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April 1, 2020

Work a little bit. Take a short walk to walk the dogs. Work some more. Then take a longer walk. Come home, eat food, load up dishwasher and then run it, for what seems like the millionth time since we were ordered to shelter in place. Will there eventually be a run on dishwasher detergent? Confession: we bought 2 extra bottles a couple weeks ago on a weird and depressing trip to Target.

There was a big sign right when you entered, alerting everyone: This is not a COVID-19 testing site. We don’t watch White House press briefings; so we didn’t know that the Dump had lied to everyone who does watch press briefings, announcing that there would be testing at major retail stores. I only just caught up to this particular lie this week, which, in retrospect, made the sign make more sense. At the time, MTB and my response was, what the fuck.

There was a real foreboding feeling, pushing our cart around Target. It was the first time either of us had been at a big box store since the lockdown, and the first time we’d been confronted with the gaping swaths of empty shelves that normally hold all the things everyone keeps buying up and or is hoarding: toilet paper, paper towels, flour, disinfectant cleaners and wipes, rubbing alcohol, aloe vera, and Cheerios. Even the shelves that weren’t completely emptied out had at least a couple of significant and un-ignorable gaps. Like, when did everyone start eating canned peaches? The panic underlying all that emptiness felt visceral.

Oh, good lord, I just scratched my forehead. Even though I haven’t been anywhere all day, except for a walk, where I didn’t touch anything, and I’ve washed my hands a gajillion times, most recently, just 10 minutes ago, touching my face brings on a jolt of anxiety. I hate it. I wake up in the middle of the night, scratch my cheek and hope I’m not infecting myself because I closed the bathroom door last time I got up to pee. I don’t know about you, but I miss mindlessly picking my nose.

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