8:00am: Perched in front of my vanity, I dust buttloads of powder over my neck, elbows, and kneecaps like a 1920’s dame.
8:55am: I don my silken, feathered robe that trails three yards behind me and waltz to my computer. I check Outlook before starting my first Zoom meeting of the day.
9:01am: I mute the meeting, put my glasses on my desk lamp, and position the lamp in my place. I glide to the kitchen, my Sphynx cat Ursula clinging to the train of my robe. In my nestled kitchen nook, I unveil the crumpets I made the night before. As I nip at the treat, I stare at the folds in the bake. Flour. What a marvel it is! You can make quite anything with flour as long as you have all the other ingredients, too.
10:30am: I put a vinyl on the record player and lounge on my sofa, listening to Christina Aguilera’s first album hum through the gramophone. I light a cigarette and allow my toes to tap to “Come on Over Baby.” The irony is not lost on me. I’m always the first person to identify irony, and I ensure to announce it when I do.
12:00pm: I start my second Zoom meeting of the day. While most has chosen Zoom backgrounds featuring mundane beach scenes, I rummage through the seven murals I have painted for these occasions. I choose a concert hall and place it behind my chair. It is a very, very funny selection because it looks like I am the conductor of an orchestra and the audience is behind me waiting for my next move. I explain this to the other attendees on the call.
2:00pm: I remove my boiling cloth from a pot on the stove and examine the blouse I attempted to tie dye with the skins of an onion. Unamused by the dull yellow hue, I push it down the garbage disposal with a long-stemmed umbrella.
5:00pm: I log off my computer and change into my evening robe, a stiffer, velvet ensemble with sleeves that drape to the floor.
5:15pm: I pick up my needlepoint and resume stitching my journal entry for the day.
“May 8, 2020
On day 56 of quarantine, I marvel at the surroundings in my living room, the angular form of the coach, the pointed leaves among my wall of ferns, the colorful yarn dripping from my new loom… these are my things, and I am their queen.”
7:00pm: My dear colleague Abby sends a text message to me along with a photograph of herself and her pup. She is dawning a tie-dyed t-shirt colored in a striking yellow. “How did yours turn out?” she asks. Do I lie? Do I tell Abby that my trimmings are shoved half-way down my kitchen sink? Do I fake my death? I tell her she has the wrong number. I follow with “and I hope you and Rufus are well.”
9:00pm: I prepare for slumber. Sitting before my vanity, I rub cold cream from an ivory jar upon my neck, elbows, and kneecaps. I place a silk sleep mask tightly over my eyes and make my way to my bed on the east-end of the room, stubbing my toe on my tuffet, pulling my floor lamp out of the wall, and punching through my TV. Once I am safely in my sheets, I dose off counting my achievements for the day.