Dick pic

For me it was the most peculiar Independence Day, observed from a metaphorical lawn chair parked on pejorative British soil, dramatized by the fact that the UK and EU are at present disinterested in hosting Americans within their territories. Not only this but the Fourth of July also happened to be the same day that restaurants, pubs, and hair salons reopened in London. Freedom reigned in Britain while  it narrowed in America. I was sent a meme: 

"Under Kennedy we went to the moon, under Trump we can't even go to Europe." 

I traded hotdogs, for goat cheese stuffed mushrooms and salmon from nordic waters, fireworks for candles, and shitty beer for a bottle of champagne. And yes I am feeling smug. Smug and grateful to live in a country where there is health coverage for all and the man in power listens to his scientific advisors, and people don't revolt against face coverings as a political statement. I did kinda miss the hotdogs though. 

But it isn't all NHS style glamour on this side of the pond. The rodent has started showing up more and more despite pest control setting up traps and filling in structural gaps. Ratatouille even shows up in the daytime now and barely flinches when I screech. He marches into the kitchen like he owns the place, like "bitch, mind your business, imma just get this cheese outta the fridge. You want?" The pest control dude has been here three times in the last month, to the point even he has lost insight into his professional boundaries with me. 

Here is the progression of our texts:

"Good afternoon, contacting you from Pest Control. I have ordered the required stock for the proofing to be carried out. I'm aiming to attend this Friday providing it arrives. Would this be convenient?"

Yes that's fine. 

"Have to ask, that map in your front room I was looking at the other day, where did you get it? I really want it"

[No answer.]

2 hours later... 

"Would it be wrong to ask how old you are?"

Definitely not appropriate but I'm closer to my forties than twenties.

"Did you think I'm in my 20's then btw?"

I didn't think about it!

"Oh haha well I might be younger then you but I'm closer to turning 40 then I am to turning 20 myself."

Well that's reassuring. (Thinking to myself "you spelled 'then' wrong.") 

"I'm glad to be of help. But I'm sure your not that much older then me. When I first met ya I thought you were about my age maybe younger to be honest"

"You* not ya"

Okkkkkaaaaayyyyyyyy.

So anyhoo, I have evidently been traumatized from having been forced into cohabitation with Ratatouille that anytime there is something on the floor like a sock, scrunchie, or birkenstock, an adrenaline bomb goes off in my body. I swear I'm going to have a fucking heart attack one of these days and my flatmate will come home to Ratatouille standing over my dead body, snorting all my Stilton.  This is one reason I really need a boyfriend, or a cat. It's a sliding doors kind of moment in a woman's life.

My flatmate Anna sadly decided to move out (and in with her quarantine lover!) which would have been a perfect opportunity for my boyfriend to move in. Only problem is no boyfriend. So I put an advertisement up a couple weeks ago on spareroom.com. I sent Anna the link and asked her to send me a test message to ensure it was working properly. After a few minutes nothing came in. So I asked her to send me another one, which came through immediately.

Me: Anna, I got the "testing testing". Did you send me anything else?  

She replied with this screenshot:

Me: Oh, I didn't get the dick pic.

Anna: What, that's crazy.

Me: Yea I guess they censored it.

Anna: Yea but i wrote "dick pic", i didn't send you an actual dick pic. 

Not seeing the non dick pic dick pic was the most action I had all winter and spring. It still hasn't come through. 

My area is gold and the flat is so cute, under normal circumstances I'd have been spoiled for choice of potential paying residents. Only this time, presumably given the extremely uncertain covid driven circumstances, I had only four people respond to the advert. 

The first was a boy who wrote immediately saying how nice the flat was and asked enthusiastically if he could come see it, but then ghosted me when I actually replied. SHOCKER! A man who ghosted as soon as a woman showed interest. Gents, if you are ghosting people in any capacity you are a cliche! Girls talk a lot of shit about people like you. My emphatic life advice to you and your friends would be to aim for some originality by actually responding, even if to say you're not interested. This will take you far in life. 

The second was a girl roughly my age who worked in post production for TV. She was absolutely adorable and fun and I knew in an instant we were highly compatible. Only she couldn't afford it due to temporary covid related cuts to her salary. So I offered to subsidize her rent until she got her usual cash flow back. Sadly she was too conscious to accept. She was so good I wanted to pay her to move in. And pay her to be my friend. 

