My Last Days in the Bunker


Don’t get me wrong, I love to be alone. For me, isolation is like a trip to Bali, with less suntan lotion. I like me—we get along like gangbusters…alone. Add in other people and there might be problems. But thirteen months later…I’m sick of me and all my annoying little quirks, like the irksome fact that I refer to myself as “Lady Deb, queen of all things televised.” Yet…I’m committed to this couch, and Netflix and I are in a pretty serious relationship, in fact…he’s my boyfriend.  Plus…I’m frightened, apathetic, yet annoyed by the scantest thought of getting ready—I don’t even know where my brush is.


1. Schedule a pedicure, which means finding a veterinarian who will work on my feet, since they’ve traversed a human category and landed in some niche between a wooly mammoth and an early canine species. My toenails have hardened to match my attitude. My callouses have joined together to offer a sheathe of cowhide that could walk across a bed of broken glass with Covid 19, unscathed. These ol’ feet cannot be unveiled in public, no sir, not until they are sanded down.
2. Stop drinking hand sanitizer. At least stop drinking it in public. Or at the very least—get a flask.
3. Learn to use utensils, again. Begin slowly with the re-introduction of the fork. Then add in knives, spoons, and oh so slowly…napkins. Sleeves are solely for blowing my nose from here on out (except for emergencies).
4. Reclaim my shoes from the “to Goodwill bin.” They just looked like unattractive sculptures before, but now I will need something to wear on my feet (is that still a thing?).
5. Lose forty pounds. People will now be able to see more than the one eye I offer up during zoom meetings and selfies, or the cracked sliver I open my door if someone knocks on it to make sure I am still breathing (they haven’t so far).
6. Take my Goodwill bin haul to Goodwill. Even though I’m mad at them. I don’t remember why? I just have a bad feeling toward them. And the rest of the world, too for that matter.
             6A. Get to a shrink to work out my resentments of second-hand stores, and the rest of the world. 
7. Cancel my pajama of the month club membership. When they ask you “reason for canceling?” Just say, “If I tell you, I will have to kill you.”
8. Stop my studies on esoteric things, like the evolution of the comb since Biblical times, and the early civilizations of Poland, no matter how far back I go, they are still Poles. The only difference is the kielbasa has gotten better.
9. Stop cutting my own hair. Put away the pinking shears and step away from the mirror.
10. Cease and desist the contacting of old boyfriends. I’ve been thru the list twice now, and nobody wants to apologize to me or send me money, so, for what?
11. Stop picking political fights with people on Facebook, since the possibility of bumping into some of them (in the flesh) is becoming real, man.
12. Pare down my monthly TV expenses: Cancel my Hulu, my Amazon, and my Disney. Or maybe the Peacock Channel? Apple TV and Hulu? Maybe keep the Netflix, cancel the HBO GO? I certainly do NOT need ABC AFTER SCHOOL SPECIAL CHANNEL or LIVE COLONOSCOPY CHANNEL. Thank God “Dr. Pimple Popper “is on Network. Wait…do I still get network?
13. Get ready to get ready to actually leave the house and go somewhere. I’m exhausted at the mere thought of it. What…then I might have to go out again? How will I ever? What if I like it? Then it becomes a thing? I need a nap.

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2 thoughts on “My Last Days in the Bunker”

  1. Granted that I’ve had to continue going to my job through this, but just the same, I’m just fine with spending the rest of my time at home for another six months or so. In fact, your list convinces me!

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