We should all have goals like not opening the refrigerator every 15 minutes in the hope something interesting has developed in there

I believe that in life we should all have goals. In youth my goals were lofty. I was going to be the first Miss America of Italian descent who also won a Nobel Peace prize and I would do it all while married to Little Joe Cartwright.

My goals have somewhat subsided since then. I now aim to remember the day of the week and the month that week is in. I aim to change my underwear every day and my sweatshirt and pants as least once every week. Ok, once every two weeks assuming nothing of great note or odor has fallen on them. I also set a goal of wearing waisted pants at least once a week for 15 minutes before ripping them off while screaming, “Freedom!”

How do I occupy my day, you ask? Well, for starts, if I make the mistake of getting down on the floor for something, I spend the rest of the day trying to get up. Seriously, they could make a feature length film of the effort. And yet I have to admit that sometimes I drop something just to be amused all day trying to get up. My dogs also find this hysterical.

In truth, that only keeps me occupied about once every week. I’ve had to come up with other creative ways fill the 19 seconds between one episode of Sherlock and another on Netflix. Somehow, this has encouraged the Marian in me to emerge. Let me explain.

My mother’s name was Marian. She was a bit of a neat freak – also a clean freak. It could be because we lived over dad’s grocery store and keeping everything spotless was one way of keeping the roaches away. Yep, welcome to city life.

One of the things she scrubbed every night was the stove after dinner. And then she attacked the floor in front of the stove. And I do mean attacked. She took after it with a Brillo pad and Ajax cleanser. As should come as no surprise to anyone, she soon scrubbed the spots out of the linoleum there. When this was pointed out to her, she claimed the linoleum was defective. So it should also come as no surprise that I am in the process of scrubbing the pattern out of one of my parrot cages. It has to be sacrificed.

As the isolation wears on, I find myself also getting very creative with some meals, especially as I face the end of the food I ordered last time. The other night, my dinner consisted of cole slaw, a yam and a baked potato. And get this. I actually cooked the potato and yam in the oven. The oven! I had that much time. Turns out the truth is that they taste much better baked in an over than nuked. Sadly, it turns out you can reach an age where even a baked potato can cause indigestion. I’m guessing it’s all that spicy butter and salt I used. So I have popcorn for dinner a lot. It rarely gives me indigestion and my birds and dogs eat the leftovers.

I find myself staring into my refrigerator more out of boredom than hunger. I look at all the half eaten food – the half yam, half potato, partially eaten chicken breast, left over ham sandwiches. I can’t throw it out and I can’t eat it all so it will stay there until it turns green. Blame my nonna. She was so cheap if she invited you in for coffee and toast in the morning, she meant one piece of toast and one cup of coffee. She buttered the toast, taking the smallest bit of butter possible and spreading it with vigor across the toast. She also fixed your coffee for you in case you were thinking you’d like more sugar or cream than she allowed. So you can see why I stare at this food that I know I will never eat and feel so scared, because if there is anyone capable of coming down from heaven and taking me out if I waste it, it’s nonna.

My current biggest concern, though, is that my refrigerator has begun calling out to me with an English accent. Should I be worried?