Hit Me with Your Best Shot

I think I wrote a few months back that I participated in the Pfizer COVID-19 study. If not, surprise! That was me! (And 29,999 other people.) I was “unblinded” last week and learned that I received the placebo. Good thing that I told myself to pretend I KNEW I got the placebo all along!

The researchers brought me in for a shot of the real stuff yesterday, which was very nice of them. While I was sitting in the clinic waiting for my dose to thaw I got a breaking news alert that the US officially passed 500k deaths. It was a surreal moment, taking that in while in the process of getting my first vaccine. So heartbreaking and also crazy at how routine this has all become.

I’m grateful I had this opportunity to participate in this research and soooo grateful to have my first shot for realz!

Side note: I was given the shot by a girl named Joy. Could that be more perfect?

The Other First Thanksgiving

The year 1863 was a rough one in the United States. On January 1st, the new year began with Lincoln signing the Emancipation Proclamation, stating, “I never in my life, felt more certain that I was doing right, than I do in signing this paper.” Let’s not give him too much credit though; this was a calculated military decision, not a humanitarian one. The civil war was in its third year and far from over. As such the proclamation was not enforceable in the rebellious South. Lincoln hoped that emancipation would inspire a mass revolt and exodus of Southern slaves to the North, bulking up the Union army and sapping the labor force of the South.

Unsurprisingly, the proclamation received mixed responses. Abolitionists, who had been fighting slavery in the U.S. since before the American Revolution, celebrated the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation and the progress it represented. White supremacists in the North and the South were outraged, of course. It was fresh meat for the already bitterly divided country to claim and combat over.*

In March, the Civil War Conscription Act was issued, making military service mandatory for all men between the ages of 20 and 45. If you could find a substitute or pay a fee of $300 you could be excused from this “draft,” which was clearly unfair to the poor. The South, also hurting for recruits, took a similar action. This caused a backlash for both military campaigns, and large riots broke out in New York City.

1863 would see many significant Civil War battles. The Battle of Chancellorsville and The Vicksburg Campaign both commenced in May. Then, on the first day of July, The Battle of Gettysburg began. The Union prevailed after three days of fighting. They stopped Lee’s advance into Northern territory and the battle would prove to be a turning point in the war (still two years away from its end), but victory came at a terrible price. Collectively, there were 23 thousand casualties, and seven thousand Americans died on the battlefield. (For comparison, note that a total of 6,800 died in the entire Revolutionary War.)

In short, 1863 was a shit year. They didn’t have dumpster fires back then, so if they had sold jokey holiday ornaments, it would have been an outhouse on fire with dead bodies all around it and a bright shiny “1863” stamped on it.

Then, in September, a woman named Sarah Josepha Hale (you’ve never heard of her, but she wrote “Mary Had a Little Lamb”) wrote Abraham Lincoln a letter, asking that Thanksgiving be “made a National and fixed Union Festival.”

We all remember learning about the story of the “First Thanksgiving,” which is more or less apocryphal. There was a gathering in Plymouth Massachusetts in 1621 where Pilgrims and members of the Wampanoag tribe shared a feast. Other feasts of thanksgiving happened earlier than 1621 in several other states.

In October of 1789, President George Washington commemorated these stories by creating a holiday, giving “the People of the United States a day of public thanks-giving.” It wasn’t formalized, however. For the next 74 years, Thanksgiving was a sporadic holiday, with the celebratory date determined state by state.

In her letter, Hale asked that President Lincoln write a proclamation appointing the last Thursday in November as a national holiday, “thus, by the noble example and action of the President of the United States, the permanency and unity of our Great American Festival of Thanksgiving would be forever secured.” Hale, who was the editor of Lady’s Book (sometimes called Godey’s Magazine), had been championing this idea for fifteen years. Abraham Lincoln was not the first president she petitioned, but she would not be disappointed this time.

I don’t know what Abraham Lincoln said exactly, but I watch a lot of Drunk History, so I imagine it was something like, “we should like totally do this [belch]. I’m going to make this a thing.”

