By Paulette

You might remember me from a few years back as the confused middle-aged gal who was searching for the “me” who went missing. Lately, like most of you, I haven’t been able to venture much farther than the dishwasher. Have faith: I can get into plenty of trouble right here in my own house.

I hate to make a stink, but random businesses are sending me COVID19 updates, including the dry cleaner. If there’s a place in the world that the virus won’t survive it surely must be “Jolly” Cleaners (name changed at the insistence of Misstropolis counsel). And if the fumes in there won’t kill COVID19, rest assured the staff will lose it.

If only my mail carrier would throw out the annoying stuff. Photo credit, Pope Moysuh.

I take a cue from our cat and start looking out the window for extended periods. I spy Ed Silverman, who takes a daily lunchtime walk by our house. We lock eyes, Ed and me, him in his cornflower blue Adidas tracksuit and me in my pink robe, the bloodstains from last night’s ground chuck decoratively dotting my sleeve along with a contrasting stripe of scrambled egg.

Wild turkey nesting season is another good reason to stay off the streets. Be safe, Ed.

Turning back from the street I survey the domicile. It’s high school redux around here: me and four guys. Everyone has reverted to their original roles. And it’s fine and we’re having fun, although the downside is that there is hardly any place to be alone. My husband Dave and I have been social distancing for twenty- two years, so solo time is critical.

Some of you may recall my personal assistant, The Intruder. Well, I gave the Intruder some new batteries and it did not have the intended effect: I’ve been overshooting my A-HA moment (if you catch my drift). I get close, close, closer and then aargh, it’s gone. You know the target heart rate chart and how you don’t need to work as hard when you get older? I must be working past the suggested range.

Feeling sad but resigned to persevere, I order a little something from Dodson and Ross. It arrives while I’m on the phone with my germ-fearing pal, @jessicakagancushman.

“I gotta go,” I tell Jessica. “A package just arrived and I…”

“DO NOT GO NEAR THE PACKAGE,” she screams. “LEAVE IT OUTSIDE FOR 24 HOURS. DO YOU WANT TO END UP IN THE ICU?”

Although Jessica’s advice is extreme, it isn’t lost on me. I walk past that package for a day and a half, warning everyone in my family to do the same. As such, curiosity mounts on what could be inside.

I’m thankful that the attention of men can easily be redirected with cheese-laden casseroles and repeat broadcasts of the golden days of newly minted Buccaneer Tom Brady.

I steal away from the crowd in the TV room, make a quick stop to pick up Typhoid Mary from the back stoop and head upstairs with a box cutter. Something else has been mounting, and it sure isn’t curiosity.