Columnist Cindy Adams had to spend the holidays quarantining at home after she tested positive for COVID-19.
Courtesy of SHOWTIME
COVID: the new lump of coal
So, how did we all spend our holidays?
Athletic types hit Colorado with their skis. AARP members did Florida with their meds. Me at Mount Sinai Beth Israel Hospital emergency room.
I’d already had two vaxes plus booster. The only crowd I’ve been in were three others dozing through the Gucci film. So, how did this happen to me? Who the hell knows.
Columbia New York-Presbyterian’s Dr. Jerry Gliklich had me tested Tuesday before Christmas. Wednesday I’m declared “positive.” Internist Dr. Brian Saltzman, who says he specializes in “high maintenance,” escorted me to Beth Israel.
Their excellent emergency room staff asked particulars — height, weight, who I maybe slept with recently. I gave them height and weight. They stuck an IV into my arm. And brought dinner. Hospital food beats CV — so, forget it. Two-and-a-half hours later, as smartass TV commentators droned on about Omicron, Dr. Saltzman brought me back.
I stayed home. Alone. Quarantining. Although vets swore my Yorkie was immune, I sent everyone away including JellyBean, age 2. Every friend sent chicken soup. If you just get a hangnail people send chicken soup. I retained more water than a camel crossing the Sahara.
A reaction? Christmas Day facial red spots developed. Who knows why. I’d suddenly become allergic to everything, especially Fauci, who’s still asking how do you spell “China.” Unknown to me, the very day after Christmas the New York Times style section did a half-page photo of me including various of my New York Post headlines and quotes from Maureen Dowd’s story on me. In total surprise I read it looking like an albino leopard.
“Home Alone” can be enjoyable — even if you didn’t see the Macaulay Culkin movie. However, locked in 10 days all by yourself feels really long. Especially with a non-working coffee machine. The Post, figuring it’s cheaper than negotiating with HR to fire me, organized emergency Starbucks runs.
My isolation station
Day 11 I finally surfaced. Friends in Maine awaited me. The Ballard family, kinfolk to Red Cross founder Clara Barton, are in Maine’s histories and museums. The state began in the 1800s. The Ballards arrived in the 1600s. But with their farm open to Christmas visitors and me a day out of the pandemic, that suddenly became a no-no. Another friend felt sorry and claimed me. I repacked. Then even more quickly came word this friend suddenly became infected or infested or in-whatever-the-hell with a swarm of some local insect in the closets, rugs, etc. I didn’t know if it was winter moths or mice from New York. Besides social isolation, I now had cashmere isolation. I only know I didn’t want lunch on a petri dish, so again I unpacked — quickly.
Color me irked
It’s been home alone ever since. Reading about how Joe Barfden would sponge nearly every year at a beach house in St. Croix, sometimes at Internet guy Bill and Connie Neville’s place, we’ve been told. No need to dip into Hunter’s wallet. While they stayed home this year, the good news is Joe’s wife finally changed from her cheapo flower-patterned silk shmattas on prior trips.
Eat it to beat it
Another literary discovery. The sending of X-mas food gift baskets. Please. Like chocolate-covered pretzels which no human alive eats . . . aged candies that never got unloaded from last July 4 . . . tubs of popcorn laden with more salt than the Dead Sea . . . lollipops left over from McKinley’s swearing in. Also the 2022 trend of rich gents’ new habit of renting — NOT marrying — their young females. Like if Amazon’s delivery slows and the boss’ delivery also slows — the guarantee is her future’s taken care of. No prenup, no lawyers, no hassles over who grabs which painting. This way each gets what they need. The only ass to marry his ass is the former HRH Harry. Why? Because he’s an ass.
Happy New Year.
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