Lincoln’s Thanksgiving Proclamation (which was written by Secretary of State, William Seward) reads:

I do therefore invite my fellow citizens in every part of the United States, and also those who are at sea and those who are sojourning in foreign lands, to set apart and observe the last Thursday of November next, as a day of Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens. And I recommend to them that while offering up the ascriptions justly due to Him for such singular deliverances and blessings, they do also, with humble penitence for our national perverseness and disobedience, commend to His tender care all those who have become widows, orphans, mourners or sufferers in the lamentable civil strife in which we are unavoidably engaged, and fervently implore the interposition of the Almighty Hand to heal the wounds of the nation and to restore it as soon as may be consistent with the Divine purposes to the full enjoyment of peace, harmony, tranquility and Union.

And so, November 26th, 1863 became the other first Thanksgiving. The nation was in morning and searching for its soul. More than 600 thousand soldiers would die in the war by its end in 1865. Lincoln lost his own young son to illness just a year before, in 1862. There is a way in which calling for a festival of gratitude seems like an insane act in this year. At the same time, it seems like the sanest thing Lincoln could have done to begin the healing was to ask everyone to come together around the one thing we can all agree on: food.

Obviously, I’m making a little parallel here. I don’t think you can compare the tragedies of 1863 to 2020, though the death and suffering of both years have left a mourning nation. I want to think they will both be remembered as periods that transformed us for the better. I’ve heard some people in my group of friends say they were forgoing Thanksgiving this year, partly because of the pandemic, but also because of the racism associated with the story and with the colonists and Native Americans in general. That’s fine; everyone must find their own path. But when I think about Thanksgiving I think about 1863 and all those years where the creation of “a more perfect union” was an excruciating labor of love and not just a theoretical exercise. I think of a nation torn in half, digging deep to find gratitude.

I know we weren’t able to gather with our loved ones last week, and that was really hard. Still, I hope you gave thanks. I hope you called your people. I hope you sent a text to that friend that you think of often but rarely speak to. I hope you broke bread with someone you love, and I hope you ate your feelings until it hurt. That’s what I did, anyway.

*Footnote: at four o’clock this morning I sat up in bed in horror, realizing that my inclusion of the Emancipation Proclamation in my list of big events in 1863 implies I think it was a bad thing, when that isn’t what I meant! I’m including it only because it was divisive. Obviously, it was a good thing, and a huge undertaking. (I know this because I saw Lincoln with Daniel Day Lewis. Great movie!) True emancipation wouldn’t come until the ratification of the 13th Amendment in 1865, but we celebrate the Emancipation Proclamation for good reason.

Okay. I can go back to bed now.

Shrinkage?

This is what I get for ordering dog treats online. I’ve known a few guys who measure six inches this way… but seriously. Are we really worried about the pig’s feelings at this point?

When You Get a Divorce…

But the rest of the sticker still applies!

I Aim to Pees

So… this happened.

A few weeks ago, Matt and I were watching a movie and I was drinking a la croix which gave me the hiccups. When I couldn’t get it to stop by holding my breath I went upstairs to drink from the faucet with a spoon in my mouth against my cheek because Matt SWEARS by this technique.

No dice. I decided to take Murphy out for some yard time while I waited for it to stop.

We were out there for a few minutes when I had one of those pee attacks where it’s now or never. I knew I wouldn’t make it back to the house and into the bathroom, so I dropped trou and crouched in a corner. Just then, Matt came out to see what the hell was taking so long and caught me red… butted.

I was yelling “no no go back inside” as I pulled my denim shorts on but I wasn’t done so I peed my pants anyway. Then I ran in to explain and he said, “My God, Rachel! There are children in the next yard!”

(They couldn’t see me I’m sure)

I briefly considered committing hari kari but didn’t want that to be my last act on earth so I swallowed my shame.

Anyway, it got rid of my hiccups!!! I highly recommend this cure. Works 100% of the times I tried it.

In other old lady news I just caught someone checking out my butt at Smith’s grocery store. I was grossed out and walked away pulling my shirt waist down to my thighs to hide my ass, when I remembered that I will turn 43 this weekend.

I’m in my mid forties and I can’t control my bladder sometimes, but I still appear fuckable from certain angles.

I’ll take it.

Are All Y’all Okay?

I am obsessed with dogs. I don’t think that’s new information. But I have developed one dog obsessed habit over the years that I haven’t really talked about, which is this: if I see someone walking their dog, I have to turn my head and see the dog, and it has something to do with seeing what kinds of people choose what kinds of dogs. I find that most people are well matched to their dogs, but the more mismatched they are, the more it delights me. Exempli gratia: the biggest gruffest man in the world walking a dog so tiny, white, and puffy that it looks like the puff of a dandelion = my week made.

