“Remoted – Hybrid” – Day 594 (Sunday)

Costume options for the Halloween morning dance class were considered while lying in bed last night trying to get to sleep. All the usual pre-sleep rituals had been performed. The face was washed and teeth were brushed. Winston was put outside for his final potty and given a tiny cookie treat. Another four bits of broken treats were gathered and we headed upstairs. Pajamas were donned and Winston and I did the nightly “sit, come, sit, paw” drill with cookie rewards.

1950s throwback.

Once in bed, the nightly Duolingo Finnish lessons were completed. Then the tossing and turning commenced because unfortunately, tired doesn't mean sleepy. That’s when the costume planning kicked in, which seemed like the most productive way to handle the frustration of  not sleeping. Costume criteria included being able to move in the getup, as dance class requires actual movement. It should also be not too costumey and/or easy to change out. The ride after class sometimes includes stops at a farm stand or grocery store. 

The last time a costume was planned was back in 2019, when two costumes were in development for events. One was for a country western themed work event and the other was a steampunk themed museum fundraiser. Clothing items and accessories had been rounded up for each, and then the pandemic forced the cancellation of both events.

The country western bolo tie with silver slider has sat on a dresser since March 2020, collecting dust and serving as a reminder of the life that once was. Elsewhere, there was a tan suede skirt. A bandanna. A chambray shirt. Western boots and old-timey boots. A vest. Coordinated belts and small bags for essentials like phone and keys. Other details I can’t even remember.

Neither of these costumes was appealing for dance class. I just wasn’t feeling it. An easy costume might have been Northwest lumber worker, thanks to the excessive volume of plaid flannel on the closet, but I wasn't feeling that, either. Anyone looking in my closet might assume I work in the logging industry or that I am trapped in 90s Seattle grunge.

There are about a dozen wigs, but those are a total pain to put on and then they always slide around. The big storage tub of costume skirts, tops, and footwear is buried under a bunch of other junk.

This morning a couple outfits were tried and rejected. The final winner felt like a cop-out. It was Mummu’s striped skirt she wore to work at the yarn factory in the 50s and 60s with a sweater and 50s ponytail with a scarf. Fun fact -- I wore the same skirt for Trick or Treat when I was ten, with the waistband pinned smaller to fit. Now it fits perfectly. The look was very sock-hop-esque. 

Jeans were brought to class for a quick change before heading home with a stop at Market Basket for broccoli and mushrooms for quiche. Once in the store, the smell of roasted chicken either made me hungry or made me realize I was already hungry. Then the mind got busy. “Oh, I can make American Chop Suey if I get some green peppers. This package of random cheese ends will be great for macaroni and cheese. These Italian cookies on the discount bakery rack look yummy.”

Before long, the carriage held a roasted chicken, the broccoli and mushrooms that prompted the visit, a frozen pizza, and many, many other things that boosted the total to an even $47. Considering I haven’t done a full-blown grocery shop in several weeks, it wasn’t that bad.

Arriving home hungry led to the need for food. American Chop Suey was made, consumed, and the remainder packaged in freezer containers for future lunches. The roasted chicken was dismembered. The mess was cleaned up and the kitchen floor was swept and washed. The deck chairs were taken to the shed for the winter and the shovels were brought to the enclosed front porch in a pre-emptive strike against winter. Triumph was celebrated with Italian cookies.

The only reasonable explanation for the sudden spurt of organized and mature activity is that the 50s sock hop outfit sent me to the 1950s and slid me into housewife mode. Maybe I should wear it every weekend and time travel to housewife mode. Or at least anytime there are things to get done.

“Remoted – Hybrid” – Day 593 (Saturday)

Prince - 2019
house party.

Halloween "season" has long been one of my favorite celebrations. Wearing a costume is fun. I think so, anyway. I know a lot of people who hold a different view of it, but I also know enough people who agree with me to keep it fun. 

Over the years, the wig collection has grown and become colorful thanks to sales, and the costume parts keep accumulating because you never know when a themed dress-up event will pop up. Thankfully, they aren't just for Halloween. There are many springtime galas that afford a chance to go undercover. 

Throughout years of Halloween bar events and house parties, I've been a mermaid (twice), Prince (twice), Red Riding Hood (thrice), Bettie Page, the logo matchbook from the bar I frequented in the 90s, and the logo pen from the same bar, and sugar skull makeup for a Day of the Dead event. There was a costume themed burlesque event in Nashville that was a fun chance to pull out the pink wig and leopard print kimono. 

Music City Boo-lesque
Nashville, 2009.