The third was another seemingly chic and edgy girl with a nose ring who worked as a curator for a London art gallery. She was my age and could afford it. But she came with a cat which meant she came with a litter box and I just couldn't bring myself to do cat poo or  cat hair, even with the Ratatouille situation. I have this hangup where hair or fur that's left the body really makes me queasy. 

The fourth was a girl who was working full time and also doing a diploma course in something to do with numbers/cash and ensured me she would be quiet and sensible. She was perky and eager to please, with long blonde hair and heels. Potential for real danger: she was 20 years old and showed up at the viewing with her MOTHER, wearing not only a blazer in desert heat but also a mask and rubber gloves, and stayed this way for the full two hours (TWO HOURS!) they were in my house, even after I had told them I had already been diseased in March. I felt like the hazmat situation might have been symbolic of  her  having lived a very sheltered life, one that would result in her judging me for doing normal human things like pooping or shooting whipped cream directly into my mouth from the can. But as my current flatmate Anna reminded me, "she'll be good for the rent money and maybe her mum will even buy you a Lamborghini". So, I went for it. Stay posted for updates on that after August 1st. 

Other than this, not much else going on where the new highlight of my day is checking the mail. The sense of joy that floods my soul every day I saunter down to the post box is akin to Christmas morning. Only problem is that the disappointment I feel when there is not even a junk letter is excruciating and unbearable. There is really nothing going on. Things got a little exciting for a minute when I noticed a new cafe had opened up downstairs, though my momentary interest was  thwarted when I asked if they did matcha lattes and the barista responded that "they did mocha lattes". Like, I appreciate they both start with the letter "M", but they're really not the same. 

Welp, it's time to go refresh the news and my weather app for the 293903495034985th time today...

(And happy fourth to my cronies on the other side.) 

Slumrat millionaire

I hit a new low this week doing nothing short of shitting the bed yesterday. 

It all started on Tuesday afternoon when I ordered a raw kale salad from a swanky health food restaurant in central london. I paid fifteen quid ($18.50) for a bowl of inedible plant which someone had apparently taken an undetectable dump on because it resulted in me being roused at 5am wednesday with a nausea so overwhelming it made me tachypneic. Moments later i was running to the bog and heaving out loads of cruciferous chunks (seemingly much more than the equivalent I'd eaten), followed by exorcist level green diarrhea, then more heaving, more diarrhea, and this continued for about four hours until my body composition emulated a cactus. Have you ever been sick like that? To the point where the thought of water makes you retch but your mouth feels like you'd spent a lifetime eating talc for breakfast?

anyway..

actually no, i'm going to rant on this topic some more. I mean, where is the reward for trying to be healthy? i am never eating that toxic green plant ever again. Why would i punish myself when I can eat pizza, burgers, and pasta and feel on top of the world? 24 hours later and I feel like i've been punched multiple times in the epigastrium. Oh and a little public service announcement: Pepto Bismol turns your poo black. I learned this the hard way thinking I had melena and was dying of internal hemorrhage, only to read the label and find out that bubble gum bismuth has this unfortunate side effect. 

I swear I live in the most expensive slum on the planet. East London is described as "edgy" which I guess is the adjective used to embody those times you walk out the door of your complex and are greeted by a large soft serving of human excrement. Two weeks ago I was chilling in my living room when a rodent suddenly appeared in the kitchen. No matter how many times I clean the dust reappears faster than it does in black rock city. The streetside intercom video doesn't work at all and the audio is intermittent which means we indiscriminately buzz anyone up who rings, notwithstanding the person who left the poo on our back doorstep. Our shower has two temperatures: scalding hot or freezing cold. But London is just so, ahhhh. We love it and love to hate it. Here is a picture of pest control making everything right in the world:

The purchase of nobility kale was a one off really. For the most part I have taken this period of quarantine to do things for myself. This includes meals as well as self care- mani pedis, and most recently waxing my own lady parts. I had had enough of the situation so bought a professional grade hot waxing kit and went berserk. Managed to remove all the hair  by myself! along with all the underlying skin to which it was once attached. 

I was a little surprised this weekend when I got an email saying that there was a package waiting for me at my office across town. I always find these scenarios when I have a delivery but didn't order anything very exciting. What could it be? Chocolates and flowers from a secret admirer? So I biked 40 minutes across town, conspiring along the way how I might possibly fit a gigantic bouquet of peonies or orchids in my bicycle basket. When I arrived, I was handed a square of plastic wrap smaller than my hand (and my hands while shaped like a man, are actually quite tiny). I opened it up. It was a roll-on of mosquito repellant. Was this some kind of sick joke? The celestial bodies above laughing at me for the trip to Thailand that got cancelled only days before the whole world shut down?

