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Good morning, everyone.

Tropical storm Isaias hit Long Island very hard on Tuesday afternoon shortly before 1 o’clock, when we lost power. After 30 hours, we got electricity back at 7 PM on Wednesday. I immediately posted a notice on this here blog that Wednesday was a washout here in VivianWorld, but it doesn’t seem to have stuck. Oh well.

126,000 homes in the area still do not have power. I will update you about the damage in my neighborhood on Friday’s post.

FYI: It’s raining again, and power has already gone out once so the juice is unreliable still, but I’ll do the best I can.

Here is an incomplete post of what I had planned to bring you for Wednesday. Please enjoy, while I put together my week-end Fuck Trumpery.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Hi Everyone: We lost power for 30 hours, starting from 12:57 pm on Tuesday until 7:06 PM Wednesday.

The winds only lasted an hour but hoo boy, they did a LOT of damage in my area of the north shore of Long Island.

I’ll tell you all about it on Friday.

See you then!

Vivian

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Here are some pictures of the late, great Lickety to save my spot for Friday.

As of yesterday I have a wicked stress fracture of my tibia (shin bone) and IT HURTS.

IT HURTS because I am an idiot who thought that the discomfort was all in my head, so I kept running for a week or two until yesterday when the pain decided to prove how real it was and chomped down like a T Rex and I went to urgent care.

Now I have to keep my splintered  leg elevated, which I can’t do at a desk, and it hurts too much to sit upright like a normal bi-ped with my feet on the ground because I am an idiot.

So, Dear Readers, until Friday, keep a lid on your sanity while Trump deploys the Federal Stormtroopers to a city near you.

Jesus Christ.

Fuck Trump.

 

 

 

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My breakfast is a cup of tea and a nice piece of toast, which is how I ensure that I begin each day in a good mood before, you know, life comes along and fucks it up.

I love toast. It’s my favorite food that isn’t pizza, so I am particular about the bread I use for my toast. I use a “short long ciabatta” from a boutique grocery store bakery here on the north shore of Long Island that makes it every hour, and I like to get there when the loafs are still warm from the oven. At home, I put it in the toaster oven on a “bake” setting until it’s toasted to a golden beige, and then I  butter it with Beurre D’Isigny demi sel from France, and I top it all off with a sprinkle of Himalayan salt (the pink stuff, for whimsy).

Top Cat did the weekly shopping and came home without my short long ciabatta — he said the bakery was sold out. So the next day, I was going to make a special trip back to the boutique grocery store to get my ciabatta (yes, I know, “privilege”), and Top Cat told me, “Maybe you want to try the brioche? It looked pretty good when I was there.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t care for brioche.”

And I thought, Jesus, my 10-year old self would never have imagined me one day saying something like, “I don’t care for brioche”. When I was growing up, we did not go to restaurants. The only Chinese food we ever ate came from a can — does anyone remember La Choy chicken chow mien? We did not buy bread from a bakery — we ate store-brand white bread and when we felt fancy, we’d put a few slices on a small plate for the dinner table so we could have bread-and-margarine with our canned stew. We didn’t know people who went “abroad”; that was only in movies (Sabrina and American in Paris).

No, no way could 10-year-old me have thought that one day, during a global pandemic, I would be turning up my nose at brioche, but this is the kind of person I have become. I think 10-year-old me would be rooting for me.

I did go to the boutique grocery store and I got my loaf of ciabatta, but I also got two onions, nice big Spanish onions, for cover. That way, I could look as if I were actually shopping for basic foodstuffs, the humble root veg of the people, and not defying lockdown orders just for one fancy fresh-baked Italian baguette.

BTW, this loaf is unusually puffy, so it’s a bit too fat to fit easily in my toaster oven and this morning’s toast was a bit burnt, so, karma.

I’m sure we’d all rather dwell on toast than think about the orange shit stain in the White House,but anyway, here’s today’s round up for your entertainment:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now go have a nice piece of toast and I’ll see you all back here on Friday.

 

 

 

 

 

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Denver, Colorado:

Somewhere in North Carolina:

Tennessee:

Lansing, Michigan:

Buffalo, NY:

Fun Fact: The Liberate New York protest took place in a traffic circle in Buffalo, the state capital. About 50 cars and trucks drove in a circle for about four hours. Twitter called it The Moron 500.

