Pandemics vii.

Asparagus Porn aka How I Spent $7 a bundle at Local Grocery

Roasted Asparagus Stalks, Chicken Cakes and Horseradish Aioli aka Pandemic Dinner on a Tuesday

Note: Pandemics viii. to follow, a segment Part ii. of my Trifecta Relationship Entries

Didn’t make it back into the computer yesterday to complete the entry that’s been whirring in my brain for some time now, so, thanks to Mr. Garbage Truck and all of his clumsy commotion across the street at 2AM, here I am, wide awake to get some thoughts on display.

Before I begin, a couple of things (not as lengthy a dissertation as yesterday’s that evolved into its own post):

Tomorrow, well, this morning, I guess as it were now, I have a “preliminary” call with a reputable General Contractor’s internal HR representative to discuss a Project Manager position to which I applied (yesterday morning – heard back within an hour of applying, which could mean a number of things: my resume shines, and / or they had to let go of a number of people when this Pandemic took us all by economical, physical, emotional and anxiety-inducing storm in late March 2020 and now it’s time to reassess staffing for New York’s construction industry doors to reopen?) For whatever the reason, I look forward to the chance to discuss the opportunity and the potential of my qualifications to fit the open role.

To that, no word from Rob all…day…long yesterday (I texted him vaguely in the early afternoon to let him know of the call.) Until 10:54PM. I’ve been my own rock (*mostly*) with regard to his seeming emotional distancing since the onset of the Pandemic. In other words, I don’t drink myself blind and text him angrily about his lack of communication these days, or his aloof varieties when he does so choose to insert any sentiment whatsoever in my direction. I’m proud of me for this. I do possess somewhat clingy, needy, desperately drowning SAVE ME! SAVE ME! tendencies, not only with him in recent history, but also in other relationships of previous years. Yet this Pandemic has (gifted me?) granted me a different version of me whose interior and exterior emotional components are hardened and independent in a way I’ve not had to experience in a fairly long time. But last night, standing at the kitchen counter hovering over a smashed wet mound of raw ground chicken, seasoned bread crumbs, Cajun spice, scallion slices, etc. (similar to ground turkey meatballs only with chicken, see food photo and though the chicken “cakes” fell apart upon flipping in the pan, still quite delicious with their horseradish aioli), I couldn’t prevent the torrent of tears. I cried uncontrollably for nearly a full two minutes, angrily wiping the salty wet tributaries from my cheeks with the backs of my hands and breathing to still myself. / So I ate dinner, asparagus was my guilty pleasure purchase yesterday (enough stalks that I can spread the wealth over several meals at least), gulped a glass of milk (my Pandemic comfort go-to for some peculiar reason?) and partially cleaned my kitchen, clambering into bed by 10PM, lights off, phone on bedside table in the event Rob might reach out. / Well, he eventually did: “Sorry, rough day here. I’m ok. Good luck with your call tomorrow.”—10:54PM.*

*Insert this: my first thought wasn’t along the lines of, Thanks for the plain and vague note, you asshole…it was: Oh no, Rob, are you alright? What happened to you today?

“…all the way to New York / I can feel the distance getting close / You’re right next to me / But I need an airplane / I can feel the distance / as you breathe / Sometimes I think you want me to touch you / How can I when you build a great wall around you / In your eyes I saw a future together / You just look away in the distance…” –Tori song in my head when I began to bawl over raw chicken last night.

Last item of note before I push through the double doors of the historical KB relationship room where I will at least skim the surface of what I promised my therapist we’d discuss this coming Saturday on our call: I’m craving, pining for, needing homemade chocolate chip cookies. I don’t have a sweet tooth typically, nor am I a baker, however the purity of the warm chocolate chip cookie (with a chilled dove- white glass of milk!) is something I’m wanting right now. Once (if) unemployment insurance money floats itself in my direction, and after paying bills, that is high on my list of kitchen missions.

In essence, this Pandemic isolation has me thinking on overload hours on end. I’m *always* an overthinker, but without the distraction of daily routine and work tasks and meetings to run and people to make laugh or perform to their commitments, I am left (in an abundance of solitude) with nothing but overthinking to do.

I’ve been focusing most currently on the differences / similarities between my time spent with Greg, Jon and Rob. Greg wasn’t as much a factor (other than the previously posted oddities of the parallels between him and Rob) until today, when I absentmindedly opted to read ancient (6-8 years old so not so ancient) posts I’ve slapped up regarding him and our relationship travels. Now he has become part of this confusing yet peculiarly perfectly placed trifecta of past relationships of mine. And, for the sake of semantics, the entire unfolding would fail to be a trifecta without G’s historical participation.

I want to make mention, first, of the inadvertent approaches I took with each respective individual. To summarize in a few words, each:

Greg: I needed faux film flair experience in my life, to feel as though I were floating through my own B-grade emotionally distorted, sometimes dark yet adventurous and picturesque movie. With G, I had that, until the very severely saddened and embittered conclusion.

