Toilet Paper and Ammo

Amid the Corona Virus pandemic, it is easy to say the world’s introverts are in their PRIME. Working from home, calling the dog a co-worker, and having the ultimate excuse to turn down plans? Boom. An introvert’s paradise. Sign me the hell up.

“How is everyone doing?” My boss asked the team over Skype one morning. It was about 3 weeks into quarantine, and I had long settled into my home office. My whiteboard wall was littered with notes and sketches for projects, my desk supported 3 laptops, I had the world’s largest cup of coffee in my hands, and I wasn’t wearing pants.

I was living my best life.

Let’s face it. Still living my best life. Right now.

Silence stretched across the call, and I had to check my connection to make sure I was still on.

“Um,” a team member spoke up. “I’m doing okay. It’s…weird.”

“Yes,” someone else agreed. “I’m really starting to miss people.”

“The social piece of things is certainly a challenge right now,” my boss affirmed.

Each team member took turns describing the challenges they were facing as they worked from home. It was clear everyone was yearning for a change in scenery and dying for some people time, and we were only three weeks in.

How fascinating.

“Kaitlin, how about you?” My boss asked me.

I fumbled to unmute myself, the delay in my response just long enough to be awkward.

I am always awkward. See post “This is Why I’m Not Allowed Outside.”

“I’m fine!” I sang out cheerfully.

Silence.

Apparently, I’m the odd one in the group.

I’m not sure if I do this to myself on purpose, or if I really have no control over myself in social situations. It probably would have been easier to agree with the group and commiserate, but I was completely in my element.

“I’m set up pretty well over here,” I continued. “I just need some faster internet and I could do this forever!”

They all chuckled uncomfortably, but it wasn’t a joke. To be clear, I certainly do not wish for an indefinite pandemic which keeps us trapped in our homes. I recognize this situation isn’t for everyone, and there are those seriously struggling with isolation. But personally, I would flourish working at home full-time. My home office is considerably less… peopley.

On several occasions, my husband and I have talked about how we would thrive in an apocalyptic situation. I don’t think we’re alone…by the way toilet paper and ammunition flew of the shelves last month, I’d say there’s an entire colony of people expecting the ‘rona to morph into the zombie apocalypse. (Toilet Paper? Really? If shit hits the fan, I think wiping your ass is going to be the least of your worries.) Millions of Americans are just waiting for the moment the victims of the Corona Virus rise from the grave so they can finally shout, “I TOLD YOU SO!”

Mike and I are by no means “preppers,” and we do not actually believe the zombie apocalypse is imminent, but we do think we’d be damn good at it. I can see us farming our property and hunting the deer that pass through. We would barrel through town in a massive truck to raid for supplies, use our Doberman Pinscher for security, and develop a deadly aim with our rifles and pistols. Basically, we’d be like characters straight out of The Walking Dead, except without the senseless drama and complete inability to have a moment of happiness.

As the zombies close in, we’d be standing in the center, back to back, unloading our mags in perfect rhythm, this fantastic husband and wife team taking on hell together.

“Oh my God,” I’d shout back at Mike. “I think you just shot Carl!”

“That zombie was Carl?!” Mike would exclaim, firing another round. “Eh…he was a douche bag, anyway.”

And the best part of the apocalypse?

No credit scores.

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To Kill the ‘Rona

“Oh my God,” I shouted, leaping out of bed. “This is it. I’ve got the ‘Rona.” I waddled from the bedroom to the bathroom mirror and stared down my throat.

            “What are you doing now?” Mike groaned from the bedroom.

            “My throat is sore. I’ve got it. We’re infected. We’re doomed.”

            “For Pete’s sake…” Mike joined me in the bathroom and shook his head. “You’re fine.”

            “I must kill these germs before I get the virus!” I exclaimed irrationally.

            “You know, I don’t think that’s how it—”

            “Salt water! When you have a sore throat, you’re supposed to gargle with salt water!” I announced.

            “Here we go.”

            I raced from the master bath into the kitchen and tore through the cupboards.

            “Pink Himalayan Salt ought to do it,” I murmured, cracking some fine crystals into a cup, and filling it with warm water. I gargled a few times, aware of Mike’s judgmental stare on my back.

            “That’s probably not doing–,”

            “You’re right!” I cut him off. I dumped out the water and handed him the salt grinder. “Crack some of this right on my throat!”

            “…You’re serious?”

            “Come on, man, time is of the essence here!” I snapped my fingers in his face.

            Mike rolled his eyes. “Fine. Lay down on the couch.”

            I launched over the back of the couch, laid flat on the cushions, and then squeezed my eyes shut. “Do it.”

            Then I heard Mike chuckle.

