toys – "Exercise caution with food and toys in the Park" – but the rules among the dogs are so idiosyncratic that we humans have to regulate how sharing works on a highly ad hoc basis.

 

Here's how I deal with Daisy, Pickering, Hermia: I take three or four balls, most of them the orange and blue Chuck-it balls that get a good bounce, and one squeaky ball for emergencies. Daisy is insane about fetch. Pickering learned the second half of fetch (bring the ball back) from Daisy, but would really rather get some rough play that turns into a game of catch-me. Hermia likes to trot or lie around clutching a ball in her mouth. She's interested in chase and battle, but will carry the ball into the fray, somehow barking around it.

 

This is the basic canine personality template from which I work. There are, however, a number of kinks along the way.

 

Daisy is the loudest and safest dog in Hillside Park. The only thing she wants is to fetch her ball and occasionally collapse and monopolize a watering spot. It doesn't matter which ball she gets on the first toss, but after that she is exquisitely sensitive about whether it's hers or not. She will follow a dog that takes her ball, barking, but she will never fight for it or go in too close to grab it when the dog has dropped it. Daisy comes from solid hunting stock and I'm convinced that she is transported to a Montana watershed where she would never tear the duck by competing with another retriever. Interestingly, she will pee on her way out of the park but has never taken a dump in it. The dog run is her holy, ancient ground.

 

Hermia is a thief if she likes some other ball better and she's incredibly stubborn. I have a 50/50 chance of getting a ball back from her. Squeaky ball usage #1.

daisy hermia If the owner says something like, "It's your fault for bringing balls in the park." I go after the ball myself, firmly but soothingly. Squeaky ball usage #3.

 

Recently, I had a situation I couldn't read. An owner threw out a Wubba (a sort of octopus-shaped toy made from fire hose material) for his dog, who carried it around for a minute and then dropped it. Pickering eventually got around to finding the Wubba and another dog started tug-of-war over it. They had some fun and then Pickering went back to chewing sticks or chasing his ball, and the other dog chewed the Wubba pretty much to threads. On the way out of the park, the owner made a noise that might have been in my direction and might have been a reprimand, possibly about the Wubba.

 

I honest-to-St. Rocco don't know what the owner (who I call "Mother Superior") or my responsibilities in this scenario were. If my dog had ignored its Wubba, I'd have packed it up. If a dog took it, I'd either ask for help or, less preferably, get it back myself. Finally, Pickering lost interest in it and it was a dog unknown to me who killed it. Mother Superior did nothing about the Wubba until that noise seemed to drift across my radar as we climbed the hill to the gate.

 

I've had run-ins over toys before, when my dogs thieve or are thieved from, and I have plans of action. Mother S. seemed to have no such thing but I remain bothered by the feeling that I should replace the Wubba.

 

At which point, Pickering or some other dog will pick it up and the whole thing will start again.

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From Behind the Pay Wall ar Medium.com: The Frelationship Test

Seventeen months ago he posted a photograph on Facebook of himself kissing a woman on the cheek. It was one of four or five photos of a group of friends having a sunrise picnic. It could have been a fond impulse, one moment in the red light of the desert, 1200 miles away.

 

But I knew. With a certainty as hard as marble, I knew this weird frelationship — a giddy, open-hearted friendship that began long ago punctuated with occasional sex — was too much for me to carry.

 

I blocked him on Facebook and waited to see if he noticed. I counted that day as my first day of abstinence, although I knew he'd eventually be in touch by phone or text.

 

That it took three weeks didn't surprise me. You see, I knew. I'd put the weight of him down, that drag of pretence of being friends and hiding being in love under my bed. While I grieved, my back felt a lot better, the way Kris Kringle must feel on December 26th.

 

He texted a photo having to do with curry leaves. We shared a passion for cooking Indian food. I didn't take my time deleting it and went back to my work of grieving the man who felt like he could be my third arm, or I his. Too soon he texted again to ask if I was alright. It was so unlike me not to leap on his crumbs.

 

I deleted that too.

 

I've been dumped by men by silence too many times to feel proud of my resolve, however, so I finally emailed him that I couldn't do it any more itwasn'thisfaultbutIcouldn'thelpit. His response was defensive and I had to write again that I felt no blame and wished him well. He finally got it.

 

Jump to earlier this month. I'm at work, digging around in the bowels of Twitter looking for some information, when I came across a call for a music writer, something he'd be brilliant at. I pasted the notice into an email I titled "We're Not Friends but I Thought You Should See This."

 

Yeah, I have his email. I didn't quite let go.

 

He responded the next day, thanking me and asking how I was. "Mezza-mezza," I wrote and attached a picture of my nine-month-old puppy. That gave us fodder for a few days, his new dog versus mine and who was snugglier. One evening I noted that Lismore had been yacking up her breakfast and had diarrhea. He replied with a sad face emoticon the next morning.

 

What do you say to an emoticon?

 

Delete.

 

Throughout those few days, I thought of him rather a lot. I didn't reminisce about our time in Brooklyn or my visits to my parents in Arizona. I didn't think about butter chicken or the adventures we should have had. Instead, I quizzed myself constantly. Could we be friends? Had I done something unutterably stupid? Had I opened my cold heart to the heat of joy he seemed to embody?

It came down to how I would feel if I didn't hear from him again.

 

It was a change of topic for me. I live alone, work at home, have few friends. My mind tends to drift to triviality when I'm not working. But I found I wasn't haunting my email or taking my phone to bed with me. I knew he wouldn't come up with a new conversation. I was in charge here. He wants to be friends and I can't risk it. I thought about our arguments over music and things he would confess to not liking about me. I thought about why, if we were such good friends, he was such a non-starter at friendship. Then I found that I wasn't thinking about him at all, except as a writing topic.

 

I want to tell people in frelationships that you can get out and get over it. And if you're the one who leaves, you leave with power. It grows as you count the days and months since you took your exit. And if you happen to cross paths and keep things simple, you get to decide how it goes.

I don't want to be friends with him after all. It's not because it could get seductive but because I remembered too much of the dumb stuff that might have been the reason we weren't more than friends. And I get to rest easy in my conclusions. In the end, I kind of think he's more regretful than I.

 

But of course he's still in my email contacts.

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From Behind the Pay wall at Medium.com: Dear Ms. Kuffel

I could see that much in the gray of the unopened email and I knew that the news I'd expecting for a month — that I was fired from a freelance publicity gig — had happened.

In threatening legalese is a list of all my failures and a demand for the return of monies paid me as well as a refusal for this month's fee for which I'd been putting in nine-hour days.

 

I so, so do not want to complain or justify. Self-justification is one of those character lapses I can control. I ask that you take it on trust that the list of my crimes against the world of yoga was

screwy.

 

Here is what I had done wrong: gotten one name mixed up. It went out in 50some letters. It would not affect the project in any way. I had also not mapped the points of the agreement over the five months I was supposed to work on the project. My client (I love this: her initials are BS) expected it all at once. And one day, out the seven I worked, I was involved in a family project and my phone died and she couldn't reach me.

