Coronavirus, Vintage chicks lol

Day 19 of Whining; Day 10 of Being Wineless

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Everywhere I turn He’s there. Breathing loudly and at times, unnecessarily.

Yesterday I hid in the sewing room, but He found me — even after I crouched under the sewing machine cabinet, covered with the black fur Halloween costume I’m sewing. He was not alarmed that there might be a bear in the house. He just wanted to know where the catsup was. 

Are you kidding me? The catsup is in the same effing place it’s been in for 15 years! 

Just as I was contemplating murder-by-condiment and how I’d get rid of the catsup stains, the doorbell rang. The Fed Ex man stepped back six feet from the box he had placed on my front porch.

“Just needed to see that you are over 21, no signature necessary,” he said, backing away.

I didn’t really have time to catch the innuendos in that remark from this 30-something-year-old guy — who obviously thought I was from the Paleolithic Era — because I was busy staring at the box. It came! My shipment of wine! I stopped myself from falling to my knees and thanking Jesus, the grape growers, pickers and stompers and delivery clerks around the world, lest the neighbors see me and call 911.

Life is good. I no longer care if He doesn’t know where the catsup is, ‘cause I know where the wine opener is. 

I wipe down the box and open a bottle while it’s inside the box, tipping the entire cardboard case to pour it into my mouth, while Harper watches disapprovingly. She wants to play in the box and she doesn’t want it wine-stained, like every other hiding place in the house. 

I’m feeling magnanimous. I smile at Him. We’ll have a toast to making it through yet one more day of breathing in the same very small, very tiny space. Cheers!

Damn that woman! She spilled wine in here and ruined my hideout, again!

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