This morning I said to my husband, Bob, “Today’s Thursday, right?”

“I don’t have a clue,” he said.

I have used this stay-at-home thing as an excuse to become a giant sloth.

I’ve worn the same pajamas for 10 days; last week’s dishes are in the sink; I’ve called a halt to showering.

If there were a hippopotamus in my living room, you wouldn’t see it with all the crap I’ve left around.

Staying at home has not brought out the best in me.

Bob said, “How about I give you a really long back massage?”

“Can’t you see I’m eating?” I snapped.

Poor Bob.

“If we wait until you’re not eating something,” he said, “I’ll have been dead for 10 years.”

I swear my fridge talks to me:

Fridge: “What on earth could you possibly want now?”

Me: “Anything. What happened to that last bagel?”

Fridge: “Take a guess.”

I hear people are drinking, eating, napping, and binge-watching TV.

I limit myself to one drink a day: Bailey’s Irish Cream with my coffee — in the morning.

Poor Bob.

I’d save time if I could figure out a way to nap and eat at the same time.

And what are you doing for exercise? Using your home gym? Joining an online workout group? Me neither.

“Saralee,” Bob said, “every day there are credit card charges to GrubHub.” (They deliver food from local restaurants.)

“That’s not true,” I said, resuming my 11th episode of Killing Eve. He showed me the charges.

“You see, Bob? Four charges are for UberEats and DoorDash.”

I detest virtual meetings, where you actually see participants on your computer monitor. The thing is — they can see you too. So you can’t look … well, like I look, which is like, as my mother would say, “dreck,” the Yiddish word for filthy.

My first online video experience involved joining a “Cocktail Party,” organized by a garden nursery center.

Here’s the thing: On these video communications, everyone can see your face and what you’re wearing as a top. I sat through the interactive talk wearing my dressy blue blouse. I was naked from the waist down.

I can’t possibly write this column without including what our hearts crave during these emotionally devastating times: toilet paper.

“Cave dwellers didn’t have toilet paper,” Bob said.

“I am not happy about using banana peels, corn husks, or leaves. And I can imagine where this column I worked so hard on is going to end up.”

When I watch TV and see a small child brimming with glee because his friends and family, and even firetrucks, are driving by with balloons and presents, calling out, “Happy birthday!” it makes me cry.

My wish is that my loving readers actively seek out a moment of gratitude, right now. It’s not only OK to feel peace for a time, it’s mandatory for our well-being.


Award-winning nationally syndicated columnist Saralee Perel can be reached at or via her website:

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