 

Did I mention I went to Catholic school for nine years? The first five of those years were pre-Vatican II. I keep score against myself the way addicts line up at blackjack tables. A misplaced comma is a breach in my pride. I fully own up to what I did. There's a slot machine of extenuating circumstances. To mention them would be whinging. Won't go there.

 

OK. Enough on the Confiteor.

 

I'll add one thing: I was proud of the work I was doing. For an esoteric project, I was getting results.

 

And there enters humiliation. I feel dirty, from being fired and from the List. I feel like a failure who shouldn't have been born. I feel like I deserve it. I have a history of bosses who have gone out of their way to demean me and I can't get over the feeling it's some kind of karma that attaches me to sadistic employees. Was it that time I wanted to show Sister Mary Francesca (a.k.a. Franny-Franny-Machine-Gun-Granny) a painting of a Pietà and when I raised my hand, she snapped, "What is it this time, Kuffel?" Did my bad-boss-karma begin in being too eager when I was nine-years-old?

 

My brother is bothered by my inability to let the past go, to get over things. If it bothers him, how do you think I feel about this parade of people who have wronged me? The other day I mentioned having had nightmares the night before.

 

"Oh, I hate that," he said.

 

"I have them every night."

 

"You what?"

 

"Every night I dream about people who've hurt me. They can come in any configuration — you know, like dumping a jigsaw puzzle out. And I beg them to take me back or stop hurting me. It's the anti-depressants."

 

"That's why you don't let go. It's all in your subconscious."

 

Whatever. I do know that I could write B.S. a letter that one of those feel-good websites that feature biodegradable vibrators insists will vanish troubling past relationships. I could take it out and burn it. And tonight or next week, B.S. and Sister Mary Francesca will be scolding me in my sleep.

 

I told the company that I will not return wages and that I expect payment. Then I went online and consulted, for only $5.99 a month should I choose to extend my membership!, a lawyer. I am due my money. I won't take them to court but I have some legalese to throw at them. Also, they're idiots. All of the queries I put out to promote the project came from my private gmail account. Just…think about that…

 

Two take-aways:

 

 

I'm thrilled to be away from the chaos that company lives in! There are so many other things to do besides live in dread.

 

Second — and this is serious. Not enough has been written about client-source relationships in the gig economy. Try Googling my money question and you'll come up with silence of a slot machine that hit apple, orange, banana. (It's been a while since I hit the slots.) There's a lot of complaining and a lot of reportage about working from home, but nothing to help in a situation like this.

Somebody should write about that.

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From Behind the Pay Wall at Medium.com:Why I Smoke

I was suffering through a terrible depressive episode when a friend advised me to go outside and get some fresh air.

 

"I will," I told her. "I need a cigarette."

 

She laughed so hard she probably had something coming out of every orifice except maybe her ears. For a day, I was famous with people I'd never met as the conversation made the rounds of her family and neighbors.

 

But cigarettes are best when I'm on edge. On the edge or after a good cry, a cigarette is divine. It stings a little, giving me that lift into my body. It stops the tears. It gives me rational time to think about what I'd just been through.

 

I've been a food addict since I was four years old. Anyone who suffers from addiction understands how emotional growth stops or slows down at the age the addiction kicks in. There are numerous ways in which I struggle with being about 16-years-old in my 60s, but one of them is that it can take days to find the words for what I'm feeling. Is it anger or hatred? Anger or self-loathing? Sometimes going out for a smoke gives me the neutral space to inch toward what the icky feeling/s I'm having really is/are.

 

The best cigarette of all, of course, is after I haven't had one for nearly 24 hours. One of the ways I avoid living is through marathon sleeping. I can sleep like a bear sometimes. And then…there is the high. My head floats away from my body; I need to sit down because my bones have turned to rubber; the sounds of traffic and people at the bus stop beyond my hedge recede. I close my eyes and feel my body sinking into the chair and my head bobbing among the tree branches.

 

It lasts about two minutes if I'm lucky.

 

Montana has pretty much skipped autumn and swung into winter. I was driving into the grocery store parking lot yesterday and saw a guy vaping. In the cold, the vapor enveloped his head like he had his own personal fog.

 

Purrr-fect, I thought. Invisibility. I want it. Not enough to vape, but it was an insight into how smoking places a distance between me and circumstances.

 

Take Thanksgiving or Christmas or any other time the family gathers together. There will be a moment when I climb over bodies to get out to the deck for a smoke and a drink. The family quirks — half of them doing things on their phones, the other half commenting on what's going on with the phone stuff — drive me half-mad and I need to get away, get invisible. I don't care how cold it is, just let me out and I'll survive it while you pass your memes and jokes and videos around the living room.

 

I love it that I have to smoke outside. My apartment complex won't let us smoke within 10 feet of the buildings, which is even better. I take my hot or cold drink up to the flower plot where my dog can't reach me and I'm that much further away from what's waiting for me to do inside. I care less about the weather because outside is where I can escape my life.

 

Or insert a paragraph into my life. I finish a project and I want to get out to my car with said-drink and cigarette to think about the next paragraph, the next platform of work or activity to be done.

Smoking can be the introvert's way out. If I say I'm going out for some fresh air, people might wonder why when it's neither hot nor stuffy in the house. But when I say I'm going out for a smoke, no one asks questions. And if someone else says she'll join me, it's a delicious sudden intimacy, this forbidden act we have in common.

 

Distance — from work, people, emotion, the difficult conversation I'm having on the telephone — all neatly pre-rolled in parchment-like paper. The occasional joint moment, serendipity dropped my way. And a 16-year-old's feeling of being a Bad Girl, with a cigarette drowsing from the side of my mouth as I proclaim something in ways that would make a sailor run home to his mama.

 

Sunglasses and a cigarette. More hiding, more rebelling.

 

I picked up my week's supply of three packs yesterday at the gas station. I had my first good feeling about a Christmas I'm not looking forward to when I saw the ho-ho-ho lighters. I've never seen these before. I bought one on the spot.

 

I'll need it badly in the months to come.

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From Behind the Pay Wall at Medium.com: The Gingerbread Cookie as a History of the Medieval World

It begins, with sugar, originally cultivated in Polynesia and then imported to India. It continues with war, the sixth century Persians leaping on it when they invaded India. Emperor Darius called it "the reed which gives honey without bees," and by the seventh century, the Persians were fashioning sumptuous confections with their new-found discovery, the first cookies reported in history. They also grew sugar cane and kept the crop a great secret, selling the refined product at an enormous profit.

 

The next wars to spread sugar into usage were religious. As the Arabs (people from the Arabian Peninsula, Syrian Desert, and North and Lower Mesopotamia, as opposed to Muslims) expanded their territories, they absorbed Persia in the mid-seventh century and began cultivating sugar cane in Northern Africa and Spain. It was the soldiers of Pope Urban's First Crusade who imported the "new spice" to Western Europe — conducting pogroms in the Rhineland, massacring most of the citizens of Antioch and Egyptian-held Jerusalem along the way. The Crusaders suffered defeats, too, as well as massive attrition from a nearly 4,000-mile march. Ninety thousand men started out; one in seven crusaders would make it home. By the time the Crusades ceased, 2–3 million Europeans would have died of starvation, battle wounds and disease.

