The road to Covid safety is fraught with danger and excitement.
It’s been a long and lonely winter. Since I am a significantly gravity enhanced queen, (some unwise medical professionals have used the words morbidly plump just prior to their swift and violent deaths by purse pounding) who is left gasping for air after climbing one flight of stairs, I lived in mortal fear of catching Covid-19 and prematurely playing out a tragically epic death scene, worthy of Days of Our Lives. Therefore, I spent the majority of the last year quarantining at home in Chateaux Pap Smear.
During the warmer months, I was able to go outside and visit parks, etc. while maintaining a safe social distance. But when the cold depths of winter set in, I was mostly stuck at home alone, left with only my own thoughts for company. Never a good prospect. I thought of going into hibernation but realized that my C-pap breathing machine’s humidifier would run out of water and I would most likely shrivel up like a gigantic raisin and die.
Therefore, after binge-watching the entire Netflix library, I began to go a little stir-crazy. To occupy some time and to make at least a feeble attempt at being productive, I grabbed the glue gun, some glitter, and rhinestones, and low and behold the bedazzlement of anything that was within easy reach of my recliner ensued.
Since the beginning of the pandemic, I have been frustrated to no end by the fact that my face masks were very plain and covered up my sparkly glitter mustache. So, I took my best mask and deftly drew a symmetrical handlebar mustache, and proceeded to glitterize it. Then I lined the border with rhinestones. Proud of my adept gluing skills, I put the mask on and gazed in the mirror to see how it looked. Despite the rather nifty glue work, if I do say so myself, it somehow looked off-kilter. I stared and pondered and couldn’t determine what was wrong. Then I held up a photo of my face next to the mirror and the problem became immediately obvious. When putting a glitter mustache on my face, since I am right-handed, I always have trouble drawing the left side, and hence the mustache is always lopsided. The one on the mask was symmetrical and thus looked unnatural. I suppose I could overlook some unnatural perfection.
Next up, I decided to organize my breasticle shelf. This sounds like a simple project, but alas, there are 27 pairs of breasticles, each pair a different color. They were all mixed up and needed sorting, so I pulled them all out and set them up on the basement floor. I stood back and realized that if I got down on my hands and knees, and looked at them all at eye level, the forest of mountainous breasticles tended to resemble the Swiss Alps.
My imagination got the best of me and, since it was January, I decided to organize them into an Alpine skiing vignette. Needing some snowy ground cover between the breasticle mountains, I got into my wardrobe and pulled out my white temple caftan and laid it on the floor. Naturally, I strung festive lights on the breasticles for special effect. Well, no alpine village scene would be complete without some people, so I got out a bunch of my scantily clad Ken dolls and began posing them among the breasticles in various alpine vignettes. Now you might ask, why does she have a bunch of Ken dolls? Well, a nearly naked Ken doll makes an excellent conversation starter of a Christmas tree ornament.
One doll was wearing a flannel shirt so of course, he was my lumberjack. I began to sing the Monty Python lumberjack song as I happily worked, and my spirits rose until I was almost giddy with delight.
Oh, I’m a lumberjack and I’m okay, I sleep all night and I work all day.
I cut down trees and eat my lunch and I go to the lavatory.
On Wednesdays, I go shopping and have buttered scones for tea…
I cut down trees and skip and jump and like to press wildflowers.
I put on women’s clothing and hang around in bars…
I cut down trees and wear high heels, suspenders, and a bra.
I wish I’d been a girly, just like my dear papa.
Since I had multiple nearly naked Ken dolls, I posed them skiing between a breasticle giant slalom course. Then I took some ribbons and strung them from the tops of the breasticles to the bottom, like ski-lifts.
Unbeknownst to me, Mr. Pap Smear came home from work. Apparently, he stood in the doorway and gazed at the scene laid out before him for a long time without saying a word. After a couple of rousing choruses of the lumberjack song I glanced up and noticed him watching me. It startled me so much that I inadvertently shrieked, and a little bit of pee came out. He slowly shook his head, rolled his eyes, and backed ever so carefully out of the room. He never spoke of this again.
This story leaves us with several important questions:
- Is a Covid test anything like a pap smear? They both use swabs, don’t they?
- Perhaps I could volunteer to help give swabs at the Covid testing center.
- Should I begin a campaign to get nearly naked breasticle giant slalom racing into the Olympics?
- Should I volunteer to help Governor Cox campaign for Utah to get the Winter Olympics again?
- Should I begin calling myself the Quaran-Queen?
- Do You think I need to retain a lawyer to prevent Mr. Pap Smear from committing me to the asylum?
These and other eternal questions will be answered in future chapters of The Perils of Petunia Pap Smear.