Pandemic Proportions

A Very Deep Hole

A Sherry McGuinn writing challenge-response

As Joe Luca and Sherry McGuinn both know about me, it literally takes me days to think of something to write about when challenged with a specific topic.

Oh, the pressure, the damn pressure of it all. How is it I can come up with some righteous shit (IMHO) at times, and some even crazy as a loon stuff a lot of times, but I can’t off the cuff come up with something when challenged?

It’s insane, absolutely insane!

Ahem.

Okay, I finally came up with something. There ain’t a hole in my pants. At least not the pants I’m wearing today. But in a lot of ways, Denise Shelton was right. I believe lately, we’ve all become the hole in that pair of pants, whether that’s our own or someone else’s.

Metaphorically speaking.

For me, the “shelter-in-place” thing was a great way to avoid working in an “open space” environment where no conversation was private (unless you walked outside), and you had to discover new ways to pick your nose without being seen.

But as time worn on, as time wore on, as dammit, time continued to wear on and wear me down, I began to feel as if I was a prisoner in my own home.

I was, falling into that deep, dark chasm of depression hole, feeling distant and cut off from humanity. As Sherry mentioned, I also tried the stiff upper lip for a while until the constant pressure of being on lockdown and suffering all this boredom and tedium took its toll.

Look, at one point, I actually gave cute little bunny names to a few errant fur castoffs from our cats I discovered.

Harriet and Beacher Stowe.

They were so cute. And then, one day, I discovered my cruel wife had attacked them with a Swiffer. Dust Bunnie genocide it was!

I was miserable for oh I don’t know, about five maybe ten…miliseconds.

However, I will never tell my wife about the other two beneath my office desk downstairs. One of them is writing a diary about their experience and the fact I’m willing to protect them from the horrors of the Swiffer. They’re calling it The Diary of Dan Hank.

I can’t wait to read it.

Oh, sorry. I digressed, didn’t I?

About the hole, everybody’s fallen into lately. I’ve never been all that worried about my looks in the first place. When you’re as brutally handsome as I am, you just don’t think of things like that. Needless to say, it was quite discerning when my lovely wife coined a nickname for me this past week.

Wolfman Jerk.

Oh, she was quite specific about the jerk part. When I corrected her and said, “baby don’t you mean Jack? As in Wolfman Jack?”

Her response?

“Have you looked at yourself in a mirror lately, sweetheart? You haven’t shaved in almost three weeks. What little hair you have left has grown out until you look like an overgrown Chia Pet and your nails? Well, let’s just say Hugh Jackman would love to have the toenails and fingernails you have right now. Quit being a jerk and shower and shave and let me cut your hair and trim your nails.

Talk about falling into a hole.

It got to where it didn’t matter anymore. The fact I was working my way to a better beard than Gandalf the White, or probably could have served as a paper shredder with my toe or fingernails, didn’t matter. Wooly Mastadon? Step aside, your distant cousin is lumbering around in the Barnett abode.

Now, my wife is just the opposite. She always tends to her epicurean requirements, washes her long flowing hair frequently, and even shaves whatever hairs offend her. She strives to maintain a healthy body, and because she’s been retired for the last five years or so, she has effectively managed to replace the outside things with plenty of inside things.

Me? Not so much.

And until yesterday I was Wolfman Jerk.

After forcing me, the petulant child to take a shower — yes, that’s what soap looks like dear — my honey proceeded to buzz cut my rockin’ Chia Pet doo. Buzz, Buzz, done.

Hey, it doesn’t take long to cut a shit ton of peach fuzz ladies and gentlemen.

Then came the hard part — my Hugh Jackman Wolverine claws. Hey, we both knew this part was going to be a tough ride. The last time (a month ago when yes, we were still on freaking lockdown), I broke a pair of nail clippers trying to tackle one of my six penny hard toenails. Snapped the handle in two — toenail one, clippers zero.

So this time, after using an industrial electric sander with diamond-coated sandpaper, and a pair of tin shears, she was able to tackle my nails. The entire time bitching at me for letting my physicality worsen to such a state.

Oh, and the fact one of the clippings from one of my fingernails struck her prized African Violet and effectively severed a delicate leaf from the stem didn’t help much.

So, yes, Sherry, Joe, and Denise. It seems as if I, at times because of our current pandemically incorrect situation, fall into a hole and struggle to crawl out of it. As depressive as the situation may be, I’d like to think my baby and I will make to the other side intact.

We pray that you and others do as well because the celebration party is going to be a hoot.

Stay safe and stay “holy.”

Oh, can anybody recommend where I can find a replacement African Violet cheap?

Thank you so much for reading. You didn’t have to, but I’m certainly glad you did.

Let’s keep in touch: [email protected]

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