 

Caucasians against Jews and Arabs, Arabs against Jews and indigenous peoples, Egyptians against Jerusalem…sound familiar?

 

Out of the carnage came enormous profits. Sugar is first reported in London in 1099 (only 35 years after William, Duke of Normandy, conquered England) as costing two shillings per 11th century pound, or roughly over $100 for 2.2 modern pounds. Did that purveyor of Arab goods (which also included apricots, lemons, rice, dyes, spices, perfume, soap, and glass mirrors) speak the French of conquerors or the guttural Old English of their Saxon forebears?

The Battle of Hastings which put the Normans on the English throne, cost 6,000 lives, most of them poorly armed natives. Just by the way.

 

I am looking at my recipe for gingerbread, heady with the spices — ginger, cardamom, cinnamon, allspice, nutmeg, and cloves — that came to Europe in the Middle Ages via trade wars, imperialism, religious persecution, expansionism — all spilling yet more blood.

 

With the exception of allspice, these spices originated in the far-flung confluence of the South China Sea, Pacific and Indian Oceans, and, most particularly, the small sea of Banda, Java, Timor, Flores, Celebes, and Maluku. The Polynesians, considered primitives by James Cook in his three year exploration beginning in 1768, were extraordinarily talented travelers who brought the Spice Islands riches of nutmeg, mace and cloves to China, where they were cultivated. The Chinese then sold them to India, where Indian and Persian traders began importing them to Egypt and Rome. When the Roman Empire fell, so did the spice trade.

 

Cardamom was an early arriver in Europe, imported by Vikings, probably from its ninth century raid on the outskirts of Constantinople, squarely between the exotic riches of the East and the hunger for luxury goods in the West. It's one of the world's oldest spices in usage, originating in Southern India where it grew in such profusion that the area become known as the Cardamom Hills. You'll find it in many Scandinavian cookie recipes. It is now mainly grown in Guatemala, a more lucrative crop even than coffee.

 

Rather than using the commercial ground cardamom from my spice collection, I ground some seeds the other day. I promptly threw out the cardamom powder — the freshly ground seeds have an intoxicating aroma with a hint of eucalyptus, but absolutely unique. It definitely has a shorter shelf life than the other gingerbread spices.

 

Indian and Persian traders brought ginger to North Africa and Rome, when the spice was promptly forgotten until Marco Polo brought it back to Venice in 1292. Like all spices, the cost was prohibitive: Just over a half pound of ginger was worth the price of a sheep.

 

To put this in perspective, a half a pound of the best saffron, now the most expensive spice in the world, costs $5,000. Buying a sheep is much less expensive, at most $250, but still a lot of money compared to the $25.00 for a bag of dried ginger root on Amazon.

 

Two hundred years later, ginger was planted in the Caribbean, giving the Spanish one of its initial sources of revenue before delving into the rich South American continent. It's a safe bet that enslaved natives did the work while the Spaniards worked on their tans.

 

The next arrival in Europe is the only gingerbread spice that didn't originate in the Far East. Christopher Columbus outfitted himself with an army and 17 ships, intent on wiping out the Taíno natives he'd come up against on Cuba and Santo Domingo the year before. No one offered resistance to his raising of the Spanish flag across the Caribbean and he went on to collect some Native Americans, gold and allspice from the lands he believed were Asia.

 

The English called this new flavor new spice but it didn't become a widely sought crop until Sephardic Jews living in Jamaica after fleeing the Inquisition in Spain and Portugal started trading what they called Jamaican pepper with other Jewish merchants in European ports. Because the Jews of Jamaica were still living in Spanish territory, they still couldn't worship openly and the English, who conquered Jamaica in 1655, were hardly more tolerant. But there is still a thriving Sephardic population in Jamaica and a good deal of archeological investigation is being conducted into their 15th century origins there.

 

Nutmeg, imported by Arabs to Constantinople from the Banda Islands that lay squarely between Borneo and Australia, survived the fall of Rome to become one the bloodiest ingredients in our gingerbread men. In 1190, Henry IV invaded Italy while trying to undermine other claimants to the title of Holy Roman Emperor. He negotiated a deal with Pope Celestine III and arranged for his coronation in 1191. The pageantry included strewing the streets of Rome with nutmegs, an expensive way to mask the odors of the crowded city, although probably not more expensive than his ongoing three-year march to seize the crown of Sicily. It cost thousands of lives in battle and a plague, as well as the imprisonment of his wife. But when your empire encompasses parts of the Netherlands, Germany, Austria and Italy, you can waste lives and money on nutmegs and invasions.

 

The Spanish winkled out where nutmeg came from, the Banda Islands, in 1512. A little over a century later, the Dutch went to war with the Spanish for the territory and then to massacre and enslave the population in service of growing and harvesting the spice. Later, the Dutch traded Manhattan Island to the British for one of England's nutmeg-producing islands. Despite a brief interlude of British seizure of the Spice Islands 1810, the Dutch controlled the plantations until the Japanese occupation in World War II.

 

Nutmeg was fashionable among Europe's wealthiest not only for its supposed medical powers and its definite taste, but because it's a hallucinogenic. (I admit it: I've wanted to get high on nutmeg ever since I learned this but I've never investigated how much it would take.) In 1760 London, a little over a pound cost 85–90 shillings, or $955.12 in today's money. You'd have to be high to pay that much money for a little reality break.

 

Cinnamon, first grown in Ceylon, appears in Chinese and Egyptian records about 3,000 years ago; Pliny the Elder mentions that that 12 ounces was worth 11 pounds of silver. It was one of the lost spices after the German conquest of Rome, rediscovered when the Crusaders sacked Jerusalem and it became one of the prizes wrested from the Egyptian rulers of the city. Arabs traded the highly sought preservative until 1518, when the Dutch took control of Ceylon, monopolizing cinnamon as their own by seizing enormous quotas from the poorest caste in Ceylonese society.

 

The last of the spices my recipe uses is cloves, which come from the Maluku Islands, which lay in the Banda Sea where nutmeg originated. It, too, was lost to the West with the fall of Rome. Magellan set out to circumnavigate the globe with the Armada de Molucca, which consisted of five ships and 270 men in search of a western, Spanish incursion into the Spice Islands. Magellan was killed in the Philippines when natives resisted the Spanish attempts to convert them so it was the remaining two ships and crews who reached the Moluccas in 1521. They loaded their ships with spices but only one was seaworthy. Ten months later, 18 or 19 survivors made it back but the Spanish had a route to the cloves of the Malukus — until the Dutch arrived in 1605.

