Viralry: Diary in the time of Virus

Yesterday, for dinner, we grilled—shish-kabobs and veggie dogs. It was the first time we had used the grill in almost two years, so it needed a thorough going-over. The grill had become a hotel for spiders and stinkbugs, and my no-kill-policy-husband kept flicking them into the shrubs as he cleaned. I also subscribe to the no-kill-policy, but it is nice to have help. Inside the house, I leave spiders if I find them, or encourage the creepier ones out the window; Brian is usually the one called upon to catch all manner of other insects in Tupperware and take them outside. Except for ants. We both hate ants, and relish their demise. Our son subscribes to the “I hate all bugs and am blessed with parents who will get them out of my sight” policy. I wonder what he’ll do when he’s out on his own. As I was typing this story, my son walked in and said, so sweetly, “Mom, can I get your help with something?” He led me to his room and pointed at a stink bug lurking on his ceiling. He sa

Today, on our walk, my husband gave a heavy sigh and said, “Well. This is about the least amount of fun you could have while still having fun.” That made me laugh. A few steps on, he put his blistered, rashy, disgusting arms out in front of him, lolled his head to one side and started walking down the street making zombie noises. I followed in kind, except my arms looked pretty. We did our Walking Dead act past a few houses until our neighbor’s dog went ballistic, charged the fence and scared the hell out of us. We jumped and clutched each other, laughing. My husband said, “Wow. That dog really doesn’t like zombies.” We might have had a little more fun than the least amount. 

Today, a friend I haven’t seen since February invited to me socially-distance walk with her and her dog in Weston. I went. It was beautiful. Weston is the country compared to Westport. I’d never been there, aside from the post office. My friend lives on top of a hill and on our walk, I saw craggy cliffs, a waterfall, a herd of deer, a black frog, a fox, and too many chipmunks to count. The chipmunks riled up my friend’s beagle/basset hound, and the dog kept making a pathetic whine like, “I wants! I wants!” It was so lovely to see my friend. She is the first person to invite me to do anything since mid-March. I wonder if people are afraid to meet, or if they were sick of me anyway and social distancing was a welcome break. I teased my friend and called her “my gateway drug back into society”. I had so much to say to her, my throat hurt. I already long for another playdate. I’m like the whiny beagle: Who can I see next?! Who can I see next?! I wants! My husband got into poison

I’m still having a problem with time, as if I’m perpetually going through a Daylight Savings adjustment, except I’m springing forward whole days instead of one hour. I feel like Rip Van Winkle: I worry that by the time the all-clear is sounded, I will be sporting a long white beard of un-tweezed chin hair and I won’t know what the hell happened. It’s sunny and windy and the breeze smells like lilacs, and I can almost be happy--if I can stop thinking about the future, and the people dying, and 45’s unhinged-ness. For many days, I’ve been able to keep a lot of it at bay. I stay upbeat, I think small. If I get to have a latte, I count the day as a success. But lately I fear I’m faltering. I find myself thinking, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” I worry that more people are going to get very sick. I worry that unemployment is going to be a difficult problem to fix, along with hunger, homelessness and poverty. Those problems were not solvable before, under better circumstances. How’

On Tuesday I went to Whole Foods. It was uneventful and I don’t know why it made me so tense, but it did.   I got home and thought I’d try gardening to relax. When I went to turn on the hose, I discovered the hard way that the splitter had cracked in two—water right to the face. I resolved that, then got my shoes soaked when I realized too late that the same thing happened to the nozzle. Then the spigot to the house started leaking all over the place so badly, we had to turn the valve off from inside the basement. A plumber will need to be called. The Get Goldman Office is obviously still staffed with essential employees. On Wednesday I spent the entire day at my desk, doing nothing, picking my ear and grumbling about the weather. On Thursday I woke up with water-on-the-knee, which happens when I sit too long—ever since I dislocated my knee when I was 16, playing baseball. (BASEBALL?! What’s that?!) I decided that maybe I could avoid the plumber if I got a new splitter, so I ca

Today my husband suggested we “work on the garage”—meaning: we shuffle around his collection of crap and empty cardboard boxes he refuses to throw away. Not my idea of a good time. We have rarely managed to “work on the garage” without yelling at each other. The amount of hostility we are capable of unleashing is sometimes worrisome. We did okay today though, mostly because I kept my yap shut. I’ve learned you can’t get into too much trouble if you only shrug or nod approvingly. I posted a bunch of garage-junk to the Westport facebook free-cycle site and have already dispatched a lamp, some toys and a janky hamster cage to other homes. Since many of my friends have been texting me pictures of their loaves of homemade bread, I decided to indulge my masochistic side and try it. I’ve attempted bread a few times before, never with any success. If anything makes me believe in the Get Goldman Office it’s bread-making. My son still has memories of me rage-baking: literally throwing a