And so, yesterday, I was driving up the main thoroughfare that leads to my house, and… I saw a man out of my peripheral vision that my brain decided was walking a dog. In retrospect, what my brain registered was a man on the sidewalk with his had at hip level and a line going from his hand to the ground in a very leash like way. However, when I turned my head there was no dog. My eyes followed the line back up to the hands, which were holding a penis. And that’s how I saw a strangers wiener on my street yesterday. And even though I didn’t want any part of that experience, I got a close enough look at the piss stream that the first articulatable thought that went through my mind was, “he seems dehydrated.”

Here’s the crazy part. No, actually… that was the crazy part. But the thing that I keep thinking about is the fact that he was a clean cut silver haired gentleman in a button down shirt and salmon pants. He looked completely not homeless. And he was passing on the sidewalk of a busy street, at 4:30 on a Thursday, very near a secluded parking lot. And yet, he gave no fucks, only urine.

I’m just hung up on the Venm diagram of salmon pants and public urination. I realize, of course, that the percentage of me who would urinate in a public space under certain circumstances is 100%. But when do those circumstances include salmon pants? My instincts tell me there is little overlap there. Obviously my instincts need recalibrating.

Is it the pandemic? Have we all lost our attachments to norms? Has the implied social contract we all hold for one another’s safety and comfort disintegrated so completely in three months?

I’m picturing this salmon pants / street pissing / pandemic Venn diagram, and I see a cartoon rendering of a savage and bug-eyed looking germ each gripping one of those circles. They laughing while pushing them together until they over lap significantly. And in the shaded area of the overlap is a label that reads “the world can go fuck itself.”

My state is starting to open up. My city got the word yesterday that we have gone from “orange” (moderate risk) to “yellow” (low risk). Restaurants are opening patios and people are excited to get out and enjoy the lovely May weather.

I haven’t felt great about it, as our cases of virus as well as the deaths have continued climbing. But now, I have this completely insane data (I realize it is anec-data with a plot point of one, but sometimes that’s all you need) that men, who otherwise would be cast as models in adds for a Vanguard retirement fund, are openly pissing on the sidewalk in broad daylight and that tells me that people are NOT OKAY! And it is NOT SAFE to go out there!

Full disclosure, I’m a total introvert and I’m thoroughly enjoying keeping up with people via Zoom from my basement and if things stayed like this for a while I would probably be just fine. But still. That shit is a bad sign.

PS I know you are wondering and the answer is no: he was not wearing a mask.

Stationary is no Antibody, but Maybe it Helps?

This is definitely not a blog that will tell you how to get through COVID 19 with grace and ease. There are plenty of those and I don’t have anything original to add. I wish I did.

One thing I implemented in my household that has lasted more than a weekend is the revival of hankies. You know the cloth thing your grandpa always had in his pocket? I have a basket of hankies set out like Easter eggs and you can get a new one each day. Matt and I decided that “big blows” go in disposable tissue but occasional wipes can get the pocket hankie. That made it less weird.

You are judging me as totally gross right now but I am impervious because yesterday, for the first time, the new puppy pushed his way through the bathroom door to discover that I actually “do my business” in The House! No judgment you send will match the intensity of those chocolate eyes. I destroyed his innocence, forever!

This is less gross and more gross at the same time… When I do decide a blow is “Kleenex worthy,” I get a tissue but then I put it in my pocket and I later use it as toilet paper. Yeah, there is a risk of getting boogers on my butt hole, but this is an emergency, people! We MUST conserve!

You can judge me all you want but I grew up poor and if you threw a tissue away without having smeared boogers on each quadrant, my mother’s WRATH would have been upon you! Yes, she checked the trash. With her bare hands. Apparently, she was more concerned about waste than germs. It was a simpler time.

So… that was all an example of how I am making this up as I go along and DO NOT HAVE THIS! We are at week… what? 500? I don’t know. I work from home anyway so I was at a disadvantage at noticing the difference between leading a sad solitary life and living in a pandemic from the get-go. Time is like a cesspool of headlines and vague concerns, all blending together in a impressionist painting of HELL. I have kinda been feeling that since 2016. Y’all are just catching up with me.

