Wipe it Down

I’ve been in self-imposed lockdown for over a month now. At first, I thought it would be fun to see how long I could go without sending for groceries. I have a separate produce bin in my fridge, and that emptied out almost immediately. I’m a salad girl.

I pretty much cleaned out my pantry and the freezer by the end of the third week, and my daughter, known to the outside world as Melanie, brought me some things. Along with my Romaine hearts, she brought a tub of chocolate ice cream and a Marie Callender’s apple pie along with the lettuce I cannot live without.

Okay, okay, I requested them, but I hadn’t had ANYTHING with sugar for so long I was delirious. She should have known better. They were good, and I rationed out the portions to last a week.

She delivered my order with a complete set of instructions.

1. I was to use a bleach-based cleaner to sanitize the counter before she brought in the bags. That didn’t make sense to me. There certainly weren’t any virii (plural virus?) on my counter until after she showed up.
2. I was to empty the items into my extra-deep laundry room sink and wash everything with New Blue Dawn and hot water—even the ice cream. I complied and was quite pleased that it left the ice cream in that nice, creamy, easy to scoop state. Once I had completed her instructions and she was gone, I had some.
3. After she left, I was to take the empty bags to the garage and not touch them for at least two days.
4. She instructed me to bleach-sanitize everything she’d touched during her visit. Doorknobs, countertops, etc. Okay. Sigh.
5. I was to understand there would be no hugs and no kisses, not from her or anyone else. No one was waiting to give me a smooch, so that one was easy to obey.
6. Finally, I was to lather up my hands up to my wrists and wash with hot water while I sang “Happy Birthday.”

She reminded me to get my exercise. That was a waste of breath. I have this long-legged dog who demands to be walked twice a day, not to mention, I live in a hilly area, so exercise is not a problem. We keep our social distance, and my neighbors and I shout greetings at one another from across the street.

Ms Melanie kept her social distance the whole time she was here and gave me a six-foot-away air kiss as she left. Of course, I followed all her demands, but I did mutter something to the effect that, “You’re not the boss of me.” Well, she is, but I had to voice my objections even if it was sotto voce.

A few days later, my friend Joan said she was going to the store, could she pick up something? I did already need another head of Romaine. Somehow, she understood that to include a bag of Idahos and a pound of butter. Bless her heart.

Not that I was going anyplace, but they’ve extended the quarantine period again. I’ve been wearing elastic-waist pajamas or yoga pants the whole time I’ve been in isolation.

I wonder what will happen the first time I try to zip up a pair of regular slacks. I’m not going to think about that today. I’ll think about that when the face masks come off.