 

The Dutch went to work destroying every clove tree they could get their hands on in order to keep the spice in their possession, blithely indifferent to the islanders' practice of planting a tree for each child born. Burning trees was tantamount to cursing the spirits attached to them. Were they surprised when the people revolted? Did they understand why they were so hated for the next century?

 

The first gingerbread was, in fact, bread, made by the Crusaders who ground up their regular bread and mixed the crumbs with the spices and sugar they found in Jerusalem. European cooks made gingerbread with ground almonds, rosewater, sugar and ginger. It sounds good but it wasn't the gingerbread we know until the English took on the challenge and used flour and eggs in addition to sugar and ginger.

 

The English also invented the first gingerbread man. Elizabeth I commanded that gingerbread likenesses be made of her favorites and, possibly, her un-favorites (so often the same men in her mercurial affections). Why isn't there a gingerbread cookie cutter of Walter Raleigh with his platter of a collar and proffered cape? Or one of Mary, Queen of Scots, kneeling headless with her lap dog jumping out of her arms?

 

Jacob and Ludwig's "Hansel and Gretel" are responsible for the invention of gingerbread houses. The story illustrates how beloved gingerbread was to children by the 19th century. The house is also an extravagance on a large scale. Europeans gave cookies at Christmastime because the ingredients, hard-sought and hard-fought, were too expensive to share in a larger form.

There it is: the ubiquitous Christmas cookie, particularized by each country — speculaas, pryaniki, snaps. Maybe it's no coincidence that the Gingerbread Man, shouting, "Run, run as fast as you can. You can't catch me, I'm the gingerbread man," spread mayhem as his baker and her husband, a pig, cow, and horse chase him with their mouths watering. It takes a river and a lying fox to bring the Gingerbread Man to his natural end, eaten alive for the deep warming flavor the entire neighborhood lusted after.

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From behind Medium.com's paywall: Casual Observations on Social Distancing from a Semi-Agoraphobe

I'm obsessed with numbers. I lived in New York for over thirty years and the situation is so drastic that the first thing I check every morning are its COVID-19 stats. A few hours ago, there were 68,363 confirmed cases in the state, and 1,342 deaths from the virus. Two days ago the death count was 965.

 

I'm rooting for the home team but I'm also fascinated in that car wreck on the side of the road kind of way.

Now I live in Montana where the virus was a late entry in the race to the Pearly Gates. On March 19, 12 days ago, this vast state with less than a million people had 12 cases of the virus. Today it's 184. The snowball is rolling down the hill.

 

I didn't make one of those successful moves back to my hometown (12 cases today, an unofficial increase of four from two days ago via a chat with my pharmacist through her protective glass and before she thanked me for not paying in cash). I came back to Missoula loaded with shame about my weight, tired of being on public display walking dogs, to friends who have tight, ritualized lives. It became increasingly hard to leave my apartment or to make or write personal outreaches. I have more work than I'm paid for and somehow or another I get through the days — although often I have to Google what day it actually is. I haven't made the effort I should but early in the month I was getting restive and was ready to take on drink and lunch dates (I had already had one lunch date. I liked it. I wanted more.)

 

Then everyone was sent home from their jobs and the isolation began to press against the walls as did, increasingly, that thing, that threat. It's easy to see why physicians believed in the miasma theory for so long. COVID-19 feels like that — almost solid, like a huge cloud of gnats bearing down on every standing thing.


"France, you're the only person I'd trust to come over," one of my nieces giggled. "You're the safest person I know." But day-by-day I haven't gone to see my family, scattered around town. I've been in touch, though, which is unusual for me. I talked another niece off the ledge when she was sure she had the virus, my brother and I are in a weird circular email argument about when the country should go back to work and the fact that the mortality rates for normal influenzas are much higher than for coronavirus. I've tried to calm nerves and been successful so far, although I've been mandated to call a grand-niece who hasn't called her mother in a couple of days.

 

I talk to myself a lot more than I have in the past, mostly lecturing a non-existent audience on the 1918 Influenza Pandemic, why the death rates for coronavirus and the flu is comparing apples and salaks, or being defensive about a snitty (and wrong) email exchange.

 

And I've had to go to the grocery store a couple of times, each an adventure into popular culture. My first trip was to Costco, where I was not only handed a sanitary wipe but was clicked because they're letting a certain number of people into the store at the same time. Then I was confronted with a white board announcing they were out of baby wipes, frozen chicken and a few other items. I was delighted that toilet paper wasn't on the list but when I asked later if they had any, the clerk told me they had expected a truckload the night before but it never arrived.

 

This is Gun Country. My first image was of some butt-crack stepping onto I-90 with a semi-automatic and highjacking the truck. It's not that ridiculous when you think about Montana and its neighbors.

 

It was one to a customer in Costco's dairy section, which wasn't tragic since I was on a butter quest and it comes in four-pound packs. (Eggs come in two-dozen packs, I think, and milk in two-gallon packs. We're good on the scrambled eggs front.)


Recently I read an unusually amusing essay by Ted Kyle about the mass hysteria of buying. We all know it began with hand sanitizer and toilet paper, and, as I suspected, guns and ammunition. Next came comfort food and the ice cream aisles were wiped out. Then Google recorded a huge bump in bread recipes and stores sold out of flour and yeast — and there isn't a bag of flour to be found in Missoula, which is bad news for me.

 

Now it's seeds and starter kits as the country gets ready to dig victory gardens. Not here yet, where it's still snowing in the mountains. Montanans are still baking bread.

 

I NEED me some flour! You all can buy bread easily but I depend of flour as part of my livelihood. I want to make a COVID-19 cookie: oats, avocado oil, honey, wild blueberries, turmeric, and dark chocolate, stuff that supports immunity.

At the regular grocery store customers are allowed to buy two of each thing, except for flour, toilet paper, yeast, isopropyl alcohol, and paper towels, which are things that do not exist. They're low on soups, too.

I

'm speculating on what the next herd-buy will be. Yesterday I got a survey question in one of my science emails. What movies, television shows, or streaming am I binging on? I'm sure all of us are sucking up something from Netflix but it was interesting to be asked what (A Discovery of Witches, if you must know. W-a-a-y too much making out and a far cry from the novels.)

 

Books, I hope; adult coloring books and colored pencils, maybe. Whipping cream and puff pastry for ornate desserts. I wouldn't have expected bread baking so really, it could be anything. "Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax — Of cabbages — and kings."


Lewis Carroll should have been in coronavirus marketing.

 

Yesterday I called my veterinarian to make an appointment for my dog to get her bordetella updated, get her annual shots early, and discuss spaying her. No can do. We have to wait for the full year for her rabies and they're not doing any elective surgery at all. They're conserving supplies and medication for the Big Bang when it hits. As for bordetella, I'll pick up the vaccine today and get my brother to hold the beast still while I squirt it up her nose.

 

So yes, at last, I'm going to see people.

 

But only after I finish rearranging my car.