Jon: I hungered for attention: sole focus on me, only me. G had become (well, always had been, I believe, in hindsight) quite self-centered (not in a cruel way) and more about his wants and needs, whereas the moment I would enter one of our Midtown Manhattan happy hour bars to meet Jon back in our barfly “friendship” days, no one else in the occupied space, actually, really no one else in Midtown Manhattan, for that matter, existed except for me. I was the proverbial “only one in the room” for Jon. And that lasted for quite some time, to the point where I opted to choose love with Jon over eternal emotional imprisonment (sorry, G) with G, and all the while, I wound up neglecting Jon, his needs, his desires and impressive personality characteristics and underlying selfless nature, which broke us apart in the end. I didn’t realize any of this during any of that. I just thought I was being an attentive and loving girlfriend, when, in actuality, I was sucking his pure soul right down a dirty love drain.

Rob: …well, it’s now Thursday, early morning (I’ve been going to bed around 9:30-10PM out of sheer despair at each torturously isolated day) and I’ve mentally labored over how to summarize my feelings for Rob. (Insert: no texting again all…day…not…once…until 12:32AM: How was your call today?) We met in the unconventional / now-conventional online-dating-site-way back in, I suppose it was late February or early March of 2019. I hate those sites but I think I was tipsy to the point of teetering on a lonely edge one evening and signed up, uploaded a vague profile and like *one* pic (or two) and referenced myself as something of an outgoing loner and shot it into the virtual ether. And Rob was only the second actual profile that caught my attention quite specifically, the first being my dear friend Alex who is polyamorous, married with four children, lives on the side of a mountain in deep Jersey and now also houses his wife’s boyfriend under the same roof.*

*Not my mode of love speed, as I am a quite monogamous human being though I do not judge others’ choices therefore Alex and I have remained friendly.

So, Rob and I exchanged “messages” through the website for a week or so (he knows better than I, as he evidently took screen shots on his phone of every exchange – not sure if he still has those saved?) but at some point I grew extensively weary of the site “app” itself and brazenly sent him my actual cell # and basically requested that should we retain an interest in one another, that we move on to texting, and within under an hour he had texted me from his cell and even did one of those “—Rob” signatures at the end of his first text.

(*KB pauses to review year-old screen shot text exchanges with Rob saved in phone:

May 27, 2019 (after he disclosed to me that he was in the depths of a separation from a wife):

KB: Am I stealing you from a life you should be in?

Rob: Or are you stealing me to a life I should be in?

Also May 27, 2019:

Rob: I was going to guess your eyes were greenish-blue. Perhaps gray, depending on the light. Whatever the color, I will stare into them until it hurts.

June 1, 2019 (because we had this ongoing discussion about how we seemed to be / believed ourselves to be the same person):

Rob: Should we make sure we’re not related or something?

…ha ha.)

And in my KB / Rob historical research, it was confirmed that June 14, 2019 marks the anniversary of our ever first in-person date. Insert heave of love sigh.

Byway of memory and re-reading of old exchanges and feeling the deep depressions permanently pushed into my heart and brain, I can recognize how Rob captured me with his words and shared music from the incredibly early onset.

From a KB Elements post dated August 25, 2019, re: Rob:

You…adore him, right? (Blushes furiously.)

I’m madly in love.

So what do I do?

Just…keep falling?

Those days…the days I’ll never forget: walking down the streets of Midtown Manhattan protected by headphones, listening to songs he shared with me, or, I with him, blushing furiously, smiling like a mental patient or like a starving person just served a steaming plate of cheese fries; the moments piled around me like cozy pillows, reminding me that people can and do find one another in an otherwise sloppy choppy sea of dissonance and unrelenting relationship hardships. / I was (am) utterly taken with this man, Rob.

I realize we’ve had our share of shared missteps and confusing undertows. Much of that circles around his pending divorce, which has him agitated, hurt, in fear of how it will pan out in the long run, and some of it circles around his local contingency, none of whom I’ve met and most whom do not know of my existence because he’s embarrassed, ongoing, by the feeling of “failure” in what has evolved into a failed marriage (even though she was the moron who cheated on him in multiple calculated instances, leaving in her wake a precious, kind, caring, handsome, hilarious, sensitive, understanding, literary, innocently alive and relative-to-the-world man.) (She’s not on my top 10 favorite people list, though I’m sure in a different lifetime we’d get along given that we’ve both loved Rob at our own respective capacities.)

(And it is my understanding that at a minimum, his best friends Nancy and Brian know that I exist.)

I’ll revisit my earlier posted Elliott Smith lyrics and how they feel so relevant to what I want him to understand from my side of things:

Wish I knew what you’re doing / And why you want to do it this way

He’s requested countless times of me that I respect his space while he proceeds with the filing of paperwork and the actual forward motion of divorce. Some may judge me and feel that he has used me, but his sincerity is too potent and unimaginably tangible for me to believe that. And were I to accuse him of such abuse of us, it would dig into him deeply and it’d be unfair. After all, aren’t we all using each other in some respect for, at a minimum, companionship? He and I just collided our worlds in a time frame that, while not ideal given circumstances, still granted us with very meaningful love, respect, compelling physical attraction, tons of blushing, flooding of intellectual exchanges and the potential to sculpt something miraculous with one another in the future.

