Chapter-Ninety-Two: Ma’am wants a quarantine Rom/Com…

Everyone is talking about how many babies will be made during this Coronavirus time. Making it like it’s soooo romantic to be isolated with your significant other. All lovey-dovey and fun like a Rom-Com movie. Perhaps someone will burst out in song and cartoon birds will fly around singing whilst squirrels clean my house. I have just as much a chance of that happening as Publishers Clearing House knocking on my door!

Let’s look at the reality of this. I wonder how many divorces will happen after the isolation period is removed? I find Confused Husband STILL on the couch, he has morphed into one of the cushions. I check him for a pulse. His eyes are glazed over, and his isolation/quarantine ensemble consists of socks, boxer/briefs, and a ratty t-shirt. The living room has become in my opinion ground zero for the virus to thrive. There are plates, utensils, coffee mugs you name it scattered and piled on the coffee table. There are no coasters, placemats, NADA! Manners and proper etiquette have gone out the window. The curtains are drawn, there are no lights on to decipher if it is day or night.

The TV is blasting what I think is the same sports game that he has been watching for days. Although the dog is in heaven, he has stumbled upon his own buffet! He scavengers under, around, next to the couch and discovers pizza crust next to a chicken wing, which is on top of a partially eaten bagel.

Looking on Twitter, Instagram, etc… I see all of these families during this isolation period, looking like they have stepped out of a catalog. They are posting smiling well dressed and showered folks. Building additions to their homes, painting walls, organizing pantries, creating a new walk-in closet that mom has always wanted. Cooking gourmet meals together, playing family board games, little Johnny has taken up the saxophone and(I guess they JUST happened to have a sax laying around) now he plays according to Muffy’s saccharine drenched post like John Coltrane! Binky has become a master chef at the ripe old age of nine! According to these posts, this is the BEST, most productive time spent ever!

I look at Confused Husband who I think probably has lost all circulation in his appendages having not used them for days. Will I soon have to feed him through a straw? I head upstairs and find teenage son in the same attire as his father(apparently, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree!). He is gaming like there is no tomorrow! At least he is MOVING! Headset on, controller in hand, mic visible. He is shouting into his mic to his friends about how he needs backup. On-screen I see an apocalyptic scene and a character who I assume is my son fighting off aliens.

This is my reality! I need to embrace it! I will write a best selling novel!”Love in the time of Coronavirus!” But, first Alcohol! Because no great story started with someone eating a salad…

Chapter Ninety-One: Ma’am and CORONA-TANIC

We are already in a state of heightened anxiety because of the imbeciles in charge. Now to top it off we have a pandemic of Coronavirus. Life is already trying enough! These numbskulls in our government can’t even find their way out of a paper bag making it harder!  Can we count on them to help us through this global emergency?! I THINK NOT! I am relying on my local CVS pharmacist and my Mailman for my go-to Coronavirus updates, as well as Tom Hanks Twitter feed for tips.  Between those, they seem to know more than the Orange Dufus in the White House(well my dog even knows more than him!)

I send Confused Husband out to get our doomsday supply of rations. I give him the list BIG and BOLD so there is no margin for error.


Yes, I write it out like this so he doesn’t come home mistaking toilet paper for Doritos. Forrest Gump could handle this task. I really should go with him, but it is all about self-preservation (hence, Rose on the floating door whilst Jack bobbed along next to her in the freezing water succumbing to hypothermia, as the Titanic sank behind them.) If this is our Titanic, then I am Rose, and Confused Husband is Jack. I have to keep healthy to raise our son. It is selfless of me, I think… After all, I will be the surviving one fighting off crazy people, zombies, vampires, aliens,(you know we have all seen those movies) it will be exhausting!