 

I was intent on taking a big box of things to my favorite charity store in town until it dawned on me that that would be the last place that would be open or restocking. So I've brought the box in with no place to put it, but I have recycling to drop off, as well as groceries "cooling off" in the back seat. I no longer trust who has touched the things I want from the grocery store so I take in what I need, sanitize it, and wash my hands like a heart surgeon. I'm about eight days away from bringing in the other roll of parchment paper and the hand sanitizer I don't need yet.

 

Sometimes it's more daunting to figure out the disinfecting of hands and products than it is to go to the grocery story and angst out over who's thinking the fatty doesn't deserve a respirator.

 

Do I? I'm 63, childless, exceedingly replaceable in my work, and not much of a friend.

 

I subscribe to too many email alerts. I know too much and I know doctors have to make decisions about who gets scarce treatments.

 

I can't escape COVID-19. The headlines are too dramatic to ignore: "Only One Protective Suit in Hospital," reads one that's hanging out as a possibility for my work today. "How Coronavirus Will

 

Change the World" is another. It's not just dark times but apocalyptic.

 

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!"

 

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From behind Medium.com's paywall:Letter from a Reader: “My beautiful 15 year old girl who just poured her heart out to me about how fat she thinks she is and how she doesn’t think anyone will ever love her.”

This is the heartbreaking gist of a mother's seeking help that won't hurt her daughter's self-esteem.

 

For the purposes of this reply, let's call them Mom and Annie. Further, I believe this question is based on a Psychology Today blog I wrote seven years ago about how to work with your teen who is overweight. Thanks, Mom, for delving so deeply into my past work!

 

Dearest Annie, I identify. I was a trainwreck at 15, trying to fit my very round peg of a self into very narrow oblong slots. I was just shy of 240 pounds. I wanted to be an actress. I wanted to study ballet. I had recently lost 36 pounds over the course of six weeks by eating 500 calories and exercising for four hours a day over the summer but once I was back in school with after-rehearsal 4-Bs cinnamon rolls and Friday night pizza, I quickly piled it back on — plus more.

 

That summer's attempt to wrest myself from the beast wasn't a healthy diet, although many anorexics would applaud it. My father was a doctor and approved of what I was doing rather than scouting out a more sustainable plan of eating. I'm so very happy you can pour your heart out to your mother. I never did: she wasn't that kind of mother.

 

I was criticized for that blog because I told parents to give their overweight kids anything they wanted as long as it wasn't food. Tennis? Sign her up. Basketball? Put up a basket, and put it behind the house where Bobby's jiggles won't be seen. Put it up even if you have to pave a court there. Or sign him up for one-on-one lessons at a time in the gym when the court is most unobserved.

 

Readers felt I was telling them to spend money they didn't have.

 

After years of doing social media in the weight loss/health/fitness categories, I feel justified in rebutting, "Can you afford not to do these things? Your kid's life is at stake. Take out a second mortgage or a loan; make a deal that Bobby will pay you back. Do what you have to do but get him moving and be there for him as much as possible."

 

I can say this now with certainty because 1) it didn't happen for me and my parents could have afforded it, and 2) I've read hundreds of studies on childhood obesity. It's imperative to reverse it, no matter what it costs.

 

I would have loved to learn tennis, to spend time horseback riding, to be in a swimming pool a couple of times a week. No one asked me what I wanted and that's simply not excusable. It's more inexcusable because I had been educated (nine years of parochial school; a lifetime of attention given to the rivalries and athletic performances of my brothers) not to speak up and ask for these things myself. My parents assumed I would magically take care of it myself.

 

By the way, Mom, let's not tell Annie about any of the medical consequences of her overweight. She's got enough to handle.

 

I'm 63 and I've spent the last 20 years trying to figure out how my obesity could have been arrested. Along with the shame of my body, I was ashamed of my life. I'm hopeless at math — as I was failing geometry, why didn't my parents find a good tutor? When I walked into P.E. one new semester and was confronted with a beam, uneven bars, a vault, and a trampoline, why didn't someone gently tell me to go outside and walk around the athletic fields for 45 minutes?

 

These were the days of Joni Mitchell, Carole King ("You're beautiful as you feel" always made me snort with fury), Diane Keaton, Stevie Nicks, Judy Collins, Michelle Phillips. The girls I was attracted to wore their hair long and flowing, and dressed in long skirts or short skirts, they accessorized with loopy earrings and necklaces they beaded themselves.

 

(The Good Girls — the ones who were academic and worked on the yearbook — wore other clothes, but I was not a Good Girl. I was arty and angry and snotty.) So why was my mother trying to dress me like a Good Girl? And then, why did she give up dressing me at all?)

 

The one really good thing she did was to get me contact lenses. Late in my senior year when I was becoming more assertive about my true needs, I asked to be taken to a dermatologist, one of the smartest things I ever did. My father taught me to drive on the eve of graduation — much too late because it tied me down — and I got a car. I asked for a therapist for my graduation present. He saved my life by taking me seriously. I had few friends in university but I adored my classes.

 

So here are the four lessons I want you to pull from my anecdotes. 1) Be there for Annie. Get to know her. Get to know what she wants from life. 2) Sign her up for whatever physical activity she'd like to be involved in. It's less expensive to pay for private ballet lessons than bariatric surgery or insulin. Annie's metabolism is now at its strongest. On a healthy diet, adding physical activity will pull the pounds off like iron filings to a magnet. 3) Let Annie pick out the clothes that best reflect who she is. Same goes for hair, glasses/no glasses, jewelry, etc. Teach her what her best attributes are. I have great hair and good legs and navy blue eyes. That's a lot to work with if you know how to do it. Make sure she sees those people who can work wonders, dermatologists, massage therapists (the overweight/obese suffer horribly from lack of touch, as well as the stress knots caused by anxiety from shame), a really great hair dresser who works with teens and college students, etc. 4) Be her advocate, sometimes as sneakily as possible. I would have been thrilled had my mother stormed the halls over gymnastics, but I would have slunk to the floor under my desk if she'd done it over my geometry teacher's inability to pound theorems into my soft, Hawthorne-ish brain. Academics, being able to drive, being trusted are also a part of self-esteem.

 

NB: Who else is Annie? Is she a reader, a gamer, a Good Girl or an Arty Girl? What makes her laugh? What, besides her weight, makes her cry? Are there things she'd like to learn — that vaunted beading, or tatting, or making furniture? Hobbies are essential because when you stop wall-to-wall eating, you have time, energy, and obsessing on your hands. Fidgeting burns calories. This means binge-Netflix is not such a good idea, even without the pop corn, because when we're into a binge, we tend to sit or lie without movement. Much better to knit or read (I change positions when I read) than get hooked into one mini-series after another.

 

You've done a brilliant thing by getting Annie into therapy, Mom, but here are two questions: is her therapist a specialist in addiction, and does she like him/her? If the answer to the latter is meh, then look for a therapist who specializes in addiction.