There have admittedly been some nice moments during this lockdown. I am actually a bit of an environmentalist so its pretty cool to see carbon emissions down by 60% in London and swans swimming in the same canal where I would otherwise expect floating syringes. I feel like I notice more  of these kinds of beautiful things- the smell of jasmine, the beautiful bearded and bunned man drawing a heart with red chalk on the sidewalk. These are stark comparisons to the other darker moments where I've found myself sitting alone at the river typing 'will I ever get married?' into the online magic eight ball.  The answer is always some variant of "my sources say no". The closest I've ever gotten to a 'yes' is "concentrate and ask again". In fact I just asked it again right now and it says "Very doubtful"

I guess that takes the discomfort in uncertainty out of some things. What it does not do is take the uncertainty out of whether or not I will ever dance in a sweaty, packed nightclub ever again, or if my laptop keyboard will ever revert to normal. You see, a few weeks ago I spilled a double margarita on it and probably got some flour in there too as I was making home made tortillas. The internal fan started blowing like hell and I was sure my computer was going to blow up in a spectacular show of living room fireworks. I was relieved when it persevered, only now the keys are so sticky that the computer is good only for watching The Real Housewives of New York. I am hoping if I throw some talc or olive oil in there they'll loosen up. For now I am using an external keyboard.

This has been the best, shittiest, longest, fastest year ever. I have realized that what makes me feel almost as bad as kale is taking care of myself. I am so bored with taking care of me. I would like very much instead to look after someone, or have someone look after me, but being independent brings a limited joy. Of course we can do things for ourselves, but isn't it so much nicer if someone does it for us? 

So who is volunteering to skill up and do my next bikini wax? 

Inconclusive

"The only thing that's certain is death and taxes". 

My father used to say this to me when I was a kid (clearly to blame for the origins of my insipid outlook) and this musing was the first thing I thought about last week when opening up the results of my COVID-19 antibody test:

INCONCLUSIVE.

Apparently one of the test plates showed a positive result, whereas the other came out negative. As if the uncertainty wasn't annoying enough, now my flatmate is trying to imply that my three and a half week stint of anosmia and ageusia was psychogenic. This is the same girl who randomly leaves her lipstick, hairbrush, and receipts for her lubricant and vibrator purchases in the same kitchen cabinet containing all our cereals and biscuits. But I'm the one who's nuts.

To be fair, she might be right about me having lost it. I have been having disturbing and crazy dreams lately. In the span of a week I dreamt first that I showed up at the hospital dripping with amniotic fluid and about to explode with a 40 week baked bebé. All the beds and staff were occupied dealing with COVID-19 drama, so I sat on the floor of the emergency department lobby and delivered that thing myself, cutting the cord with my fuggin teeth no less. There was of course no father in sight. Then just a couple nights ago I dreamt I was at my own wedding and very happily said "I do" to myself; once again no man in sight because apparently in the eyes of my subconscious I am a strong and independent woman capable of immaculate conception out of conventional wedlock. Bastard. 

In the meanwhile I have repeated the antibody blood test. There seems to be little else to do anyway than sit around in my joggers finger pricking myself over and over again. Having no social life and no manic family to homeschool and control means a lot of free time for thinking. In this vein it's actually been a period of intense contemplation considering as well what is important and what I want. I have gone back and forth being down on myself for being the insurgent against social first world convention- 35 and unattached, still a renter and no assets. But in a moment I am reminded that for what I lack in family happiness and stock options I gain in freedom and cock options. And everything feels ok again. Especially when Warren Buffett loses fifty bajillion dollars in the same period that I GAINED another tenner in my bank account. 

I'm about to lose my shit because last night I spilled a full margarita onto my macbook and now the keys are sticking. What do I do? As if I wasn't already deep enough down the rabbit hole of my own thoughts, now the entire top line of my keyboard Q to P is grating at my will to carry on. Gonna take a quick break.  brb.

Ok. I'm back. 

I have just returned to my computer after an hour of stress relieving activity trimming all my split ends with a nail clipper. 

Does anyone else think it's weird when someone asks you these days "what are you up to this weekend?" Like, is that some kind of sinister joke? Makes me angry and defensive like you KNOW perfectly well I'm going to be working on expanding my collection of adipocytes and repeatedly hitting refresh on my computer checking for news coverage that this is all over. What are YOU up to this weekend? 

