THE ELECTION NIGHTMARE

Wednesday, November 4, 2020 kept me alternating between my cell phone and TV—to follow the election results. I stayed up till midnight watching the votes tallied to Biden and Trump, and the states change their colors on the US map. When assured by all sources that the tally and predictions were over for the day, I turned the TV off, placed my cell phone on top of the bed backboard panel,  pulled the flat bed sheet and bedspread to cover my aching body, and pushed the button on the board--turning off the lights extending above the backboard.

At dawn, I lay in bed frozen to near death!

It is daytime, cloudy skies, and gloomy atmosphere. People are going back and forth around me.  Gigantic grey stone buildings with chipped facades stand on both sides of a wide street. The street is unpaved, dusty, inclined upward as if built on a hill. I had to climb several high steps to remain on it.

I am dressed in a beige pantsuit, wearing brown high-heeled shoes, a large COACH handbag hanging on my right shoulder. My driver’s license and credit card are in a wallet inside the handbag. Worried of losing the handbag, I keep pulling its straps with my left hand closer to my neck. Each time my left hand journeys to secure the handbag, the glare of a big gold ring with a ruby stone on my left ring finger catch my eyes.

Two levels up and out of breath, I walk to the ticket booth of a theatre. I buy a ticket, paying with my credit card, and go sit in a full-house, grand  theatre.

The show ends. I look around me for my handbag and ring. They vanished! Heart pounding, I struggle to stay in and continue my search, but the audience are leaving the theatre and keep shoving me out.

Outside the theatre, I see the woman who was sitting in the theatre next to me. We wait together until everyone is out and we both go in and look around. Nothing!

Exhausted and stressed out, I push my way through the pedestrians, heading back to my car. But I’m lost. Asking for directions I get blank stares instead. So I go back--past the theatre, down some stairs. I find the paved street. The street has no sidewalk and I’m almost run over by a car. I stretch my right arm and touch my left shoulder, then left arm—it is stiff and numb! I keep rubbing it. Why am I so cold? I reach back searching for the backboard light button, and press it.

I remain in my bed until my eyes adapt to the light. I become aware that I am surrounded by four walls. I hurriedly raise my head off my pillow and look left, searching for my handbag. It is there, on the top right end of my dresser. I pull the bedspread from under my feet up to my shoulders, and breathe deeply. Then I pick-up the cell phone and anxiously search for the 2020 elections--hoping that the blue line had reached 270 electoral votes. I can’t go through a more harrowing election nightmare.

 

MY CORONAVIRUS SHOPPING

If you see me, you’ll never guess the depth and breadth of my appetite. And what I consume, I burn doing endless chores. So there is a fast cycle of eating and shopping for food, sped further by having no appetite for starchy foods or sugary drinks--an appetite and a half for fruits and vegetables. These tender produce are extremely good-looking yet lose their looks fast, requiring constant shopping trips. I start shopping for THEM and my eyes get caught by other things that I think I’m running out of, or in need for. In time I end up shopping for the sake of shopping. Things spiral out of control when shopping at wholesales and malls. I could be shopping for pomegranate and end up buying the on-sale shoes!

Life was a series of shopping trips until Coronavirus facts started to tumble over my head. Pretty soon, Dr. Anthony Fauci’s announcements dominated the air, snuffing out contrary claims made by a certain loud mouth. I listened to Fauci’s sincere concerns and followed his fatherly advice. He prescribed ‘HOME” for my age group--the most attractive human beings to Coronavirus. And if you are one of those people who spent their lives in a race to achieve one goal after the other, you feel sort of special even if a virus puts you on top of its list.

I feverishly started to compile an inventory of the contents of my pantry, kitchen cabinets, and the under the stairs storage of paper goods and cleaning supplies. The inventory did not stop at the names of items. It included almost all the information on their labels such as their brand, ingredients, and size. Then I divided the inventory in accordance to two main purchasing sources, a super market chain and a whole sales chain. Now I was ready to select from the inventory the shopping lists to give to the shoppers of these two sources. I placed my orders. No substitutions.

At first, I was elated when piles upon piles of groceries were delivered to my door! No driving! No cruising through endless isles. Three or four item were missing from each delivery, but even I couldn’t always find all what I shopped for. The time I saved by delegating in-person grocery shopping, however, I spent shopping online for clothes and shoes.

Then I started to miss more and more items that were on the lists. So I allowed substitutions. That is when the process went out of control. Rarely were the substitutions to my liking.

And how were my fruits and vegetables? I ask you: how many shoppers have you seen picking up an apple or a pear, then turning it around looking for consistency in the level of ripening and no dents or bruises?

Worst of all is the persistent picture popping into my mind from years past, of that tiger I saw in a zoo pacing his cage like mad, leaving his lunch of fresh meat to a swarming cloud of flies. The aim of us animals is not to get what we need.  The aim is to have the freedom to go get it.

Still taking Dr. Fauci’s advices to heart, I put a mask on my face, wear glasses to cover my eyes, stick a hat on my head, insert my hands in plastic gloves, shove a sanitizer bottle in my pocket, hang shopping bags on my shoulders, and go shopping. 

MY CORONAVIRUS RECEPTION

My garage is as compartmentalized as the rest of my house. There are racks on the right and left walls. The racks on the right are to hang folding chairs, umbrellas, and shopping bags. The racks on the left are to hang brooms, pails, rakes, and step ladders. The floor under the right racks is to store packaging supplies. The floor under the left racks house three big containers: one for storing items to be donated, the second is for garden tools, and the third is for gardening supplies such as mulch and fertilizers. To the far end of the right garage wall, near the garage door, hang the controls of the sprinkler system for the lawn and the vegetable garden. Near the left side of the garage door stand the garbage and recycling bins.

