As we enter Season 3 of the Pandemic...
It's like Succession, but without the comedic frisson of Roman & Gerri
(In my best Kieran Culkin voice) “Oh, you're burnt out from working during a 2-year going on 3-year pandemic? Have you tried being resilient, you little bitch?”
Hello, Lovelies, How the hell are you?
Welcome to season three of Covid where it all feels like more of the same snarky betrayal… lines around the block for testing, Broadway shuttering, SNL back to being weird, and this week, everyone seems to actually know someone who’s tested positive even though vaxxed. If you don’t, well, here’s a pissup… Now you do.
I thought it was just a bleckghy head cold brought on by the stress of writing deadlines and somnambulant burglars. And, I’d decided to rally and make my family this completely killer balsamic glazed lamb. It takes two days, but it’s totally worth it. So there I was, out in the garden—picking fresh sage for the marinade. I wanted to make a bit of a workout of it—so I probably looked like a mad actress, think Parker Posey “method weeding”—taking all my emotional angst out on a defenseless bush when I realized, holy hell… things should stink more!
See, ordinarily, when I make this dish, my hands reek for a full two days. It’s so bad, I can barely sleep with myself. I practically need mittens. That day, as I buried my head deep in the bush, I couldn't smell a thing. I hurried inside and quickly shoved my nose into a jar of pickled garlic—nothing. I tried a jar of horseradish—nada. This was bad.
I zipped down to the drugstore for a home test and spent the next half-hour playing Marie Curie in my living room. Positive. Next, came a positive PCR from a relentlessly chipper medical assistant dressed as an elf. Then, came the onslaught of opinions from my family…
I know, right? And I’ve been such a hermit for the entire pandemic… I felt like Shiv in the very last moment of the Season 3 Finale—utterly betrayed by the Tom Wambsgans that is my immune system.
Kicking this bug has been anything but linear. What started as a snuffly cold with crazy arctic chills morphed into corpse-like exhaustion that had me wracked out for fifteen hours a day. Then, right as I seemed to be getting better, I developed Covid eyeballs… aka explosive conjunctivitis that both aches and only half-likes to respond to the damn meds. Charming, eh? I mean, I’d heard of Covid toe, Covid yucky taste, and long Covid, but Covid eyeball? This is a couture virus, people. I’m now on to the lung-chest-hurty phase and I’m thinking it might be time for a hit of monoclonals. We’ll see. Meanwhile, Christmas?
To keep distracted, I have had three hilarious seasons of Stath Lets Flats featuring the rodent-tooth guy from Fleabag, whose gift for physical comedy, e.g., his utter inability to get out of a car, is simply unparalleled…
You can find Stath on HBOmax. Another project I’m finding haunting and gorgeous, while stuck in bed and feeling rather existentially iffy, is Station Eleven, based on the novel by Emily St. John Mandel. She will tell you she’s nobody’s prophet, but damn if the book and the series don’t remind us all that as much as we need survival, we need art just as much…
And if you didn’t already see it and need a lift from any family or pandemic-related woes, do take a moment for this gentle little tidbit:
Because even with the pandemic and its inherent hardships, all things must pass. The very meaning of succession. Ok, I’ve got to will myself into wellness so that I can be jolly and finish the edits on my damn book. But happy holidays, Lovelies. May they still be merry & bright.
Stay safe, and catch up with you in the new year - xoxo - gotham girl
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