Hours later he returns, flustered and mumbling to himself, about: “Nothing on the shelves, people are savages, it’s ridiculous! People are panicking for no reason!” (I am lumped into this group as well!) He unpacks the bags, there is no hand sanitizer, no wipes, sprays, or any other kind of disinfectants.  The shelves were bare. I can honestly picture myself on the floating door, and him bobbing next to me complaining how: “It’s not a big deal!”  He also points out that there really is no need for this paranoid sense of hoarding. He has toilet paper(four rolls) that will last maybe two days. Nuts and tons of avocados. He did get water bottles(enough to last a couple of days). I am aghast at his nonchalance about our dire situation! Shame on him! Thank goodness I have a secret stock of stuff in the back of our closet for a day like this, (which I am debating if I will share with him.)

I remind Confused Husband how in the movie A Quiet Place, John Krasinski’s character even in the middle of an alien apocalypse brought home more from the store than he did! He scoffs at this and says: “That was a movie!” I don’t care if it was a movie! I suggest when choosing future spouses, one needs to ask this pertinent question: “Can your significant other hunt, forge, gather, you name it for your family to survive during an apocalypse?  I am really seeing Confused Husband in a different light!  Later, we have a family movie night. I make sure to pick the film.

We watch “Contagion”. Confused Husband is silent, I dramatically cough like Gwyneth Paltrow’s character as she gets sicker and sicker. I also deliberately faux cough on Confused Husband. After the movie, he nervously gets up from the couch and announces:” he is heading out to get some other staples we may need.” I guess he realized that he couldn’t disinfect his hands or wipe his butt with avocados…



Chapter Ninety: Ma’am’s analysis of the Man Card…

I think a lot of men feel they lose their Man Card when they have to give in and drive around in a minivan. I say: “Suck it up, Buttercup.” If the only thing they have had to sacrifice is trading in the sports car for a minivan, deal with it! Look at us women! We have had to sacrifice our perky boobs for ones that now hang to our knees like some tribal woman, after years of nursing. Our wobbly bits are hanging out all over. If we had a natural birth, our vaginas are as though an IED had exploded in there. Cesareans?! Our intestines were temporarily moved onto the outside of our body to make way for the baby. Adoption? Who do ya think filled out all the paperwork and kept the ball rolling? Point is, however, means your family was created, having to sacrifice one small thing such as driving a minivan is small compensation.

I watch these men at stoplights pretending they are driving a Maserati in the Indy 500. When the light changes they gun ahead, as the van jerks forward all you can see are sippy cups and goldfish flying through the air. Speeding down Main St. their song of choice playing in their head. (maybe Eye of the tiger, or the theme from Rocky.) The reality is, a kids sing-along song is playing in the background either teaching your child their ABCs or learning to poop in the potty. This is their new reality, the Man Card went away as soon as they signed on the dotted line for Bob the car salesman, who told them: “They were getting a hell of a deal!”. They drank the kool-aid and now blame Bob the car salesman for their lot in life. I watch as they longingly look at the twenty-something dude hopping into their sportscar with their thousand dollar designer suit on. They look down at their stained Walmart T-shirt with some made-up college on the front such as; Malibu University or Big Apple college. They suck in their paunch and for one fleeting moment, they are that twenty-something in the sports car.

Many moons ago, Confused Husband experienced this as well. His sports car bubble burst when he couldn’t fit a car seat in his sports car. He tried to argue that the car seat could safely be mounted on the trunk of the car, as one would transport a bicycle or kayak. Of course, his argument failed big time, and he was sent to trade in the sports car for a minivan. Albeit,  present-day dads are going through the same thing. I watch them in parking lots commiserating with one another. Shaking their heads with disgust and dismay. All heads turn at the sight of a two-door entering the parking lot. They forlornly watch it, mouths aghast. The only satisfaction they get is knowing that unbeknownst to the poor schlump who just walked by them with his perfectly tied Burberry scarf and leather loafers giving them the side-eye of pity,  he will be them in about ten years.

I observe a group of these dads at a local coffee shop. Kids in carriers and strollers. They sip their lattes pretending to have some sense of their old lives B/B{before baby). Their conversations about the cheapest diapers,  teething,  spouses, football, remortgaging the house, best preschools, divorces, life topics reveal their true state of mind.  All gets quiet when a shadow of their former selves enters the coffee shop. Their eyes look him up and down, they give each other knowing smiles.