 

It's time to face up to two things that should comfort both of you: overweight/obesity is not a moral failing. It's a chronic disease, just like epilepsy or lupus or Crohn's. I won't use diabetes because it's so closely tied to overweight/obesity and thus becomes another thing we can blame ourselves for. You need to let Annie know she has a disease and that, like all diseases, she has to take her medicine.

 

The second thing is that if Annie had an MRI of her brain, it would look almost exactly like the brain scan of a cocaine addict. The particulars of overweight/obesity is that most of us can not stop eating, any more than a meth user can walk away from a half-full syringe.

 

No one with a disease, no addict, should feel feel shame. Annie needs to learn hope.

 

And Mom, you need to get into therapy as well, and with an addiction specialist who will understand the almost impossibility of quitting. You need to know what's going on, what helps (exercise is strongly advised in recovery from addiction, by the way) and what doesn't. And you need to hand some of the burden of Annie's sadness over. You need to grieve her sadness and rage at it, and have a relationship with it that you have the skills to keep separate from your own life.

 

Here are my last two caveats. As much as is possible for a 15-year-old, put Annie in charge of her life. This has sort of been the message all the way through this answer, but it needs to be stated clearly. Let her plan and prepare her meals, decide on a clothing allowance and let her shop with you as back-up.

 

The second is to make sure Annie sees a metabolic specialist. (If your community doesn't have a metabolic specialist, which is a rather recent discipline, go to an endocrinologist.) I eschew the idea of bariatric surgery and if you agree with that, make sure the subject doesn't come up. But you need to know whether there is a reason for her weight gain besides eating. Rule out Cushing's disease, for instance, or diabetes. These doctors are the best prescribers for the new classes of weight loss drugs because they've studied the subject much more than an internist.

 

Mom, Annie: I have a lump in my throat and a sting in my nose as I conclude this. Remember, please, that there are positives in a life of sadness. There is gratitude. There is service — which I hope I have given, because my life is pretty bleak right now, mostly because of my weight. There is hope.

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From behind Medium.com's paywall: Breakfast Hacks from the Rooms

Once upon a time I was a Stepford Wife in one of the many 12-Step programs for compulsive eating/not eating. I lost 188 pounds. The magic wore off when I ran up against Life.

 

But now life is living alone in lockdown, social distancing, the smell of campfires obfuscating the sun, Proud and Boogaloo Boys looking for a reason to shoot off their precious weapons, and the Orange Bobblehead making it hard to imagine we'll ever stop living in a soap opera.

 

The Serenity Prayer is looking pretty good right now. I'm thinking of going back to the Rooms or the call-in meetings.

 

Plus I want to lose some weight.

 

I remember my first days with the Stepfords. I ate a 16-ounce salad at lunch and dinner, with four ounces of protein and a tablespoon of oil at lunch, two at dinner. Breakfast could be a measured whole carbohydrate, the equivalent of four ounces or protein, and a fruit.

 

The concept of no flour, wheat or sugar was, of course, anathema. But I saw results in the stories I heard from other Stepfords. And after I got the hang of it, I've pretty much stuck to a Stepford breakfast every day.

 

EVERYONE had yogurt — one cup — at breakfast. They raved about it. They licked their bowls clean. In my universe, yogurt was in the category of tofu and fish with tentacles. But after a while, I got really tired of oatmeal and two eggs.

 

So here's what I finally figured out and it's so nutritionally sound and satisfying that I want you to have the option as well.

 

Extracts, preferably oil-based, are the best thing to happen to breakfast since bacon. If you go to an online store that specializes in extracts, you'll be dazzled or nauseated at the variety — root beer, blue raspberry fountain flavor (???), cake flavor, bubblegum, capsicum, salted caramel… the options are as wide and weird as your ability to type "extracts" into your search engine.

 

Here are some recommendations:

 

Lemon, hazelnut, key lime, blood orange, cherry, or coconut in yogurt is terrific. (Just warning you, peach, peanut butter, egg not, and honey extracts taste like ass.) Monk fruit is your new best friend. It's the only no-calorie sweetener that doesn't have an aftertaste or give my niece headaches. Buy from Amazon because it's not cheap. If you're planning to have it out in a sugar bowl, buy the white version. The brown clumps when exposed to air. If you're eating the dictated 1/2 cup berries, adding them to your yogurt makes it feel bulkier, as well as complimenting the flavor of extract you've chosen.

 

And here's the thing about weighed and measured food: you can eat all the fat you want because, hey, it's four ounces or one tablespoon. Plus, fat is now a "good" food. (I can't remember he new bad food since MedPagePlus hasn't issued any warnings against quinoa.) Greek yogurt hadn't happened when I was Stepfording, butI ate full-fat Brown Cow which had a layer of yogurt fat on the top. Now I eat 5% Fage and I snigger to myself when my brother takes one of those fruit-at-the-bottom molecules when I luxuriated in a full cup and a half cup of berries. He doesn't believe me that my yogurt is better ad healthier than his.

 

If it's summer and the thought of a hot breakfast makes you break out in heat rash, grab a Teflon skillet and toast your 1/3 cup oats while shaking the pan over the heat just until you can smell the sulphur. It takes two — three minutes.

 

Another summertime go-to involves cooking brown rice in the coolest part of your day. Using 2/3 of a cup of rice, add 1/2 cup cottage or ricotta (so good!) cheese, a bit of salt, monk fruit, almond extract and berries. This and the toasted oatmeal yogurt are perfect for taking to work or when traveling because they're one container meals.

 

Stone fruits are also good in yogurt, as is kiwi and pineapple. Some fruits are too dense or too wet for yogurt. But if you want watermelon in your Greek God, the extract is available.

 

Oatmeal, oatmeal, oatmeal. A world unto itself.

 

No, you don't get to have it with maple syrup or bananas (grapes, bananas, and cherries were considered too full of sugar), but you can add maple and butter extract and monk fruit. As we wait for the election, try pumpkin spice instead of the other flavorings, or apple pie spice with a chopped apple.

 

From my own experience, I advise you buy the large bottles of butterscotch, butter pecan and black walnut extracts. (In a fix, we could have two rice crackers, 8 ounces of milk, two tablespoons of cream cheese. Can I tell you that, while you shouldn't indulge often, butterscotch and monk fruit added to cream cheese and spread on your rice cracker is like being human again?)

 

Sometimes these breakfasts didn't hold me until lunch (I lived in Brooklyn at the time. Commuting is a lot of walking and the Stepfords didn't have snacks. My sponsor suggested I try six ounces of potato instead or rice or oatmeal.

 

A spud, whether white or orange, with a half cup cottage cheese or two eggs scrambled in a bit of water or a good Teflon pan is incredibly satisfying. It was my breakfast today. Sometimes I saturate the potato with hot sauce or wheat-free tamari or soy sauce. Butter extract made potatoes and oatmeal a homecoming.

 

The last item is coffee. I get really bugged by all the things baristas do to coffee because of our cravings. While the Stepfords drank it black, there were still simple things to fancy it up. Add cinnamon, pumpkin pie spice, or plain cocoa to the grounds before brewing. A tablespoon added to a pot of hazelnut, vanilla, almond or whatever else pleases you will save you five bucks (if your happy place is a Starbucks salted caramel mocha) and a gazillion calories. Use a bit of peppermint extract and cocoa in your grounds for a taste of Christmas.

