Day 13: A missive to the Mrs.

A letter from the frontline:


My Dearest Deborah,  

It is now Day 13 of our self imposed quarantine. I am writing to you from the loneliest of places, the socially distant hole in my heart, kept warm only by the fond memories of a shared dinner by the blueish light of Jeopardy. 

But alas, as I am here in the "man cave" and you, though only 25 feet away in the living room, might as well be as far away as Neptune or Saturn. Or, because I've given myself the sophomoric opportunity to mention my favorite planet, Uranus.

The enemy is quiet and stealthy like a henhouse thieving fox. 

Leaving us no choice but to remain vigilant and stalwart, a task made even more difficult by the loss of March Madness, The Masters and the almost forgotten musings of Stephen Colbert.

But stay strong at heart my dear, because the men have steeled themselves and remain as formidable as a hot summer wind whipping through the plains of Kansas. At least that is my understanding, for I have not heard from Josiah, Peyton, Tecumseh, Bushrod, Beauregard, Rooster, or Vestal. And Nathanial Bedford has not returned any of my text messages. 

Either he has been stricken by the devil's strain. Or his phone has died.

Though our spirits and faith in the Lord remain high, as you might expect, our supplies are dwindling. The bottle of Purell is half empty. And the handiwpes are almost all gone, though because of that darned pinching valve disbursement contraption, I suspect there may be more wipes on the bottom. 

We are dangerously low on Cheez-its and Diet Coke. I fear we must summon our daughter, fair Rachel, to don our sole remaining N95 mask and sally forth to the nearest 7-11 or Kwik-I-Mart for replenishment.

I  must go now. ESPN is about to rebroadcast the classic 6 overtime Madison Square Garden showdown between the Huskies of Connecticut and my beloved Saltine Orangemen of Syracuse. 

Until such time that I may resume our correspondence, I send my love,

Dearest,

Richard