“Remoted” Workday 215 / Day 325 (Thursday)

At least there is ice cream.

Today was annoying from top to bottom. Beginning with the 5:40 am canine yapping and as it wore on, it felt like the Universe had saved up all the potential annoyances from a series of delightfully annoyance-free days and delivered them in one glorious collective. Recording them all would require reliving them all, so the work and neighborhood aggravations are being tucked away and ignored as if they had never been brought to life. 

Domestic annoyances began to peak Wednesday night with the saga of the Whole Foods order. The carefully curated cart had been started last weekend, but the storm predicted for Monday into Tuesday filled the weekend delivery windows and chipped away at the contents of the cart. One by one, items were ghosted out with the label “currently unavailable.” Goodbye rye flour. Goodbye top choice tortilla chips. Goodbye no longer on sale pricey plant-based pretend meat and seafood products.

Over several nights, the cart was rebuilt bigger, better, and more expensive. Late on Wednesday, during a periodic check, a delivery window opened. Provisions would arrive in just a few hours. The freezer was rearranged, with tired freezer burned items relegated to the trash. Some had been in there for ages. Sorry bulkie rolls, we must accept the reality that there will be no chocolate bread pudding requiring your services. You were generous with your year served in the freezer, but it’s time to part ways. You have my heartfelt apologies that you never got to fulfill your potential.

The rearranging created room for the incoming frozen brussels sprouts, Gardein meatless crumbles, and three containers of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream (on sale) that were en route from Whole Foods. While fulfilling the usual neurotic tendency to check and recheck the order, it was discovered that the final button push to confirm the order had not been executed, and the delivery window was closed. Gone. There were no groceries on the way. 

Deep breath. No big deal. Focus was shifted to a supper starring ricotta and spinach ravioli found in the back of the freezer during the excavation. I like to toss olives and capers into the pasta bowl and add parmesan. The massive jar of black olives was hard to open, and when the lid finally released, the jar tipped, spilling a purplish blend of olive juice and salty water all over the counter, down the front of the dishwasher, and onto the floor. The cleanup took a few minutes.

Today, delivery windows were available and one was pounced upon. All the necessary steps were completed to place the order. Late in the day, five bags were lined up neatly on the stairs. The dogs never barked, but a message arrived with the photo of the delivered order. The bags were exactly tall enough that when the door was opened, two started to topple down the stairs. While getting the bags inside, one began to tear. It was labeled in black marker “heavy,” on a panel not visible while standing in the doorway, leaning over with the door propped open and trying to pull bags inside so the door could be opened enough for me to actually get outside. There was swearing in a rapid and colorful stream of the English standards.

Pretty bags all in a row.

The “heavy” bag contained a three-pound bag of apples and a five-pound bag of potatoes. Seriously? In the wrong hands (or back) that could cause an injury. Another bag was nearly empty, light as a feather, and could have easily accommodated one of the heavy produce items. The carefully curated 11 ounce bag of corn tortilla chips, chosen for the magical combination of availability, reasonable price, and large size relative to the options, was not in any of the bags, but a tiny 6 ounce bag of multigrain tortilla chips that seemed not much larger than a vending machine bag was there.

Frustration was reaching a fever pitch. It was the poop icing on the tier cake of a day that had already included a string of work issues of varying urgency, dog pee deposited on the bathroom floor while I was in a team meeting then tracked all over the kitchen floor in a trail of wet paw prints, a stomach churning with acid, and more. At least there is now ice cream.