Pandemic Poem

On the very long list of things I resent
is never giving my informed consent
to an actual, real, full-on pandemic,
a notion I’d thought was just academic!
I’d have done things differently if I’d known
that pretty soon I’d never be alone.

I used to have a great deal of fun
hanging out with myself one-on-one.
Now I’ve got two kids and a spouse
who are stuck with me inside this house.
And the sound of my husband’s chewing
is likely to be my undoing!

At first came the news and reportage
about various kinds of shortage.
To manage my increasing pessimism,
I used my preferred coping mechanism.
With getting supplies I became obsessed,
and Googled all day like a woman possessed.

My first priority was locating TP,
as thoughts of not having it made me quite weepy.
In lieu of Charmin I settled for Scott,
and now it hurts whenever I squat.
I might be becoming a bit paranoid
but I think I’m developing a hemorrhoid.

Next came my N95 phase.
I searched for these masks for hours and days,
determined to get the hospital a shipment
of various personal protective equipment.
While my sleuthing didn’t yield a final transaction,
it provided me with days of distraction.

Then came my new hobby of painting,
yet another form of sublimating.
Making art that was colorful and cheery
made me feel a lot less dreary.
So while channeling my mother’s artistic gene
I waited for someone to make a vaccine.

A month into the quarantine,
I bought myself a sewing machine.
I never could sew but felt up to the task
of learning to make my husband a mask.
Tangled threads and bad words flowing,
he said I wasn’t cut out for sewing.

Nevertheless, I became a quilter
making masks with a Filtrete filter.
Though intended for an HVAC,
this was going to be just the hack
to keep my doctor-husband alive
if his hospital ran out of N95’s.

We’ve managed to flatten the curve
and hopefully avoid a big surge.
But this long-term house arrest
is causing me much distress.
My husband’s chewing is so grating,
a point which bears reiterating!

The sound his tongue makes uncleaving from his palate
makes me wanna hit him over the head with a mallet!
I shout, “Stop chewing or the next mask I create
will be made in a way that it won’t ventilate!”
I am groggy and grouchy ‘cuz I stayed up too late
making a no-foggy-glasses mask to fit my soulmate.

For my next project, I’ll build us a time machine
so we can all go back to before Covid-19.

Epilogue to the eulogy

Months after writing the last post, I saw it again and I thought it read a lot like I was dying. If there’s one way to let your readers down, it’s to have them think they are reading a terminally ill woman’s blog, but then she never dies.

So, for the record, I am not going to die.  I mean, we’re all going to die, but I’m not planning on dying soon (and I hope I didn’t just jinx myself…).

So let’s be clear:  I’m planning on sticking around, amassing one strange disease and/or symptom after another.  On the upside, the radiology techs all know what kind of music I like and I heard one of them talking to the radiologist about reserving one of the scanners just for me, which is really sweet.  Also, I’m really making strides in overcoming my claustrophobia thanks to all this exposure therapy AND it’s really helped with my gratitude.  Next time I have to get in my space capsule, instead of thinking my usual, “Oh f@&#, I don’t think I can do this. What if I panic?!  I think I’m going to panic!” I will be thinking, “Awe-some!  It’s so great to do this without feeling like I’m spinning 300 miles per hour.  What a pleasure!”

So it’s all good.

Oh, one more thing.  Even if I were to get “sick”, which, as I said, I’m not, I don’t want this to turn into a blog about a sick person.  When someone’s sick, suddenly the expectations are so high that they turn into this amazing person who, to their last breath, is only thinking of others and doing good deeds.  That is just not a good fit for me.

The Cussing Cure

I stopped cussing when I had kids as a way to lie to them and make them think I’m someone I’m not.  Lately I have cussed in front of them a few times, surprisingly with much less remorse than I used to have when I’d slip up.  I actually think it’s time they know the truth:  They come from a long line of cussers, some of whom elevated cursing to an art form.  They should also know that cussing can be a form of coping. Continue reading