And if our paths don’t curve in that direction, I will never regret that I got to have, see, touch, feel, live, dream, have this.

Pandemics vi.

Crunchy Red Cabbage and Sliced Brussels Sprouts, Makeshift Salad

Ground Turkey Stroganoff (I'm obsessed, ate this twice yesterday)

Single Pancake, Discovered Refrigerated Batter Thickens for Better Pancake

Scallions and Tomatoes

Scrambled Eggs with Above Pictured Scallions and Tomatoes, plus Shredded Mozzarella

“90’s Girl Meatballs” with Homemade Salad Blend

So I somewhat began this post as a draft days ago (let’s not worry about what day specifically, as they all rush past, blurry gray, like a 20’ high, give or take, oceanic wave followed by the crash and spray.) Here I am to follow up with the content of the initial draft, which may prove yet again to be very much not Pandemic-related as much as KB’s drifting-mind-related.

A couple of select bullet points before I swing forward:

I’ve been eating like an obese version of myself is clawing her way out, as evidenced by my abundance of food photos

The final food photo depicted above was captured after I, adorned in dark denim Dickies overalls, a sky blue jellyfish imaged graphic tee and matching blue cotton socks on my feet (I like to be fashionable even all by myself and with no one to see), listening to The Lemonheads, concocted my personalized ground turkey meatballs with whole wheat bread crumbs, dried Italian seasoning, garlic powder, crushed red pepper, thinly sliced scallion (primarily the green end), a single egg and finely chopped white button fresh mushroom, along with a salad blend of fresh items still residing in my fridge.

Text exchange with Rob:

Me: Current status: overalls, The Lemonheads and cooking myself dinner. This will be my branding pitch to The Food Network. (Pause) 90’s girl in the kitchen.

Rob: That’s a good pitch. Think we need a catchier title though.

Me: You can do the marketing.

A great deal of my Memorial Day weekend was spent reading Aimee Bender. I am *not* and I repeat *not* a fan of reading books from devices but for whatever reason, back when I lived in LA and had gained complete (permission granted) possession of the 1^st generation iPad we used for punch list at Barclays Arena in Brooklyn, I downloaded her short story collection The Color Master to that thing. Maybe I was overeager and downloading came before the hard copies were sold in stores or something. In any event, this past weekend in my nervousness and itch to read her stories, I panicked because I couldn’t remember where I had last seen the old school charger for the device. Alas, I found it buried in a duffel bag under my bed, charged the ancient device and finally was able to get my Bender fix. / Now, Rob, to my knowledge, is my only fellow Bender enthusiast. I may be redundant to say so if I already did so in a previous post but he did, early on in a text before we met, half-brag that he attended a party in LA once years ago where Aimee Bender also was present. “Half-brag” because her presence was, at the time, unbeknownst to him and he did not learn of it until post-party. A sad literary near miss for Rob. / Anyway, to move along, I had alerted Rob that I had become re-obsessed with Bender, we went back and forth a bit, and it turns out that he had just started (this was all on Saturday late afternoon to early evening) a book called The Spirit of Science Fiction, written by Roberto Bolano, who also happened to author The Savage Detectives, a book I received in exchange (as a temporary book swap with a date dude) for my signed copy of An Invisible Sign of My Own, my favorite Bender novel. Unfortunately, the second date on which these books were swapped did not evolve into a third so the books were never returned to respective original owners. No one else cares about shit like this, but the Universe does come full or even partial circle sometimes. And this morning, after posting my Bender travels to social media yesterday, the guy of 2-date book exchange fame (we remained friends, it was no loss to either of us that it didn’t work out romantically) commented that Bender is great and thanks for the recommendation. Ha! I suppose I could have replied, Send me my book back please! But I refrained.

And since the re-obsession with her work sunk itself into me, I did some research only to find she does have a new book (a novel!) being released in late July of this (horrifically painful and unforgettably forgettable) year 2020. Something to look forward to for this avid fan!

Since this select bullet point list has in and of itself turned into a full-on post, I think I will close with one last thought before *eating a pancake* and then I will commence the post containing the content I intended for this one in an all new post, Pandemic vii.

Sunday night I did submit 4 poems and a cover letter to apply for a fellowship to a summer workshop at Brooklyn Poets (all being taught online this summer for obvious Stay at Home / Stay Safe / Social Distancing purposes.) In no way do I stand a chance (there are too many far-more talented and qualified poets than I in this fine poetic City *and* there is likely preferential selection for actual residents of Brooklyn, which is understandable) but it was free to apply and a) I love Brooklyn Poets (I’ve taken 1 in- person workshop and 2 online workshops with them), b) it’s an effort I can remember forever putting forth in a sea of otherwise empty weeks where I’ve put very little effort into anything other than cooking, eating and drinking, and c) it was pleasant and self-devotional to spend a couple of hours with old poems, old friends I was able to revisit, revise and revive from dusty pages.

Alright, so this was cathartic, as will be the next post which will consist of an array of topics I promised my therapist on last Saturday’s call session that I’d address with her.