Pennsylvania:

Sydney, Australia:

 

Top Cat and I had our first COVID-quarantine-induced argument yesterday.

I  was at the kitchen sink, cracking an ice cube tray for our evening V&Ts. We have crappy ice cube trays, so I was struggling to get the tray to work right, and the ice was chipping and breaking into shards and I was annoyed. By the way, I do not have a poker face.

I heard Top Cat come into the kitchen so I turned to glance at him.

Top Cat stops short and complains, “Why are you giving me such a dirty look?”

This surprises me, so I insist: “I wasn’t giving you a dirty look — it’s the ice cube tray! I hate it!”

But T.C.  isn’t buying it. “No, no, no, you’ve been in a bad mood for days and I’ve seen that look before.” He’s actually getting mad.

I try to reason with him: “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?? Didn’t we just had a really nice “date” night on Saturday?”

Top Cat shoots back, “No, that was Thursday and you’ve been pissy ever since.” And he storms out of the kitchen (as much as a guy on crutches can “storm” out of a room).

I went into the living room and tried to explain what just happened but it only made T.C. more irritated…it didn’t help that I thought it was funny and he was dead serious. So we had cocktails in separate rooms. I’ve never heard Top Cat use the word “pissy” in any situation before.

This is what happens when you are cooped up too long.

Things here in lockdown on the north shore of Long Island are still, for the most part, OK. I finished my Chinese historical drama and finished a 24-episode of a Korean historical drama that was SO SAD, which is Standard Operating Procedure for any Korean love story but especially true when it’s set during the Japanese Occupation of 1910 – 1945 (brutal, just brutal). So now I’m sworn off of K-dramas and I might even READ A BOOK this week.

Let’s meet on Friday and compare lockdown sob stories.

And, oh yeah: Fuck MAGAs.

jkl

kl’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Dear Readers: Last week’s blog post is still up (immediately following this important announcement), but first I have to tell you that this week’s Fuck Trump-A-Thon will be postponed until Saturday, March 14.

I’m doing something fun on Friday the 13th and wanted to let you know that I won’t have sobered up until Saturday morning.

See you!

 

 

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After last week’s rant against capri pants I feel that, as a renowned fashion blogger, I owe you fine Readers some sincere advise about good taste.

This is a Must Have for those of you who want to show the world your  style-consciousness:

You can get this on Amazon for $16.99. It comes in 10 colors (I got mine in black, because I always go classic) and can be worn by any human being who has a heart and a few brain cells. (P.S. That’s not me in the photo. I’ll post a pic of me when I find the charger to my camera.)

I wouldn’t wear this T-shirt to Costco or when I volunteer to read stories to children at the library, but it might come in handy on Election Day (a mere 269 days away).

Another thing I forgot to tell you about Florida was that the plane home from Southwest International Airport to JFK was deliciously roomy due to the fact that 1/3 of the seats were empty. Four days later, when Top Cat flew to San Fransisco, he told me that his flight was half full. I think the COVID-19 virus panic is starting to show its upside. I have to take a trip later this month and I’m hoping to have the plane all to myself.

 

 

 

 

For the past five weeks I’ve been schlepping into Manhattan every Saturday afternoon to hang out in Koreatown and I feel great. There is no panic on 32nd Street.

I’m going to Koreantown to take my Korean language beginner class with emphasis on learning to read the written form of it and the book we are using is called Korean Made Easy which is annoying because, as is true of every thing that promises to make losing weight, finding enlightenment, or earning $100,00 in your spare time EASY, it is a lie.

Very few things in life are really, truly EASY and learning a foreign language isn’t one of them. I don’t need to be sold on a new adventure with the pitch that it will be EASY and it’s embarrassing that we live in a culture that makes those kinds of promises. I don’t mind it if something will be hard, I’m willing to make sacrifices and dig in and do the work, except for dentistry. I really wish there was an easy way to keep your teeth looking good in your 60s but it seems that can’t be done without a LOT of work.

I’ve been spending some quality time with my dentist lately and even though all I have to do is sit still for 40 minutes at a time, it’s the hardest thing I’ve done in the past decade or so because for some reason, my dentist insists that I remain conscious during our sessions so, good-bye dreams of a propofol snooze and waking up with beautiful teeth.

