I consider my time at home already a rousing success, as I’ve started putting the finishing touches on my Carole Baskin Halloween costume. Hashtag, flower crown.

Hello all you cool cats and kittens!

My house officially lowered the bar of expectations from “Let’s make the most of our time quaranTYNED and learn an instrument! Or a language! Or clean out the goddamned basement, DEAR” to “If I don’t snap someone’s neck in two before the end of the day, imma call it a win”. Lowering standards in the face of a mandatory global pandemic requiring folks who otherwise wouldn’t see each other much TO SEE EACH OTHER EVERYDAY AND SHARE AND OFFICE AND HEAR THEM CLEARING THEIR THROAT A ZILLION TIMES A DAY AND PARTICIPATE IN THEIR CONFERENCE CALLS IN AN UNOFFICIAL CAPACITY SURE DAN, I’LL SPEARHEAD THAT PROJECT AFTER ALL WE’RE IN THE SILOS HERE could seriously save lives.

What a long, strange two weeks it’s been.

I’ve transitioned from discovering new hobbies to, shit…maybe I should find a Covid Side Hustle. I read somewhere on Twitter that when the world transforms into a feces bombed dumpster fire, we should offer our gifts to the world. Give the thing that we do well to the universe. If I could send y’all a giant lasagna everyday, I WOULD BECAUSE IT CURES ALL THAT AILS JUST ASK MY FAMILY. I cannot, unfortunately, so instead, I’m considering sharing some of my writing in the form of Kindle downloads. I’m still navigating the whole process, but it may pull double duty as a stupid fun project that distracts me from the prospect of never leaving the house again Bubble Boy style, and something to entertain the masses in the same boat. It’s no N95 mask or PPE, but we do what we can.

When we purchased our home, Fiance’ had one (ok, there were many, but we’re focusing on just one for the sake of brevity) request…

He wanted signs.

Yes, we are that annoying household of Karens with a smattering of inspirational and entertaining signs sprinkled throughout the house. On one wall in the living room, there sits a cluster of said signage, including one emblazoned with, “YOU GOT THIS.”

The Sharpie-esque script on white canvas, with a random but intentional arrangement of gold dots for good measure, sits at eye level each time I walk to through the adjacent door to let our dog out to do his business. “You got this…” It’s usually easy to tune out because really, who gives a shit about the quality of watching my dog take a leak in the yard? Really, it’s fine.

“You got this…” as I flop into the couch to watch Tiger King on Netflix, wishing I had a fraction of Joe Exotic’s confidence and chutzpah.

“You got this…” when I serve up a shitty dinner of hamburgers to my cooped up family of 6, no side dishes, with half buns and half bread.

“You got this…” chasing down the dog, taking himself on a walk up the road to see his pals at the other end of the neighborhood.

Today, the getting started to crack. I began questioning my ability to get this, whatever the fuck this is.

The cadence of “You got this…” fades as I fail miserably to concentrate on work, as another panic attack brews and boils over, as my chest twists and tightens with every ring of the Outlook ding indicating another email arrived, as my thoughts wander down the path of the weeks of quarantine turning into months, as the economy crashes, as supplies dwindle, as my confidence in whether my constant anxious presence in my own home is a boon or bane.

I took a nap. I ate. I got some sun, drank coffee, and by sheer force and some goddamned anger that bubbled up from my feet somewhere, I buckled down, got to work and finished up the day as best I could.

But fuck, y’all.

I need to hear from some other anxious souls because I was grossly, immensely unprepared for just how much I don’t have this. My world changed very little amidst the closings and relocations and such, and I’m grateful for my privileged position of little worry in the roof-over-my-head department. That is not lost on me. My job affords me flexibility to work from home, my family’s health remains good, and I have a few dollars in the bank. And yet, despite the safety of my home base, my feet still feel as if they hang off the edge of the cliff to the point of emotional vertigo. Does that even make sense? It’s maddening and the spiral so strong, I’m helpless to stop it.

My goal over the coming weeks is simple, but immense. Be strong enough to look my family in the eyes, and myself in the mirror, say “We got this”, and believe it.

Quick! Someone re-tool this to make it relevant to the RONA:

We made it a week and change.

All six members of the household still with us? CHECK

All pets accounted for? CHECK

Food and supplies? CHECK and CHECK

Toilet Paper? Shhhhhhhhhhhhhhh but checkity check check

Interesting realization I made over the last seven days. While I once exuded extrovertedness through my pores, I now relish the notion of long stretches at home, especially with my family under the same roof, safe and sound. The cadence of cooking and cleaning and domesticating and meals at the table suits me just fine.

