Rhode Island blogger

The Embracement of Being a Hermit

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How long has it been since we’ve all been dwelling here? My bed and office chair have formed an outline of my flat and flabby derriere. I’ve been caged for so long that standard errands feel like a commitment; the thought of applying eyeliner, a chore. I don’t want to be a bummer but I’m a bum with a numb bum. The more I sit, the harder it is to move.

This pseudo solitary confinement unleashes strange thoughts to roam freely in my scary cerebellum of anxiety and angst. Free time is filled with make-believe conversations from the past and silly thoughts about celebrity culture. As much as I’m obsessing over what Armie Hammer’s parents think—or if the Free Britney movement is about us or Britney— I’m thinking of a past love who wronged me or why I was so cruel to a nice girl in high school. There’s very little in-between. As the kids declare, I’ve got no chill.

I wanted to use this time to be more creative, but does it count if the creativity is in my head? Or is that just mental illness?

Insomnia is my special time to beat myself up for things said and unsaid and I don’t dig loneliness creeping into my day. I don’t even take long car rides by myself because I don’t like all that time to brood.

Perhaps we’ve all been busying ourselves with social media, carpools, manicures, dinners out and useless conferences just to mute our thoughts. I’ve been frantic for so long over not making as much money as peers that now I’m home and realize that there’s no need for all the junk I wanted so badly. Yet I still buy more; it’s all that I know.

Living inside my head does wonders for my complexion.

I Miss Gossip the Most

Ben Affleck’s sadness can’t quench my desire for scandal. Picture Backgrid.

I yearn for a good ol’ scandal. A juicy divorce or shotgun wedding will do. I’m pleading with someone to do something. Armie Hammer’s sadism, Ben Affleck’s sadness and “Southern Charm’s” thirst for fame can’t carry the world. When the most salacious conversation I can initiate revolves around Rhode Island’s mediocre vaccine rollout, life is as boring as “Mank.” I’m so starved for content, I actually read and absorbed words describing Meghan Markle’s pregnancy and I can’t get any lower than that.

Nobody’s going out so there are no fights, few affairs, or cheap party etiquette about which to dish. Feistiness and pugnacity shut right down when the bars did. What I would give to be repulsed by a bunch of bohunks getting into a bar fight right now, how I long for a goateed man wearing work boots to check me out and quickly dismiss me at a club. I am dying to run into an ex at the local mall and get off on life’s awkwardness.

Astute Observations on Nothing

  • Loving Lana Del Rey is never easy, but I’ll never quit. And she needs a new publicist.
  • JLo’s lasting fame will never make sense and at least we can look forward to her and A-Rod’s contentious split, coming soon to a tabloid near you.
  • Courtney Love succinctly ties up everything as profoundly as Joan Didion.
  • Marilyn Manson is, and always was a joke. Sure I went to his concert in a cloud of narcotics and walked over all the strung-out kids nodding off on a filthy floor, but underneath all the pancake makeup, he was a joke without ever being funny.
  • Marilyn Manson, Armie Hammer and Johnny Depp need new publicists
  • Phoebe Bridgers is the coolest indie rocker in ages. She bleeds beauty and magic wrapped up in a perfectly pretty sad pop song. Bridgers’ guitar destruction on SNL was the most alive thing I’ve seen in 10 effing months.
  • The pandemic really works for some people, when they want it to.
  • Meghan Markle is insufferable, from her monochromatic wardrobe to her fake nose scrunch. Can we somehow send her back to England?
  • I would rather watch this terrible season of “Housewives of Orange County” on a continuous loop than ever watch any of the Netflix series Meghan Markle is developing.

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.