Themed parties at the home of friends included the 1920s, the 1970s (went in a shiny silver disco getup), Witches and Warlocks (was White Witch from Narnia), and whatever the theme was in 2019, the second time I was Prince. It’s always so much fun to step outside real life and cut loose. I get to be me all the time, and trust me, there are times when it isn't that much fun. Escaping into another character is a relief.

The year of the Bettie Page costume (2008) featured two nights of parties. One night was a party at The Tap Room, a bar in Clarksville, Tennessee. There was a contest that came down to me and Cat Woman for the prize, and we had to do a prance off. 

After it was over and Cat Woman won (the judge said it was because the night's theme was "Hollywood," of which I was unaware), I realized there was toilet paper stuck to my shoe. In some of the pictures people are laughing and pointing at it. The next night it was a party at the home of friends of a friend.

Bettie Page - 2008
house party.

This year’s Halloween weekend plans are much less like fun and social Halloweens past and more like nearly every other night of the past 590-plus nights. It's me on the couch with my feet up on the ottoman, Prime streaming on TV with me paying minimal attention, and Winston sleeping nearby. I will write and do my nightly Finnish lessons with the Duolingo app. 

There was the consumption of potato chips, which is about as wild and festive as it will get. Life is still pandemic quiet, but there is always hope for next month, next quarter, next year for things to be more lively. Beer consumption was considered, but there is dance class on Sunday morning, so it was disqualified in favor of water. Costumes are optional for class, so a closet raid will be in order.

As for Sunday night the 31st, I’ll probably be doing exactly the same thing as every other night. Plus, being Sunday, there is the added fun of fighting the usual "crap, it's nearly Monday" depression. This will be the sixth Halloween here, and in the previous five, there have been zero kids knocking on the door for Trick or Treat, so I didn’t even bother to buy candy. 

“Remoted – Hybrid” – Day 592 (Friday)

Frosty Morn
painted by Jack Frost. 

It was a cold, frosty morn. But not Frosty Morn like the  sausage company. Literal frost. The wintery kind. It's always pretty to look at. Mummu used to always say the windows "were painted by Jack Frost."

While warming up the car and waiting for the frost to melt from the windshield, discoveries were made. The Jeep has heated seats and steering wheel. This feature was probably described in detail at the dealership, but clearly was not of interest in June. When the car was bought, air conditioning and sun roof panels were top of mind. This morning, though, in the 35-degree weather, the seat and steering wheel heat came on automatically. It was nice. Very nice.

Another drive time discovery was the realization I had forgotten my lunch. In between the many steps of preparing to leave, including making sure I have the notepads that are schlepped back and forth, checking the doors, letting Winston out, diapering him, doling out bits of good boy cookies, delivering lies and promises like I’ll be home “in a little while,” grabbing lunch danced through my head and then fled. It was halfway to work before I thought of it again.

Five minute pho.

Luckily, there is a small reserve of emergency food in the desk at the office-office. The emergency ration lunch choices were oatmeal, ramen, or five-minute Vietnamese pho. None sounded appealing, but neither was the idea of foraging for food downtown in the cold. It ended up being pho and it was good. Dang, I love the instant hot water dispenser in our water machine. It’s a benefit of working in the
office. 

“Remoted – Hybrid” – Day 591 (Thursday)

It doesn’t take long for me to get bored with cooking. After a few days on a roll, something flips and I don’t feel like doing any food prep or even dealing with reheating a prepared meal that will dirty a plate. Tonight, the cooking fatigue plus a conversation about steak and cheese subs the other day with a colleague had that specific food item lodged in my head. That meant it was supper delivery for the win.

My favorite delivery pizza joint had emailed a $3 off coupon, so they were top of mind, plus the no contact delivery has been great. A knock on the door, and by the time I get to there, the driver is already halfway to the car, and the food is on the small table in the enclosed porch.

I must have ordered at exactly the right moment. The delivery window provided at checkout was about 40 minutes. After barely 20 minutes, there was a knock on the door. As I approached the door, someone could be seen standing on the other side beyond the glass insert. 

It was unusual, but I figured with the election next week, maybe it was a member of a political fan club and opened the door a crack and said “hello?” tentatively. A tall woman with a grin that hovered between goofy and creepy stood there. The brown paper bag she handed me had the receipt taped to the outside that said “Leave on table in enclosed porch.” So much for “no contact delivery.” Call me antisocial, but I prefer my no contact delivery to be exactly that. If I wanted personal contact, it would have been a pickup order. 

Cowboy Bites and steak cheese sub.