Thank you, modern dentistry and Mr and Mrs Kim of Deagu, South Korea, for this.

In the end it will be worth it, but meantime I can’t decide if modern dentistry is a miracle that saves us from an old age of hideous toothlessness, or if it’s just medieval barbarity with 21st century tools.  I’m doing it the hard way, one tortuous thousand bucks at a time, and the sad thing is that I’m usually in so much discomfort when we finish that I can’t even tolerate a glass of wine as my just reward. Warm water mixed with honey is my drink of choice lately. No wonder I’ve been in a bad mood since Ground Hog Day.

I want to thank all of you — Christine, Tracy, Megan, Angel, Margaret, Steve, Carol, Mae, Karen, Marilyn, Megan, Casey, Jeanie, Kirra, and Maryanne in SC — for your kind words about Lickety. It’s been a month and I still get those jarring reality checks when I remember that Lickety won’t be showing up for breakfast any more.  Or  this:

 

 

in memory of a Really Good Cat, this week’s installment of our regularly scheduled Resist-A-Thon is dedicated to Lickety.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Have a great weekend, everyone. Have yourselves a wine cooler for me.

 

 

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There is nothing worse than going to Florida in February and spending a few days sitting outside on a balcony with a glass of wine and a good book in a warm sea breeze while watching a spectacular sun set on the Gulf of Mexico, and then coming back home to the north shore of Long Island and it’s still February, and you’re on the north shore, of Long Island, where it’s 29 degrees and everything in your backyard is dead, including Likety. I’m not in a good mood toady.

Weather in Florida is like a work of art, if you like works of art that are gorgeous, monumental, dramatic, and awe-inspiring. I LOVE the weather in Florida in February. There’s only one problem about the lovely weather in Florida. It’s in Florida.

Two words why I detest Florida: Capri Pants.

Just because they’re named after a beautiful Mediterranean island where billionaires like to park their yachts DOES NOT MEAN that you look like a billion bucks wearing them. Capri pants were invented by a Prussian dressmaker in 1948, to be worn by a new kind of human being that was created in the post-war years — teenagers. These days, no teenager would be caught dead in  Capri pants.

That’s because these days, capri pants are worn by every white-haired, fat-assed retiree in Florida, the kind who flock to Perkin’s Pancake House for the 4:30PM early bird dinners on Free Pie Mondays.

I get it. I get that Capri pants are supposed to be “fun”. They cover more than shorts, so you don’t have to expose your sad wrinkled knees, and they are shorter than regular pants, like cut-offs for the elderly. Woo hoo! Capri pants mean that you’re a free bird, a party animal, a pie-eater ready to rave ’til the six o’clock news comes on!

Some people don’t mind getting old, and giving up, and wearing Capri pants. But I’m not one of those people.

No, I want to avoid people who give Getting Old a bad name so I will not move to Florida full-time, but I do like a dose of it during February.

The only good thing about my comeback to the north shore of Long Island yesterday was the  movie that I watched on the two-hour flight back to New York. I can’t say enough good things about JoJo Rabbit.DO NOT WATCH to official trailer for the movie on YouTube — it gives away the plot twists.

Jo Jo is a ten-year-old Nazi and his best friend is Adolf Hitler, and it’s a comedy. I know it sounds deadly, but that’s all you need to know about this film going in. That’s about all I knew, but I was trapped on a plane so I gave it a chance. and I AM SO GLAD I DID!!

The movie was written and directed by a 44-year old native of New Zealand, Taika Waititi, whose birth name is Taika David Cohen.  His mother is Jewish and his father is Maori, and  Waititi calls himself a “Polynesian Jew”, in case you’re wondering why a Kiwi is telling a holocaust story.

Waititi also play Hitler in the movie, for which he won an Oscar this year for Best Adapted Screenplay.

I think Jo Jo Rabbit should have won Best Picture. It was one of the nine nominees this year, but Parasite won, and as hot as I am for anything Korean these days, I wasn’t crazy about Parasite and now I’m totally infatuated with Jo Jo Rabbit. I want to take Top Cat to see it just so I can see it again.

Go see it, even if you have to fly Delta from RSW to JFK to do it.

You will thank me.

