Letter to my friend’s six-year-old daughter on the current state of the world
Dearest Lala,
It has been FOREVER since you’ve gotten a letter from your Aunt Moley. I apologize. This doesn’t mean that I haven’t been thinking about you. I have, but you’ve been living your life and I’ve been living mine.
You’re heading confidently towards your sixth year, I understand. How has your life been in this strange time? What I mean to say is, how are you surviving the plague, dear? Of course, there are SO many plagues to choose from, which one do I mean? I’m talking about COVID-19, which makes me think of that cereal I used to eat in my youth: Product 19.
I always wondered how Kellogg’s came up with that name. It’s so Soviet sounding. Here’s how I imagine it: One of the suits from the Kellogg’s head office went down into the factory area to shoot the breeze with the cereal makers. While he was down there, talking about the rounds of golf he played on the weekend to whoever looked at him, he noticed some leftover cereal in a vat, stuck his ungloved hand in, threw some morsels into his mouth and declared, “Say, this stuff is terrific, what do you call it?” And because the workers don’t get to share in the creative process they just told the suit what the label on the vat said: “That’s product 19, sir.” The suit thought that was an amazing name and skipped off to the man in charge to tell him that he’s got an idea for this great new cereal he’s calling Product 19.
Anyway, I digress.
But just humour your Aunt Moley and ask your father if he remembers Product 19.
So let me tell you what COVID-19 has been like for me. For months and months, there was no office life to complain about! I no longer had to witness the CEO hobble around the office saying “good morning, sports fans!” to anyone in his line of vision, and Lala, I cannot tell you what a blessing that was!
However, there have been Zoom meetings and the subsequent phenomena known as Zoom Meeting Fatigue (ZMF). Let me explain how it works: you sit down in front of your laptop for a meeting with your colleagues. You assume that this will be a quick update of what everyone is working on, but after 45 minutes, you start to doubt that. And 60 minutes in you see it for what it is about to become: an endurance test. Just how long can you stare into the tiny dot at the top of your computer without flinching? Moley, are you listening? You don’t look like you’re listening. And this is all about looking like you’re listening. Stop thinking about the Brady Bunch. I know the screen is divided into six squares, but this is not the Brady Bunch. Stop thinking about Peter and Alice and ‘pork chops and applesauce.’ Do not Google, ‘what’s Cindy Brady up to these days?’ Focus on the deliverables, the newsletter, the project plan…”
That’s ZMF in a nutshell, Lala. Really. That’s what it is. You’re going to have to ask your father about the Brady Bunch reference.
After each meeting, I take an hour-long nap to recover.
Tell me, Lala, what do you make of what’s happening in the U.S.? Does your father let you watch CNN? Is there a kids’ version of that? KNN, perchance?
If you haven’t been keeping up, allow me, your old Aunt Molesly, to break it down for you. The old U.S. of A seems to be collapsing in on itself these days. Of course, things are especially terrible right now, because they’ve got a baddie in power. The more progressive folks are hoping things will change in November when there will be a Presidential election, but who’s to say what will happen? If the consequences weren’t so dire, all of this would be fascinating to watch. It’s like watching the foul-mouthed secretary get drunk at an office party. At first, you can’t believe all the stuff coming out of her mouth. It’s alarming, then funny, then pathetic, ridiculous then outrageous. And suddenly it dawns on you that she’s your ride home and you’re scared out of your bloody wits.
I know what you’re thinking, Lala. We don’t live in the US, so why should we care? We are their neighbours. You know what neighbours are right? People who live or work beside you. Sometimes you luck out and have those neighbours who are really quiet and keep to themselves. They’re the ones who always keep their blinds closed and have perfectly manicured gardens. You never actually know anything about them. Of course, years later you will see one of them being taken away in handcuffs and a news crew comes to your door and asks you what they were like and you say, “They were so quiet; they were great neighbours!”
So, what was I saying? Oh yes, neighbours. There’s the quiet kind and then there are…the people who you hope are quiet because they live so close to you. They’re the ones who live in a mock Tudor home that looks charming from the outside, but then you see that the occupants are not a nice family of librarians, but instead, a bunch of guys called Thad, Brad and/or Chad. And rather than put a nice box of mums on their windowsill, they unfurl a large flag of Greek symbols from the window that tells you who they really are. Those people Lala, those people in the mock Tudor home, those are Americans.
Do you get my meaning?
America is the frat house, Lala.
My analogy is slightly flawed, however, because when you think of a frat brother you think of someone young. The U.S. President is 74.
And get this, Lala, the guy who is running against him in the next election is 77! Two senior citizens! You’ve met senior citizens before; they’re the ones who always wanted to touch you when you were really small. If the term doesn’t ring a bell, just remember they’re the people known for their cloudy eyes, irritability and sparse hair. I know what you’re thinking, Lala. That sounds like the crew you used to hang with at daycare, but no, they are the opposite. You and your friends at daycare are young and fresh. When you were born, everyone wanted to smell your head. It’s this intoxicating, soothing smell that restores your faith in humanity. Lala, nobody wants to smell the head of a senior citizen. You’ll either breathe in the strong scent of Elizabeth Arden’s Red Door or mothballs.
But these are the people who are running for president! And to make matters worse, since they can’t do much in person because of the plague, they’re using social media. You know screens.
Lala, you and I both know that technology is a young person’s game. I mean I try to keep up, but I’m fooling no one. Just when I’ve mastered one form of social media along comes another. I tell people that I will “Facebook them” as if that’s a cool thing. All that does is let people know that I am old, but I can’t help it. Facebook is as embarrassing as scrapbooking; in fact, it IS scrapbooking. But I know it fairly well, so I’m sticking with it.
The current baddie in chief is enamoured with Twitter. That is the thing he is most known for. Clinton had his sax, FDR had the New Deal and the current dude has Twitter. I can only imagine what he thought when he discovered Twitter: You mean I can write what I’m thinking and people will just read it? I don’t have to draft letters and speeches anymore? I don’t have to use letterhead? AND YOU’RE TELLING ME I CAN WRITE IN CAPS? This is like sending telegrams!
The guy who’s going up against him has a kindly but vacant look in his eyes. He doesn’t inspire much confidence. I try to picture both of them in a nursing home, sitting in the common area watching the shopping network or a log burning on tv while they each sip a glass of low-acid apple juice. That image is much more comforting than picturing either of them leading the free world.
Oh, Lala, these are tough times. I wouldn’t blame you if you erected a fort in your bedroom, stuffed it full of pillows and only came out when you were offered cookies.
But do remember that your parents love you. And always remember, Lala, these words: Dance like no one’s laughing, and sing so that you’ll never be heard.
Sending you love, poppet.
Aunt Moley
xoxoxo
