Situation Quarantine: I am changed

Exhibit A: The gruesome text I sent The Weed this morning with a few purposely placed BAND•AIDS.

I sent The Weed a pretty gruesome text this morning.

(See photo. Note: I added some purposely placed BAND•AIDS to the original image. Otherwise, you would have seen something NSFW and not of this world. You’re welcome.)

Anyway, the more I look at the text, the more I wonder how much I have been changed by Situation Quarantine.

Background: The Weed was on a conference call in his office early this morning when he opened the door and beckoned me in, all while covering his phone and trying to tell me something interesting was afoot.

I obliged and followed him into the office.

There, he pointed out the window to off in the distance where some creature was hopping around beneath a stand of trees.

I looked out, only vaguely seeing movement because I have the eyesight of a cave-dwelling mole.

Me: ‘What the hell is it?’

The Weed: *CoveringHisPhoneWhispering* ‘Haaawwwkkk …’

I had to stifle a serious guffaw because he was still on the phone but trust me, he looked like an eager parent trying to teach a child to speak and doing it poorly while conveying to me there was a bird of prey across the park.

For the next hour or so, we watched as what we came to agree was a hawk or an angry giant magpie or a small pterodactyl dismembered a delicious meal of food.

We debated what the bird was eating.

Me: ‘I hope it’s not Jack cat.’

The Weed: ‘He doesn’t deserve such a glorious death.’ (The Weed doesn’t like our neighbor’s cat, Jack, because Jack roams around and poops in the creek. It’s a whole thing I’ll likely blog about. This. Is. My. Life.)

We don’t see a lot of rabbits in the neighborhood. So, we ruled out a bunny.

Me: ‘I hope it’s not Nibbles or T-Bone.’ (Neighborhood squirrels.)

The Weed: ‘Oh, Lord. You would be inconsolable.’

Eventually, the bird flew away, however, only after I gave up watching it and returned to reading my book. So, I missed the departure and truly identifying what sort of winged beast was performing nature in the park.

That’s when it happened.

The Weed: ‘The bird is gone. Go see what it was eating. It will be a nice little field trip for you.’

Me: ‘No. I’m not some 10-year-old school girl you can bully into doing your bidding.’

Twenty minutes later, The Weed started in on another conference call in his office and I trekked across the snowdrifts in the park, glaring at him all warm and cozy inside talking corporate-speak like, ‘We’ll refer to what the command media says.’ (UGH!!!!)

Turns out, what we agreed to be a hawk was dining on another bird. Perhaps a chicken. The feet were yellow, and well, chicken-looking. The feathers, which were meticulously/surgically plucked from the torso, were black and white with some spots.

If I were a crime scene investigator, I would have had some chalk to use to draw around the dearly departed.

Instead, I’m a middle-aged woman, stuck at home with her pushy husband during a global pandemic. No chalk.

I took a few iPhone photos and hoped the neighbors weren’t watching. Then, I trekked home and sent The Weed the gruesome text.

Pre-quarantine Kelley would never have done that. I am changed.

If The Weed doesn’t pony up $20 and a trip to the beer store, Situation Quarantine Kelley will pout and stamp her feet. (Honestly, I did this before quarantine. It works, people!)

I don’t make the rules.