It snowed last night. It's time to consign the summer, and the toilet paper saga, to bed. SO…
We ran out of toilet paper. I went to the store and bought some.
It's not Hemingway, but there’s a whole lotta story in there.
I'm not sure I'm really back, but it's a start.
I’m not a major Halloweeno*, though of course it was magical for the child Monica. And even the more adult (though now unforgivably immature) Monica used to like the parties. Sigh, that was then, though I suspect that the noted hermit Nicholas Jainschigg may be responsible for my lost ability to frivol.
This year, though, longing has been raised by the perfect confluence of its falling not only on the coveted Saturday night slot, with a full moon, but that this moon is blue. Even I would consider dressing up again under those conditions, leaving the hermit Nicholas Jainschigg to do what he likes.
Instead, we are hiding from trick-or-treaters tonight--Rhode Island will trick or treat, pandemic or not. Because of the perfect (otherwise) conditions, I plan to make an effort and set our medical skeleton on the porch, sitting behind a table on which three socially distanced wrapped candies will be set. I hear that is the approved method. When they disappear, I will sneak out to restock.
And they'd damn well better disappear. Because even though I bought very few, they're still over my eating limits. And I will eat them. I'm counting on the Rhode Island "fuck you" attitude. Which I kind of like, because it's not about politics. Just contrariness.
Mask up, y’all.
*Halloweeno — n. Someone in festive costume.
Example: So, two nuns walk into a subway car (not that kind of joke). The child Monica looks up and whispers, “Look, Mommy. It’s Halloweenos!”
Just because I started it two weeks ago (no, three. I mean, no four. No—Five weeks. No, now it’s finally posted/postdated here exactly a year and a day after i posted to email), this one is not—nor is likely to become—dated. But it would have been nice to get it written then, to get the out-of-the-vault one more context and continuity. But I guess sequential ramblings are context and continuity enough when time means very little.
(Aside—when you read Brit novels from mid-Victorian up through maybe the 30s and 40s, American characters are always stereotyped by/sneered at for their use of "I guess" or "I reckon." I guess I'm not as special as I'd like to think.)
Back to toilet paper. Just because the great toilet paper crisis is over doesn't mean it's over. It has left deep, possibly permanent scars. For one thing, there are the displays. (I have let this post down, having no pictures.) Toilet paper is now displayed on end caps, like a rare/time-limited special offer. It's not. Stocks of that green-wrapped, single roll commercial/institutional toilet paper are brazenly out front. So reassuring. See? We're not hiding it. You can walk right up to it and take some without standing in line. Or rationing (I assume. For reasons that will become apparent in the next paragraph, I have not really checked). Life is back to normal.
Or not. These rolls are definitely still life during wartime. The display piles look unappetizingly like a janitor's supply closet--hinting at all the comforts of public restrooms. Overflow huddles on the paper-good shelves, otherwise still empty. In some ways, it is more a sign of deprivation than no paper. Like East Berlin before the wall came down (reader, I was there). Empty shelves except for The People's Toilet Paper. If you ever wanted to hoard, this will discourage you. Or not--this is excellent bunker material, and will put you in the mood if you've ever regretted not having a bunker.
Or penitential material. Whether self-inflicted by the parsimonious martyr or meted out as punishment for the hoarder. It is the toilet-roll version of the hair shirt.
But that is for your ordinary folk. If you're a special person (in a n on-martyr/bunker way), you can say the password and get into Whole Foods. They have organic, all natural, fluffy-white toilet paper in all natural, organic clear plastic, as god intended. And you may have as much as you can afford.
But there are still scars. People are furtive. Take the guy standing in the cleaning goods aisle, casually weighing the merits of Mrs. Meyer's all-purpose biodegradable cleaner (Lemon Verbena) against those of BioKleen (Pine). Casual but serious, and I know because I was doing a little social distance shuffle while he deliberated. Then he looked around quickly, snatched two eight-packs of TP off the shelf (did I forget to mention that Mrs. Meyer's and BioKleen were right next to the TP?), and scuttled away like a cockroach, leaving the whiff of greed and shame.
The Germans actually have a word for it--Klopapierpeinlichkeit (toilet paper shame). Or, more accurately, I should say they have a word for it now, thanks to me.
As of August 14, 2021, this should be dated. But for me buying carries a frisson.
Re: the Earwig posts, a retraction:
It is true that when the blueberries started to ripen, I resented seeing them being carted away as soon as they were able to walk, so to speak. And more, that every time I picked one that seemed to have escaped notice, it had puckered unappetizingly around a beak puncture.
