If you can’t rush out and be partying, the alternative is to stay in and be kvetching.
However, the homebound hearth creates other problems. Weight and width. Things which once fit now don’t. Jackets that once circled the waist now won’t. Nibbling? Snacking? Easy to say, “Instead of leftover carrot cake, just chew on a stalk of celery.” I mean, really? That choice was already discarded in the emergency need to claw out the remaining calcified rye bread crust in order to navigate shelf room so fingers could reach the 2-week-old leftover liverwurst slice. And even if that was ice-cold, so what. Went down quicker.
A fashionista, whose waist is narrower than Scotch tape — unlike mine — said: “It’s because you’re not exercising. Not running. Not walking.” Running? What’s she talking about? Like in a marathon? Please. Two blocks to Duane Reade for mascara and I’m winded. Whatthehell running is she talking about? I learned tricks. A longish sweater/blouse/jacket. My new best friend’s a rubber band. Loop that rubber band around the waistband’s button, stretch it through the buttonhole then re-loop it back to the button. Perfect. But don’t discard that short, cropped jacket you once loved. It’s not wasted. You can always use it to clean the sink. I have to rescreen Macaulay Culkin’s “Home Alone” because I’m having trouble with the joys of a household lockup. How’s unending irritation with your husband/parent/kid/live-in/housekeeper/friend/cheapo uncle the sponge? Even lockdown claustrophobia in Manhattan Correctional Center seems roomier. At least with good behavior you could maybe bust out of your 800-square-foot cell by April.
Someone put me back together
We’re looking lousy. It’s a universe of Boris Karloffs. No hairdresser, eyebrow shaper, lip plumper, manicurist, pedicurist, dermatologist, facialist, electrologist, gymnast, yoga master, dentist, eye specialist, ear specialist, masseuse, face doctor, dressmaker, wig maker or fake eyelash gluer. Breaking out of our cages, who knows what to fix first? One friend knows exactly what she wants from Santa. A coat? A car? A necklace? No. A tweezer. Formerly, acquaintances avoided looking you straight in the eye because they were busy searching signs of a face-lift. Forget that. Now, with home confinement, it’s getting tough to stay a natural beauty. Wardrobe is pajamas. Kids crying, screaming. Building Legos in the kitchen. Crosswords. Monopoly. Scrabble. Checkers. Playing doctor. Breaking toys. Drawing on walls.
Worst is Hollywood, where people are known to get married in the morning. This way if it doesn’t work out, they haven’t wasted a whole day. One actress, stuck home frustrated, shouted to her 6-year-old son: “I’m going to send you back to your father.” Problem being she couldn’t remember who he was.
Meal spiel
Planning menus? Someone I know has a live-in, now unemployed, lover who’s a foodie. He wants bouillabaisse, cassoulet and a side of gratin dauphinois. Lotsa luck. The ladyfriend, in whose house he is now quarantined — and before she began running what is now a dorm — had one out-of-bed specialty: reheating frozen TV dinners. When his 14 days are up, this ex-lover may next partner with a sexy short-order chef.
Pets aren’t happy either
Also, if you don’t get to go out, how’s your dog get to go out? You got a Pekingese, OK. You own a Great Dane, a problem. And wives must know that the barking hound in her hall is much like the bonking one in her bed. Both need to be on a leash. But — face it — both like to sniff around a little. Plus, kindly remember, each species needs toilet training.
To those who deem home confinement a plus. My co-op just shut off all water supply temporarily. Why, who knows? Also, yesterday morning, 3 a.m., when all is cold, silent, dark, the smoke alarm in my kitchen went off. My 1-year-old Yorkie then also went off. The thing kept beeping. The dog kept barking … 4 a.m. the building’s overnight staffer brought up a ladder, a battery — and a bone. And as much as I love my home, only in New York, kids, there’s no place like getting the hell out.
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