 

H'mm. I may be talking myself into making the phone call after all…

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From behind Medium.com's paywall: Halloween: Tricking Darkness and Death — a COVID tale

It was Ireland and Scotland that gifted us with Halloween. It is a time of darkness and fear — daylight contracts to less than ten hours a day, and our forebears worried about surviving lean times and sickness in the coming winter. The scrim that separates the living from the dead, and the human from the mites of magic and mischief, is at its threadiest. The Celts of 2,000 years ago, and the Wiccans of every age, call it Samhain ("sow-win"), and it is the celebration of the new year. As befits the new year, there was a bit of cleaning involved. Each home extinguished its hearth fire before joining the community at the roaring bonfires that the Druid priests had built. Dressed in animal skins and heads, they gathered to sacrifice a portion of their crops and butchering — and, I think, to dance to the holy flames in order to drive back the dark.

 

The fires attracted insects, which attracted bats. They became part of the Samhain symbols and it was thought that bats in the home (remember, these were thatched cottages, usually attached to the closed shelter for animals for the sake of sharing body heat; bats would be common visitors) meant a man would die in the new year. Bats wheeling around the home signified a female death. They were feared as pronouncements of destruction and death.

 

After the bonfire rituals were over, each home took a faggot of the fire to relight their hearths with sacred flame. As well, they placed food and drink outside their doors, a ward against the mysteries that passed through the veil — the souls of the dead, pixies, faeries, even the devil himself — that could ruin the laid-by crops, sour the milk, or bring on sickness.

 

We have relics of the Celts's jack-o-lanterns, gourds carved into Voldemort-like ugliness to scare off the mischievous and tricksters and they were practical, lighting a farmer's way home from the fields or a wise woman's response to a baby being born.

 

It is the latter that gave rise to the iconic image of the witch, but only after the Church converted the Celts of the British Isles, which happened by about 400 A.D. The genius of the early Church was that it took elements of the beliefs and holidays of new locations it converted, stirred in some theology and produced something that new Christians were comfortable with. These traditions survive in certain Roman Catholic holy days of obligation like the Feast of the Annunciation, and in the three big holidays we all know — Easter, Halloween, and Christmas.

 

The belief in witches is tied to the healing women and their knowledge of plants, roots, and herbs. The Church favored the idea of doctors, a man's profession, and so the persecution began. A quick get-away, it was said, was for the witch to turn herself into a black cat. The broom was ubiquitous to womankind in the Middle Ages, and it was sometimes used as a walking stick in inclement weather. Imagine a female healer, coming in the night from her cauldron-concoctions to help a farmer with the sweating sickness. Imagine a priest or newly Christianized Karen seeing her walking through the snow with her broom to support her and her cat determined to accompany her. It's easy to see the healer as mysterious and darkly magical if you have the Church's prohibition of these women pushing you to paranoia.

 

"Fair is foul, and foul is fair," the Three Sisters chant in the opening of Macbeth, "Hover through the fog and filthy air." The few lines of this scene are redolent of what, by 1606, healers-turned-witches, featuring their supposed control of weather, their ability to prophesize and change the natural order, and the witches's familiars, gray cat and toad.

 

The Church was never innocent, and its first festivities set at the end of October time of Halloween by the Church were, not unexpectedly, Roman. Ferlia, set in late October, was a commemoration of the dead, quickly followed by the celebration of Pomona, the goddess of trees and fruit. Her symbol was the apple — is this ringing any bells?

 

It was not strange, then, that the Church consecrated November 1st as All Saints Day, and the 2nd as All Souls Day in the 11th century. (If you went to Catholic school when I did, you lucked out. All Souls Day is a holy day of obligation. We were obligated to go to Mass but had the day off from school. It was bitchin'.) October 31 is the hallowed eve of an important liturgical celebration and became know as…wait for it…Halloween. Trick-or-treating is the grandchild of the exchange of giving soul cakes to beggars in exchange for their prayers for the richer folks's dead. As time passed, children began to go a-souling as well. In turn, a-souling gave way to mumming, which was more fun. People dressed up as ghosts, demons, and other malevolent spirits and would recite a poem or sing a song in exchange for their hand-out.

 

And there were many poems, songs, scary tales associated with the Irish and Scottish observances. The Jack in jack-o-lantern refers, in Irish legend, to the drunkard, Stingy Jack, who stars in many stories of tricking or making pacts with the devil and is ultimately rejected by both hell and heaven, condemned to roam the earth with a jack-o-lantern to guide his way. The aspect of roaming is tied to the will-o'-the-wisp, or foolish fire, that twinkles scarily over the peat bogs.

 

The other great observance of the dead that takes place over All Hallow's Eve through All Souls Day on November 2nd, of course, is Día de los Muertos, a three-day long Central American festival of the dead. The Día de los Muertos skeletons and skulls with which we are familiar are tailored creations, painted with the favorite things, work, values, and other pictures associated with one who has passed. These are placed on home altars along with loved ones' favorite foods, drink, candy, a wash basin and towel, and flowers, usually marigolds, the flower of the dead. Candles and incense are lit to guide the souls home.

 

It's also a time to tidy gravesites and, on All Souls Day, everyone gathers in the graveyards to picnic and reminisce and feast with those who have passed. Día de los Muertos is, once again, a perfect amalgamation of the Roman Catholic Church and pre-Columbian customs. The marigolds, paper banners, skulls and skeletons, cleaning and offerings all come from the old civilizations that succeeded one another in Central America and Mexico.

 

Día de los Muertos is the most important holiday of the year, surpassing Christmas of Cinco de Mayo. Preparations for it take place months in advance.

 

It is not the frightening holiday that Halloween is; the dead are welcomed rather than bribed. If death isn't exactly welcomed, it is vastly different from the Celtic fear. It is said in Mexico that a person experiences three deaths: "The first death is the failure of the body. The second is the burial of the body. The most definitive death is the third death. This occurs when no one is left to remember us."

 

Día de los Muertos is the last continuation of life and love.

 

We can draw from this history some ideas of how to celebrate Halloween in the era of COVID. Have you and your kids done any excavation of your family tree? Who can you contact to find out more? This is the perfect day to go over old family photos, do some research on how the generations you can trace might have celebrated Halloween. You can buy blank skulls online or at a number of stores: decorate them either as you wish, in memory of a lost one, or as how you and your circle would like to be remembered. Masks, candles, dolls, streamers and other seasonal crafts can be viewed at GrowingUpBilingual.

 

Consider these traditions: bobbing for apples was once called snap-apple, in which players tried to catch an apple hanging from a doorframe by using their teeth. Irish parents often invent treasure hunts for their kids — the reward is up to you.

