True Stories

Actual transcript of a perfect conversation with my husband on an unknown day.

Husband:  I can’t believe it’s Friday already.

Me:  It’s not Friday, it’s Thursday.

Husband:  No, it’s Friday.

Me:  Are you sure?

Husband:  Pretty sure.

Me:  No, it’s Thursday because yesterday was garbage day.

Husband:  No, that was two days ago.

Me: Are you sure?

Husband: Well . . . I think so.  Maybe not.

I realize that this is not a particularly interesting story, but it is true, and it was Friday.   I’m long removed from the mental haze of new motherhood, and hopefully still far enough away from age-related dementia.  So, the fact that we were having a conversation like this, well, it begs to be documented.  Here are some other true things, or true for me anyway, in these surreal times  .  .  .

Last night I had assembled the makings for two flawless Lemon Drop cocktails:  Just the right amount of vodka.  Juice from a freshly squeezed lemon.  A dollop of homemade simple syrup.  A splash of triple sec.  My martini glasses were beautifully rimmed with lemon infused sugar.  I had all the ingredients in the silver shaker, liberally filled with ice.  It was beautiful.  I began to rigorously shake, pouring all of my frustrations into my efforts.  The top was not secure and flew off mid-shake.  Half of my cocktail ended up in a puddle on the counter.

While I was creating my perfect cocktail, my husband had the news on in the background.  It was yet another press conference.  At this one, before the president stopped the science guy from answering a question, he continued to push for the use of a drug – one not yet proven to work with the current virus.  So, really, a very typical type of press briefing: suppression of scary truths and promotion of false hope.  Just another day at the White House.   You’d think that after almost four years of this, I’d be immune to it.  But at that moment, in my still sober state, looking at my lemon drop puddle, knowing that the fate of myself and those I love is tied to the whims of this man for the conceivable future, I felt such utter hopelessness.

Yet, I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and poured the remaining paltry amount of cocktail into two glasses.  The news remained on.  I said to my husband he had a choice.  He could leave the news on, but he had to surrender his lemon drop over to me.  My husband is a wise man.  He immediately poured his drink into my glass and slowly backed away – to retrieve a replacement spirit for himself.

I’m not much of a crier.  It’s probably not healthy.  I tend to let the outrage build up inside of me and then I’ll be by myself and get caught off guard during one of those animal cruelty commercials, and then the tears will come.   Or, if I need the release and it just won’t happen naturally, I’ll turn to one of my “primal scream” movies.   That’s what I call them.  Those movies with scenes that feel so real, you can’t help but scream and cry with the protagonist.  It can be very effective (not to mention cheap) therapy.  My go-to is that scene in Steel Magnolias, with Sally Field screaming “why, Why, WHY” at the downright wrongness of what has happened to her.  Makes me cry every time.   I probably should watch it again soon.  Because lately, I find myself frequently on the verge of drunk texting certain people in my life asking “why, Why, WHY do you still support this president, are you paying attention?!”   Or something equally as productive.  I’m grateful to my like-minded friends who talk me down from my ledge of derangement.

Everything occurring now almost seems inevitable.  I may be an atheist, but part of me thinks that there is a god up there shaking his head and saying, “The only way to make you morons wake up was for me to throw down a global pandemic, you think I enjoy this?  Stop fucking up the environment, quit killing animals for sport, enough with the guns already, stop electing evil and/or stupid people, raise the minimum wage, healthcare is a right and not a privilege, don’t park in the handicap spot unless you’re actually disabled, vaccinate your damn kids, and for goodness sakes, stay home from the mega church this Sunday – you can’t pray this shit away!”   Yes, my god would freely curse.

I guess that’s it for now.  Except this . . . below is a picture of my niece Emily at my wedding many years ago.  She is now a real live married grown-up.  She is also a nurse in Seattle and is pregnant with her first kid.  So, please, for her and all the other health care professionals, first responders, service providers, essential business owners – everybody who does not have the luxury of sitting inside their house ranting online (like me), stay home.  #flattenthecurve

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