I realized in this frozen slice of time between the vibrations of his voice that I made a grave mistake. In my irrationality, I completely disregarded the fact that I cannot trust my prankster husband with a task like this. I didn’t have time to react before GIANT salt crystals were colliding with the back of my throat.

            He turned the grain size on the grinder from “Light Dusting” to “Fucking Massive.”

            “ARG!” I yelled, fumbling up, coughing, cursing. “What did you do?!”

            Mike doubled over in laughter.

            “You ass!” I shouted, sprinting into the kitchen, and thrusting my mouth under the tap to chase down the colossal salt crystals clinging to my tonsils.

            As I was sputtering in the sink, Mike calmly took two glasses from the cupboard, then withdrew a frosty bottle from the back of the freezer.

            “This is no time to panic,” he lectured. “Be calm. Be cool. Be smart. Stay healthy.”

I wiped my face and crossed my arms as he poured.

“This is nothing a little whiskey won’t kill,” Mike said cheerfully.

            I scowled at him, but took the glass he offered me.

“To quarantine,” he saluted, clinking his glass to mine.

“To quarantine.”

And we haven’t stopped drinking since.

Related:

The Age of No Pants

Reasons Why I Drink (Today Edition)

Reasons Why I Drink (Today Edition)

As the clock displays 5:00, I shuffle down the stairs and into the kitchen. (I may or may not be wearing pants, and it’s fine, because, ‘Rona.) I scratch my Doberman Pinscher’s head, then rummage through the wine fridge.

Today, I am uncorking this bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon because I am waiting.

I am waiting for a closing date on my refinance.

I am waiting for someone to come hook up my fiber internet.

I am waiting for two agents to get back to me about my manuscript.

I am waiting for someone to finish building my pole barn.

I am waiting for my insurance company to call me back.

I am waiting for the credit union to mail me my stupid debit card.

I am waiting for quarantine to end.

I am waiting for that damn Amazon package.

I am waiting for warmer weather.

I am waiting for Susan at work to finally respond to my email.

I am waiting for Netflix to load, because I still have shitty internet.

I am waiting for my friend in Vietnam to wake up and see the hilarious meme I left on her Messenger.

I am waiting for this damn zit on my face to go away.

I am waiting for 10,000 followers to fly out my ass.

And my mind is exploding, because I am an adult who uses words like “refinance,” “fiber,” “building,” “agents,” “insurance,” “debit,” and “Quarantine” in complete, exasperated sentences while I drain an entire bottle of wine.

Sometimes it feels like all we do is wait. We are constantly anticipating the following moment, the coming week, the next greatest thing. We are waiting for this to end, for that to start, for this to come, for that to leave.

I think I’m waiting to stop waiting.

I am waiting for the day there is no longer anything to wait for.

Does that exist?

Wait and see.

The Age of No Pants

“Ah yes,” I’ll tell them, looking philosophically into space as I sink my old bones into the memory. “The Age of No Pants.”

Can we all agree it is exceptionally difficult to pretend to be an adult when the world is on fire?

I’m feeling unsettled. My mind cannot quite process the Amazon driver wearing a facemask, or the dystopian line with 6 feet of space between each person outside Home Depot because they won’t let more than 75 in at a time. The lack of paper products on the grocery store shelves is mind-blowing, and my pizza delivery was left on my porch yesterday.

Social horror aside, I haven’t worn real pants in about three months, and that is not something adults do.

I should be keeping a journal of the events taking place throughout this unprecedented COVID-19 pandemic, because one day, my grandchildren will ask about it, and only one thing will stick out.

“What was it like living through a pandemic, Grandmother?” (For some reason, in my head, my grandchildren are British.)

“Ah yes,” I’ll tell them, looking philosophically into space as I sink my old bones into the memory. “The Age of No Pants.”

As a writer, it is no surprise I am naturally an introvert. I was born for social distancing. I love working my day job from home. I love hanging out with my dog and spending the evenings writing and 100%-ing Breath of the Wild while I drink a couple bottles of wine.

I love not wearing pants.

But I can’t even take myself seriously when I am sitting in a Zoom meeting knowing I am a business mullet. (Professional on the top, party on the bottom.)

The Age of No Pants aside, I think the question our grandchildren will most likely be asking is not about the pandemic itself, but life before the pandemic.

“What was it like before the world changed?”

Kind of the same. Kind of not.

I don’t know what will happen next…but I do know I can feel an imminent shift. We won’t come out of this shiny. We will crawl from it, squinting in new light.

Pantsless.

Unpredictability is the scariest part of this, I think. But we’re not alone. We might be pantsless in our living room with only our cats and dogs and a few empty bottles of cabernet, but we’re not alone.

Drop me a follow for more on #adulting and “the ‘rona.” Some relatable, light-hearted reading is exactly what we need right now!