My eight year old son just told me he bought apples, potatoes and toilet paper in his Minecraft village. He hoarded them in the underground bunker he created because there is some kind of cubic “pandemic.”

Last night on Facebook, while Cindy’s 11 year old daughter hand-sewed face masks for ER nurses out of discarded eco-friendly bags, I got drunk and messaged Judd Apatow on Instagram. It wasn’t creepy, I was just remarking on his Shih Tzu, Curly. I don’t think he reads them anyway. But I kind of hope he does.

Am I doing this right?

I haven’t felt this lost since a nurse handed me our newborn baby and discharge papers and mumbled, “Good luck.”

In a world where a cart handle is now Kryptonite and a sneeze has become a lethal weapon – is it okay to be…bad at this? Is it okay to be… okay? Where’s the pandemic handbook? I mean, am I doing this right?

THURSDAY, MARCH 19TH A.C. (AFTER CORONA)

Today I dressed my husband in a pine-scented garbage bag, surgical gloves, a painter’s mask and reading glasses from the Dollar Store to go and buy Honey Bunches of Oats and cucumbers. And it wasn’t even weird.

Though I’ve always fantasized about being married to a brain surgeon, this outfit did nothing for my libido, which, by the way, has been AWOL for thirty-seven days now. Because fear is not sexy.

He came back twelve hours later with plantains (I asked for bananas) and unfrosted strawberry Pop Tarts. Um, say what? Everything went into slow mo. I had an inexplicable visceral reaction to the photo of brown cardboard pastry.

“Oh…are they not the right ones?” he mistakenly asked. I almost felt bad for him. I was disproportionately angry. I felt like Ray Liotta in Goodfellas after Karen flushed all of their cocaine down the toilet.

I sprayed my organic grapes with Lysol and collected my thoughts.

It wasn’t the fact that he got the wrong flavor. It wasn’t the fact that I sent him to the grocery store like Hannibal Lector on a day pass. It was the fact that this guy just risked his life for UNfrosted Pop Tarts. And now we can’t go back for another two weeks.

Am I doing this right?

SUNDAY, MARCH 22ND A.C.

On Facebook, Marcia is learning Cantonese and her husband Tom, who I know she secretly despises because he is controlling, made Osso Bucco. They set up a café table, decorated with candles and daffodils from their garden, and had their kid dress up in a tuxedo and serve them.

Meanwhile, we ordered Lo Mein from a restaurant and told the driver leave it on the sidewalk next to our recycling bin. I opened the door to glimpse a man in a ski mask and gloves inelegantly chuck a bag out of his passenger side window. He didn’t even stop. On ANY other day of the year this would be highly offensive and unacceptable. Or a drug deal. But today, it was dinner.

I fed my kids that sidewalk Lo Mein.

Am I doing this right?

THURSDAY, MARCH 26TH A.C.

As if being a chef, chauffeur, doctor, therapist, accountant and laundress weren’t enough, now I am suddenly a school teacher. Much like the church and the schoolhouse in Little House on the Prairie, our classroom doubles as a dining room. And just like Laura Ingalls Wilder, I have to teach different grade levels, ages and every subject all in one class.

Today in homeschool, we counted on our fingers. In gym we played ‘dodge each other.’ For art, I had them make a vision board of all of mommy’s dreams that haven’t come true. My son used both sides.

The school day lasts until 4:30 p.m. because I have no idea what I’m doing. When my kids complain, I tell them that’s how they do school in Japan.

Am I doing this right?

SATURDAY, MARCH 28TH A.C.

I called my parents to check in. This is my mother’s worst nightmare – being trapped in a two bedroom condo in Boca with my dad and his bad habits. She whispered down the phone like an inmate at Guantanamo and I was her lawyer. “You’ve gotta get me out of here,” she whispered. “He’s leaving crumbs all over the coffee table.”

Between the two of them, they have six heart stents, four gallstones, one cervical stenosis, labile blood pressure, high cholesterol, rheumatoid arthritis, ADD, a faulty rotator cuff, chronic eczema and two painful bunions. It’s like the senior citizen’s version of “A Partridge In A Pear Tree”.

When I asked her where she’d been all day, she sighed and said they were at three different stores because apparently my mother’s definition of crisis is that she couldn’t find Bell and Evans chicken.

I feel guilty that I am comforted that they are in quarantine six states away.

