Stirring the pot

The groundhog recently ventured out of his burrow to get the lay of the land before delivering his, not unsurprisingly, dismal prediction and scampering back into his hole to wait out this white apocalypse. 

I never realized, until this very moment, how very alike are we...the groundhog and I. I, too had gone-to-ground months ago...refusing to face the realities of this crazy world we now occupy. Writing, which was once a therapeutic outlet, was now very low on my list of priorities as it took all of my energy to battle the claustrophobic forces that faced me as I entered any and all buildings outside of my own home. Let's add social interactions to that scenario and what we would have then, folks, was a Condition Red. I'm not even sure if I will be allowed back to my dentist's office after my last disastrous visit. 

Responses to my blog and conversations were also unsettling as, when I would (as diplomatically as I possible can...so factor THAT in) gently suggest that the truth of ALL matters (~~with the exception of Jesus Christ as Lord & Savior, of course) always lies somewhere in the middle...would be slapped soundly with responses such as "There wasn't a gray area with Hitler!" or "A good Christian wouldn't think like that! You're being selfish" or the tried-and-true, how-can-I-possibly-argue-with-this, logic: "People could die!" No one could seem to get the idea that BOTH radically-opposing views...in their name-calling, accusations, and demands...were the proverbial pot calling the kettle black situations. It didn't matter. Either way...we were ALL in hot water! So it was easier...and far less stressful, to literally and metaphorically, wall myself in, The Cask of  Amontillado-style. 

My family (and the few friends I still have left) encouraged me to write. But like the painting of that pained figure in "The Scream," I feared that I would start and never stop. Or, even worse. I would find that I had nothing to say. And scared, I wondered...who would I be then? I had allowed this pandemic to rob me of much of myself already. I was afraid to risk losing even more.

Of course there were things to write about. But where I would normally see potential in the smallest of the most obscure and silliest of things, I now questioned, Who on earth would care about that? Forgetting that that didn't actually matter. Writing was for me. It was my own little superpower. It helped keep me sane. It helped to keep me from flying off the handle.

Until the handle actually came off.

A scorched pan incident in the early years of my marriage revealed a few things about Brad and me. Whereas I was a "cut your losses" kind of gal, Brad, it turns out, was a salvage and/or repurpose sort of fellow. When our favorite spatula (a sign of true adulthood, by the way) whose lineage can be traced to our wedding day, tragically snapped, marking a day of intense mourning and spatula-snap-shaming, Brad bemoaned the hitherto limitations of Gorilla Glue and Duct Tape. "Never again," he vowed, as we gathered for a moment of silence around the trash can, throwing discreet but incriminating glares surreptitiously at one another. "As God as my witness," he vowed that day, "I will not let another thirty-year-old kitchen utensil's life go to waste." 

So it was when another decade's old pan opted for an early retirement. Brad stood, horror-struck when, as he was stirring up a batch of our weekly chocolate pudding, the handle snapped off in his hand. I said nothing. I didn't want to be disrespectful. It was our pudding pan after all. Respect was owed. But Brad wasn't ready to let it go. "We don't need a handle," he declared, whipping out our twenty-year-old oven mitt as he continued to stir our simmering snack. I sighed. Obviously, the pandemic was getting to everyone. I guess you could say the whole world has gone to pot!

Fortunately, my birthday was right around the corner and, to my delight, I received my heart's desire: A pudding pan with a firmly-attached handle. Call me a crack-pot, but I'm look forward to many long and happy years with it. 

Whew. I'm exhausted.

Like my old pudding pan handle, obviously I'm a little rusty. But I'm here. Inspired by our friend, the groundhog, I'm tentatively peeking out, one paw raised...ready to run. But hopefully the climate is changing for the better and I figured it was time to write or get off the pot.