In brief closing:

Dad: golfing 9 holes

Mom: Bible Study and first hair cut in some time (stay safe in salon environment, Mom!)

Rob: Sleeping, waking probably 10:50 to pour himself coffee to begin his remote workday at 11.

Pandemics v.

One scrambled egg with a milk bath and shredded mozzarella, refried beans with salsa verde and tomatoes

Mozzarella stuffed turkey meatballs, Alfredo sauce and roasted Brussels sprouts

I've kissed yet another calendar day goodbye *although* this one has been slightly more foot forward considering the Department of Labor finally called me back and helped me to complete my Unemployment Insurance application, thus it's now submitted. They are only missing the Employer ID# which I could not produce however the representative somewhat assured me the claims people could dig up somehow.

And I ate meals today that left me heavy, satisfied, though. I posted a couple of less aesthetically pleasing food photos here but the food was all good. I also plugged my stupid live TV box back in again (horrible financial investment and I thought I could cancel after 6 months, but the lady on the phone told me differently) and discovered The Food Network! Score me some mindlessness whilst my brain dampens into a sloppy swamp.

This Pandemics entry is proving to be weak in status. I'm pretty tired. Tomorrow there is going to have to be a grocery store sprint, because I'm fully out of green things and if ever there were anything I know about my physical health, green things are imperative for my lifeblood. I just have to still be cautious with money, because I don't know when the unemployment money will actually roll in. 

So, I'm constantly acting like I have $5 to my name. It's been a good mental sport for me.

I suppose I may as well be open about everything that is on my mind. 

I miss him so much. I miss how he made himself comfortable immediately in my apartment. That's what I wanted. I miss him standing in a towel wrapped around his waist after a shower here.

I miss when he paws through my kitchen cabinets, typically in search of peanut butter. 

I miss when he plants a hand on my wall to stabilize himself while he rips his socks off.

I miss when he flops himself on my bed, face down into a pillow.

He's subtle. He really doesn't do these things I've listed above intentionally. He is just acting out of natural instinct, and I'm so over the moon for these things and many other things. 

With the weakness of this post, I sign off, possibly to cry myself to sleep missing him.

Pandemics iv.

Cheating Chicken Salad: Tyson Frozen Breaded Chicken Baked and Sliced over Greenery

"Poor Man's Supper" aka Ground Beef Stroganoff with Colorful Tossed Salad

Roasted Chicken Breast (KB-style), Packaged Stove top Rice and 2% Milk

Dill Pickle and Red Onion Diced for Cold Pasta Salad

Today marks the 2nd day of my 9th week in solitary confinement. I say "solitary" because I am, in fact, in solitude, yet "confinement" may suggest I am 100% restricted from leaving my apartment, which is not entirely the full truth. I can leave for essentials, an event which consists namely of striding Queens Boulevard in the direction of Manhattan (about 8 minutes brisk walk to my local grocery, with a liquor store stop along the way) or a stone's throw walk to the pharmacy across the street from my building. Yet it wearies me, this ongoing stay at home period. I feel so unpredictably interim, really.

Yesterday I performed the following functions:

Trimmed my head hair using eyebrow grooming scissors...turned out impressively adequate but that's easy enough considering I have thin, fine, straight, stupidly plain hair

Diced dill pickles and red onion and sharp cheddar (cheese not shown) for cold Ranch pasta salad

Applied for 2 construction project manager jobs

Took a field trip for Cream of Mushroom soup, milk and cheap wine

For dinner, concocted another round of stroganoff (last night's installment not pictured; above shown was my first quite delightful attempt in late April) using browned ground turkey, diced white onion, garlic powder, chicken broth, Cream of Mushroom soup, and hot cooked egg noodles, alongside buttered and salted corn...can I say again that the egg noodle has captured my stomach? I've been in much need of gaining weight what with all that I lost again during my own personal physical Pandemic, and the volume of food I ate last night was thrilling. I was actually full afterward.

And before I launch into the heartfelt content of this post, I want to confess that the Tyson Breaded Chicken Salad pictured above was phenomenal. I know it's lazy and borderline trashy but listen, what works for someone in isolation, works for someone in isolation. The stroganoff image I just referenced (going to get a graphic tee that reads "I (heart) Egg Noodles") and the other photo of chicken accompanied by packaged rice and washed down with a robust short glass of 2% milk represents another solid KB-style dinner, that one particularly possibly boring but filling and delicious regardless.

As I type, birds are chirping in Queens outside my windows, the sun is beginning rise and I'm feeling fully aware of my surroundings, thankfully.

Without further ado, and without yet completing the history of my hallucinations and hearing fictional voices during the week I was regaining physical composure, I'd like to pay props to my Quarantine Birthday Conference Call.

Transparency: I was bummed. Turning 43, the number, wasn't bothering me whatsoever. In fact, each new year in my 40's becomes an eye opening experience more so than the previous year, and I take pride in my wanting and willingness to age. I have to thank the genes and stars above for the fact that I don't come close to looking my age (or so I'm complimented, whether under false pretenses or not) (I'll take it!)...but of course, being under lock down and having no ability to physically celebrate with a hug or a smile in person was a let down.