 

You might try carving squashes, or bake barnbrack, a raisin cake that the Irish eat on Halloween. It, too, predicts future events: finding a ring in the cake means marriage, and a piece of straw foretells a prosperous new year. Maybe Halloween is a good day or night to make apple sauce or plan a dinner that incorporates the foods of the celebration — squash and pumpkin, apples and other late fruits and/or vegetables.

 

I love the backstories of old holidays and as many games and crafts as there are for Halloween, I have to admit I like the aspect of death accepted in a season of death courted.

 

Tabhair aire duit féin anocht.

 

Whoooo!

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From behind Medium.com's paywall: What Is the Ex-President Thinking?

I was reading the Harry Potter series when I was struck down by the flu in late January. I had a cough, minor temperature swings, dream sweats, and I couldn't leave my bed for anything but the toilet or the easiest meals. Gumbo soup, pre-cooked chicken in bottled vindaloo sauce, hot and sour soup; the nursing skills of my normally destructive dog; Harry Potter, and watching ballet documentaries on my phone entertained me between long naps.

 

I got tested earlier this week. I didn't have COVID-19. Only the cough and sweats fit. I could taste spicy food (it helped me cough), I had no energy to stand up in the shower. It was a run-of-the-mill flu but oh, my, I was bored in that gray space of illness.

 

The impeachment trial of Donald Trump made me human. I watched it on my phone in real-time, read everything I could, watched documentaries about Q, read Twitter like it was the Heathers planning college visits. I knew, as I imagine most of us did, what the outcome of the trial would be.

 

I also lay sweating and watching what I didn't know, hadn't seen or heard, before. Watching the January 6 riot was like every child's first night alone when the parents were out: The banging on the Capitol door, the shouts hurled at a lone officer, "You're outnumbered. There's a f*ckin' million of us out there and we are listening to Trump — your boss!"

 

Reading Harry Potter was a good comparison, easy and sometimes useful.

 

"Our historic, patriotic, and beautiful movement to Make America Great Again has only just begun. In the months ahead I have much to share with you, and I look forward to continuing our incredible journey together to achieve American greatness for all of our people. There has never been anything like it!

 

"We have so much work ahead of us, and soon we will emerge with a vision for a bright, radiant, and limitless American future."

 

Vs. "Your parents and children, your brothers and sisters will live and be forgiven, and you will join me in the new world we shall build together." (Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows)

 

Now. I'm about as liberal as they come so bear with me as I make a proposal.

 

I think Donald Trump should have his Twitter and Facebook accounts reinstated.

 

"I do not forget. Thirteen long years … I want thirteen years' repayment before I forgive you," Voldemort tells the gathering of his coven in Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire.

 

Similarly, with the ex-president being a man who wants to be president for life, no matter what it takes, we need to know what he is thinking.

 

Yes, we'd have to listen again to the argle-bargle of his hatred of Muggles, his insults, conspiracies, disbelief in science, isolationism, obsessions, grandiosity, blame; the social media platforms would have to monitor and censure him. The pay-off, however — this is crucial and worth repeating — is that we'd know what he was thinking.

 

We should have known the riot would happen. "The ProudBoys will turn out in record numbers on January 6th but this time with a twist," Henry "Enrique" Tarrio, the group's president, wrote in a late-December post on Parler. They were ready and prepared to stand forth and stand up. Tarrio was arrested before the riot, but the signs of the catastrophe were there and ignored because Parler is not mainstream. We need these statements out in the open.

 

In Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, the time comes when it is important for Harry to actively seek what Voldemort is thinking, a reversal on the occlumency lessons Snape tried to give Harry.

 

Hermione urges: "You need to find out where Voldemort is, because he'll have the snake with him, won't he? Do it, Harry — look inside him. Why was it so easy? Because his scar has been burning for hours, yearning to show him Voldemort's thoughts?

 

Unknowingly, Voldemort's thoughts have revealed two of his greatest weaknesses: the Elder Wand is giving him concern, and the last inanimate Horcrux is hidden in the Room of Requirement. If only Harry had paid better attention to that room, he could have saved time and lives. (For the two of you who aren't Potter Heads, there are seven containers — or Horcruxes — into which Voldemort, seeking immortality, has split his soul.)

 

What did we miss on Twitter and Facebook before the insurrection? What are we missing now of planned endeavors?

We're on the cusp of an event that is probably a hot topic on Parler. Today, Q and other conspiracists believe that Donald Trump will be inaugurated as president of the United States.

 

The threat is finally getting some serious attention: "The United States Capitol Police Department [ha] obtained intelligence that shows a possible plot to breach the Capitol by an identified militia group on Thursday, March 4." March 4 was, until 1933, Inauguration Day. Lawmakers have been leaving town and business as usual is taking place by video conferencing.

 

In the Potter series, magically (OK, pun intended), all of the Death Eaters were caught, the Dementors, inferi, giant spiders, and giants seemed to melt away when Voldemort died.

 

This is not true of Donald Trump and his lost election. In reading threads reacting to Senator Steve Daines' posts on Facebook, I was foolishly surprised that people really do believe the election of Joe Biden is a hoax. Trump is not vanquished. He's still touting MAGA and threatening "to continuing our incredible journey together."

 

Prices at Trump International Hotel have tripled around the March 6 date, signifying that the ex-president believes the Q prediction will, at the very least, bring people to Washington, D.C. And it demonstrates the Second Coming will happen in the capital rather than, say, Roy, Montana.

 

We know what, when, where, and why; after arrests of a number of group leaders we now don't know who, and that makes the difference between any old Rapture and another attack on the country's highest institutions. We need to know what Trump is thinking.

 

More than a dozen insurrectionists of January 6 say that it was Trump's personal leadership that led them to the Capitol steps. "I believed I was following the instructions of former President Trump," said Garret Miller in a statement released through his lawyer.

 

Steven Hassan warns that we can't talk MAGA supporters out of thinking what they think. "Get into a strategic and interactive mode by building a good rapport with them, asking good questions, and giving them time to answer before following up. Tell them, 'Share with me what you think is a really reputable article. I'll read it and get back to you on it, if you agree to read something I share with you. But the deal is we both listen respectfully to each other.'"

 

Colin Dickey tells believers: "'I don't know if you're right or wrong, but if you were right, I would expect the following to happen…' My goal is usually to press the believer's own recognition of internal contradictions so that the belief itself gets harder to sustain… When comparing conspiracy theories to their real-world counterparts, what becomes clear is how conspiracists tend to see the world on a fairly abstract level. There is a purposeful lack of detail and specificity since such detail will reveal inherent problems and contradictions with the theory."

 

Let's push the Parler-users back onto mainstream media, let's monitor what is happening, and then throw a rope down the Rabbit Hole and let them find different explanations for what they believe. This is a civic duty. Turn them away from Donald Trump, who, like Voldemort, can be disappointed and defeated in his hope "'…[to] recall the banished giants … I shall have all my devoted servants returned to me, and an army of creature whom all shall share.'"

 

Our work is ahead of us. No one — including our ex-president — can be silent.

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