To Hell with Mermaid Toast

Jan sees Sam delivering the salami to Alice.

So, here we are.  Bastille Day, 2020.  Viva la, oh, just forget it.

The isolation of and the days drag on.  And frankly, it is starting to take a toll on me, again. Even food is getting monotonous.  The taste no longer entices Cookie.

No, Cookie isn't showing signs of COVID-19. 

Cookie is getting sick and tired of trying to figure out what's for dinner.

I have a limited menu, mostly because my stomach will revolt, or worse, I cannot abide the smell of seafood cooking.  The surgery a couple years ago to remove two feet of colon has also left me at the mercy of foods that won't make me ill in the output part of digestion.

And the food supply here is just getting back to normal, but not quite.

As a result, there is damn little to update anyone on.

Oh!  Wait!  Husband and I gave each other haircuts over the weekend, so that's new.  His hair is exquisite. As for my hair, he's learning, but it came out not bad.  When this whole foolish looked like it was going to be long term, Cookie had the foresight to buy a fully kitted out Wahl hair clipper.  And besides even with Zoom calls, who is going to see us in HD?

All of our friends seem to be using their heads, and masking up, staying six feet away, so from our vantage, everything seems OK.  One worry is Muscato's husband, Mr. Muscato.

As for other interactions, they are online.  And it never ceases to amaze me how dull people really are. Not the spelling and punctuation, but on their cultural literacy - remember that fad in the 1980s?

I posted a picture in a group of a display at the 1964 Worlds Fair, and the majority of people had no idea what a World Fair was - "Is that what they used to call the Olympics in the olden days?" - or where the fair was.

I was appalled. I still am appalled.

In one of Facebook's car groups vintage car groups, some twenty-something tried to argue with older, better-educated motorheads that the Chevrolet Impala was its own stand-alone model of car in 1958, its first year on the market.  One thing you don't do is poke a bear.  The other thing you don't do try telling a car guy something that isn't patently true, youngster.  We have libraries full of old car books, with all sorts of stats and stuff.  Needless to say, said Youngster was delivered a good old fashion smart ass' trip to the woodshed. (For your edification, in 1958, the Impala was cataloged as a member of the Bel Air range. It became its own thing the following year for 1959's model year.) 

I know where the Apple Store is.  I know who Cardi, Billie Eilish, and Tyga are.  I even know what Mermaid Toast is, and that I'll never eat it because it isn't made from mermaids or mermen.  I consider myself woke enough to know that dealing with one's biases is a daily struggle.  I know that it's Black Lives Matter, and that masks stop you from transmitting COVID.

Now granted, Worlds Fairs are not things that happen anymore but come on people. But not to know that the 1964 World's Fair was at the same location as the 1939 World's Fair is pure laziness. Or that it's in Flushing, New York.  Or that they play the U.S. Open on part of the grounds now.  I mean really.

Oh, well, maybe this is a sign that Cookie is as old as a Motorola Quaser ("Works in a Drawer") T.V., but I am not going quietly. 

And while I am at it, fuck Mermaid Toast, anyway, Anna Wintour.