However, no nets. I would happily give up all the blueberries rather than risk trapping birds. My fears, unfortunately, are not neurotic, but confirmed by a friend’s sad tale. Luckily, I don’t have to make that sacrifice. I was only witnessing the overture to ripening when I had the earwig/blueberry tantrum. Three days ago, I picked a bit more than a pint. Yesterday, I picked almost a quart. Yesterday, I got more than a quart. I am willing to share. I feel like Snow White and her little friends.
Oh, my word--A shower of earwigs yields a shower of responses. I worry that I will have to search out similar content-rich and horrifying experiences to keep the amusement level high...In the meantime, content-wise:
1. Yuck.
And similar words. An excellent response. I am not yet over the twitchies. Really.
2. Techniques for keeping birds away. Thank you. These include:
Nets: Readily available, effective. I am on the verge of buying some today. But I have a neurotic fear of birds becoming entangled. Instead of running out every five minutes to frighten birds and gather the latest ripe berry, I will be running out every five minutes to make sure the birds are OK, and then gather the latest ripe berry. But I will have more berries. And the same amount of exercise. Win-win. And yet another source of active anxiety. Maybe not win-win.
Framework on which gauzy, sun- and rain-permeable material is draped: Now this is a truly elegant, worry-free solution. Not to mention the added delight of a ghostly form wavering in the garden at night--because that bush is 7 feet tall and would make a terrific ghost. Win-win. Unfortunately, sometime last week, the seasons changed. Do not pay any attention to the spring/summer/fall/winter divisions. The big division this time of year is from "I Can Weed This Year and Really Have a Garden and Might Even Buy a Few Plants and If I Start Now, I Won't Be Overwhelmed Later" (maybe they call it spring because spring is easier to say) to "It's Hot and I'm Tired and I Hate Sun and Looking at the Garden Makes Me Depressed" (once again, maybe why "summer" instead). Building an elegant structure is something one can only do in--for short--spring. My seasons have rules. Lose (self-respect)-lose (berries).
Giant eyeballs: My favorite idea, from a local farm (they did not write to me, I just saw this). Very tall slim poles from each of which bobs a balloon that looks like a giant eyeball. If your eyes are bright yellow, with red irids and black pupils. The above two are probably more effective. But giant eyeballs. Also I don't know where to get them. (Irids--just been reading Jane Eyre again, in which you will find that word.)
3. Techniques for keeping squirrels away.
I have to say, I resent the accusation (you know who you are) that I am speciesist in my hostility to squirrels and small mammals in general. As I believe I mentioned in the previous, I am now running out and yelling and flapping my arms at robins and catbirds. There are not mammals. And also I flap year round and with far more hostility at starlings (invasive species, so deserving of hostility), house sparrows (ditto), and mourning doves (cute but dumb and greedy; will actually sit in the seeds they can't eat). These are also not mammals. My especial hostility to squirrels is probably based on my especial love for crows (they get whole peanuts. It's probably unfair to ask squirrels to stay away. But I do). As for mammals, I would be thrilled if my yard filled nightly with skunks and opossums:
They are adorable.
They are nocturnal, so no competition with birds.
They trundle. An endearing from of locomotion.
They are not tall, so though they will eat berries, damage is limited. They do not climb.*
Skunks eat grubs, and they are welcome to the compost. Opossums eat ticks--many, many, many ticks--as well as slugs and mice, also enemies.
Opossums are marsupials (coolness factor).
Skunks make good pets.
And come on, you have to admit that even if speciesist, the slinky thing is the coolest.
*I’m not ill-informed—opossums climb. But artistic license says they don’t.
I don't feel much like writing these days--or rather, I feel like writing but am filled with mental molasses. To wit--a subject line like that should have sent me racing to the page. But it took 3 days.
Anyway. The phrase "Get lost, you little bastards" applies to a growing list of wildlife. Surprisingly, I am having a war with bird species I have spent all spring trying to attract. I know that even if I had not been busy constructing a bird-friendly backyard (useful aside-if you attach a slinky around your bird feeder poles, squirrels have a very hard time getting to the feeders. They will, of course, but in the meantime, more birds), the robins and catbirds would have found the berries anyway. But unless they are taking a bath, these days they are on the enemy list. Over a stupendous blueberry crop. That is, stupendous amounts of huge green berries, aggravatingly few huge ripe berries.
I have no bird slinkies. So I thought maybe I could put some fluttering streamer-type things around the bush to deter them (spoiler alert--it's not working). So I found some caution tape and a few poles in the garage to flutter it from, but not enough. Then I remembered an abandoned little bird platform, put away because it was pre-slinky and a squirrel magnet. Here's the problem. It was not really put away. It was leaning against an elm tree, in the shade of a juniper. That's like having an ocean view if you're an earwig. And a bird platform is a lot of real estate. Reader, I moved it. I am still brushing nervously at the back of my neck, several showers (hot water, not more earwigs) later.
My blueberry strategy is to go out every five minutes and pick the single berry that has ripened during that time.
