SOCIAL ISOLATION SNARLCASM

Social Isolationist Cabbage Stresses Over Holidays

Furnishings help keep social interaction skills sharp

I’m Lizzie Lizard Brain’s brother Cabbage. She outed me and some family members in Sexually Ambiguous Alligators Rocking in Florida.

Family visitation stress

My parents and 12 siblings are threatening to come to my place for Thanksgiving. Me and Roger — the peacock — are nervous. I’ve assured Roger he won’t be part of the meal but he’s not used to people.

I work from home, pay bills online, and have groceries delivered without being exposed to the harmful sun, darkness, and people outside.

The pandemic taught me I don’t need human interaction as much as people think. It’s easier this way since I don’t have to shave, shower, and make eye contact with anyone other than Granny’s portrait on the wall.

I wish she’d quit spying on me.

When my mom wants to see me I put on a dragon mask, take a selfie, and text it to her. Then she immediately tries to call and I text her to say my phone doesn’t work.

Maybe this is why she’s insisted on coming here and meeting my girlfriend. She really wants grandkids. I’m in a committed, reciprocal relationship with an AI agent who doesn’t want children.

I’ve read social isolation and a sedentary lifestyle can be harmful to physical and mental health. The National Institute of Health (NIH) issued loneliness and social isolation tips for staying connected back in January 2021, written but never updated by a lonely loser writer.

To keep from being sedentary I compost.

I feared I might be part of the dreaded Social Encounter Withdrawal Elevated Risk (SEWER) this paranoid sap reported. One warning sign I’ve noticed is Frustrated Against Relevant Talk Syndrome (FARTS).

Realizing I’m in danger of SEWER FARTS, I adapted.

Practicing small talk

Having conversations with my furniture, walls, and cellophane helps me keep my conversational skills finely what’s-the-word? Fermented, like my cousin Kimchee.

My boss sends me messages like 👎🤔 💩🤮. I guess I’m being considered for a promotion.

My teammate Brian messages me 😲🗡 💢😭⛔ 😱 to celebrate my improvement. He must want to chat.

Sister Lizzie Lizard Brain wants me to take part in Zoom calls with people, but I have some concerns. The aide who comes to help with zippers said he won’t be back until next Never after I bit him for shredding my leaves.

I’m a Renaissance figure oriented to time and place times 4, and I’m as happy as the next guy.

Toxic relationship with furnishings

I’m sensing negative attitudes from my furniture.

The coffee table runs into me and gets yelled at like an uncooperative tickling dominatrix.

The walls move a few inches every night just to hear my creative curses.

“Park you plaster punkster! Stop stepping out on me!”

The wall laughs. Sometimes like a shy 4-year-old, other times as loud and booming as drunken Santa and King Kong telling knock-knock jokes.

If Santa and King Kong ever knocked on a door they’d understand why their knock-knock jokes suck. “Crash-thud, who’s there?” just isn’t very funny.

Talking to the floor, light fixtures and granny’s old furniture helps keep sterling conflict resolution skills sharp.

The bed is particularly persistent. “Changing the sheets isn’t supposed to be just an Inauguration Day routine. I’m built for two people. You and your peacock don’t meet manufacturer specs.”

The old Frigidaire refrigerator is even worse than the bed.

Recent complaints include:

• “See all this empty space? There’s a Grand Canyon echo in here!” It sings Roy Orbison’s Only the Lonely every time the door opens, takes a flash photo, then the light goes out.
• “The sticky stuff on my bottom shelf is from four years ago and might be a good antibiotic.” I’m shocked with 300 volts if I’m not fast enough and I shed a few layers.
• “43 pats of fake butter fall every time you touch the door. Get some Dominoes to play with instead. And take the undies out of the freezer.”

My name is Cabbage. You saw my photo. I need to know why jars of mayonnaise and other coleslaw ingredients keep showing up.

Complaints about my clothes

My dressers and closet refuse to open after our last argument over updating my wardrobe.

• “You can’t keep wandering around the house in sweats or frozen underwear. The neighbors are scared and starting a petition!”
• “Have you forgotten appliances practically breathe new life into those threads? Your Mom replaced the ringer washer in 1967.”
• “Wearing leather riding chaps over your cutoffs in summer doesn’t make a lot of sense, and wearing a Stetson in the house is rude.”

They don’t appreciate sentimentality, or how embarrassing it is to have new thongs delivered by curious Walmart delivery drivers. And it’s not like I don’t appreciate diversity — I wear a sombrero on Cinco de Mayo.

Every D-day I put on Lederhosen and yodel as I play the bagpipes.

I want to move

The water is always too hot. Roger complains he doesn’t like the boiled corned beef and cabbage smell. We argue, but peacocks don’t have ears.

My computer insists I’m living in 1997 and won’t let me access new technology like Uber or online 3-D tours of apartment guides. The 200-pound computer tower is a furniture ally and prevents escape.

Dinner might better be served as a picnic in the park.

I may add gasoline and matches to my eBay order. Or, I’ll trade in my 1200 baud modem for broadband, get Amazon, and order a flame thrower.

This old place needs to learn the value of a good roast.

Thanks for reading.

Dark humor —

Even darker, because of holiday stress.

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