The house is from an era that connected the garage to the kitchen and placed the washer, dryer, water heater, and air conditioning system on an upper garage deck. A talented handyman constructed a wall and a door made of wood and screen between the upper and lower decks. 

The connections between the garage, the house, and the outside world were admirable --up to the Coronavirus pandemic. Right after it, people over sixty five started to claim their favorable status with the virus. Immediately after, my home literally became my castle! No one is to enter it or leave it from its doors, except for myself and my ordered packages. The packages are quarantined for 24 hours! All other humans threaten my very life with extermination, and trigger after-visit maddening sterilization of unseen droplets of death. 

Now I think of the garage door as the moat of my castle. The garage driveway serves as the Coronavirus reception. Visitors call for reservation. I open the garage door. They pick up their chairs from the right side racks; place them in the driveway, beside their cars, under the shade of a huge Ash tree that spreads its branches over them and their cars. Everything in the garage is accessible. The exchange of gifts and delicacies occurs on the top of the washer and dryer, with me behind the kitchen door. And with masks, everyone is safe from the sudden movements of the others. 

What happens in the winter when it is too cold to sit in the driveway under the bare branches of the Ash tree? Weren’t you listening to our president Trump? We will all be vaccinated against the Coronavirus by then. 

                                                   

FITNESS IN A CAGE!

A caged animal, I was determined to enjoy the safety of my cage. In it I avoid the monstrosity of the Coronavirus and shelter my sensitive skin from Texas summer outdoors.

I attributed the first feeling of garment-tightening around my shoulders and waist to   shrinkage. The garments definitely looked smaller, and I deposited them in my donation box.

That did not solve the outfitting problem! Just two weeks later and the garment-tightening became worst than before. This time, I reached for my scale. I weighed myself at all times of day and night, before and after eating and drinking. The scale readings changed up and down, up and down, but never down to my known average weight!

Time to use scientific problem solving; I decided to increase my level of activity to make up for lost walking, shopping, and gym attending. I woke up early and ran out to my yard, trimmed my trees and pulled out the weeds. I rushed inside to wax my furniture, organize my drawers, and spot-clean my floors. Three more weeks and my hands became swollen, my joints ached, and my neck muscles tightened. I reflected on my old belief that housework is work and not workout.

I moved a chair between the living room couch and the wide-screen TV, dragged my gym backpack beside the chair, located a Silver Sneakers program on YouTube, and started a Silver Sneakers fitness exercise.

I exercised every day of the first week!

I exercised every other day of the second week!

I exercised twice a week for a whole month!

I exercised once a week for two weeks!

I stopped!

There is no match for freedom!

I covered my hair with a baseball cap, my eyes with sunglasses, and my face with two masks; one on top of the other. I put on my walking shoes and circled around five blocks, sweating and exchanging smiles and greetings with walkers and bikers.

LETTING MY CAT OUT OF ITS BAG

There is a dent on the passenger side of my car and I’m not sure exactly when or how it happened.  Once I noticed it though, I felt obliged to do something about it. I don’t make decisions without researching and weighing the decision consequences. So I decided to let the cat out of the bag and do my research.

When my friend Wendy called me the following day, I told her about the dent. “Fix it and don’t tell your children about it,” she advised. “They will think you’re too old to drive. I’ll come with you to my repair shop if you want me to. David there has a magic touch!”

Hiking with my walking group on Lady Bird’s Lake Sunday morning, I sought Herb’s advice. “Whatever you do, Mahassen,” he said, “don’t submit an insurance claim. When I did after my latest car accident, they refused to renew my insurance.”

 But since Paula and her husband were taking me to lunch on Wednesday to celebrate my birthday, I waited for their take on the matter.”I didn’t tell you this,” Paula said, “but a few months ago, as I was backing out of the garage, my right rear-view mirror banged against the garage door and we had to replace it. Let’s look at the dent.”

So after lunch, I took Paula and her husband to my car for dent-assessment.  “Not noticeable! Right honey?” Paula asked her husband. He looked at the dent, then looked at his wife and didn’t say a word. I read “Are you crazy!” on his face. So I waited for further evaluation.

In December, my car was due for service. As my service manager was handing me the car key I asked him if I should fix the dent. “These small scratches?” he said. “Don’t worry about them.” I was not sure what scratches he meant since we were standing on the driver’s side of the car. But I decided not to worry about a dent that is unnoticeable to a car service manager.

That’s until a trucker waited for me in the parking lot of Bed, Bath & Beyond.

“I can fix this dent on the side of your car,” he said.

“No, thanks,” I said and continued to place my purchases into the car trunk.

He handed me his business card. “I’m heading now to my body shop. I have in my truck the tools to fix the dent and to paint it the exact same silver color of your car. It’ll be as good as new.”

I sighed. “It is old.” Then I tried to subtract 2006 from 2019.

The trucker didn’t budge. “I’ll charge you five hundred dollars, that’s less than half the price of fixing this dent, and I will do it right here in this parking lot,” he said.

“No, three hundred,” I said, to politely get rid of him.

“Okay. Move your car under the tree and I’ll bring my truck next to it.”

He seemed desperate for money and I didn’t have cash on me. I moved the car but stood far away from him, holding the car key and cell phone tightly inside my right pocket, and my left arm pressing on my handbag--hanging on my left shoulder.

Forty-five minutes later, the dent was still detectable and the silver paint on the dent was far from the heavenly color of the car. Near tears, I opened my handbag and started to write a check for the three hundred dollars. But the trucker jumped inside his truck and drove away.

A factual cat release story!