Happy Saint Patricks Day.

It’s Saint Patrick’s Day and no one remembered. Bars are closed. Most things are closed.

Our school closed last week. Thursday the kids left. Friday was a planning day. Saturday Fr and I went to the Oregon coast. 

Back then (2 days ago) restaurants were open. Bars. Galleries. Everything. Our hotel greeter coughed constantly and looked ill but wasn’t self conscious about it, which relieved me. I reveled in that unabashed cough because I was there to metaphorically stick my head into sand. 

Man, there are a lot of fat, unhealthy, uninspired people in Seaside, OR. It’s like people want to get outside with their families, but not actually be active. I believe I can figure out if someone prefers the beach or the mountains by looking at their fitness level. If the person is willing to walk distances or up hills, they will prefer the mountains. This is why you rarely see overweight people on the trail.

Anyway. It was nice at the coast. The fear hasn’t reached there yet.

By the time we were driving back on Sunday my brother was in the hospital barely breathing with a fever, Governor Inslee had shut down all bars and restaurants, and gatherings were limited to 10 people. I received an email from work telling me not to come in on Monday morning. I was already worried about being paid and now we can’t even come in.
I also work part time as a behavior therapist, and yesterday I found out I can only see one of my therapy kids. Only one. Starting tomorrow.

I know I'm lucky. I have a way to make money right now and some people don’t.

Fr thinks we’ll be quarantined soon. I don’t want to talk about it, and so I react to things that are unrelated.
“I don’t understand WHY you don’t like Yahtzee. That’s INSANE.” This is obviously an avoidance technique.

Tonight we started talking about what parts of me we'd eat if we had to. He correctly stated that I would eat my own shank. This is accurate. I’d cut it off and put that in the crock pot and make pulled shank sandwiches. My arms, however, are skinny and weak and would be more suited for making broth.

"Wouldn’t it be fun to have a restaurant where you slowly serve pieces of yourself?" He looks at me, so I continue.
"It would be a very committed piece of performance art."  

"I could be the bus boy," he responds looking out our window. "I’d say, 'there’s a Little Camilla in all of us.'" 

"And the last service I’d be a head and a stump on a chair. Then you'd serve my eyes, heart, and brain."

"Not your hair. No one eats hair. It’s the thing that no one eats."

"I’d eat your pecs." I say.

I lay on the couch in a fetal position. I’m depressed. 

He says we need to plan things to do. I say laying here is a thing I’m doing. 

.....

I’ll make banana bread tomorrow and we’ll walk it over to Rich. He’d like banana bread. Thursday we’ll play a game. Friday we’ll order take out and make a pallet and watch a movie. Saturday we’ll go somewhere and hike. We’ll go and go until they don’t let us go anymore.

"San Francisco is shut down. It's going to happen here, we’re worse than they are." He's talking about it again.

"One of these nights I’m going to get that thing on your neck. That’s the thing we’re going to do that night." 
(The thing is barely visible and fascinating to me. I believe it is a very old ingrown hair.)

"Sure. We’ll make dinner, and the thing in my neck can be dessert."

"No one eats hair."