Nightmares, Jello, and other notes from a Quarantine.

You would not know it from reading these pages, but I was doing alright. I mean, there were periods of rage, bewilderment and sheer what-the-fuckery happening to me on a daily basis, but more or less I was fine. I could have won a gold medal for number of times unloading the dishwasher in a single day, and even though we are living in pajamas, I was enduring marathon laundry sessions befitting an outfit-changing Southern debutante (seriously, people — what is it that I am washing exactly?), but I was ok.

Until I wasn’t.

After a close assessment of the goings-on around me, I’m pretty sure that I can blame Passover, but I can’t be one hundred percent sure it wasn’t the children’s fault. Either way, Passover ended, and I put my kitchen back together. (For those of you who have no idea what I’m talking about, just know that for some reason celebrating the Exodus involves changing over all our dishes, silverware and pots and pans. Also, excessive amounts of potato flour.)

And then I sank.

I sank for a few days, which involved me opening the fridge, closing it and climbing into bed. It involved me walking downstairs, making eye contact with all the people who needed me, and then climbing into bed. It involved answering the nine million requests which came my way each day, even the ones that came to me while I was in the bathroom with the door locked (side note: if you can slide a note under the door then you can probably answer the question yourself), and then climbing into bed. I climbed into bed but did not rest. I just lay there swimming in a sea of jello sadness, which is the best description I can think of. (I hate jello. I would rather have been swimming in a sea of rice pudding, but I had no say in the matter.)

And then, the dreams. I know we have all been sleeping strangely, and #CoronaDreams is a real thing, but as my cousin H. likes to say, when I get really anxious, the Nazis visit and last night I had such an awful, vivid Nazi dream that I woke up gasping for breath, and I think it had more to with my state of mind than with the fact that Yom Hashoah begins tonight, but I could be wrong about that because lately I am wrong about many things). I decided to get up and leave the Nazis in bed and when I got back a few hours later, they were gone. (I don’t know where they went, but if they came to your house next and screwed up your dreams, I’m truly sorry.)

Maybe it’s because we all thought it would be over by now. Maybe it’s because Spring is a pretty evil season to begin with (it’s raining/it’s sunny/it’s raining/it’s sunny) and it’s not like there’s much about summer we can anticipate. (Yelling, but in sundresses and shorts?) Maybe it’s because suddenly everyone wants to garden and all of the plants and seeds I buy every year are SOLD OUT. (Come on people, I’m not buying your baking shit, can’t you just leave my plants alone?)

Who knows? Either way, I can say that whatever it was began to lift this morning when I woke up (I did go back to sleep eventually and if I dreamed, I certainly don’t remember it) and realized the kids would be on some kind of schedule because school was returning and that meant I could also go back to work. Maybe it’s because it hasn’t rained yet today (sometime I wonder how I survived seven years in Seattle and then I realize that I almost didn’t). Maybe it’s because M made dinner last night while I hid in the bedroom and all I needed was a night off. (Ok, maybe I need one more.)

I hope this week is better. I hope that the daily grocery-slot lottery I play ends with a win and not the constant rejection to which I have now grown accustomed.

I hope the Nazis leave us all alone.

I’ll Get You Karma, and Your Little Dog, Too.

The biggest problem in my marriage is this: once a month (or thereabouts), M knocks over a giant glass of water which rests on his nightstand. The water douses everything around it. While this is happening, I usually play dead — so that I do not have to get up and help him mop up the water with whatever he can find lying around. I do not play dead because I am mean-spirited, or even lazy. I play dead because if I open my eyes, I will be awake for the night.

I am not a sleeper. If something wakes me up in the middle of the night (which I define as anywhere between 11.30 and everything that comes after it), I do not go back to sleep. I go thorough stages of resistance and acceptance and usually end up on the coach downstairs, watching TV, reading, or listening to a podcast. I know that I am not alone, and therefore, I won’t bore you with any more of the details of my sleeplessness.

Last night I tempted fate. As we headed to sleep, I said to M — I really hope you knock your water over tonight, because that is the only way you’ll throw out all the piles of random paper shit you have next to your bed. I do not exaggerate about these piles. It looks like a small mountain range of random magazines, bills, circulars, printouts and whatever else he can find in the house. Nobody touches the piles because M knows the contents of each one and can tell if we’ve been messing around. The only way those piles disappear is when they are soaked beyond saving.

Hence, I have come to rely on the monthly spillage.

Last night at three, I heard a CRASH. Then I heard, “OH SHIT.” I played dead. Very dead. Minutes later, spillage mopped, M falls back to sleep.

I have been up ever since.

I got some writing and editing done. I gardened by moonlight (really, I did! It’s awesome! You should all try it!) and I even gave myself a manicure (a lot less successful, but what can you do?) But when M woke up, I was in no mood for him. I yelled at him for taking a leisurely shower (Seriously? Fifteen minutes on a weekday?) and just about everything else. His face looked like it did in the early days of our marriage when I was mad at him, and expected him to know EXACTLY WHY I was mad, but refused to tell him. It goes without saying that his lack of inherent knowledge only made me madder.

We are about to hit our 20 year mark, and if I don’t get some sleep, our marriage may very well come full circle.

(Here is his nightstand AFTER it has been cleaned up. It is somewhat disconcerting to see that M sleeps with a hammer next to his bed. Also, I am very confused about the canoe escape pamphlet. Maybe I should be more helpful in the middle of the night.)