Diary? Whom am I kidding? Keeping a diary implies that you know what day of the week it is. Which I don’t. For any orientation at all, I rely on the daily newspaper delivery, which miraculously arrives at our house each morning.
Part of my husband’s physical fitness routine is walking to the edge of the driveway with a pair of repurposed barbecue tongs. With these, he lifts the paper and gingerly brings it into the house, removes the plastic wrapping, and skillfully lowers it into the garbage pail. I note how deftly the plastic never touches his skin. It took about a week, but with diligence and determination, the entire operation is now a well-oiled machine.
And so begins the day. Which day? Any day. It doesn’t matter. All the diary entries would be the same.
This morning I think I’m scheduled to participate in another Zoom meeting. This presents me with a big decision. Is this encounter make-up worthy? I haven’t worn make-up in weeks. I think I’ve forgotten how. But I can tell you this. I don’t miss having to remove it at night. One less ritual standing between me and my pillow.
I’m expecting a grocery delivery today. I think it’s today. I know it didn’t come yesterday. I have been cautioned about going to the super market, so I now use a service which provides me with a personal shopper. I’ve always thought that having a personal shopper would be very nice. But this is not exactly what I had in mind. My ideal was a person who would select my spring wardrobe, not a head of lettuce. But let’s face it. What would I do with a spring wardrobe right now? A head of lettuce on the other hand, after it’s carefully disinfected, is a nice touch with my tuna sandwich.
My home is becoming very organized. In my last essay (I think it was my last essay) I told you how I busied myself by refilling my spice jars. Then arranging them in alphabetical order. Well, today I color-coded my collection of food storage containers. Now, at a single glance, I can tell which top goes with which bottom because the set will have a matching gaily colored dot that is dishwasher safe. If you’ve ever rummaged through your food storage drawer looking for a lid that fits, then you’ll appreciate what a time-saver this can be.
I’ve also reorganized my clothes closet in an effort to rail against the urge to throw on the same pair of sweat pants every day. Instead, I have neatly lined up my shorts (remember, I’m in Florida) and made myself a promise to don a different pair each day. Kind of like the old-fashioned set of undies with the day of the week sewed on the tush, but sans the embroidery. I still don’t know what day of the week it is, but it’s working nicely. However, should I be worried that I am now talking to my pants? Okay, gray, I just put blue back on the hanger, and today it’s your turn. I don’t know. It seems harmless enough. I’ll save the concern for when they begin to answer me.
I need a haircut. Do I dare? The beauty salons are all closed, so I have no choice. I have a pair of scissors. A little snip here, a little snip there. How much damage can I do? And who would see me anyway? Just my husband. And Sam the Dog. Sam needs a haircut too. Maybe that would be a good place to start. Fortunately, I had the foresight to go au natural a few years ago. At least I don’t have to obsess about my roots growing out. Or do they grow in? Whichever, but no longer my concern. Now if I can just find Sam….
I’ve been cooking a lot. The other day my neighbor shared some produce with me that was straight from the farm. I’m not sure where the farm was located, but by the size of the vegetables, I would guess it’s somewhere in the Amazon jungle. I received a large eggplant, an enormous green pepper, a zucchini that could double as a battery-operated vibrator for Mrs. Green Giant. That should provide plenty of ho-ho-hos. And, oh yes, an armful of tomatoes. So, adhering to the “if life gives you lemons…” philosophy, I produced a vat-full of ratatouille. It was quite good actually. Even the second, third, and fourth time that we’ve eaten it.
I should be doing more exercise. I certainly have the time. But apparently, sheltering in place hasn’t ebbed my avoidance strategies, like rearranging all my books according to number of pages. Do you think frequent washing burns significant calories? I could be wrong, but to me, my hands look much thinner.
So, dear diary, that’s enough of an entry for one day. Or has it been two days? Sam, where’s that darn newspaper?