I am beginning to remember life in DC that wasn’t about the pandemic or about work. Getting outside helps—always has. Keep moving. Sleep hard.
Trying not to fall into the trap of too much woe-is-me drama and our COVID-isolating household. But I do wish the not-yet-3-year-old would somehow maintain a schedule for himself so the rest of us could get some work done or at least have energy to catch-up after he went to bed reliably at a reasonable hour.
There.
I hear the tiny violins already.
I’ve been saying trite things, but I am just heartbroken over the Buffalo and Uvalde mass shootings… and the massive sucking noise of our civic and governmental failure.
Bedtime in the time of COVID
Trying to coax my two year old to bed, I feel my energy drain and my ambition to catch-up on work ebb as his arm reaches out for me on my third visit to get him back to bed. His pats on my head as he snuggles kill any desire to fully awaken and get some work done. We’ve all been under house arrest for nine days and we’ve got 5 more based on the staggered positive cases and varying vaccination states.
“Cheese toastie” is not a thing. Don’t listen to your mother kid, it’s a grilled cheese.
Trawling through 20 year old emails and mourning missed opportunities. Maybe, finally, learning some lessons…
The trillions of dollars in “profits” of the fossil fuel industry are really just a high interest loan with the rest of us as collateral.
“You paid us more than if you had been telling us the truth, and enough more to make it all right.” — Bogie as Sam Spade, and the motto of the giants and certain niche mercenaries of the PR industry.
A whisky in hand and Bogie on the biggest screen in the house.
Day 9: Bloom
Day 8: Union