It’s been two weeks since we last ate out. Sunday March 15th. We had bought more plants at Whitfill’s Nursery and decided, what the hell, we’re hungry, and Luci’s is right around the corner. The lunch crowd munched away under a celestially beautiful sky. Normal.

The healthcare company where I work sent us white-collar workers home early last week. Thankfully, what I do can be done anywhere with a laptop and Internet. Two days into my isolation, I woke up with a red rash under my right eye. I’ve had it a week now. That’s great timing for you! I write about contact allergic reactions to all kinds of shit in the dermatology area of the company. If my rash does not go away, do I drive down to see the dermatologist there? Or do I just wait for it to pass and hope it does not take over my face?

Last week, while taking our late afternoon walk, a perfectly normal-looking young man, standing by a bank of mailboxes across the street, caught our eye. His backpack lay on the ground nearby. He had one leg lifted. “He can’t be,” my husband said. But yes, he was. Changing his pants in broad daylight. I discreetly averted my eyes. He saw us and called out, “Sorry, I have to change my pants.” “Whatever you have to do, I replied.”

We did the 6:00 a.m. senior hour at Fry’s Tuesday morning. Rather dystopian, a whole store filled with fading people. Still, we got a 12-pack of toilet paper, so it was worth it.

A relative called yesterday with a tip he’d heard at a business meeting. “Listen,” he said. “I’m not supposed to spread this around, but I’m telling you. The governor is going to close the state. A Shelter-in-Place order is going to be announced on the weekend.” We immediately ran to Safeway to stock up even more. (Is this hoarding, I wonder.) It is now Saturday morning. Last word from the news is that such an order is not deemed necessary. My shelves are groaning.

My daughter in Oakland face-timed me yesterday. She lost her server job last week. For a few days distributing food from the restaurant to food pantries and shelters gave her purpose–800 eggs to responsibly dispose of. Now the deeper reality is setting in. She rents a room in a house with four other people, three of whom are also facing loss of income. They had a meeting with their landlord to discuss the situation. He was willing to take 800 dollars for April. Great, they all thought. But the remaining 24 hundred would be due down the line. They are considering rent strike. She thinks rage is the proper response to what is happening.

My husband informed me he has a slightly sore throat this morning. He is seventy-three years old. He talked on the phone and Skyped for hours yesterday, in between drags on a cigarette. I am going to assume all is well.

Through all this uncertainty, another question niggles my mind. When I recycle my milk and juice cartons, do I leave the little plastic cap screwed on? Or does that spoil the batch? If you know, do please share. It is driving me crazy.