ANYHOO!

This is the one thing I have been doing for the last six weeks or so that I think is actually helpful and I encourage you all to do the same. I have dug out my collection of stationary. You know, those packs of 12 thank you cards or blank note cards you bought when you only needed three, so they pile up endlessly in that drawer you hate to look in? I discovered a box of cards that (I shit you not) I bought in 1996. They are all portraits of Tibetan people and they are so beautiful that I never parted with a single one. Also, what occasion do those suit, really? Happy bat-mitzvah! Here is a photo of an ancient vegetarian! (Maybe that would be acceptable but it certainly wasn’t the perfect fit.)

Point being: I dug out those cards and whenever I feel a longing for connection, I sit down and – here is the important part – before I can over think it, I write to someone and I send it. Who doesn’t love a hand written card? Who isn’t craving connection right now?

I’ve sucked Ethan into it also. Each week he gets a vague assignment from his second grade teachers that says “write X many sentences about whatever you want.” I have converted that into “write to a grandparent using a card from my stash!” He has two bio parents and two step parents, so there are plenty of grandfolks to choose from! And God Almighty, do they need that right now!

I’m not trying to give myself any credit here; it is a simple thing. But if you are reading this, I implore you: make a list of people in your life that you could lift up with a card (or note on scratch paper! It doesn’t need to be a fancy card!), and make that happen this week/weekend. It’s small but it makes a difference.

PS If you are wondering who received the precious Tibetan portraits from the mid nineties, I’m sad to say that I haven’t sent any of those. Apparently, my inner hoarder wants to be buried with those. My inner hoarder is strong willed, so I better start saving up for a super sized casket.

Crafters vs COVID

I really didn’t want to write about COVID19. I know it’s impossible to escape right now.   But honestly, it is all I think about. Maybe in another week or two this will just be my new life and I’ll be back to worrying about things other than how quickly my household is going through toilet paper.

Because I am lucky enough to have a job, my health, and family, this is an example of how the virus is affecting me:

Last week, I got an email from work which, at first glance, appeared to indicate that I had made a large mistake. Before I could register what I was reading or go back and look into the matter, Matt called to me from the other room in a panic. He needed help tuning Ethan’s violin before his online lesson started in three minutes. I do not know how to tune a violin, but I was needed so I shot off an email to my coworkers, apologizing profusely for being an idiot, and dashed off to learn about tuning pegs. Between Matt and I, we made the violin much worse. But once Ethan’s lesson started, his instructor was able to talk us through it and most of his lesson wasn’t wasted. I returned to my computer, re-read the email and opened up a few files to see what had happened. Turned out that everything was fine. There was no mistake in action on my part, only a small mistake in communication on someone else’s part, and I had leaped onto my sword in my apology email for no reason.

I’m not sure, but I think my blood-pressure broke a record high in that 15 minute interval.

This is what I am going through, because as I said, I am very lucky. My sisters and most of my friends have full time jobs and multiple children to home school, also full time. And I don’t know anyone who is sick! I can’t even imagine what those folks are going through.

I’m just trying to keep on top of things at work and home, but it is tricky. I feel like a big part of living with this pandemic is like playing a multi week long scavenger hunt. I’m finding out what I need to collect just a little too late, however. First it was toilet paper, then paper towels, eggs, flour, then paper towels again. Then, a few days ago, we got the “order” (a gentle request from our Republican governor with zero consequences for ignoring it) to wear homemade masks while in stores.

The homemade part is important because they want to save all the medical supplies for health care workers. I have heard just how important this is multiple times on NPR. And that matters NPR is the closest thing that I have to a religion now. It used to be the second closest but brunch has been cancelled until further notice.

I set about making masks and again, I am very lucky here. I have a sewing machine. I can sew. Not well, but I can. It occurred to me that I was being called to use my least favorite crafting skill for my country and I was a little irritated by this fact. If this were a knitting crisis, I would be kicking ass. I would be the equivalent of the mom in the Incredibles at knitting the country back together. But no. It had to be sewing.

I have plenty of fabric laying around, so that wasn’t a problem. This is when I realized I missed out on another important item from the scavenger hunt list: elastic. I saw people online using hair elastics but I was concerned about making that work if the mask was either a little too big or a little too small. I decided to go to Joann’s Fabric and see what I could find. The only elastic they had was for waistbands, which was much too wide. I found a lot of ribbon though, so I decided to use that and just tie the damn thing.