Glances follow him out to the parking lot. The dads are now all pressed up against the glass like children, watching to see which mode of transportation is his, noses smooshed, necks strained.   Of course, he is the occupant of a small silver sports car. With a collective sigh, they all murmur to themselves. I hear things like: “Turbo, horsepower, more than my house costs! living the dream! douche!”   They watch as he places the venti fat-free double latte almond milk concoction on the roof of his car. He is on the latest phone model probably negotiating a six-figure deal. He jumps into his car and takes off, the beverage he left on the roof spilling over his windshield. The dads are smiling and laughing, for a brief moment, they relish in his misfortune.

With my eyes, I give them scolding looks of disappointment. Some are ashamed, others could care less. They look at each other, at their reality. I hear one of them say:” We better head over to the library to get good seats for storytime.”

A caravan of minivans exits the parking lot, tires squealing, horns honking, kid music blaring from the speakers. You can take the boy out of the sports car, but you can’t take the sports car out of the boy…

Chapter Eighty-Nine: Ma’am and My Funny Valentine…

Valentine’s Day, The holiday has origins in the Roman festival of Lupercalia, held in mid-February. The festival, which celebrated the coming of spring, included fertility rites and the pairing off of women with men by lottery.  Sounds just dandy…

Now it has become a moneymaker for the candy and card business. Hearts and Love. Making those who may not have a significant other,  feel just GRAND!  I inform Confused Husband that he should feel privileged to have someone to share this holiday with. Look at all of those lonely hearts having a holiday filled with love and romance being thrown in their face, by flowers, candy, and romantic cards, emphasizing they are alone.  He sighs and says: “Well at least they don’t have to spend money on useless items.” I remind him I am on the Keto diet so no chocolate here. He actually leaps with joy. I tell him there are other ways to celebrate. Such as a candlelit dinner, movie, perfume, flowers, a nice bottle of wine. He sulks and  ever the romantic says: “Christmas was not too long ago, and you JUST had your birthday.”

Then he goes into his conspiracy theory rant about some guys in suits have planned this whole Valentine’s Day moneymaking machine. I inform him yes this is all created by ad agencies(guys in suits) and yes, for once he is on to something! I also share that now there is Galentines Day, the day before Valentine’s Day and this is where females celebrate each other. He rolls his eyes and says: “All of these made-up holidays!’ I remind him that although we celebrate “Festivus” it is indeed a made-up holiday as well. His argument is Festivus only consists of a pole. Furthermore, I point out that he never seems to complain as he is stuffing his favorite chocolates into his mouth every Valentines Day, thank you very much!

Sighing dramatically he asks me what I want, I answer as I always do: “Oh this year you got me a nice bottle of wine, a lavender sleeping mask, and my special tea.” He smiles proudly as though he has picked out the gifts himself. He then hurries to purchase a card to go with the FANTASTIC gifts I have gotten for myself, under the pretense he has chosen them. This is our normal Valentine’s Day dance, and truthfully I wouldn’t have it any other way. He truly is MY Funny Valentine…




Chapter Eighty-Eight: Ma’am and Boomer…

I am soo excited! I am NOT a Boomer! I am Generation X! Confused Husband, on the other hand, is a Boomer. I inform him of this, and he retorts: “You are an X’er by the skin of your teeth!”I tell him: “Settle down Boomer!”

Out in the world, I feel young again! I tell everyone I can, the barista who asks what  name to write on the cup I say “Generation X!” I then call for an Uber and tell the driver to just call me X. I am revitalized, rejuvenated!

There is a pep in my walk! Some ladies are sitting in front of a café, I give them the wave of: “Yes, I am an X’er too! We should have an X secret handshake! “( Must Google how to create a secret handshake!) I want to tell EVERYONE!

I go on Twitter and now instead of cry, laugh at all the: “Okay Boomer” jokes! They’re NOT about me! I people watch and in my head separate the Boomers from the X’er’s! My how much older the Boomer’s look compared to us X’ers! I strike up a conversation with complete strangers and say things like:”Well, you know how those Boomers are!”