I keep hearing these sweet little slogans that we are all in this together. We ARE all in this together, and that also means getting fatter together. It's just not fair if any of you are out there using this time to get in shape while the rest of us become more and more shapeless. Things for me are bulging in places they never have before but I'm too terrified to step on the scale to confront the damage. Not only have I been moving less but I've been pac manning my way through each day. Even my targeted instagram ads this morning was for a meal delivery company called "Fat Girl Getting Fit."

(A quick digression just to point out that this company's marketing team really needs a new manager because that plate looks fucking disgusting. Obviously you're going to lose weight if your meal consists of a pile of parsley, a lime wedge, and a sprinkle of cat testicle.) 

Other than gorging on carbs, as a mechanism of boosting dopamine I have also been shopping online. So far I have bought a salad spinner, a 50-pack of 8-hour burning tea lights, and two very tiny whisks. It was fun to open the boxes but then I realized I'm really not sure why I did all of that. 

Be careful of those coronavirus scams people. Its really upsetting that anyone could engage in profiteering in any capacity from a pandemic, whether that be charging thousands for a milliliter of convalescent COVID-19 plasma or phishing online. In general, if you get any emails that have the word "Greetings" in the subject line, you know the sender is  full of shit. Nobody says that. Also, emails that include emoticons should be deleted (and so should your boyfriend if he uses them more often than prose). 

By far the best thing that has happened to my social life in the last month was a couple weeks ago when there was an unexpected knock at my door on a weekday afternoon. I opened it up to find a very attractive police officer. It was the first person other than my flatmate and the grocer I've interacted with since the 12th of March. My first reaction was to scan my memory of every illegal thing I'd ever done. My second reaction - influenced both by how attractive he was and having just watched the first episode of "Toy Boy" on Netflix, made me believe he could have been a stripper. He showed me his badge and I nodded like "yea, you and I both know thats fake". But then he asked for Anna, my flatmate. Someone had tried to steal her moped and she'd filed a report without leaving her phone number, so they sent the sexiest cop in London to sort it out in person. I called Anna with him standing in front of me to make sure this wasn't some weird coronavirus scam:

"Wait, there's a cop at our house right now?"

"Yes."

"Is he cute?" 

"Yes he's cute." (cop blushes, breaking character)

"Give him whatever details he wants." 

"I'll give him my details too, just in case."

The investigation is still inconclusive. 

Dutch Courage

Thirteen days ago I drank a can of Dutch Courage- a hibiscus and cherry flavored elixir spiked with 5mg of CBD compliments of my gym the day it shut its doors for the indefinite future. When I woke up dazed in the late afternoon four hours later, I reconciled the dozey episode to a mild cannabidiol intoxication. 

But then it happened again the next day even after I'd slept twice the number of hours as usual the night before and had no dutch courage in my system. When I slammed myself into the shower I came aware that I could barely smell the shampoo i pay extortionate amounts for if only to sense its hypnotic fragrance. Then when my dinner was tasteless I realized what was happening... 

I live with another doctor so was conscious that the eventuality of getting infected by SARS-CoV-2 was more likely a life outcome for me than an engagement that actually progresses to marriage. I just didn't think it was going to happen so soon. I had been extremely vigilant with social distancing and hygiene long before it was cool. I had even stopped taking the free samples of pizza my local bakery puts out on offer to the public every night.  Although I cannot confirm my diagnosis because testing in this country is still overwhelmingly limited to hospitalized patients and male political figures, my clinical suspicion remains high.

What I can say for certain is that twelve days have passed and only today could I finally slightly taste my revolting multivitamin and smell my afternoon poo. Or maybe it was the other way around. Smell and taste are tough to tell apart. But what's so mind numbing about it is that while I could have capitalized on the opportunity to eat cardboard for two weeks and get a little bit skinny, my boredom amidst extreme social isolation landed me instead in a compulsive food eating habit where I constantly aim to test whether my capacity to register flavor has returned. And I don't mean from one day to the next, but from one bowl of cereal after the other. 

The news headlines these days are weird and basically unreadable. Today in the BBC: 

• a man is jailed for claiming he has COVID-10 and coughing on a police officer
• Stacy's Mom songwriter dies at 52 with coronavirus 
• Man charged with bid to crash train into hospital ship 

I don't even understand the syntax of that last point. 

