In the 36th week of the COVID-19 pandemic, I ate an entire loaf of gooey cinnamon swirl bread the size of a large newborn baby.
Baked from scratch by my hateful sister who won’t stop delivering sugary carbs to my doorstep multiple times a week, it was easily thousands and thousands of calories and I ate it in two days.
I entered it into my LoseIt App tracking and it said, “We need to talk.”
I haven’t really eaten bread as a regular diet staple in about twelve years. TWELVE. YEARS. (I feel like I should be thinner?) But this pandemic has turned me into the bread equivalent of Cookie Monster.
It was my second pregnancy that made me stop eating bread. By the sixth month, it was not only hard to find me with my face not buried in some carbs, but it was HARD TO FIND ME. I was pregnant from my toes (the “wee wee wee all the way home” toe? Completely round. It was a circle.) right up to my squishy forehead where loitering fat cells, with no other place to hang out since they closed the skate park, decided to hell with body science and rested there a spell, probably smoking and talking bad about their parents. There were parts of me that were pregnant that had no business being pregnant. My ankles were gone to the point I Googled “spontaneous gestational elephantiasis.”
If Google had been as intuitive back then as it is now, it would have returned one result — this gif:
About six months post-birth, I wised up and really committed myself to the low-carb lifestyle. And I have been in battle with my body ever since. Carbs = guilt. Carbs = bad. Carbs = round piggy toes and an ass that will not only quit, but it will RAGE QUIT before burning every bridge.
Now, 427 weeks into this pandemic, my relationship with bread has completely changed. I eat it without guilt. I eat it for breakfast. Toast with butter comforts me. (That is in the Bible. Also, I need “‘Toast with butter comforts me.’ — Leavenitations 2:17” on a pillow.) What is it about bread that does this thing no other food can do? Hits that spot no other food can reach? Scratches that one anxiety itch that even the second glass of wine managed to miss?
I don’t know. But I’m embracing it for now. I would tell you that moderation is key, but I literally ate an entire loaf of gooey cinnamon swirl bread in two days. That would be like Dwight Schrute advising, “Don’t be weird.”
All these words just to say, my sister is a hateful she-demon whose weapon is rapid-rise yeast.
Whew! Let’s get to it!
My book club had its first pandemic meeting this past week, Zoom of course, and about thirty minutes in, we were still missing a member, a young mom of three, who had indicated she would be on the call. After a few texts, we tracked her down and she appeared on our screens — the first time we had spoken with her since February.
She was wide-eyed. Big smile pasted on. Lots of teeth. And she said, “CAN I JUST TELL YOU ALL HOW MUCH I ABSOLUTELY LOVE SPENDING EVERY WAKING MINUTE OF EVERY SINGLE DAY WITH MY CHILDREN AND MY HUSBAND?”
But she said it much the same way one would say, “CALL LIAM NEESON.”
It was like a video cry for help while running from the Blair Witch.
We had one member hiding in her linen closet. Advice for covering gray. Barking dogs. Shouting children. Dry shampoo tutorials. Drink-recipe sharing. It felt like it went by in twenty minutes, but we were on the call for three hours.
And we never talked about the book.
It’s going to be my turn to pick a book soon, so email me your best recommendations.
Proof that time no longer exists:
The mayor out here acting like one hundred PM is a time now.
Next we will have the state health department moving their daily briefings to purple-sixty-two o’clock.
So, Vandergrift moved their council meetings to Zoom for the first time, and it was apparently THE FIRST TIME for several of their members because …
Vandergrift Council’s meeting Monday began with several council members shouting “Hello?” and a few curse words as they learned to turn on their webcams.
I. AM. CACKLING.
I hate when the newspapers don’t tell us the exact curse words used. There’s a world of difference between a softly uttered, “Well, damn,” and a belligerently shouted, “F—KING PIECE OF HORSESHIT!”
Speaking of technology, do you all remember that time my mom put her first ever iPhone in a bag of rice because it looked like this?
THE WATER IS COMING FROM INSIDE THE SCREEN.
Last week I tried to teach my father (remotely via text) how to take a screenshot with his phone and then send it to someone in a text. After some back and forth about side buttons, he managed to figure out how to TAKE the screenshot, but not how to find it/save it or send it, which was the whole point of him learning how to take one. I felt like I was stuck in that Seinfeld episode about taking reservations.
We will try again another day to learn how to SEND them.
You can do it, Dad!
Um. Guys?
I will burn this motherforker to the ground and move to Arizona.
It’s not enough we have a pandemic, aliens, murder hornets, homeschooling, and burger-less Wendy’s, but it’s gotta snow too? In May?
Nature isn’t healing; nature is getting its revenge.
By the time this is over the headline will read, “Flying scorpions, fire-rain and the inexplicable return of velociraptors in forecast.”
Speaking of dinosaurs, Matt Lamanna brought his famed dinosaur suit back for this May the 74th (what is time) Tik-Tok about how Carnegie’s “Dippy” appears in roundabout fashion in Star Wars:
This is a David S. Pumpkins meets Dr. Ross Geller level of dedication, and as the kids say, “I have no choice but to stan.”
And as the elderly say, “HELLO?!”
Steel City Brand has released a new line of Roberto Clemente inspired items and DOUBLE YOU OH DOUBLE YOU.
There are so many good designs (some already sold out) and my bank account is all, “Bitch, please be reminded of your post several purples ago (what is time) in which you referred to me as a ‘violently rotating column of air.’ Stand down.”
This is not an ad. It is never ever ever an ad. Just sharing what I love.
LOOK FOR THE HELPERS. First, take a shot. Second, I decided to go back and find the origin of Fred Rogers’ famous “look for the helpers” quote, and while many attribute it to his work post-9/11 in PSAs and special programs, the true origin was in a piece he wrote for The Pittsburgh Press way back in 1986.
When I found it, I realized what he wrote might actually help many parents who are struggling with the anxiety of how this pandemic will affect their young children moving forward. So, I’m going to BE A HELPER, and share the whole thing with you.
If you’re on a computer (and maybe your phone idk), click to embiggen. I’m happy to share the article larger with anyone via email. Just shoot me a note.
But please continue to drink every time someone on your social media shares the quote. I don’t want to be the only tequila-soaked bread-stuffed “fluffy person” around these parts.
I have some Pittsburgh history stuff I want to share with you, but I’ll save that for another edition, because this got long. Let’s end this one here.
Stay home, jags, and don’t ever, ever, for any reason … turn your back on a velociraptor.