As I was poking around looking at ribbon and thread, I noticed that everyone else in the store was already wearing a homemade mask, and they were all perfectly executed. Hang on! I said in my mind. I’m working on it! 

I heard on NPR that it takes about five minutes to sew one of these masks. I knew that it would take me longer, but it took about one hour and forty five minutes longer. I found a free pattern online and immediately had to start improvising with it because it was so large it would have covered my entire face. You remember that kid from So I Married an Axe Murderer? The one that has a head “like an orange on a toothpick”?  I have the opposite problem. I am more of the pin on a tangerine shaped human.

I messed with it and messed with it. I had to add several more pleats than the pattern called for. It did not look like the perfect masks on the ladies of Joann’s. For one thing, it was still too big. But I got it done.

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The next time I braved the grocery store, I put on my mask with some pride. I made this for my country! I thought. It’s like a tiny victory garden, right on my face!

But the grocery store patrons were quite different from the serious crafters of Joann’s. First, I was one of the only people wearing a mask, (as I said, it wasn’t required) and second, the other masked people were all wearing the medical looking ones that we weren’t supposed to buy. The feeling that I got at Joann’s was something like shame that I hadn’t done this already. The feeling I got in the deli aisle was something like embarrassment for being the goody-two shoes who listens to NPR and our governor’s gentle suggestions. Both felt like high school, all over again.

Oh well. I made it and I’m wearing it. I may take crack at sewing a new one. I still have a ton of fabric and I found a pattern that might fit on my face (and stay on my nose!) much better. If I’m too busy with work or violin triage, however, then I’ll make do with this.

In that same address, our governor asked everyone to try to help local businesses by getting take-out three times a week. This was the best news I received since this whole thing started. Get take out for my country? Hell yes! I’m suddenly patriotic AF!

If there is a knitting need that arises, by all means let me know. I’m ready to help! Meanwhile, I’ve got some noodles and tacos to attend to. U.S.A.! U.S.A.! U.S.A.!

 

Improvising

If everything had gone according to plan, I would be in southern Utah tonight with all my boys, celebrating Wensley’ fifteenth birthday. But Wensley’s kidneys gave out in February. I kept the trip on the books because I’ve been so sad without him and I thought it would be good to get away. Then last week I experienced both my first pandemic and my first earthquake. It was like a biathlon of terror.

After Wensley died, I had been saying that maybe we would get another dog for Christmas, after a good long grieving break. Then school was canceled and Matt, Ethan, and I have been stuck at home getting on each other’s nerves all day. Then I said that if school was canceled for more than the two weeks they originally announced, we would get a dog for Easter. Something to distract us. Then I woke up to a 5.7 earthquake and stumbled through hours of aftershocks as I tried unsuccessfully to focus on work. I went for a walk to calm my nerves and found myself tempted to steal every dog I saw.

So, yeah. We got a puppy on Friday. Nothing is going according to plan right now so I said “fuck it.”

Meet Murphy, the 10 week old Goldendoodle that I found through a friend. He’s a sweetheart and a good monster and sometimes he makes me cry because I still miss my dog terribly and I feel like an unfaithful A hole for getting a new dog less than six weeks after I lost my Wensleydale.

I told my therapist about it yesterday. He was kind and said he was surprised I lasted this long. Then we talked about Murphy as a new chapter, and not a replacement. That reminded me of something I read in a David Sedalia essay once, about the way the lifespan of our pets put a tidy parentheses around eras in our lives. It’s so true. I like thinking of it that way.

This morning I was sad because I realized that today is Wensley’s birthday. Murphy was being adorable and I was resisting his charm, feeling a longing that is unfair to him but articulated itself as a rebuke that said “you aren’t my dog.”

Then he did something that Wensley used to do that I had completely forgotten about. He ran over to his food bowl which I had just filled, took one bit of kibble in his mouth, then ran back to the carpeted area of the room and ate it there. Then he did it again, and again. I don’t know how common that is with puppies, but I always thought it was hilarious when Wensley did it. “Does it taste better when your paws are cushioned?” I used to ask him.

