Eating
Meals have gone haywire: my son
and I have fend-for-yourself-breakfast. My husband gets coffee delivered on a
tray. Lunch has moved to 3pm: takeout or left-over takeout, or wilted salad or
Top Ramen. (—If there is Top Ramen, is there Bottom Ramen? That’s what it
feels like we’re eating.) Dinner has all but disappeared. I think my son is
living on fancy Swedish chocolate bars that he has hidden on top of the fridge.
I have never enjoyed cooking, and
feel even less inclined to do it now. I only make dinner so the three of us can
sit down and be together as a family. Since we can’t be together, what’s the
point? My son and I sit in front of the
TV at 7pm. He’ll eat an entire box of Triscuits. I have lost my appetite. My
husband texts me from upstairs, “When do the animals get fed in the zoo?” Poor
thing. Forgotten up there.
My groceries will hopefully be
delivered between 2 and 4pm, but I forgot to order bananas, butter, bagels,
bread—as if my brain just forgot the letter B existed. I contemplate going to
Stew Leonard’s. I also contemplate lying to my husband and telling him Whole
Foods was out of bananas, because this time he’d be right: poor planning.
Amazon is texting me, more than a dozen times, telling me many of the items I
ordered are not in stock anyway. They offer to substitute millet for rice. I
decline. Millet? I wonder if I will reach a point where I am not so picky.
Millet is a prime ingredient in the wild bird food I put out. I guess, if I get desperate, I can eat that and to hell with the birds.
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