Until a few months ago, it had been more than 30 years since I had worn a bandanna. And I’d never donned one as a mask to help prevent catching or spreading a virus. When we were teens and young adults in the 1970s and ’80s, my friends and I mostly wore them over or around the tops of our heads — not over our mouths and noses.
Bandannas could be utilitarian (to keep sweat out of your eyes while working or working out) or they could be a fashion statement. (Or both, think Olivia Newton-John in her “Physical” video.)
In 1983, the players on the first park-league softball team I put together all wore bandannas instead of baseball caps. (They were cheaper than caps.) We didn’t win often, but we looked great.
They also doubled as a versatile Halloween accessory — whether you wanted to dress up as an ’80s aerobics instructor, a pirate or an old-time stagecoach robber.
I never lost my love for bandannas, but never had a desire to wear one again until recently.
The store on my block has always had a bunch of bandannas on display; the clerk told me they’re popular with construction workers.
On the day Mayor Kirk Caldwell officially recommended wearing masks in public settings, I went to that store and bought a dozen for myself and friends.
The other day, I wore one into a bank and the manager smiled at me. A few weeks earlier, I suspect the reception would have been much different. I only wish my reason for wearing one now was for softball or Halloween. — Dave Reardon
As toilet paper, dried pasta and canned beans flew off grocery-store shelves, I remained (relatively) calm. But as word spread about the shutdown of meat-processing plants and other food supply chains potentially being affected, I started to feel squirrely. Rather than wait to see what would happen, I turned to local purveyors. I’ve always tried to support local and had subscribed to Oahu Fresh a few years ago, but stopped because I couldn’t keep up with the weekly bounty of veggies. However, I re-upped my subscription to Oahu Fresh and ordered some local beef and fish. I’m back to enjoying a farmers market bag of fresh fruit and vegetables delivered right to my home. The produce is all sourced from local farms including Ho Farms, Kahumana Organic Farms, Aloun Farms and Kunia Country Farms, among others. The farmers market bag (my haul is pictured from two Fridays ago) costs $20, plus a delivery fee. Bags are available weekly or bi-weekly. You can also add on yummy locally made items such as ulu hummus, sourdough bread, coffee and chocolate. Sign up at oahufresh.com. — E. Clarke Reilly
As true crime fans my husband and I thought it might be fun to put ourselves in the shoes of a detective and the Hunt a Killer monthly subscription box service lets us do just that. Each immersive mystery game unfolds over a season of six “episodes” and is filled with twists, turns and real head-scratching puzzles. In our game, titled “Class of ’98,” we were tasked with figuring out who among classmates at a high school reunion murdered one of their own. Boxes came filled with realistic-looking newspaper clippings, autopsy reports, photos, witness statements and evidence that you can keep and use after the game is over. Our game came with a pair of cool socks, a necklace, a beer koozie and even a fanny pack. Pictured above is a box from the newest season titled “Curtain Call.” There’s also an online component to the game, packed with more evidence. If you get stumped, you can reach out to fellow “investigators” in a Facebook community. Although we started our 6-month subscription before the coronavirus pandemic took hold, it turned out to be a fun way to pass the time when stuck at home. Hunt a Killer boxes are $30 a month, plus shipping. You can get a 6-month full season pass for $27.50 a month with free shipping; a 12-month double season pass is $25 a month with free shipping. Be aware: Your subscription will automatically renew unless you cancel it. For more information, go to huntakiller.com. — Charlene Robinson
In the early weeks of working at home, exercise involved going down and up the stairs to fetch a snack, which didn’t burn any calories because: snack. Even 20 minutes seemed too much time to devote to exercise — there was an email to send, a phone call to make, dinner to start. …
So it’s good that I found “DanceFit With Monica,” a collection of 10-minute exercise videos. Almost anything can wait for the 10 minutes it takes to shake off the cobwebs with fitness instructor Monica Landois’ low-impact aerobics routines, flavored with Latin, swing, hip-hop and ballet. I especially like the ones that can be done in bare feet, my usual state of being.
They’re not for the hyper-fit, but for the hyper-sedentary they do at least get you moving. For more of a workout you could do three in a row (not that I’ve ever done that), but I try for three throughout my day. Some fitness studies (which I choose to believe) say short bouts of exercise do produce cumulative benefits. Available free through Amazon Prime or purchase for $1.99 per episode through amazon.com. — Betty Shimabukuro
I am not a programming snob. I’ll consume a lurid serial killer documentary as voraciously as any episode of “Criminal Minds” or “American Horror Story.” I love the scary stuff.
But right now, the real-life horrors of the pandemic have me tapped out. Go away, darkness. I need light.
Enter “Parks and Recreation,” a witty, satirical sitcom a la “The Office,” but with perpetual, generous helpings of earnestness and hope.
The NBC comedy originally aired from 2009 to 2015. It now lives on various streaming platforms.
The spirit of the show is embodied by protagonist Leslie Knope (Amy Poehler), a modern-day Pollyanna fueled by the singular purpose of bettering her beloved town of Pawnee, Ind., as a bureaucrat in the parks and recreation department. Over seven seasons, the series follows Knope and her quirky co-workers — plus a miniature horse — as she fulfills her lifelong dreams of public service.
Knope and crew prove that, while living one’s best life can take many forms, it always takes heart. They’re a perfect antidote to the coronavirus blues. — Joleen Oshiro