So, taking matters into my own capable hands, I set up a conference call, sent out an invite days in advance, and requested merely that everyone bring to the table a poem for me, whether self-authored, found, doctored, or in any fashion felt suitable by birthday party participants. It was the actual 10-year anniversary of the first time I did that with friends, though, we got to gather at a bar physically and they were able to share to my face. 

Nonetheless, on the invite list: Dad, Ruth, Uncle Glenn, Uncle Gregg, Uncle Jim, Aunt Claudine, Gale, Rich & Tyler. 

We kicked off the call with introductions, primarily because Gale, Rich & Tyler were "meeting" my family for the first time and vice versa, so we went in alphabetical order by first names sharing brief bios, then went backward alphabetically to share poems because Tyler had to jump off for another call to which he had committed and he was texting me how proud he was of his poem; he wrote it himself, an Acrostic, and it was incredibly charming.

*Side Note: I did not invite Rob intentionally, as I did not feel that his "meeting" of a majority of my family for the first time should be on a call. Additionally, Gale & Rich reserve their rights to their reservations regarding Rob, and I didn't want any discomfort on the line. 

My entire family and the select friends on the phone offered their poetry with such passion and open love for me. I wish I could relive that couple of hours over and again, but some things are best left to be experienced once like that. Uncle Glenn surprised everyone by reading a piece I wrote when I was 14 about Grandma's reaction to Grandpa's failing health; there were misty eyes, and at the end of the reading the question came up from Uncle Gregg, Now, Glenn, did you write that or...? And Uncle Glenn said, No, no, I didn't...and after a moment I announced that I had penned it. Everyone was so kind and supportive and loving...they kept insisting that I "pick up a pen again" and in my mind I was like, Well, they don't know about this Elements page which is possibly a better emotional arrangement for me, although, I do often think about sharing the link to see if there is any interest.

Beautiful moments captured in that call. 

Afterward, I called Matthew, college best friend, who hates the phone and rarely responds. But that evening he was heavily inebriated and answered his phone and we talked for quite some time. He's also so loving of the KB and was in fact so enamored with speaking with me that he called (the next morning, actually) Mr. Vino (local Forest Hills wine store of mine) to order me 2 bottles of Grey Goose for my birthday present. Such a sweet gesture. I'm of course far, far off from the vodka these days, thankfully, because that stuff is overly toxic and unnecessary in this already toxic world.

I did also do FaceTime with Mom prior to the conference call. She's special - she knew I was doing the conference call and in a different time frame would have loved to have been part of it, too, but it would have been awkward.

I will say that she, maybe being my Mom and that's something I need to understand, decided to point out on the FT call that I had not shaved under my arms (and they're not that bad, frankly; they're like baby fine hairs.) That's the kind of message she sends out, that she's visually scrutinizing, but having never had a child of my own, maybe that's all part of the absence of boundaries that goes with the whole thing of it. 

Rob sent me 2 books for my birthday. As I mentioned, he had purchased tickets for us to see Hades Town which was the lovely ribbon-tied-with-a-bow gift on the stack of my presents, but it was canceled (thanks again, Pandemic) so we'll have to celebrate in some other way, some other time.

Now, off to another day of job, soul, mind and food searching.

Pandemics iii.

 Roasted Chicken Breast, Bone-in, Skin-on, KB-style

 Hard Boiling Eggs with Poacher

Salad Art prior to Addition of Shredded Chicken Breast

The above photographs depict a day in late April that I felt strongly about having a shredded chicken salad a la KB-mode, which included roasting a split bone-in skin-on chicken breast (using clean fingers to slime mayonnaise under the chicken skin, an old poultry baking trick I found on the Internet years ago), hard boiling eggs for the first time in the poacher my Mom gifted me a couple of years ago (I'm behind, I know) and chopping colorful vegetables as a bed for the shredded chicken and egg. For whatever reason I did not snap a finale, but it was memorably satisfying. 

I suppose I will spill the story of my COVID-era yet not-COVID-tested sickness of last week. Actually, possibly it was 2 weeks ago now? In fact, yes, I believe that's the case. So let's plant this experience somewhere in May 2020, whether it be first or second week thereof.

Before I go on, tonight I did puree the canned potato soup, added milk and crushed red pepper and sea salt and yet it still tasted like potato - I even dropped a couple of cubes of creamed cheese on in there. But, with the browned ground turkey and poured generously over egg noodles, it turned out pretty well. I heated some canned French-cut green beans as a side, and admittedly ate more tonight (volume) than I have in a long time. I believe the egg noodles have had me at hello. They are buttery and oh so gratifying. 

So, the illness.

I don't know how this comes about, but on a Wednesday (I think) I began throwing up uncontrollably. I had been (believe I mentioned) drinking water as if water wouldn't carry on without my consumption of it. And out of sheer nowhere, I couldn't hold it down. And appetite? Forget it: zero. So for the following 3 days, I lost my weight in brain matter, stomach lining and any electrolytes that may have existed to keep my hydration levels afloat. Oh, and motivation. My apartment kitchen counter was littered with so many used drinking glasses and miscellaneous that I should have appeared on some nightmare home show depicting neglect.

