Pandemic

You had me at J, Lo.

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Life was starting to stench more than Harvey Weinstein’s jail cell, but Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck just doused the world with 2004’s finest musk and we’re alright again. I got a few shots, Bennifer’s back, and so am I. Who would have thought two needle punctures and a dead romance revived by a rebound would be the best thing to happen to me in 16 months?

I dig envisioning Jen and Ben’s romance reeking of Camel Lights, mahogany and orchid room diffusers. Poor Jennifer Lopez just wants Ben to look at her the way he looks at his cigarettes — don’t we all want someone to want us like Ben wants his smokes? For Jennifer Lopez, Ben Affleck is the best in a menagerie of men she has dated so I am happy she’s back with Massachusetts’s patron saint of intellectual brooding bad boys. Perhaps Ben can convince her to stop making new music and she can hold his hand while he removes that atrocity of a tattoo from his back. That way, we all win.

I needed this so badly.

The pandemic stung me with its boredom and self-reflection.

The last few years pounced on my nerves like my new kittens to my house plants. I couldn’t stop and I couldn’t start. My self-care only includes shopping, napping and watching; watching entertainment, my neighbors, people in the grocery store, shrouded in masks. If I share all the shows I religiously watch I fear you’d never think of me the same. Here’s a sliver: HBO’s “Hacks,” HULU’s “The Handmaids Tale,” vintage “The O.C.“, every Housewives horror show, and I sprinkle on Masterpiece Classics for some culture. Anything not to think, not to start and not to act.

We never deserved Britney.

The pandemic and pop culture was a study in sadness. By watching The New York Times Presents: Framing Britney Spears , we acknowledged that the world has been treating Britney Spears as bad as Pink’s recent Billboard Music performance with her kid. I do not care how unstable any court has found Britney Spears, she should be able to purchase all the cropped shirts, low-rise shorts, bronzer and hair extensions her heart desires. Britney Spears is a mastermind and should be cherished for her decades of pure pop perfection. Oh yeah, and we all knew Justin Timberlake was an asshole, we let those curls fool us. May he and Jessica Biel live a boring life.

Ew, onto Pink. If I wanted to see an aging pop star do acrobatics with her kid, I’d go to the local dance studio and ask for the mother/daughter $99.95 class — at a discount, please. Why are we always subjected to Pink’s kids and her husband? Why is she a combined package of cheesiness and more importantly, why hasn’t she changed her hairstyle in 20 years? Isn’t there a land where pop stars go to retire and only show up for lifetime achievement awards? Can that place be Belize?

An addiction does not equal talent.

No, celebrities haven’t fared well in the pandemonium. Demi Lavato lost their mind over a low-fat frozen yogurt shop in Los Angeles. Isn’t L.A. fueled on low-fat yogurt shops, cocaine, sun and Botox?! Go ahead and cancel me for the following: Demi Levato is desperate for relevance and their talent, at once powerful, is waning while their cries for help escalate. They’re a car accident that I can’t look at anymore. Sorry, Demi and get better. Please note that I am using Demi’s preferred pronouns so that you don’t think my dislike for them has anything to do with gender orientation, I can sense the phoniness and it stinks worse than their haircut.

There are no children in pop music.

On a positive note for all, my children truly got to know me during the pandemic and they’re baffled, annoyed and entertained. We Generation X parents are so “extra,” as the Gen Zers would say. I may have my own life but I’m RIDICULOUSLY fascinated with my children’s lives. I don’t want to dance with them on an awards show but kids are fascinating creatures.

Speaking of kids, Olivia Rodrigo is a blast of coolness in the dead heat of summer. I love her, Phoebe Bridgers and Billie Eilish. And yes, I only listen to female singer songwriters and I’m okay with this.

The Pandemic Shame Game

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The cruel comfort of being home, safe among dust balls and a creepy aesthetic, has become claustrophobic. I suffer from a failure to deliver. “I should really move that beach bag that’s been in the foyer since August,” I ruminate while my daily screen time climbs higher than Johnny Depp on trial nights. Lock away my phone and perhaps my brain will reappear. Then again, perhaps not.

There are many errors in my pandemic lifestyle. As an unabashed news junky, I won’t stop watching, listening to, or fighting over current events. This and my insomnia shapeshift me into a hatred-filled tweet machine at night. I’m currently in Twitter battles with so many conservative radio hosts that I fear a(nother) restraining order is in my future. Okay, maybe just a dramatic block.

What comes first: insomnia or my spontaneous fits of dancing and singing? Both create a landslide of embarrassment for everyone, other than me. My poor children, I never shut up. Days are narrated with an endless stream of consciousness spoken in my valley girl talk. Sometimes I find a gem of enlightenment but it’s mostly, “Should I get Botox? Like, do I look older or younger than the mom on “Rick and Morty?” Where’s my phone? What DID I do with that phone?”

The Shame Blame Game! Play along!

I posted this picture and was automatically shamed.

My pathological extrovertism is always getting me shamed. Haters, don’t fret, I’m keeping safe. Heck, I’m geography-dumb but I’m not socially stupid. Like ALL my psychiatrists assure me: we’re all doing the best we can. Can we all give each other a break?

