A Very Merry Pandemic Breakup
It was Easter Sunday 2020, four weeks into California’s shelter in place order. I knew it wasn’t going to be a typical Easter with churches shut down, parks taped off, beaches closed, restaurants serving only takeout brunch, and no bars serving mimosas, bloody marys, or other libations to celebrate the day. So I happily (hoppily) woke up early, as my boyfriend slept, and started brainstorming how I could make the day special.
Let’s rewind briefly to the day prior. He’s Catholic and his mother, who lives across the country, had sweetly said to him “I hope the Easter Bunny is good to you!” at the end of their speakerphone conversation. I realized at that moment that I’m the Easter Bunny. Shit. I should probably plan something nice.
Well doggonit, I was going to be the best Easter Bunny he or his mother had ever seen. On Sunday morning I was buzzing on 2 cups of coffee by 6 am- feverishly scouring Pinterest for homemade brunch ideas, googling “What do people drink on Easter?” (sidenote: I’m not Catholic. I was raised Muslim.), and consulting Instagram for viral post-worthy boyfriend baskets. I shot up from the couch an hour later proclaiming I’d make a quiche! I, the girl who’d literally never baked a single thing in an oven at age 31, was going to make this guy a mother-effing QUICHE. Or maybe, a frozen quiche? Do they sell frozen quiches at CVS? I was pretty sure that was all that was open at 7 am on Easter morning during a global pandemic.
Head back to Google- oh look, regular grocery stores open at 10 am! Okay… darn… well what can I do for 3 hours? Make the best damn Easter basket any boyfriend has ever seen! A flash of insight struck me- “I know! I’ll make the basket a reusable storage bin! Because guys love when things are compartmentalized!” From my former days as a professional organizer of micro-influencer status (puke), I had a bazillion cute containers lying around. That was the base and from there it grew and grew into the most beautiful tower of whitening strips, hand sanitizer, manly camo face masks, loofahs, business books, Moleskine journals, fancy pens, and whatever the f else I had lying around the house that was unused and semi-masculine.
Damnit, it’s only 830am….. alright, what about beverages? I don’t think we can drink Costco vodka on Easter (that sounds unholy maybe, idk I think they drink wine). I don’t like wine… but what about champagne?! OOOh yes mimosas, I can do a mimosa. Only it has to be a fancy mimosa. You see, this guy is pretty bougie. He refuses water unless it’s from a bottle or a Brita. He won’t use a cloth hand towel, only disposable paper towels. His body wash costs more than my entire beauty regimen combined. And he purchases something new & trendy from an Instagram ad at least once a week.
So… champagne. Fancy champagne. Top-shelf champagne. Like $16 champagne? That sounds expensive. That’s more than an entire handle of Costco vodka. Okay, that should do the trick. Fancy Easter with fancy champagne for the fancy guy. I’m the Easter Bunny after all. Wait, what about strawberries? Don’t fancy people add strawberries to their fancy alcohol? For the Instagram aesthetic right? Okay, strawberries too- add it to the list.
9 am. Omg the store is almost open! The basket is growing but I need a few more things like marshmallow Peeps and some of his favorite candy (duh, I know what brand to get because I’m like the best girlfriend ever) and of course a few obnoxious, plastic, neon-colored eggs to put all the little goodies in. I don’t think grocery stores sell this crap but who knows. I wonder if the dollar store is open. Consult Google- THEY OPENED AT 8 AM! What have I been doing all my life?!
I open the bedroom door like a teenager sneaking out in the middle of the night. I avoid the one creaky floorboard because even though he’s snoring, that could maybe wake him up and ruin all my scheming and planning and surprising and Easter bunny embodying. I grab my travel toiletry bag from under the bathroom sink and slip out like nothing ever happened. Getting ready in 5 minutes (you’re familiar with my beauty routine by now), heading outside to the beautiful Easter morning air, and getting my pajama-ed ass into the car.
The dollar store is POPPIN. Everywhere else looks like a weird, abandoned, pandemic ghost-town but this place is swarming with weirdos in masks (even one guy in a full-on gas mask wtf). I immediately grab the candy, Peeps, eggs, and even throw in a pink sparkly bunny ear headband for good measure. That’s what festive fancy Easter people do right? Wear headbands depicting the day’s theme? Yea, definitely getting the pink sparkly bunny ear headband.
I realize halfway to the checkout line that I’m supposed to be making a mother-effing quiche after this. Opening my oven for the first time. Baking something for the first time. Shit. Do I need a whisk? A cookie sheet? A glass baking dish? Would the grocery store have any of this when they open or should I just get all that stuff here? Is it riddled with BPA or crazy cancerous chemicals because it’s only a dollar? Do they even have a cooking aisle? Oh yes, they have a cooking aisle. And I grab a whisk and a glass baking dish while trying to find a cookie sheet. I remember my mom used them like the one time she cooked for me when I was a kid, so I was pretty sure I knew what I was looking for. But no dice. They did, however, have a primo-priced turkey roasting pan for $4.99. I was going to pay 4x as much as all this other crap, but it was the only thing that most closely resembled a cookie sheet, so I added it to the cart.
