Every reason to believe I’ll have to shelve the catering-to-my-every-whim plan, at least for now. Told Husband this morning that I was planning to shower today, in spite of having fallen out of the habit, but was hoping not to wash my hair, and asked whether he thought my hair didn’t look mostly okay.

Husband: Yes, mostly.

Me: You jerk. YOU JERK.

After that he didn’t make my coffee, let alone cater to the other whims simmering below the surface of my morning consciousness. Have squashed whims for now. Am compensating by adding a package of prosciutto to online grocery cart.

But adding prosciutto to cart has prompted massive guilt over having the resources to do so. This guilt spurred me yesterday to call the director of the Gotham City Mission, with whom I have a passing acquaintance. Mission still open, food pantry doing a humming business, but DIAPERS: they have a desperate need for diapers.

I tried to imagine being a parent stuck in an apartment with a toddler or two and NOT ENOUGH DIAPERS. It didn’t bear thinking about.

Further problem: donations that arrive when the Mission isn’t open get left on the doorstep and stolen. Gotham City being what it is. Best to leave diapers on doorstep when I know the Director is there, alert her of arrival via text, and back away in haste, waving in a friendly, frantic manner from the safety of the car.

So that’s today’s plan. I can’t do the delivery myself because I’m trying to meet a deadline while teaching the mathematical concept of elapsed time to a third grader who would rather race around the house in a plasma car, but arrangements are made. Husband masked up yesterday and bought a buttload of diapers—Buttload! LOL!—and today a friend from church will pick them up and deliver them for us. Boxes of Huggies are stacked expectantly in our driveway awaiting her arrival. I wonder what her hair will look like. Will it be washed? Crap, will she see that my own is unwashed when I wave in a frantic, friendly way to her from the door? Crap. Need to wash hair after all, or at least don a hoodie.

Note to self: sense of humor degrading badly, lowering to level of Younger Child. Buttload? Really? Would Napoleon have found that funny? I need to read more. Something lofty, worthy.

Note to self: google “did Napoleon have a lowbrow sense of humor.” Or any sense of humor at all.