Pandemic fun fact: The giant swamp rat (also known as a nutria), formerly a resident of boggy parts of South America, now inhabits European city ponds and other small waterways. The revolting rodent boasts a beaver’s brawny body without its slapstick paddle tail. Instead, the swamp rat has a spiny, naked tail, the type seen in horror films about grisly devils with horns and pitchforks. If that’s not bad enough, the swamp rat, about the size of a Dachshund, sports buckish, bright orange teeth. I’ve seen videos of Cologne families with small children, likely bored with Disney Plus and hankering for a fun-fun-fun pandemic outing, feeding cookies to these creatures.
In Cologne, an extra-hefty swamp rat named Theo rules one of the popular city parks. A pandemic mascot, so to speak.
They’ve become a problem in the USA, too. In the state of Louisiana, government officials are currently paying six bucks for every swamp rat you can shoot. Here, we feed them cookies.
I do like the name Theo, though.
If biscuit-stuffed swamp rats inhabit our lesser bodies of water, I shudder to think of the colossal critters swimming in the Rhine.
Speaking of swimming, how I pine for a good splash party, though perhaps not in the Rhine. I miss the pool, but I can’t imagine entering a germ-filled public locker room ever again. Maybe someday I’ll find a pristine, private body of water, devoid of rodents, noxious viruses, and anything else that sucks the life out of women and small children. Maybe I’ll stick with my bathtub.
I’ve invented a new word. Craughing. It’s crying and laughing at the same time. My friend Peg says that Craughing also might be a town in Western Pennsylvania.
Does Interval Fasting work? Let’s give it a try.
Declutter! I’m all in.
But first, a little hand scrubbing with my new lavender scented soap that smells suspiciously like vomit.
I’m thinking about Wayne, a regular piano lounge customer of mine at the Manhattan Grand Hyatt several decades ago. He showed up most nights and sipped a gin martini (straight up, three olives, side of flavored rocks). Wayne was a nice guy who had obvious OCD issues—he insisted on sitting on the same barstool night after night and was known to arrange his uneaten smoked almonds so that they all faced the same direction in the nut bowl. He left the bar every five minutes to go to the men’s room. We thought he suffered from a spastic colon, but a Hyatt employee named Samson—a reliable source of information when it came to scoping out the scene in the men’s room, a place that hosted a fair amount of nefarious activity—told us Wayne was in there constantly scrubbing his hands. Poor Wayne was a germaphobe, years ahead of his time, which, considering the toxic condition of Manhattan and the Grand Hyatt in the eighties, may have been wise.
That’s me now. I am Wayne.
Out damned spot! Out, I say. This soap smells truly vile.
I’ve taken to composing music in E minor. It’s the only key that currently feels right to me.
“Waltz for Theo”—a little tune for the next album.
I do so love a good costume drama. Did you watch Bridgerton? I did, and I am bothered by the heaving bosoms, not because I find them unsanitary, sexist, or offensive, but because, after watching a few episodes, I made a serious attempt to make my own bosom heave and failed miserably. Even if I crank my breasts up to my chin, I can’t get the heaving thing happening. I think there’s something wrong with me.
Also, my arms are too short in comparison to my long torso. After I pointed this out to my ape-limbed family, they started calling me T-Rex Goldsby.
T-Rex Goldsby, from Craughing, PA. (Note to self: Good song title, medium shuffle, “Hard Hearted Hanna” groove.)
And my eyebrows are disappearing.
Let’s discuss pedicures. I think often of Howard Hughes and his long, curling toenails. I am not Howard. Yet.
Hands up if you hate your own cooking!
I’m not craughing; you’re craughing.
Word of the year: efficacy. A fancy way of saying this shit works.
I have a recurring nightmare that I’ve been cast in the next season of Bridgerton, and I get fired on the first day because of my non-heaving bosom, lack of brow, long toenails, and T-Rex arms.
Most overused media phrase: “shots in arms.” As opposed to what? Shots in necks?
I would gladly accept a shot in the neck if the EU could get it together to offer one. Or as the Brits say, a jab. A jab in the neck. Where do I sign up?
My daughter, whose default setting has always been cheerful, is applying to film school. She showed me her audition package. Dystopia, depression, loneliness—that’s what’s on her mind, and who can blame her? She’s a mirror, not a megaphone, and this is how she sees the world—a moment in time that seems to be lasting a thousand years, characterized by masked faces, jabs in arms, and swamp rats.
One of those swamp rats (not Theo) recently killed a dog. A small dog, but still.
“You watch,” Julia says. “Upcoming headline: Rat Eats Kid.”
In a year jampacked with outrageous stories, this would not be so outrageous.
I’ve gotten used to everyone looking like a robber. We moved to a new place in January, and I’m afraid when I finally see my neighbors without their masks, they will have buckish, bright orange teeth and I will be frightened.
