Bent Words

Bent Words

March 20, 2020

Corona Virus COVID-19

The closest comparison I have to the intensity in today’s world is September 11th 2001.

I remember looking outside my car windows while driving into work that day, listening to Bob and Brian on the radio relay the horrific news, and wondering why people looked so normal. Why were they just driving? Why weren’t they in the streets with their hands in the air, moaning with uncontrollable tears and anguish written deeply on their faces? Same reason I wasn’t doing that, I guess. At the shop, everyone was glued to the shitty reception on the parts room TV. I saw the second plane hit the tower through marginal visibility and I would not watch footage again until many years later. It was a difficult day as many people went home to their families while I stayed at work, half-heartedly listening to morons go on about ATV prices and what kind of chaos the economy would surely face. I didn’t care about whatever they were saying. All I heard was that Charlie Brown teacher voice.

It felt so isolating then and it feels so isolating now.

Talk about ironic…

And now I’m supposed to be calm and patient, optimistic and encouraging, sensible and loving for the sake of my kids, for the sake of my family. I’m supposed to go about business as usual, helping E with her homework, trying to prevent A from stealing all my jewelry, nursing a baby, preparing meals and knocking back chores. I’m supposed to be the adult with a voice of reason, sage advice and tricks up her sleeve to keep kiddos entertained.

They were so bored yesterday that they picked up sticks in the yard. In the 37 degree rain.

Now what I am doing? Listening to “friends” hammer on parental units who complain about being with their kiddos for three weeks straight and I want to hammer back. Let people vent and complain a little! It’s not easy for parents (like me) to teach their kids new math when they never had a chance with ANY math, old or new or middle fucking aged. It’s not easy for parents to have to work from home and take care of their kiddos at the same time or we would be back in the fucking 60’s wearing dresses, short curly hairdos and pink, frilly aprons with meatloaf stains. FUCK! I am about 10 years outside my “looking good in a God damn dress” phase.

Buck up, “cherish this time together” and make the most of it.

Make the most of it…

You mean TAKE the most of it, like people are doing with toilet paper and Clorox wipes. FAKE the most of it with embellished tales of sickness and disease. Chaos successfully implemented. You’ve shut down the world and the world complied like an old dog laying down to take a nap. Wake me when it’s over please. I’m already sick of it. I’m sick of the opinions of people who think they know better but don’t hold any power. I’m sick of people with short fuses and quick tempers. Give them a joint or a 12-pack of beer and let them calm down before posting. Like reverse breathalyzers – you have to test positive before you make a statement. It would funnier and more accepted in general.

I just want a fucking hug. I want to look into someone’s eyes and see the same thing I’m thinking reflected back at me so I know I’m not going crazy. Let’s roll our eyes together and shrug our shoulders in unison. Shake your head, tell me it’s crazy and hold me like it’s okay as long as we have each other. I want someone to ask me if they can pick up dinner, put away laundry, take the baby, make me another drink (make it two so you won’t have to get up as often). I want to hibernate and hustle the pizza delivery service. I’ll get up to pee and tip the driver. Otherwise I won’t move. And in this dream, I won’t have kids, either. Because they only really need to eat when you’ve just sat down or gone to bed.

I’m not weak but I feel weakened. I feel drained despite not working. My eyes hurt staring at a screen imparting more bad news and longer delays. I have a dull headache that hasn’t dissipated, a set of bags under my eyes to rival a 75-year-old and an inability to shut my brain down at night. I can handle isolation well when I’m on my own. I have books, booze and nicotine but when I have to actually be productive without getting paid, I don’t settle well. If you tell me I can’t go somewhere or do something, I want to do it.

Watch me be pregnant and eat cold cuts and sushi! (I mean, don’t, because I’m done procreating but look at the beautiful EXAMPLE I just painted for you).

All this is madness. All this is weird. All this is beyond my current comprehension level and therefore I beg for patience. Too many crazy things have happened recently and I feel as though I’m swirling in a sea full of Alice in Wonderland type back drops. What is up, what is right? What is the outcome? What should I do?

At least with my fire I could lay down what to do next. I had lists and to dos for days. There weren’t enough hours to complete the rebuilding of my life. I had no underwear, no hairbrush, no spoons or spices, no floor to set my no couch onto. I had nothing. I needed everything. I made a list and then I made seven more. I had to rely on the kindness and clothes size of strangers. Toiletries cost more than clothes. I had a plan.

Now I have no plans because I don’t know what one does when work is being recalled from both sources of income in a family of five. But I do have a mean meatloaf recipe if it came down to pretending it’s the fucking 60’s wearing dresses, short curly hairdos and pink, frilly aprons with meatloaf stains.

I am not housewife material. I don’t know that I’m even wife material.


Written at 6:27 p.m.