I have a massive hot flash on the metro, but I DON’T care! Because I am an X’er! Not an old Boomer! I feel a tap on my shoulder, I spin around(yes I can spin because I am an X’er!).  Staring back at me is a millennial, a Generation Y she says: “Ma’am  are you okay?” She has called me Ma’am, I am old.

It’s as though this millennial has taken a pin and burst my Boomer Bubble…



Chapter Eighty-Seven: Portraits on baked goods…

You know those crazy stories where people see Jesus on a potato chip or toast? Well, I never saw Jesus’ portrait on one. Although once, I am pretty sure I saw Paul Anka on a Cinnabun. I find Confused Husband staring at his croissant, deep in thought. I ask him is he searching for the meaning of life within his croissant? He informs me that his croissant looks like Liza Minnelli. He thrusts his croissant in my face. I don’t see Liza, but I see a smidgen of Elton John. At this comment, Confused Husband stares deeper at his croissant, he has a look of bewilderment on his face. Sighing dramatically he turns it and  says: “Now it looks like Samuel L. Jackson!”

This is what you can call our farewell tour of carbs. We have decided to go on the Keto diet. Hence, no more sugar, no more grains, no more carbohydrates. My last supper, or carb if you will is a Napoleon. I CANNOT express how much I LOVE  a good Napoleon! With tears of sorrow, I inhale my Napoleon. Like an old friend that I will never see again, with the final bite, I bid my Napoleon a fond adieu.  I watch Confused Husband sobbing over his dessert de Choix, Mr. Samuel L. Jackson. He whispers parting words to his baked good, and then like a Great White shark inhaling a surfer he shoves what remains of Samuel L. Jackson into his mouth.

Fast forward to one week later. Exhausted from grazing on lettuce and pretending that The Quaker Oats man in my pantry is not taunting me with his damn smirk every time I open the pantry door to eat my allotted seeds or Aunt Jemima is not teasing me with her: “I know you want me look.” I am also backed up like the Holland Tunnel at rush hour. Apparently, Confused Husband is not having the same issues. He brags about how he is “regular” right on schedule like a reliable train. I  notice that he is also prancing around in his “skinny” sweats. Munching on some almond nuts and posing he asks:” How am I feeling?” I want to throttle him! My stomach is so bloated, I look like I am eight months pregnant. I glare at him and munch on my lettuce leaf which kind of looks like Freddy Krueger with all of its creases. He shares that he weighed himself in the drugstore, and has dropped a whole three pounds! I pray he chokes on one of his almond nuts and in my current bloated state, will inform Homicide Detectives that I was unable to perform the Heimlich maneuver due to my monumental belly. He does lunges out of the room, and I sit there chewing on Freddy Krueger like a cow chewing its cud…



Chapter Eighty-Six: Ma’am and the vagina candle…

Apparently there is a candle that smells like a vagina. Yes, this is not a typo about a candle that smells like Virginia. It is vagina. Word has it, that it sold out as well. I have lots of zingers for this, like desperate men that couldn’t get a woman, blow up dolls were too expensive but they could afford the candle because I mean all they want is the vagina anyway. I am dumbfounded what sells and how people make money so quickly. Attach a celebrity name to anything and VOILÀ ! Instant success. I mean if Jane Doe from say Milwaukee made a candle that smelt like her vagina and attempted to sell it, she would be serving ten to life or locked away in a mental facility. What is wrong with this picture? But because its Gwyneth Paltrow, then that makes it okay?

Struggling writers such as the author penning this fabulous blog, watch reality so-called celebs get six figure book deals, when you know they can’t even recite the alphabet! But there they are plugging their NYT best-seller on the latest morning show. Meanwhile, Mildred dressed in her robe, sitting in her basement apartment was the ghost writer for this ding a ling, and gets none of the credit. I just don’t get it.

Motto of story, do a sex tape and or vlog doing something absurd. Instagram yourself having a bowel movement. Create a candle that smells like your vay-jay-jay and you too can be rich! As long as you are famous. This candle has inspired me I must say, although I am not a celebrity. I am thinking of creating The Ear Wax candle……