Maybe I could toss them some cookies.
Call it age, call it Corona, but I’ve grown tired of aiming for the stars, so now I’m aiming for less carbs. In a world hellbent on winning big, looming large, and finishing first, the pandemic has taught me that I’m okay with losing ground as long as I can circle my wagons so tightly that I’m touching virtual noses with members of my squad.
Some members of the squad might be getting a tad bitchy.
I could eat that chocolate donut now, but I really should wait another eighteen hours. Interval fasting!
I struggle to find anything new, profound, or earth shaking to put forth through music or words. So I spit-shine what I already know—and those things, when I’m lucky, seem trifling and evanescent—like fireflies on a stagnant lake, petite reminders of diminishing hope in a world grown bleak and blue.
Anyone want some popcorn?
“Bleak and Blue.” (Note to self: Good song title. Maybe E minor. Submit to Billie Eilish.)
Fuck interval fasting.
Is this a good time for a facelift?
In spite of my cushioned pandemic experience, I’m crushed by the desperation we’ve all witnessed over the past year. Is this a wake-up call to start paying attention to each other again? Not with likes and follows and clicks and comments, but with actual human contact. A phone call, a postcard, a letter—hell at this point even an email seems old-fashioned and quaint, texting fools that we’ve all become.
Cashew butter! Such fun.
I miss wearing lipstick.
I miss wearing real clothes.
I miss seeing smiles, grins, smirks, uplifting expressions of surprise or humor or run-of-the-mill good cheer.
I miss you.
I hate E minor.
Does anyone make gluten-free vegan pot brownies?
Swamp rats. Seriously?
Why does everyone on Netflix have sex on desks and kitchen counters?
Flirting is difficult without eyebrows.
I’m tired of feeling grateful.
Because I miss you.
Why does everyone on Instagram have access to better filters?
Why is my dermatologist fourteen years old?
Why do I only know twelve and a half of my 3,000 Facebook friends?
Why does Twitter feel like screaming into an empty paper-towel tube?
Is there a musician alive who successfully uses Linked-In?
Should I Tik? Or Tok? And if I’m older than fourteen is it okay to participate? Would my dermatologist approve?
Why can’t I heave my bosom?
I. Miss. You.
I loathe the term “new normal,” but by all accounts, that’s what we’re got. We’re raising a generation of kids (Lil’ Waynes in training) who might spend the rest of their lives obsessively scrubbing their angry red mitts; young adults grieving their stunted careers and nonexistent social lives; millions of weary moms who have given up their jobs to make sure their six-year-olds don’t play with machetes and rifles when they should be doing their math homework; trampled down, forlorn and forgetful seniors who felt neglected and unjustly sequestered before the pandemic even began; and the rest of us—the empty-nest middle agers tilting into our best years without the questionable rewards of family reunions, holidays abroad, or leisurely cocktail hours with like-minded friends.
I admit it. I’m sad.
Here’s to the ladies who lunch—how I’d love to sit around a table with two or three of my favorite friends. We could cry; we could laugh; we could craugh. We could toss baguette crumbs and stale Fig Newtons to the swamp rats. Or shoot them (not Theo).
A year ago, at the beginning of the siege, I took some heat for calling a pangolin “butt-ugly.” With the recent appearance of the European swamp rat, it’s clear to me that our less-cute animal friends now rule the world. They probably think we’re the ugly ones.
Low-grade depression is a drag. It gnaws on your soul with buckish, bright orange teeth.
Buck up! Put on some pants. More popcorn. Let’s reorganize that shoe rack one more time.
Who’s zoomin’ who?
This is the second spring in a row that I’ve bought every tulip in Holland in an attempt to cheer myself up. Despite its ballerina elegance, even a perfect red-headed tulip—when it ages and drapes itself over the edge of a crystal vase—resembles both a drunken comedian and a benzodiazepine overdose candidate.
A wilting tulip is the Lucille Ball of the botanical world. Even when it’s half-dead, I smile. Tulips are the only flowers that can make me craugh.
I miss you.
I would hug you if I could, but my short arms can’t reach that far.
Robin Meloy Goldsby is a Steinway Artist. She is the author of Piano Girl; Waltz of the Asparagus People: The Further Adventures of Piano Girl; Rhythm: A Novel and Manhattan Road Trip, a collection of short stories about (what else?) musicians. Stay tuned! Coming in May from Backbeat Books: Piano Girl Playbook: Notes on a Musical Life
Robin’s music is available on all streaming platforms. If you’re a Spotify fan, go here to listen. NEW! Check out the Piano Girl Podcast. Stories, music, fun. Do you play the piano? Have a look at Robin’s solo piano sheet music here, including her popular arrangement of the Pachelbel Canon in D.