When I escape my house with shimmer on my cheekbones and a bold lip, you bet I’m going to take a picture, obsess over a clever caption, and share. I HAVE to share it on social media because I am a narcissist. I promise you that I’m not at a rave so please stop barraging me with judgmental comments. “Are you outside?” No, I’m inside French kissing strangers and licking waiters’ eyes. Come on, I am sitting at a bonfire drowning my solitude with too many Bud Lights, not at a Trump rally becoming blood sisters with Kellyanne.

Six and a half days per week, I dwell in stained sweatshirts and my son’s socks. On Saturday nights, I free myself into a haze of something…outside and with a fire. Don’t worry, the other days I am home and miserable, just like everyone else.

This lobster had more interesting things to say than most people.

Conversations are so dull now. It seems that all the smaht people talk about is how long they’ve been in home confinement. It’s become a contest of culture. “I went to the pharmacy for the first time in eight months and saw a child picking her nose. I won’t leave for another few months.” It’s alright, folks, we’ve (mostly) all been staying inside, and it truly doesn’t need to be an honor of superior citizenship. Let’s get back to what we do best and talk poorly about one another, our family, and how weird Joaquin Phoenix and Rooney Mara’s baby is going to be.

Thoughts:

  • Snob and slob are practically the same word and I’m both.
  • I do adore Claudia Conway. May I adopt her and get her mom’s money and lipsticks?
  • I’ve scheduled a Botox appointment and think it will cure me of my needle phobia, vanity is that strong.
  • I went to a new doctor recently and he asked me if I’ve ever gone to a therapist. That’s my funny story of the summer.

Can we laugh a little?

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Can we laugh yet? Come on, even a snicker? After months of clenched fists and jaws, nonstop “I just cants,” and praying that “Housewives of NYC” never ends, I’m prepared to giggle. So, go along and cackle with me — or secretly lambaste me for my inappropriateness at such a painful time. Much like Megan Fox’s relationship with Machine Gun Kelly, I just don’t care anymore.

What does a harried mother do when she can’t partake in her most adored activities: sloppy bar hopping, concert going, and library frequenting? What does a woman do when she is left with all the duties she conducts poorly: house cleaning, meal preparation, and disciplining children? She throws on her stained athletic shorts and ponders…

Kayne & Kim: The Love Story

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All hail Britney as the queen of celebrity breakdowns, but Kayne is clutching that crown from her head with the same force he grabbed T. Swizzle’s Grammy. In a world of Lambos, he is the Tesla of coo-coos and I love it. In a sad and cutting bi-polar episode, Kayne is lashing out at the Kardashians. He’s holed up in his Wyoming ranch without his meds, but with his wit and vengeance.

A lot like his music, his Twitter take downs of the Kardashians are complicated — with glimmers of brilliance. Kayne comparing his own life to “Get Out” is the funniest and most astute observation since some crazy lady told me months ago, “These kids are NEVER going back to school.” His reference to Kris Jenner as “Kris Jong-Un” is succinct. Keep it coming, Kayne.

I locked myself in my house over four months ago to fight the zombie apocalypse, armed with what feels like hundreds of streaming services, enough facial moisturizer for the entire Housewives’ franchise and a treadmill. I’ve dipped my toes into the swamp of post-pandemic social life and I didn’t like the muck. Most of my pandemic results have been bleak, but Taylor Swift just saved me.

“I’m doing good, I’m on some new shit.” Taylor Swift

Taylor Swift, America’s vision of talent, coolness and good taste — all wrapped in a cashmere cardigan — just saved my sad pandemic existence by releasing a fresh album of quiet loveliness and biting brilliance. Every sound intoxicates and stirs. Listing to it makes me smell my childhood and think of past loves, forgotten friends, and stolen kisses.

Just as my Fiona Apple haze was dissipating, the patron saint of pop music flew in with her fairy wings, Sylvia Plath- inspired look, and help from freaking Bon Iver to give me my new religion. Her new album “Folklore” is lusciously exquisite. It’s filled with mysterious stories about love, isolation and an ode to Rhode Island. If this is my soundtrack for the rest of the pandemic, I’m content.

Other Musings

  • It’s been 13 years, but I’m still confused by Reese and Ryan’s marriage.
  • There’s a fine line between so much to do/ I will do nothing at all.
  • I think I miss the movies the most.
  • It took the quarantine for me to fully love my dog.
  • The crumbling of Johnny Depp’s coolness is astounding.
  • Regarding Johnny Depp and Amber Heard’s bed poop: Think about the indelicate and logistical nature of defecating on a bed. How does one even go about it? Is this a thing?
  • I hope that poor John Travolta leaves the Scientology cult.
  • Consider this a plea to Hollywood agents to urge their celebrity clients to clean up their COVID attire! I demand that they put on a designer dud every few dog walks and fake grocery store runs. If I wanted to see Scarlett Johansson wearing sweats, I’d watch Marriage Story again. But I don’t really want to. Once was more than enough.
  • Taking walks is so boring and nature is filled with pests.
  • It’s curious that Megan Thee Stallion was shot by male rapper Tory Lanez and entertainment media isn’t talking about it. Megan Thee Stallion was on the cover of Rolling Stone, won countless BET and MTV awards and had the song of the year. Guess entertainment media was too focused on a reality star’s kid’s nose job?? Tssk.
  • If you don’t watch “The Housewives of NYC,” I am sorry that you are missing out on the best moments of your life.