Today, I took a virtual yoga class in an effort to combat the #quarantine15. I noticed our bathroom sink draining slowwwwwly, so I unclogged that. Yesterday, we cleaned the house top to bottom. Fiance’ retooled his guitars, a’la getting the band back together style. Today, we took a drive to nowhere. We live in proximity to rolling hills, covered bridges, rivers, nature, and plenty of places to roam at a safe distance from others. Surprisingly, we passed a packed grocery store and a park filled with people frolicking and enjoying an early spring day, seemingly unfazed by the risk of contracting any virus.

This quarantine isn’t all fun and games, though. Fiance’ owns a rental property and received a text from one of his tenants today. She’s seriously concerned about making rent going forward since her non-essential office shut down. Same for his other tenant. Possibly the same for the third. We’re also facing the real possibility of my job’s uncertain future. Those two financial losses, while not fatal blows, would hurt. We hope a solution exists at some point down the road. Just another piece of the pie to keep on our plate OMG I can’t stop eating or thinking about eating and along with the eating and think-eating comes food metaphors and idioms.

Up next: week TWO, Electric Boogaloo.

A new reality has befallen us. It’s Rona’s world and we’re just living in it.

As a high school sophomore, I thought it a wise idea to take AP Biology, a perfectly logical plan for a young woman bound for communications school and a career in television. Let’s be honest, my guidance counselor may have been high when that particular recommendation came my way, but I made the best of it. Regardless, I jumped in with both fifteen year old feet and loved it. My teacher, a crazy, old, dusty bat, about whom rumors circulated that her former dentist husband, used her chompers as a practice field, leaving her with the firmest mouth of gums you ever did see, constantly challenged us to DO BETTER. She expected a LOT. I walked into her class a cocky over-achiever who barely needed to crack a book to gain A’s. I walked out that first day paralyzed with fear of a B…or worse.

During a unit studying the nervous system, our teacher assigned a project to demonstrate a disorder or disease affecting the nerves. I chose Multiple Sclerosis. My poster board pretty decently animated the breakdown of the protective myelin sheath and the negative effects as a result. I incorporated a pump and a hose and some yarn and it was good. Not great, in my opinion, definitely not my best work, and no where near the suit of armor I made out of cardboard and tin foil in 7th grade that impressed my teacher so much he insisted I wear it during an academic fair, AND I DID.

The night before turning in the project, I woke in the middle of the night and power projectile vomited ALL OVER my room, my bed, and my assignment. I wasn’t sick, no stomach bug, no fever. What could’ve possibly prompted my body to empty the contents of my belly in such grand fashion?

And that, friends, was my first introduction to the hate/hate affair with anxiety.

I can Monday Morning Quarterback and conclude the constant din of worry always existed at some level and remained so consistently, I believed everyone felt the same elephant-sitting-on-your-chest-during-a-cardiac-episode Chalked it up to normal. Never said a word. In college I had my first panic attack. Postpartum anxiety and depression prompted my first time chatting about this odd phenomenon with a medical professional, who prescribed meds, which literally changed my life. Although I’ve gone through several iterations of treatment, and ALL THE THERAPY, I found a regimen that works, like 90% of the time. Unless, you know, a full-scale Contagion level pandemic breaks out.

I felt the wave start to breech late last week, about the same time our amazing management gave us the option of working from home. Which I welcomed, but hello upended routine! And then schools cancelled classes for two weeks. And my stepdaughter’s university shut down for the remainder of the semester, requiring us to move her out of her dorm on a few moments notice. And, family remained scattered around the Eastern Seaboard due to school and vacations. And then we confirmed our wedding needed postponing. And then we began running low on supplies. And then…

Boom. The wave crashed over me and I started drowning.

Anxiety rears up and kicks you in the head so unexpectedly, so suddenly, it leaves you knocked out, flat on the ground, fighting for breath. But not before your brain spirals out of its orbit, shouting lies and spewing untruths so loudly and often you begin believing the propaganda. I fought with my fiance’, I probably scared everyone in my midst, and finally, late last night, I collapsed into bed, surrounded by love and burly arms, exhausted and relieved that I’d found a way to swim to the surface, take a breath, and gain my bearings.

I was ok. The perceived ever-present danger subsided.

