Days san Petanque: The Mask of Zorro (or Who was that man?)

Remember the good old days when Peter and Dick would dance the Hokey Pokey and Casey walked off shaking his head saying, "I can't take it anymore"? Well, are you happy now Casey? See what you've done. Now nobody's doing the Hokey Pokey unless they're doing it at home alone.

Now that Sonoma Market is requiring masks for shopping, we have to decide what sort of fashion statement we want to be making. Do we go the Bedouin headgear wrap-around, or the Carhartt  "I'm just a working stiff'" macho look? One guy at the garden store was explaining to me how he made his very comfortable mask out of a paper shop towel and stapled rubber bands. Pretty ingenious. Then there is the " I've been to Burning Man" alt-art crowd with everything from Medusa to Alien face coverings. The stores are, of course, barren of masks, so I ordered some homemade ones on Etsy (I didn't even know what that was before placing the order. Come to think about it, I still don't). While waiting for them to arrive and needing to grocery shop, I went out to the garage and found a mask I bought years ago. Cool. Is it OK to say "cool" in the tech crazed next big thing world? Seems the next big thing is something nobody saw coming and everybody wishes it hadn't now.

Anyway. Now that we are sequestered at home, Sheila is having no trouble finding things for me to do in the garden—mostly weeding and moving potted pants around the yard the way you might rearrange living room furniture. Thank goodness I have a dolly or I'd never be able to get out of bed in the morning.

I'm pretty sure that the federal government is working on how soon it is safe open the petanque courts again. It's a balancing act between the dangers of virus spread and household homicide. I'd say we are all in this together but we are actually all in this six feet apart (better than six feet under).

Take care with each other. It's only a matter of time before we are back on the courts shaking our heads in disbelief at how our teammate could shoot that last boule.

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Who put the dip in the dip da dip da dip? Who was that man? I'd like to shake his hand. He made my baby fall in love with me. —The Platters