People stockpiling coke zero and toilet paper as if these were the things that were going to save them from damnation. I instead started stockpiling red wine and the most calorically dense ice cream i could find because if I'm gonna go, I might as well go down in a spiral of great pleasure.

Irony is all around. Found myself reading Esther Perel's Mating in Captivity today, which actually has nothing to do with the admittedly befitting title to our current state of affairs. I got a Brazilian wax just four days before the soft lockdown in anticipation of an imminent trip to Thailand which ended up being canceled by Thailand itself but not by British Airways who as if to add insult to injury upgraded me for free the morning of the flight that I never boarded. And now who is going to see my wax? Nobody! Because I am a responsible socially isolated human and anyway as my friend Sharon has said to me lately- it's better to be in bed with coronavirus than with an asshole. 

You know how when you're bored you keep getting up to look in the fridge just to see if there's anything new in there even though you know you haven't been to the shop in the last ten minutes since you last opened it? I am now applying the same pattern of behavior to my events calendar- constantly opening up iCal and scrolling for plans. Plans for tomorrow? nope. The weekend? nope. Next Week? still no plans. Next month? nothing. 2024? completely empty. There are no plans anywhere. Why is it that the first time I am really forced into mindfulness is also the most boring and uneventful time of my life? 

*checks iCal again* 

Shout out to the universe though for letting me keep my job, and for being fortunate enough to be able to work from home during these uncertain times. My flatmate who cannot conceive of the idea of intubating someone from the living room has not fully comprehended the concept of me being at work when I'm dressed only from the waist up, and on the sofa with my headphones, but at least she's stopped wandering behind my screen naked en route to fire up the kettle while I'm on a video call with my team.  

Stay safe and in love people, and courageous like the dutch. 

Sexless in the city

Today is the first sunny day in London for what feels like a millenium and still I have found myself devoting this tragic sunday to taking the crater in my sofa another inch deeper. Anyone who has ever ingested adderrall knows that you have to be doing what you intend to do for the next four hours the moment the medication kicks in, or else you'll find yourself buffing the kitchen floor with a sonicare toothbrush, color and shape coordinating your closet, and plucking your leg hair from ankle to bikini line incapable of stopping until either you've got them all or the adderall wears off. A similar phenomenon occurs when I write. Not even the prospect of a ball of fire to melt my frigid heart and warm my face could unglue me from the keyboard in those moments I start to marry thoughts to the page. I suppose I like it because i can disguise myself as having done something when the reality is having been unwashed and bedbound until 5pm. 

Have you ever seen those $20.00 pop up tents? They are marketed toward amateurs (in life, not just camping) for taking only two minutes to pitch, but what they fail to mention is that they also take a lifetime to pack away. There's a metaphor to my love life there where the first time I really fell in love it took about 2 minutes and seemed like the most incredible, easy thing ever, and then from the time it was over has felt like an immoveable feat. AND THEN just when you think you've gotten the last corner into the box, BANG that little shit pops up again to startle you and you have to begin again.

In the process of trying to find novel ways to destroy that unnatural, nylon jack-in-the-box  style habitat , getting a text like this when you're a single person living in London is really the best thing that can happen to you in terms of romance: 

Seems like a paradox in a city with 9 million people, a significant proportion of whom are highly educated, successful, beautiful, cultured, and interesting. But it's equivalently easy to be anonymous in a city so large and furthermore British people are not exactly romantic. I guess this is what happens when you get older. My love life went from being beautiful and unadulterated by baggage to terrifying and sad and also really fucking weird with loads of allegorical suitcases of every shape and size (albeit Prada branded). The last date I went on in London was with a guy who would have apparently ticked a lot of boxes, but who in the first ten minutes lamented being accused of homophobia at work (where there's smoke there's fire people), then ordering an orange juice at DINNER at an italian restaurant, then asking the waiter if there were any chips  on the menu (again, this was an italian restaurant), then gulping the entire orange juice instead of actually chewing his food before ordering a SECOND orange juice to wash down the rest of his meal. He even tried to intellectualize this by saying "I don't understand why people drink wine with their food, it doesn't help you get the food down". Dates like this render me almost hopeless when it comes to matters of the heart and commission me instead to the sofa in my robe on consequential saturday nights, massaging my roommate's feet and eating bowls of cereal for dinner while I reflect on the fact that the most productive thing I did over the weekend was charge my vibrator. 

So who is going to scoop my body off the ice when I eat shit at the Somerset House rink this Christmas? The answer is nobody. I will be sexless in the city which is still better than another handbag or a third glass of orange juice.