Many phone calls with many family members and friends later, it was recommended that I somehow get my hydration levels back up to par.

It wasn't as dire as when my thyroid numbers were diagnosed, but it was not easy, either. 

Here comes the hard part to discuss with even myself, because it's embarrassing. I shudder to think back, actually.

Evidently I suffered from hallucinations as I struggled to regain strength. I will not make excuses for myself, however I will say that isolation + dehydration = mental collapse. Caveat: I do not do drugs, nor do I sniff anything toxic for entertainment, nor do I do anything otherwise to bring this on. 

The first this was pointed out to me was by my friend Alex. One of the afternoons that I was still heaving up liquids (whatever I could swallow to satiate the thirst) I suppose I fell asleep mid-day and when I semi-woke I heard his voice outside my window. I swear it was so vivid and real. I began texting him at some point (fully believing he had traveled to Forest Hills with one of his kids and later believing his wife was also here.) An entire handful of hours played out wherein I let him into my apartment, he and his wife and she was aggressive at me for no apparent reason, saying extremely rude and sharp things about me loud enough for me to overhear. This episode stretched for hours. It was so fucking real, though. His voice, his wife's voice, their physical presence in my apartment. So I guess Alex was receiving all of these cryptic texts from me (real) that he was perplexed by (why wouldn't he be?) and finally the entire thing ended, for me, and I fell asleep hard.

The next scene is worse, still, but I don't have the emotional energy to narrate that now. I will. Again, this is embarrassing, because I lost complete control of my mind to physical depletion. 

Alex called me a day later and wanted to let me know what had elapsed. He admitted he didn't know how to approach the event, because he didn't want to seem abrupt or invasive in his explanation of the unfolding of the hours to me. He was like, Kristin, have you ever been alone for this long? I mean, no? I've been alone most of my life, moving around alone but I've always had social interaction of some variety, selected by me when and at what capacity. 

He talked to me about possible culprits: lead poisoning in my water from old apartment building pipes? Food poisoning? And we talked for a while but all I could think to myself was, No, Alex, you were really here, you were right outside on the sidewalk of my apartment. He was like, KB, no, I was in Jersey that entire time. 

Oh, Pandemic. Thanks for giving me some of the most terrifying moments of my life. I can't even tell anyone now. I've wanted to. I've almost. Rob needs to know this because I texted him that night that Alex had been here. I wasn't lying to you, Rob. I sincerely believed it. I didn't tell my therapist this past Saturday on our phone session. She's going to be upset that I will have waited too long to tell her.

Delusions? Dementia? Broken brain? What the fuck happened to me?

The story continues, yet, as I mentioned, I can't dig deeper into it yet. This was just a skim of the surface of how I was attacked emotionally and mentally and how rising up is the only option moving forward.

My favorite texts late this evening:

Me: "I have a head of cauliflower to contend with. I can't decide what preparation I want. It was an impulse buy, really. I haven't had cauliflower in ages."

Rob: "I love cauliflower."

Of course he does. 

I need to tell him this stuff from being sick. Despite the seeming gulf between us, he is still the person I love the most in the universe right now.

Pandemics ii.

 Chicken Cakes with Horseradish Aioli and Heaping Salad with Yogurt Ranch

 Lasagna for One, Recipe from Internet, so Easy and Delicious

KB's first True Poached Egg (thanks, Jamie Oliver, for tips!) over Brussels Sprouts etc.

Baked Salmon (KB-style) with Stuffed Mushroom Caps, Stuffed Tomatoes and Asparagus

My Forest Hills Kitchen just off Queens Boulevard, a Gemstone for NYC

Disclaimer: It isn't characteristic of me to write twice on the same calendar day however the previous post was uploaded around 2AM so I'm giving myself a hall pass here.

And I mean, what does the term "calendar day" mean anymore anyway? Thanks, COVID.

I'm sharing food photos in lieu of any other photos because, well, primarily that is the purest and most comforting distraction I have currently. It still isn't emotionally optimal to cook "For One," but the art and chemistry of it tend to curb the frustration of not having someone else to enjoy the end result of elbows deep in the kitchen.

*I just pushed play on Belly's album King for a change of musical atmosphere. Belly (Tanya) and Kristin Hersh have been loud in my head since the onset of this disastrous Pandemic situation, but with Belly, the album Star exclusively (even though I recall King's release and how elated I was at new Belly at the time, 1995, when I would be a high school senior getting ready to shove off to Indiana University.)

Back to my kitchen and its seductive nature for a New York City studio apartment (see above photo.) When I moved here in January 2019, it was a sad and yet triumphant unveiling of the New Yorker I've always desired to be: independent, courageous, possessing the ability to self-care and to organize belongings and thoughts without someone else's input.

Sad, only having moved out of Jon's and understanding I may never see him or Fitz again.