Am I doing this right?

MONDAY, MARCH 30TH A.C.

My daughter made peanut butter cookies and I ate six in a row like they were air sandwiches. I didn’t eat them like that lady in the Lindor chocolate commercial either. I ate them like Clegane the Hound after he trekked across Westeros and found a roast chicken.

I suddenly realized that our 19-year old housecat has been in quarantine her entire life. No wonder she pees on our rugs. She watches me eat and stares as if to say, “amateur.”

I don’t fit into my pants and I regret not using that nail salon certificate. I decide to forego shaving my legs for a few days but because I am Italian, my bottom half now resembles a Satyr from Greek mythology.

Am I doing this right?

FRIDAY, APRIL 3RD A.C.

Big day. Big. An Amazon box arrived. We didn’t remember what we ordered. It felt like Christmas.

I dismantled the cardboard box like I was a bomb disposal technician. I yelled things like, “Nobody move!” in a hysterical voice. I used gloves, a mask and a circular saw to break the thin, single layer of tape. I held the contents above my head (hazelnut coffee pods and wall hooks) and presented them to my household while singing “The Circle Of Life”.

Am I doing this right?

MONDAY, APRIL 6TH A.C.

No one wanted to go for a walk today. I made them. When we got three blocks away my 12 year old told me she had to go home because she was ‘itchy’ and my son asked if I brought snacks. This outing only confirmed my belief that they will never become Navy SEALs.

The only one who didn’t complain was my teenage daughter who I realized was making a Tik Tok video of my backside and calling me “Karen” as an adjective. Look it up.

When we arrived home, I decided to be nicer to Alexa as she is the only one in my house who still listens to me. I also decided that if I have another kid, I’m naming her Alexa.

Am I doing this right?

TUESDAY, APRIL 7TH A.C.

My mattress has become a magic carpet ride to the land of horrific thoughts. It’s like in Aladdin but if Jasmine worked freelance and had hot flashes.

I know that the memory foam on my mattress works because I have the same nightmares every night. I realized that if my body becomes still, my mind takes the express train to Horror Ville. My anxiety is live-streaming its own show while I sleep and I don’t have the option of turning it off.

Am I doing this right?

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 8TH A.C.

Today I felt bizarrely creative. And focused. Productive. Dare I say, elated??

An hour later I was spreading peanut butter on a Snickers bar and worrying about the guy in the Dovato commercial. Alphonso has HIV and he’s handling it, but he is eating guacamole with his cappuccino at the café and I can’t get it off my mind. Thanks to the prop person on the commercial set, Alphonso can now add reflux to his list of side effects.

I realized that as long as I worry about Alphonso, I won’t worry about anything real.

Am I doing this right?

TUESDAY, APRIL 12TH A.C.

My husband is English. We all have an English accent now. We do things like drink tea and call the living room the ‘parlor.’ My daughter plays classical music for us on the piano and we respond with a golf clap. My husband reads Jeeves and Wooster aloud while I sip cognac and giggle into a lace hanky.

It’s like we’re in season seven of Downton Abby and it’s worse than season six because at least in the show Mr. Carson was getting some from Mrs. Hughes. 

Am I doing this right?

THURSDAY, APRIL 15TH A.C.

While I laid on my bed and watched reruns of Vanderpump Rules (two of Jax’s nose jobs ago), my neighbor took her kids outside and used sidewalk chalk to recreate a ceiling fresco from the Uffizi.

I should have booked my colonoscopy when I was told. The doctor’s office called and suggested I make a virtual appointment. Is. This. Even. Possible?

I had a great day yesterday.

Today I’m depressed.

Am I doing this right?

FRIDAY, APRIL 16TH A.C.

A friend of a friend died. I didn’t know them so I didn’t cry. On purpose. Even though I felt sad. Even though I cry at Dovato commercials. And every time I read the end of The Giving Tree. And every time I hear New York applauding healthcare workers at 7 p.m.

I realized that I am afraid to cry for this stranger. I am afraid to open that door. I realized that I am saving my tears. No – I’m hoarding my tears. Like canned baked beans that I hope I never have to use. I can’t cry for this stranger because, like everything else I am hoarding, what if I need them later?

For myself? For my family?

I realized this is selfish. So I cry for a stranger. And a little bit for myself too. Because whether I like it or not, I think I’m doing this. Right?

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