The first sign of the apocolypse is when the extroverts start enjoying Corolockquarancovidown ®.

I started making my bed everyday. Since I was a kid, I NEVER made my bed. Ever. Ask my sister, with whom I shared a room for about 10 years how often I made my bed. She’d say “Uh, fucking NEVER.” Blankets, sheets, stuffed animals, pillows, all in a heap, day and night. I justified my inactions by noting the mess that would ensue each and every night, so why bother? And, she’d be right. But, over these last 187 weeks, among the many things I discovered about myself, I noticed how small gestures, like bed making, bring me peace. Not only do I make my bed each and everyday, I have decorative pillows. Throw pillows. Fancy pillows with buttons and designs that exist simply to plump up the head of my bed and get tossed to the side at bedtime in a pile. I’ve caught my fiance’ sleeping on said pillows once or twice and reminded him, these are not pillows to be drooled on, sir. We’re people of substance and elevated standing so do me a favor and STOP LAYING ON THE FANCY PILLOWS THAT ARE JUST FOR SHOW. We have utilitarian pillows, relegated to the back of the pillow pile for exactly those purposes, and I’d appreciate your cooperation in this new bed making endeavor.

The first horseman is the bed making.

Not to be confused with bread making. Another of our new hobbies up in this piece. Me, the bread maker, and my family, the carb obsessed bread tasters/devour-ers.

Then came the cooking. All the cooking of all the things. Can’t stop cooking and I’m exhausted from cooking. I killed my sourdough starter because I neglected feeding it because I was distracted by assembling a charcuterie board or experimenting with my immersion blender. Schrodinger’s cooking.

And cocktails, old timey style. Hey kids! Screw high school chemistry! Wanna know a real life skill that will get you further in life than algebra? Knowing when to ease up on the bitters in a Manhattan! By the way, use the good bourbon and I like it neat, thankyouverymuch.

I’d personally like a few minutes in a room with whoever designed the Zoom/Teams/Other video call happy hours, and subject them to my particular little slice of hell, which includes listening to one participant’s end while said Zoomer/Teamster/Video caller wears headphones. “Oh….yeah….gr….great….yeah…oh my guitars? Yeah, I play…on occasion…12 string…OF COURSE I CAN….*terrible version of Stairway to Heaven he learned in college*…yeah man, I really wanna play more…HAHAHAHA is Joe a potato?….JOE….how are you a POTATO…recipes?…“

Yes, I’m Tik Tok-ing. I desperately WANT to be a good Tik Tok-er. I aspire to translate my whackadoodle brain into bite sized video form. My obssession has reached the point I’m staying up til the small hours of the morning sending links to my fellow freak magnet niece who GETS ME in a way few do. Give me your tired, your poor, your cat farting, family dancing, cooking and hair tutorial videos all day. I’ll take ’em all. Let’s call that a work in progress.

Yeah, I’ve gained a little weight. And yeah, apologies to the neighbors for sometimes yelling a bit TOO LOUD and each and every living creature under my roof. And, holy shit the number of photos of my cat on my phone might be considered obscene, and my dog barks, A LOT. We watch the Barstool Sports pizza guy reviews and unboxing as a family. Two words…Andrew (fucking) Cuomo. But we’re fat and mostly happy and while I’m not composing a groundbreaking concerto or launching the next BIG THING side hustle turned Amazon level success story, I’m pretty damn proud of our little commune, this particular extrovert in particular. We’re doing the best we can, and that’s gotta be enough.

What a ludicrous time to be alive.