But here I am, under lock down, living alone with this romantic kitchen and a Pandemic outside;  despite getting severely sick last week (full story still to follow) I've recovered almost 100% physically and have been exerting each day's pocket of energy on cooking for myself, though last night I caved hard and ate a cardboard trash frozen pizza but it was a one-off. I mean, I do have a second one in the freezer but that's my second one-off and I don't plan on having that one until sometime in the week when I'm bored and lazy again.

What I've found to be rewarding in the kitchen is that there is an actual plate of end results. 

*Speaking of LA from yesterday, just pushed play on Figure 8 (Elliott Smith.) It's been a while.

Additionally, I've been horribly out of practice with my culinary exploits. I've only cooked for Rob a handful of times, all of which were safe dishes (salmon, of course, and scrambled eggs) but I'd like to believe that if we escape this and reconnect our lives and souls, I'd be a welcome commodity in his kitchen as well as he'd be one in mine, and these home cooked food delights are an experience we could share (building memories all the while.)

So evidently this particular Pandemic entry deals little in what's happening out in the wild. And that's alright. I'm not pressuring myself overly so today. 

I'm contemplating (speaking of my kitchen) food options today and they are plentiful (at least as of today.) My Mom made herself a cold pasta salad yesterday with Italian dressing and sweet pickles (I gag at sweet pickles, unfortunately) which prompted me to want a cold Ranch version thereof, which calls for cubed sharp cheddar, chopped dill pickles and chopped onion (I have red and white on hand.) One of our first dates, Rob brought over an artisanal jar of dill spears with garlic floating in the brine but I also have just a pedestrian jar of dill whole pickles which I'd lean toward for the chop factor. I also have a full head of cauliflower that calls to be dealt with (roast? steam? mash? not sure yet) and more Brussels sprouts (probably I will turn into one here soon enough, I eat them so frequently) and I have ground turkey of which I've only used a bit (I'm trying to ration and not waste which is such an embarrassingly difficult feat for me, I confess.) I was thinking of, for dinner, pureeing a can of cream of potato soup, browning a bit of the ground turkey and tossing it all with cooked egg noodles. I made an "easy" ground beef stroganoff a week ago or so, or two, or three (thanks, Pandemic, for really blurring the fields) and that was cream of mushroom sauce, to which I added fresh sliced baby bellos and it was pretty divine, for white trash quick concoction. So now that I've got these other items instead, it sounds fairly promising, if I just make it up as I go. I could probably add a small bit of shredded mozzarella just to cheese it up.

So and anyway, that is all rocking around in my near-emptied skull (thanks, Pandemic, for stealing nearly every last shred of evidence that I'm possibly intelligent and clever.)

Rob and I have been known (by, well, ourselves anyway) to send along music to one another that resonates in some way, oftentimes speaking to our feelings for one another. I know he and I were amicably communicating last night via text, but this morning's musical selection (sadly, King was anti-climactic) (sorry, Tanya) located an Elliott Smith song for me to send to him, and so I did, while it may seem like borderline hurtful sentiment...it's almost as if I've been awaiting this song to fall into my lap to enunciate my feelings of the most recent weeks. I've been trying my good god damndest to maintain an emotionally safe distance from him because I know he's got plenty on his emotional serving platter and I don't want to be that surprising spiky chicken bone in the entree that cuts his mouth unexpectedly or the untrimmed steak fat that finds its way onto the palette and is indescribably annoying. Plus, I've been drinking very little alcohol so maintaining control of my runaway emotions has been somehow simpler. I have great appreciation for that.

Without delving deeper into how my delicate heart has been tugged and distorted from its regular shape and patterns of shoving love outward, I will end this morning's (now early afternoon's) post with the lyrics from the song I sent to him. I don't anticipate much of a response, really. I have suspicion that any kind of whiskey in him prompted his atypical (of late) frequency of texts to me, which doesn't mean that I didn't love the attention.

First, things I miss:

his eyes

his laughter

how he bobs his head slightly while we're walking and talking and he's attentive to me

his appetite and then how sweet it is when he eats food he likes

holding his hand

how for some reason when he calls me KB it puts electricity into my veins

his hand on the small of my back

the smallest sounds he makes when he sleeps

lying on him on my couch as though he were a body pillow

despite how I can't normally tolerate it, how he gets out of my shower and somehow leaves more water on the floor than was ever in the shower in the first place

how he loves hot tea

how he loves hot tea with his Mom late at night

his love of the Mets

his book collection that nearly matches mine to the titles, with some variances thrown in

coffee on his breath

the moment he uses both hands to pull that curly hair back from his forehead

he's the most thoughtful gift-giver ever

how he dips his chin a little if I compliment him, and smiles shyly, and his eyelashes create these dark crescent moons on his cheeks that are easily an image that melt me

Just some. I started tearing up so, here, and I'm going to figure out lunch and may watch Midsommar. Rob and I saw it in the theater here in Queens. He thinks I'm insane for watching it over and over but I find it to be an artistically profound film piece so...and I need the distraction today, now that I've spun myself into a sad brooding spider web. Going to unravel that and lift my own spirits again, given no choice otherwise.

