Day 53 (and a Monday, hooray)

I have dreams that I’m yelling at people for not covering their faces when they’re out in public. In my waking hours, I’m too tired to do anything but bore holes into the backs of their unprotected heads with my raging stare. (Or, when I do yell, it’s behind rolled-up car windows.)

I found out last time I visited the dentist — just before our stay at home order began — that I’ve been grinding my teeth for some time. They fitted me for a night guard; I’ve been wearing my old retainer to shock my jaw into submission.

The night guard finally came last week. It’s a torture device. It’s hard to get used to wearing, but I’m glad to have it, considering I’ve woken up the past several mornings with a fresh, unusual pain in my neck from clenching my jaw in my increasingly anxious sleep. (I notice myself curling my toes and pressing my feet tightly together in bed, too, and have to force myself to relax them.)

I’d like to have teeth when this is all over.

Every time I go outside, I go to war. I have to remind myself to breathe as I walk.

But my desire for Starbucks this morning — and the realization that it’s actually not super emotionally healthy to be quite as cooped up as I have been — trumped my desire to stay holed up. (Trump. Gross.)

Chai still upsets my stomach after a long hiatus. cHeMiCaLs.

The woman who handed me my order at Starbucks seemed genuinely happy to be back at work. I hope they are keeping their employees safe right now.

On top of everything going on, River’s liver is getting worse. She’s been pooping outside the litter box, possibly apropos of nothing, but the annoyance of cleaning up after her was enough for us to schedule her regular visit a bit early.

I sat in the car outside the veterinary clinic for an hour and a half last week, taking calls from the doctor as she did the exam, giving verbal authorizations for tests and vaccine boosters, and reading off my credit card numbers for the $475 in charges before picking her up from a sanitized vestibule.

The contactless world is bizarre.

Her bloodwork came back showing double the levels of whatever in her liver, and this is not the type of reminder I would like that life goes on despite the coronavirus.

I’ve put off going to the grocery store for another big run as long as I could.

The weekend was full of “garbage” meals, my term of endearment for what I come up with after rooting around in the fridge, freezer, and pantry for a meal.

Texting with Tom over the weekend, I learned that he’s a “recipe guy” — and I would so much rather screw around in the kitchen. I love cookbooks. I play with recipes and use them as starting points. But unless I’m baking? Those steps are just suggestions.

I’m eager to get some fresh fruits and veggies back in the fridge, though, to play with some new ingredients.

So I’ll suit up once more, after lunch, and brave the sliding doors to the supermarket battlefield.

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