Pandemic Tuesday - Day 31

Sunday night, I couldn't stand it any longer. I grabbed the pair of small shears out of my husband's hair-trimming kit, stood naked in the shower, pulled the mirror to me, and hacked away at my hair.

Normally I wear a shag style. Now it's more like a mullet that stands out straight on one side. It's shorter, anyway, and what's done is done.

I took about 2" of hair off of my head. I picked up what hair I could and shoved it into a bag; my husband filed in with the battery-powered vacuum and took care of the rest. I showered and blew my grey locks dry. I knew the cut would be bad - a previous effort to trim my bangs had not gone well. It's all I can do to manage a curling iron.

My hair had been 4 days overdue for a cut when the pandemic shut-ins began. My previous cut had been a tad short, so I was letting it grow out a bit for just a trim - a trim that probably won't happen for at least another month, if not two. Or three.

Who knows?

Hair is something that will grow back, so whatever damage I've done will one day be remedied. In the meantime, I can wear a hat.

Honestly, it is not like I'm going out anyway. I've left the house four times since March 13, and during all of those outings, I stayed in the car. My husband is insistent that I not leave the safety of the vehicle.

Since I last wrote, I ventured out to ride with the husband to drop items into a FedEx drop box, pick up medication at the drive thru-pharmacy, and to purchase lunch from Bellacino's at the curbside pickup. We ate with his mother. We try to do that occasionally so she doesn't die of boredom up there alone in the house. At least he and I have each other to fight with.

He is here all the time now since he has retired. Well, he is off farming and putting in septic tanks at times, but after 37 years of getting up at 5 a.m., he has discovered he likes to sleep late. He likes to fix breakfast. I let him. My routine is in flux. I can't expect anything to become regular, though, until the virus issues lessen.

I've picked up work editing a manuscript, so that has been fortunate. It helps the afternoons go by more quickly. From 2 p.m. onward, I struggle. I start roaming the house. My restlessness seems endless and ongoing. I fight not to eat (another) candy bar. My husband has lost weight in the months he has been home because I do not fix the major meals he had at the fire station. I haven't lost a pound. I am still eating just as I always have, if not more. My exercise routine is nonexistent, not because of lethargy but because of a bad case of heel spur/plantar fasciitis in my left foot. It is all I can do to walk to the kitchen, must less contemplate a 30-minute bout on the treadmill.

Audiobooks are my friends. So is music. My one bright spot of the day for the last two weeks has been the live 3-4 song concerts Melissa Etheridge is putting on for her fans. Every single day on Facebook at 6 p.m., there she is, playing favorites and telling us all to drink lots of water, take a walk, and spread the love. She is a damn good guitar player and my eyes are glued to her fingers while she plays. Her songs are full of difficult chords; I want to see how she does it.



Me jamming with Melissa Etheridge. This is after my haircut. Can you tell where I scalped myself?

I call my brother frequently. He is running an essential business; he makes frequent trips to the store. He brought me Easter candy to give to my husband. I fret over his being out in public so much and worry that he isn't taking precautions. I have been dreaming about him regularly, and this concerns me. In our family, we're a little fey. Dreams are not taken lightly. Fortunately, they are not bad dreams, but I do not dream about him as a rule. So every morning after I dream of him, I call and ask him if he is ok. He knows it is because I dreamt of him. I don't even have to tell him. I don't know if he is amused or irritated by my concern.

Other family members I've not heard from in years have called. My first cousin in Texas, Matthew, called and talked for a long time (the first time in about three years I'd heard from him), then sent me pictures of his daughter and his new truck. The next night I texted him and told him guitar legend Tommy Emmanuel was performing live on Facebook. I found it funny because he'd told me in our phone conversation that he didn't waste his time on things like Facebook and Instagram. His wife, though, has a Facebook account and the next thing I knew we were texting about guitar licks as we both watched the man play.

My husband's cousin, whom I've met about three times, lives in California, and she called Friday and talked for well over an hour. I kept suggesting she call my mother-in-law, who is her aunt, but I don't know if she did.

When I was a reporter, I learned that the secret of good conversation is to talk little, listen a lot. People like to hear themselves speak. They like to be acknowledged. No one wants to be alone all the time, not really. Not even someone like me, an introvert in the extreme. I like to let the long pauses grow longer still during conversations. That is when someone will pop out with the most unlikeliest of sentences.

Sunday night, we had 3" of rain. It flooded to the south. Monday morning, I opened the patio door and listened to a symphony of birds as they sang their hearts out after the long night of heavy rain.

The wind picked up and blew the grass dry in between rain showers as the day progressed.

Last night, I stepped out on the patio to breathe in the fresh, clean air. The wind had died down, and in the ensuing silence, I heard an unmistakable noise.

It was the background chatter of the 17-year locust.