Why am I sharing this with you? Because I’ve heard from so many friends and colleagues and strangers experiencing much the same. The state of the world is terrifying and it will, very likely, impact you in ways no one can imagine right now. That unpredictability and lack of control breeds anxiety and depression. What can you do to help if you’re struggling? First, breathe. Just breathe, in and out. Try and focus on something fixed and count to ten. Anything to give your mind and body a chance to take a beat. Then, rest. Sleep. Try and eat something if you can, but definitely keep hydrated. Stay off social media for the most part.

What if someone you love is struggling and you feel helpless? It’s scary to watch someone you love panic and wrestle with the anxiety monster. Be present and aware of what calms them. For me, it’s touch. Simply holding my hand or touching my shoulders will almost always fend off an attack. For some it might be words of encouragement. Or listening. Most importantly, you can’t and won’t “fix” their anxiety. They’re not a problem to be solved, and that’s OK.

Will there be more bad days? Yeah. Probably. Likely. Don’t overdo it with drinking Quarantini’s, because booze does not play well with anxiety or depression. Wash yo’ hands, and rest. A lot. Get plenty of sleep. Do a little more of what makes you happy. Have quarantine sex (Dr Oz says it’s the best thing you can do!). Put your damn Christmas lights back up. Clean out your closet. Find the delight in the darkness. I will, too.

As a little kid, and even into adulthood, the prospect of extreme weather arriving on our doorstep exhilarated me. With remote control in hand, I hovered in front of the television at the first warning of blizzards, or I took to the safety of my back porch to watch the light show durning thunderstorms. Hurricane Gloria arrived on my 10th birthday and, while combating disappointment over a delayed party with friends, a cat 1 hurricane, ON MY BIRTHDAY? Oddly enough, it really was a gift.

When I first heard “coronavirus” and COVID-19, I thought very little about it. I grabbed a few extra rolls of paper towels and stocked up on “storm chips”, what we lovingly refer to extra snacks we have on hand to prepare for the possibility of being stranded during bad weather. I started feeling that tiny buzz of excitement about the prospect of its relative safe severity, and distance, until this week.

Speaking of snacks, holy moly the grazing. I coined the phrase #quarantinefifteen and I geniunely believe that’s going to be a thing. I need some outlet to combat that from happening, and doing laps around my house is NOT ADEQUATE. I suggested Yoga to the fiance’ this morning, to which he responded by feeling my head and wondered aloud if I needed to be tested for the Corona.

It’s the first day of my long term work from home situation, and my office mate and I managed through our first day with relative ease. His only complaints: I drank too much coffee and despite wearing headphones, he heard the sounds of my lips syncing to the music. Apparently, Backstreet Boys I Want It That Way sent him over the edge. Otherwise, we got through most of the day relatively unscathed.

2/3 teenager sightings, although the eldest took some coaxing (read: threatening) to return home last night from a multi-day endeavor with her boyfriend, after much negotiation between her and her father. Like a good step-parent, I saw my way right out of that conversation post-haste and thanked my lucky stars for two very introverted children who rarely leave the house. The younger kids spent the day as you’d imagine…doing a lot of nothing and eating pasta. Distance learning school lessons commence tomorrow, starting with reading Lord of the Flies. Perhaps we’ll end with a lesson in the art of the dry martini. All important life lessons are on the table here.

A voice rings out from the laundry room.

“Are we out of Unstoppables? I think we’re out of Unstoppables.”

Another booming voice retorts from the kitchen.

“OMG, QUICK! Grab the keys and hurry to the Walmart! We’re out of UNSTOPPABLES!”

As predicted, the sarcasm has set in nicely.

The word Unstoppables bandied about for what seemed like hours. It was likely minutes, but no matter.

The vague scent of Lysol spray wafts through the entire house, with a constant soundtrack of coffee bubbling and brewing in the kitchen. A subtle click-clack from three laptops drones on alongside a moaning dog who can no longer stand having the giant cone required post-surgery mounted on his head. My teenage son has resorted to showering and doing laundry out of boredom. We ordered Lord of Flies for the younger teenagers to read. Apropos, their Dad and I thought for the circumstances. We’re waiting on the older teenager to return home, and then pseudo-lock-down will commence, Ethan Hawke Purge style. Minus Lena Headey kicking the shit out of the blonde neighbor. Although, perhaps the quarantine is young?

We’re stocked in the paper products department. I used an entire Mr Clean Magic Eraser to clean every inch of a tiny bathroom yesterday. Shoes now live in our basement and are banned from inside the living space.

Tomorrow, we embark on our first workday. Praying the WiFi holds.