And now for our regularly scheduled programming.

Fuck Trump.

 

This is absolutely true. Trump said this Feb 21, 2020 at a rally in Colorado Springs, CO. And the crowd cheered.

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Have a great weekend, Dear Ones. Don’t do what I do:

 

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This is my favorite picture of me with the things that make me happy here on the north shore of Long Island: our backyard in Summer, a glass of wine, a newly-found Blue Jay feather, and Lickety.

Dear Ones, you knew you’d have to read these words sooner or later:

Lickety died, here at home, on Sunday, Feb. 9. He’s buried in a spot just behind the chairs in this photo.

On Saturday morning, Feb. 8, Lickety had a seizure under the dining room table.  We wrapped our sweet boy in a blankie and went straight to the vet’s office. It was 9:30am. We were ready to say good-bye, but Lickety wasn’t having it. While the vet examined him, Lickety roused himself and seemed more alert than he’d been in days. He paced the floor, stalking the examination room as if looking for an escape.

So the vet tested Lickety with a bowl of special high-calorie food, which Lickety gobbled down and asked for more. This made the vet think that Lickety was pretty perky and had more time left, and he advised us to take our boy home. He assured us that Lickety was not in pain, but warned us that “It’s going to be roller coaster, but he might have another month left.”

We bought a month’s supply of special food and took him home.

Lickety never ate another morsel of the stuff. On Saturday night he had another seizure, and was knocked out for about an hour. The vet explained that old, sick cats take a while to recover from these neural events but we shouldn’t panic, that eventually Lickety would come back to “normal”. So we put a blanket over him and waited, and he did come back, to almost “normal”.

However, he looked weak on Sunday morning, even though he joined the other cats for breakfast, as usual (although he didn’t eat), and he sat on my lap, as usual, while top Cat and I read the Sunday paper.

After lunch, while Lickety was walking out of the living room, he fell down and couldn’t get up. It didn’t look like another seizure; it looked like Lickety was simply running out of energy. I sat with him until he got the strength to pick himself up, and he wobbled into the den.

That’s when Lickety settled in under the coffee table there, and went to sleep.

In the late afternoon, he woke up all of a sudden and had a rather big seizure, and this time he didn’t come back to anything near “normal”. He seemed to be in a daze, his breathing was fast and shallow, his eyes staring at something that was not in the room. I laid him down on a fluffy blanket that he liked and put him back under the coffee table. I was lying down on the floor next to him, stroking his head, talking to him, telling him that we loved him, and that it was OK to go.

After a few hours, he jerked awake, raised his head a little, drew himself in as if he were curling up to go to sleep, and exhaled. His body went limp in my hands, and he was dead. It was 7:32 PM.

I don’t recommend this kind of home death for every cat. Death is hard, and slow. But with Lickety, I didn’t rush him to the emergency vet when we knew he was dying on Sunday because he had convinced me that he did not want to spend his last moments of life in a hospital, having made such a show of being a strong kitty at the vet’s office and hoodwinking us into taking him home.

I believe that this is the death that Lickety wanted. I’ve had a lot of cats, and I’ve seen cats die in many ways, from heart attacks in the living room to dropping dead under my kitchen table to the preferred last visit to the vet, to stuff you don’t want to know about. And you all, I know,  have a sense about what your beloved animal companions need and want at the end of their lives. So, I’m trusting my instinct on this.

Death is such a huge thing that even when a small, frail kitty dies, it rips a huge hole in reality. We had a dead cat in our den, and the whole house seemed off its axis. Top Cat and I were numb, too numb to cry, so we covered our dear boy with a linen napkin and made martinis. And then we made some more martinis.

We buried him the next morning.

This is one of the reasons that I love Twitter. This (above) came up in the tl at just the right time.

So, as you know, life goes on. And on. And on.

When I die, I want people to be absolutely miserable for about 24 hours, and then I want them to remember me and laugh. Really big laughs.

So:

 

And, oh yeah: Fuck Trump.

Have a great weekend, everyone.

XXOO

 

 

 

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Thank you for checking back, Dear Readers. Our boiler is fixed but now it’s Saturday and I have a date with some Korean pastries and ginger honey tea this afternoon so I must run, but here’s your weekly newsfeed.

Fuck Trump.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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