Masks – Lionsandtigersandbearsetc

I am always late for the party. If the cool kids do something, eventually I catch up. Usually when most people have moved on to the Next Big Thing.

This time that meant I got Covid in March of 2023. I feel a little like Paul in All Quiet on the Western Front.

I mean isn’t Covid over?

I didn’t even feel terrible. Other than one day when I only got out of bed to feed the horses and dogs, and never changed out of my pjs, it wasn’t that bad.

The dogs LOVED sleeping on the bed with me for nearly 24 hours straight. So there’s that. (Let me bust one myth: Covid did not interfere with my sense of smell. At all. That would have been a plus, since I was sharing close space with three extremely farty Great Danes.)

Ruckus refused to accept responsibility for her gassiness.

As for me, I was just tired. I also had leg cramps from being squashed by the giant immobile dogs, but that is a whole other story.

I felt like I had a bad cold. You know, stuffy head, an occasional cough, sneezing and a runny nose. So very sexy, I know.

Because I was pretty good about wearing masks in public, I hadn’t even had a cold since before Covid started. Which was why all of the test kits that the government sent out in 2021 were sitting untouched in my medicine cabinet. I used one. It lit up like a Christmas Tree.

Naturally, I didn’t believe it.

I had a COLD damn it! Anyway the tests had expired. Normally I don’t believe anything goes bad on the expiration date, but since I was grasping at straws, I checked online and sure enough, the internet said that expired tests often give false positives.

The internet is always correct, right?

Still, the next day when I ran out to pick up a few essentials at the store, I wore a fresh new mask. And bought a thermometer. (Side note: I have THREE horse thermometers, but none for humans. Horse people understand.) And a new test kit. Just in case.

I had a lot to do that day so after I shopped, I cleaned the barn, spent a few hours mowing the grass, and a few other equally necessary tasks before it was scheduled to rain again.

I was tired, but it’s a push mower. (Don’t judge me: it was cheap. And so am I.) Finally I sat down and took the test.

I set a timer and then my sister-in-law called. I assured her that I didn’t have Covid, but I was being cautious. We talked for a few minutes, hung up and the timer went off.

Two dark lines.

NOOOOOO!

I was so incredibly pissed.

For one thing, I had been so careful. Not only was I still the Queen of the Masks (in stores and other crowded places) but even more important, except for going to the barn, which is outside, I rarely did anything involving other people. (Anti-social? Or just careful? You decide.)

I do know exactly when I got Covid. I had to fly back East for the funeral of my beloved uncle. When my sister-in-law met me at the airport I told her that I was the only one wearing a mask and someone a few rows behind me hacked up a lung the entire way across country.

At the time it seemed funny. Now, so much.

It’s well-known that I’m not a hugger, but funerals are an exception. So I hugged everyone.

This meant that my positive test had greater implications than for just me. I had visions of being Patient Zero at the funeral. This was not a pleasant thought.

Thankfully, neither my 92-year-old Mom, nor my Aunt, who looks and acts like she is in her 40s, but is almost twice that age, seemed to have picked it up. Nor have any of the other attendees, geezers or whipper-snappers.

One day post-positive, I spent an hour trying to connect on a video call with my doctor to see if, in the words of the slogan, “Paxlovid was right for me.” After the technology failed numerous times we ended up connecting on the phone.

I was already getting better and had no pre-existing conditions, so apparently Paxlovid was not right for me.

But I was giving instructions to quarantine for a few more days, drink liquids and rest.

At least the dogs were happy.

As usual a little late to the party/ So far 2023 has sucked too.

I am not a good food shopper. My excuse is that I barely cook so I have no idea what ingredients I might need to make actual food.

The only thing I make with regularity is turkey loaf for the dogs. I started doing it when Dalai was a skinny puppy. I do it now because she is a skinny old lady.

In my first house I had a gorgeous, vintage Wedgewood oven/stove. Because I don’t cook, I used the oven maybe twice a year. (This was pre-turkey loaf.) After I’d lived there a few years I had a repairman come out because when I did turn the oven on, there was a horrible smell. I thought it might be a gas leak or something.

He took one look at the oven and stared at me in shock. “It’s the dust,” he said. “The oven is filled with dust. That’s the smell.”

Oops.

I digress.

Obviously I’m not one of those smart people who plans their meals for a week and goes shopping with a list. I’m more of the ‘what can I zip into the market and grab and make tonight’ kind of cook. In a normal week I may fly in and out of the store three times, buying just enough to last for a couple of days.

What with social distancing and safer at home orders, this no longer is a viable method of survival.

I have tried to change. I actually attempted to think about eating before I’m hungry, which I hate to do, and went into the store armed with a mask, gloves and an actual list.

Yeah, that wasn’t so successful. I waited until mid-morning in order to avoid the lines. (I haven’t been to Trader Joe’s since the lockdown. At the TJ’s near me, there are literally lines around the block; I love the place but nothing is worth that.)

Unfortunately that means that by the time I got there most of the things on my list were sold out. Carrots? Nope. Beyond meat? Nada. Pasta? Not a chance. Shit.

As always, I just wanted to get out of the store as quickly as possible. But now shopping brings an element of panic as well as boredom. Since the items on my carefully prepared list were missing, I found myself randomly grabbing stuff so I could stand in the socially distanced line and flee to the safety and peace of my car as fast as I could.

This meant that when I arrived home and opened my shopping bags it was a little like Christmas: a surprise. But not a good in a good way.

I came home with cans of tuna, which was okay, I like tuna. There was also a loaf of nasty white bread, a head of cabbage that I snatched thinking it was iceberg lettuce, and a red pepper. I’d also bought a dozen eggs to add to the carton I already had in the fridge. And five lemons.

I ended up making a really good, easy, tray of shortbread lemon bars (from Sally’s Baking Addiction). They were delicious, but didn’t solve the meal issue.

I ended up on muddling through with an ancient can of soup (is there an expiration date on lentil soup?) which, if I do say so myself, paired nicely with the lemon bars.

In short, I am still going to the grocery a couple of times a week, which is less than ideal. I reassure myself that I’d have to do so anyway, since in the summer I pick up 25 pound bags of carrots twice a week for the horses.

I tried getting 50 pounds once, but they went bad before they could be eaten. There is truly nothing more disgusting than 20ish pounds of rotting carrots. Ew.

What all this means is that I’m going to have to get creative. So if you need me for the next week I’ll be combing the internet for recipes that use cabbage, eggs and a lemon.

Tag: Masks

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