Wensley was my dog. But Murphy is our dog. This new era is off to a weird and wonky start, but it has begun. And Murphy is not a replacement. He’s a new member of the family that belongs in this era. But if he helps remember some joy from the last era, that’s fine too. It wasn’t the plan, but as I’m learning… nothing goes according to plan.

Incompetent Stepmother

This is from last week.

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Today is Friday the 13th and we are now also out of rice, pasta and name-brand frozen pizza. Next week doesn’t have the time change or the other stuff, but I’m not looking forward to it. This COVID19 panic is getting all real n’ shit.

We have been trying not to talk about it around Ethan because he can get a bit anxious and we don’t want him to worry. He knows the basics but he honestly doesn’t seem that interested. He’s seven. He has other things to think about.

This morning, I was trying to rush him out to the car so I could take him to school when he suddenly started dashing around looking for something. “Where’s my coat?” he asked.

I picked it up of the wall hanger and said, “it’s right here!”

“No, not that one. Mom bought me a new one. I KNOW I took it to school yesterday!”

“Oh,” I said. Handing him the one that is suddenly no longer “the new one.” I searched through my memory bank of images from the day before. “You weren’t wearing a coat when you got out of your dad’s car, I remember that. Was it IN the car?”

“Maybe.”

We got belted in and started toward school. The radio was reporting on The Virus so I quickly turned it off and put on some music. My car is a 2007 Toyota and plays CDs, which Ethan finds a bit fascinating. He was asking me about it and wanted to know how many CDs it held. I told him it holds six. “What is the most a CD player can hold? Like, six hundred?”

“If it had six hundred CDs there wouldn’t be room for the engine!” I said, and he laughed.

We got to school and I noticed right away that there wasn’t the usual throng of people and cars. I’ve heard that a lot of people are keeping their kids home so I didn’t think much about it. I parked and hopped out of the car. Ethan is at that age where he still likes being walked in to class and I like to take advantage while that lasts. I will be the totally uncool stepmom before I know it. “And another thing,” I can almost hear his tweenaged voice telling his future friends. “She still listens to CDs!”

We walked into the school and again I noticed just how empty it was. One of Ethan’s teachers called out to him and said something to that might have been just to him or to both of us, but he was across the corridor and I couldn’t make it out, so we just waved. We walked to the vestibule where the they keep the lost and found items. It was overflowing with coats. It usually is full, but now that the spring weather is cool in the mornings but warm in the afternoons, kids have apparently been forgetting coats left and right. He looked and looked but didn’t find it. Ethan gave me a side hug and started to walk off to class but I decided to walk him all the way to the door so I could check his locker.

As we walked past Ethan’s old first grade classroom, his Spanish teacher from last year said something to us with a somewhat exasperated expression. I couldn’t make it out. I actually wasn’t sure if she had spoken in English or Spanish. I asked Ethan, “what did she say?” He just shrugged. As we walked past I smiled and said, “Hola!”

We were almost to the lockers when Ethan’s current teacher walked toward me and said, “We are asking parents not to enter the school because of the new restrictions. You should just drop him off outside.”

I stopped and looked around again. Yes, that was what was different! I was the only parent in the building! Suddenly I noticed all these little eyes staring at me. Ethan’s school is majority minority and Ethan is one of the whitest students, even though he is one quarter Korean. One little girl in particular was glaring at me and I felt like I could read the thought bubbles above her little head. “There goes one of those white ladies who thinks the rules don’t apply to her!”

“I’m so sorry!” I said, clutching my Kate Spade bag closer to my chest. “I didn’t know…”

“It’s okay,” Ethan’s teacher told me, but she was pointing at the door and it didn’t feel okay.

I bounced so quickly I forgot to ask her about the coat. (Dammit!) I felt like yelling over my shoulder as I left, my germ cloud trailing behind me, “Steps don’t get the emails; it isn’t my fault.”

The worst part is: right before I was stopped by the teacher, I asked Ethan, “what does the coat even looked like?”

“White camo,” he said. What? What even is that? I can’t picture it, but am still certain that if rednecks had a flag (a new flag, I know they have the stars and bars), it would be made of white camouflage.

I’m actually relieved to think that they will probably close the school soon so I won’t have to show my face there in the near future. My white white face with the bright red cheeks. I will be keeping all of those (and my germs) at home.

 

 

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