Better be Quiet Now

Wish you gave me your number
Wish I could call you today, just to hear a voice
I got a long way to go
I'm getting further away
If I didn't know the difference living alone'd probably be ok
It wouldn't be lonely
I got a long way to go
I'm getting further away
A lot of hours to occupy, 
it was easy when I didn't know you yet
Things I have to forget
But I better be quiet now
I'm tired of wasting my breath
Carrying on and getting upset
Maybe I have a problem, but that's not what I wanted to say
I'd prefer to say nothing.I got a long way to go
I'm getting further away.
Had a dream as an army man with an order just to march in my place
While a dead enemy screams in my face
But I better be quiet now
I'm tired of wasting my breath
Carrying on, not over it yet
Wish I knew what you're doing
And why you want to do it this way, so I can't go the distance
I got a long way to go
I'm getting further away
I got a long way to go
I'm getting further away

--Steven Paul "Elliott" Smith

Pandemics i.

 Asparagus and Tomatoes, KB-style

Brussels Sprouts and Tomatoes, KB-style

Thanks to my Dad, loving on me from Michigan during this mess I'm about to portray (in my own words and experiences, obviously) I have a new (to me, refurbished) laptop to kick start what will become my 9th week under "house arrest"...and hopefully assist me in rediscovering my OCD, and gainful employment.

That all said, this is an intro entry to my personal series of The Great Pandemic of 2020, which has caused more emotional and physical upheaval than anything I've seen (and many others) in this lifetime. 

I'd like to record what has happened and is happening to us now as a globe, as a massive community of humans suffering from either the virus itself (it's called COVID-19, or Corona Virus) or unsolicited malaise from being sentenced to not leaving our homes unless stocking on essentials. I laugh at this somewhat, considering booze stores are considered essential right now. Plenty of newly born alcoholics may emerge from this raging planetary bullshit.

It all began mid-March. I remember jokes about this thing among coworkers, the Corona Virus, don a face mask to protect yourself and others! Turns out, this was no joke material, as it became a reality almost slammed at us overnight. 

So, I got laid off by the small GC where I had basically just started months prior, as were many, many Americans laid off from their respective positions. And then the domino effect occurred: the diagnosed infected, hospitalizations, overcrowding of hospitals, continued loss of jobs, and finally, around late-March, a mandate that non-essential workers remain in their homes.

The dates are groggy, to me. I know there are documented records of when specifically we were instructed to "stay the fuck home" but it's a blur, to me.

I spent the first couple of weeks in shock. My apartment is the size of a shoe box and while it's just me in it...that's the thing. It's just me in it. Good, bad or otherwise, it was feeling like the walls were moving closer and closer to me, menacing and growing sharp fangs.

Mind you, that was the tail end of March. Part i. of this series has barely broken the surface of what has elapsed in my overwhelmed and terrified mind. 

Alas, I'll shift to a few tied-to yet semi-unrelated topics.

I've been in and out of my kitchen quite a bit more frequently, which has had its highs and lows. Above depicted are two vegetarian dinners I made for myself to satisfy that void of nutrients that had begun to form. Food, in general, lost its lustre during a period (last week) which I will address in another entry to this series (I got extremely sick, not COVID sick, though I never was formally tested to say either way?) and could not keep even water down. I was drinking no fewer than 8 huge thermos volumes of ice water a day and none of it wanted to stay inside my little person therefore I was losing electrolytes and body weight at a record-breaking speed.

Again, I will readdress this experience. Other apocalyptic side effects joined hands and kicked me repeatedly in the empty gut. 

April was a calendar month that may has well have been yanked off the year, wadded up and thrown in the trash. Rob and I had 3 major events planned: The Airborne Toxic Event, Hades Town (surprise birthday gift he got for me) and Beetlejuice. None of those panned out, all canceled to protect the safety of the public. And my birthday (43rd) smack in the center of April turned into a surprisingly pleasing event, despite circumstances, which consisted of my Boettger contingency on a conference call along with Gale, Rich and Tyler, and I arranged it and requested in the invite that everyone bring a "poem for KB" to the "table," and all of my people complied and even went above and beyond what I could have anticipated. 

More on that to follow, as well. 

Rob: that topic (of us) also to follow in additional entries to this series.

He is currently watching The Crimson Kimono at his home solo, assuming drinking booze that he told me he bought today.

RW: "I'm watching a good old movie now - The Crimson Kimono."

KB: "LA Detectives. You love LA."

(I'm listening to Tori as I type this...)

KB: "Baker Baker on, he's gone to LA...we are wrapped in a theme geographically."

RW: "You love being wrapped in LA."

Ah. Well. I believe we are going to have to fall for one another all over again if this is meant to be. Of course, I believe in us and in this, but emotions have been dicey for us both for weeks, based on a state of figurative viscous mind-numbing events that have staggered us, caused us to stagger respectively, and which remain without a predictable new beginning.

Not that I would mind experiencing Rob for the first time all over again. However, that isn't to say I would not give anything in the world to just throw my arms around him for 20 seconds right now.

Off to sleep for this unemployed, broke and fragile girl.