Thoughts from the ammo line

Ammo Grrrll seeks to provide laughter in the time of the Wuhan virus as she contemplates WORSENING WUHAN WOES. She writes:

Okay, you guys. Sure, some 50,000 Americans got sick since last we spoke. Sure, several hundred souls who somebody loved have passed away. My heart breaks for all of them. I am praying for Amy Klobuchar’s husband’s complete recovery. None of this is a laughing matter. Still, lightening your load with humor is my mission, so what can I do?

BECAUSE NOW IT’S GETTING SERIOUS: I HAVE TO DO MY OWN HOUSEWORK!!

My housekeeper lives in Phoenix, almost an hour away from the Dusty Little Village, and, of course, she has other clients as well. It just didn’t make any sense while we were sheltering in place to have her come into the house, though she is a very smart, clean and careful person. (Put away your stupid Race Cards, lefties; no, I am not afraid of a Mexican woman. It’s her other clients I am worried about, all as white as the driven snow.)

And although I am not a multi-multi-billionaire like some lying welshers who don’t keep their promises to their employees, I am continuing to pay her anyway. I love her like a daughter. I know a lot of employees are hurting, while the despicable Democrats dither, carp, and delay, but my employee will not be one of them. Heck, that money is in my budget anyway, the only difference will be that I will have to get off my dead behind to do an inferior job of what she does every week. I am eternally grateful.

It has been a long time since I have cleaned my own house and I do not enjoy it. I string out all week what it takes my housekeeper about 3 hours to do. Sad. It’s not that it’s beneath me. My own mother cleaned others’ houses for decades. It’s just that it’s beyond me.

I used to use this line in my act to great effect: “Being on the road so much, I now have a professional housecleaner. It was my husband’s idea. One day he up and declared, ‘No wife of mine is going to clean toilets.’ Actually it was more of an observation than a declaration.”

One thing I continue to pride myself on is that I have had no need to fight the crazy crowds in the grocery stores, except to pick up minor incidentals and as an observer. It has been quite the culinary adventure to see how many freezer treasures of uncertain provenance have been unearthed in both freezers. If the 3 most important things in real estate are “location, location, location,” the 3 most important things in freezing food are “label, label, label.” If you are over 60, do not rely on “Oh, surely I will remember what is in this red food saver.”

An answer to the simple question “What’s for dinner?” that begins with “Well, it’s EITHER…” is not going to end well.

“What’s your best guess?”

“Either Turkey Tetrazzini or Chicken Curry. I’ll know more when it thaws completely. What’s the difference, you like both?”

Sometimes with small children and ADD husbands, you can go for distraction: “But, look what ELSE I found: Chocolate Cake!!”

“It says Happy 70th Birthday on it. If it’s yours, it’s over three years old. If it’s your father’s, it’s a quarter of a century old.”

“Well, it can’t be Daddy’s. We’ve only lived here for 10 years. Let’s cover it in this warm Vanilla Bourbon Sauce I just made. It won’t hardly be dry at all. Hope I didn’t overdo the bourbon.”

Speaking of Daddy, I think he is a good metaphor for what I believe will happen in the near future. When Daddy turned 70, he was diagnosed with both diabetes and prostate cancer. Naturally, he was scared pretty straight. The nurses gave him a strict diet and told him to lay off sugar, which had been a major part of his diet, and he stuck to his new regimen religiously.

For about six months. Then one day, the whole gathered family was celebrating Mama’s birthday in our favorite local restaurant in Alexandria and a bunch of people ordered pie for dessert. Even with Mama giving him the Church Lady pursed-lips treatment, he ordered a piece for himself – Pecan – only the most sugar-intense choice he could have made.

And he didn’t die. Not then. Not later. That fact was duly noted, and, quite quickly, he ate whatever the heck he felt like. As regular readers know, he is alive and on his way to 95. His eyesight is decent for a codger, and he has lost no limbs, or even digits, thank the Lord.

He has some memory lapses, mostly involving his uncertain grasp of what era he is in (the Navy? Managing his drugstore? Back in his home in South Dakota?) but he tracks current events very well, and would still make a more reliable presidential candidate than Joe Biden who is 18 years his junior. (Luckily, the prostate cancer turned out to be very non-aggressive and his doc assured him “You’ll die WITH this, not OF it. Something else will kill ya.” Which seemed to comfort him.)

So all us good little Social Distancers have been isolated and washing our hands to a fare-thee-well, and watching our economy circle the drain.

But one day, like Daddy’s big Pie Experiment, some people will get together for an evening of drinking and poker, and nobody will get sick. And eventually, people will conclude that the odds are in their favor.

Hey, remember when we were all young and poor and most of our parties were BYOB, and the bottles people brought were Boone’s Farm Apple Wine, the cheapest rotgut rum or whiskey, or, if really splurging, Gallo Spanada arranged elegantly in a punch bowl with sliced citrus fruit? Quelle sophisticated! Well, now we are old and “comfortable,” fully stocked with top-shelf brands of every booze known to man. So we no longer host BYOB parties. The party host provides all the liquor and probably some nice hors d’oeuvres as well, or at least several kinds of chips and dips.

But I bet for at least a time, parties will be BYOTP. Stay well, friends.