Of ketchup and mortgages

My friends in Canada emailed today: "You started your blog again and then stopped, we wanted to check in."

I dunno what to write,everyone else is writing it.

Not everyone else is fortunate enough to be able to write because they have a job and shelter and stupid dogs and old, needy cats. All of whom I am convinced speak perfect English and are deliberately ignoring me.

Everyone else is grateful for whatever their situation is and I can't be bothered to walk the stupid dogs.

I wake up smelling like dog every day, regardless of the daily laundry, Fbreezing, Airwick  plug ins and open windows until it snowed. And then the windows were open when it snowed, and at least it smelled cold and not like dog in my house.

And how hard is it to put the lighter back where you found it?

Everyone else is going to get a divorce over ketchup. I've nothing new to contribute.

Twice this month this small publisher has contacted me wanting to know if my manuscript is finished. It will never be finished, because to finish I have to relive the last four worst years of my freaking life, so never mind, I'm no longer interested in publishing it. Anybody who cares read it already, and the consequences have already been suffered, so where the fun in doing it now?

So if I'm not going to do that, I have nothing to write about.

Everyone has Blursday and Muesfreday and mine are tracked by whether or not the meeting is at 8 am or 12: 30, are my students in google hangout on video chat or via text and at least you can't smell the dog permeating my clothes through the computer.

Except that there is no ketchup, and since I'm home all day every day, but am not the one who used the last of the ketchup, maybe someone coulda told me before I made hamburgers for dinner.

Everyone is unemployed or underemployed and there are stories of bill collectors being kind, but none of them are my bill collectors. Or my mortgage company, who not only isn't allowing anyone to skip a month, but shut down our personal home refi as it was being underwritten because "since this happened", Jim's job is now suspicious, suspect...what word do I want? His company supplies hotels and condos with lotion and shampoos, so they're now susceptible to the virus, which is how I see it. Sure he took a pay cut, but they are now bottling hand sanitizer, got themselves declared necessary and received the government subsidy money, but no, fuck you guys, your job is too risky to refi your house.

Way to be, mortgage company.

The cat won't stop stomping on my lap.

Harper's car payment was deferred back in March until April, which isn't great, but hey, at least they made an attempt. So there's one.

Every teacher misses their kids, is mumbling about technology.

Every student lost a grade, an internship, a show, prom, graduation, understanding in a content area (Immma call it and say mostly math). They've lost housing, ritual and personal connections.

Everyone has a story. Everyone has unemployment, gigs lost, careers halted, and break downs playing Mario Super Smash Bros,yet I refuse to walk the dogs because they aren't mine.

Harp just pointed out that I left the oven on with nothing in it. I said "It's making ketchup."

Nobody wants to read my personal account of the same universal story we are all living. So I'm not going to write it.