$4.99 is a big deal at the dollar store, guys. That’s definitely top shelf. But can I cook a quiche in a roasting pan? Will I ever even use this roasting pan again or am I just being wasteful (unapproved behavior by all professional organizers btw)? Screw it, I’m getting the turkey roasting pan because come hell or high water, I’m cooking this man a mother effing Easter quiche.
945am. Time to pay for all this crap and drive to the actual grocery store where there are hopefully fewer weirdos and cancer-causing chemicals. Line out the door. Like out the door circling through the parking lot, drone footage of Costco day 1 of Coronavirus line out the door. Wtf. He’s going to be awake soon! I have to be home to surprise him with this quiche and all this other good-girlfriend crap! I’ve been working on ‘Mission: Pandemic Easter Bunny’ for like 4 hours already and I haven’t even finished his basket! There’s no way I’m standing in that line.
Dodging more rabid Easter weirdos in masks of varying shapes & sizes & colors, I scurry through the parking lot to CVS. It’s 10:15 am and there is literally no one here. Maybe there’s someone working in the back room? Are they open? Am I not supposed to be here? Aren’t they a 24hr store? No one knows during the game of pandemic life. There are no rules.
Eff it. I’m headed to the refrigerated food section. A Marie Callender’s chicken pot pie, some Tina’s burritos, a few dusty looking Lunchables, and energy drinks in every color & flavor imaginable. Oh and a big sign taped to the refrigerating cooler door that says “Dear Customer: Please check expiration dates on each item. If you find that an item has expired, please alert an associate and do not purchase the item.”
So this is how bad the pandemic has hit CVS. They didn’t even keep enough staff to check the expiration dates regularly. And there’s clearly no one shopping here (who shops for food at CVS?) so this stuff is definitely not moving off the shelf anytime soon. There is no quiche in sight. My eyes dart to a frozen spinach and mozzarella pesto pizza. Ugh. I guess that will have to work. It’s $12.99 so that seems pretty bougie right? Or is that just CVS food markup? Whatever. I hastily grab the pizza, knowing that’s what I’ll have to cook in the turkey roasting pan for our beautiful Easter brunch if I ever want to get home to sleeping fancy boyfriend for the big surprise.
Heading to the checkout line, thinking to myself damn I was really looking forward to making that quiche. This was my 31-year-old moment to prove myself. Like the next Martha Stewart… omg, I forgot the champagne and strawberries!
Alright. Stick to the plan. Top shelf. Fancy guy. Fancy champagne. $13 bottle? Good enough. Strawberries? No chance. Sorry, Instagram.
I make my way over to the checkout area with my fancy champagne and overpriced frozen pizza, determined to give this guy the best damn Easter he’s ever had. And then I wait and wait, and wait some more. And debate becoming a shoplifter. Don’t cops have better things to do right now than arrest people for petty crimes? Like in the midst of fining people walking their dogs at the park and yelling at surfers to get out of the water? Is shoplifting a felony? Or just a misdemeanor? … I yell out for someone to come help me pay for this nonsense. A little man appears and steps behind the plexiglass to ring up my items. I feel like a battered wife visiting her ex in jail, his hands scoping through the hole at the bottom to my champagne and pizza that he can barely reach to scan. Or maybe I’m the one in jail and he’s the visitor. Is that what would’ve happened if I shoplifted? I’ll never know.
1045am. Unloading the car, aka piling everything that will fit into the roasting pan because I refuse to pay 10 cents for a plastic bag at a store that will no longer let me use my own reusable bags so then I’m forced to pay and this is all so stupid and I wish this pandemic would end.
Quietly sneaking into the condo, yay he’s not awake yet! The surprise must go on! Looking down at my haul. Great. I have a frozen pizza. Non-top shelf champagne. No strawberries. No cookie sheet. And now I probably have Coronavirus from being out with all the weirdos. Time to open the Costco vodka. This Easter Bunny is ready to get lit.
Finish the basket, take 37 photos of it with different angles, lighting, and backgrounds, post on Instagram for the “you’re such a great girlfriend!” heart emoji-ridden comments, chill the champagne, and ask my best friend (Google) how to preheat an oven.
Pizza is going into the turkey roasting pan, I’m getting tipsy, and he’s waking up. I slap on the sparkly pink ears, pour the champagne, and put on Hop (there’s not many Easter movies, Hollywood- you should make more).
It’s the perfect Easter.
For 2 hours.
Bickering, arguing, then all-out yelling ensues. It’s most definitely not the perfect Easter. Our relationship had been on the rocks for at least 10 months. We broke up a week later. Not even the fancy Easter Bunny could help. And for the record, the turkey roasting pan did not save my relationship.
Melisa Meral knows her strengths- and while speaking, writing, and coaching are there… she still doesn’t cook. Melisa Meral is the owner of Make SHT Happen LLC.
