My lockdown lifestyle is like that of the wife of an as-yet-undiscovered serial killer in the 70’s.
– home alone daily in a housedress / nightgown
– making ice in trays
– doing housework
– going through old boxes wondering where did all this weird women’s jewelry come from
“Are you ever going to boil?”, I scream at the pot of water that is sitting on a burner which I didn’t turn on.
My son has come up with what he calls “skeleton kisses”, where he touches his teeth to your forehead or cheek when he kisses you so it feels like bones touching you.
Isn’t that precious?
No. He’s 20.
Instead of cars having a warning light that reads “DOOR AJAR”, I think the warning light should say “DOOR’S OPEN, DUMMY.” Then if it’s not shut soon, “YOU’RE GONNA FALL OUT & GET RUN OVER, IDIOT.” Then after a little more time, “NEVER MIND. LEAVE IT OPEN. THIN THE HERD. MORON.”
Me: I’m over IT.
Friend: Over what?
Me: You know…IT.
Friend: IT is a pronoun that could mean anything.
Me: IT as in Information Technology.
Friend: You CAN’T be over that.
[1 week later]
Me, via handwritten letter: Well, I am.
I just “shaved “both my legs with the little plastic cap still on the razor and didn’t notice until I was “finished” with the second leg.
I just scraped shaving cream off my legs like ice off a windshield.