The food was carried to the kitchen and set on the counter. Winston sprang to life and trotted alongside. He must have smelled the steak and cheese. The order of Cowboy Bites (fried cheese, bacon, corn, jalapeno bites) was as delicious as I remember from a year ago. The cannoli, ordered to meet the minimum order for the three dollars off offer (basically making the cannoli free) looked as great as always.

The star of the meal, the steak, cheese, mushroom and pepper sub, was a disappointment. The meat was overdone and dry. The cheese was nowhere to be found. At least the bread was nice and fresh. Tomorrow’s lunch plan, the other half of the steak and cheese, may find itself abandoned for the instant pho bowl in my desk at the office-office. Or maybe the remaining 80% of the Cowboy Bites order. We’ll see.

“Remoted – Hybrid” – Day 590 (Wednesday)

Jamaica resort rain day.

In 2017 on this date, I was in Jamaica. Like today in Lowell, it was cloudy and rained for a chunk of the day, but unlike today in Lowell, it was still an awesome day. Not that today in Lowell was crappy, it was overall pretty okay. 

The major differences between a Lowell rainy day and a Jamaica rainy day include the vacation mindset and being in a tropical location. The Lowell rainy workday is just another dismal day, but at least the rain hides the tears. Outside, anyway, A rainy tropical vacation day meant afternoon games and day-drinks and photo taking and naps and a day liberated of the tragically valid fear of burning up in the sun like crispy pork rind.

No chance of burning with
this cloud cover.

Jamaica 2017 was the first “real” vacation in several years. The criteria for a “real” vacation include: 1. traveling away from home; 2. for more than three days; 3. primarily for recreation. Not just the first, it also turned out to be the last real vacation for several years. Exactly how many years is still a mystery, as there have been no vacation trips since, nor are there any on the calendar. Yet. Someday. Hopefully soon-ish. 

Luckily, I’m not dead yet, and my rich imagination allows me to mentally wander to remote locations on occasion. You know, when it’s not already torqued up with worries about the joys of adulthood and homeownership such as groceries, chimneys, water heaters, mice, etc. And in the meantime, there are photos from when I used to travel. Maybe I’ll return to Paris via photos as soon as I get done reliving Jamaica. Or Seoul. Or Reykjavik.

“Remoted – Hybrid” – Day 589 (Tuesday)

Monday night, around 9:00, I let Winston outside. Sometimes he likes to go to the backyard, sometimes to the front, and this time, he chose the front door. As usual, I turned on the porch light and stood in the doorway after letting him out. An unfamiliar generic silver car was parked in front of the house along the fence. This isn’t completely unusual, being a public street with houses inhabited by people who have guests. It was made possible by it being the first time in years that the next door neighbor took her trash barrels back to her own yard on trash day instead of waiting the usual two or three extra days.

A bald man sat behind the steering wheel. The nearby streetlight illuminated him as he shoveled food into his mouth from a square white Styrofoam takeout box. A Prime delivery van was parked diagonally across the street with the side door open towards my house. The Prime driver took a box to the porch of the house across the street.

The bald guy in the silver car lifted the container higher, set the corner to his mouth, and poured whatever was left in it into his mouth. The highly refined diner seemed unaware he was in a public place. Or maybe he was aware and was unconcerned about the activity around him – the truck parked behind him, the package delivery happening to his left, the dog peeing in the yard on the other side of the picket fence and the woman standing in the illuminated doorway to his right, watching him chow down his food. He produced a napkin which he used to wipe his mouth and then each of his fingers.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I never eat from containers and pour the remnants into my mouth. If I were to do such a thing, it would happen in the privacy of my own home. Deep inside, far from the windows and public view. Definitely not while parked in the street in front of a stranger’s house. Not without checking carefully for witnesses, anyway.

Winston came back inside and the doors were closed. A few minutes later, curious if the car was still parked there, I looked outside. The Prime delivery van was gone. The unfamiliar silver car was gone. A square white Styrofoam food container sat in the street in front of my house.

And now there are many questions. Like, what was he eating and where did it come from? Does he always park in front of other peoples’ homes at the end of dead-end streets to dine? Does he always inhale his food? Does he always litter? Did his life partner or doctor put him on a special diet and he copes with the deprivation by sneaking out to eat and then has to dispose of the evidence? And where does he live so I can return the favor? Now I’ll be on the lookout for the return of the silver car and the takeout eating litter man.

Winter food has arrived.

In other food news, because that seems to be the current life obsession, winter food mode has settled upon The Bungalowell. We are already days into soup season, and that was the lunch for the rainy day, but the rain, the dreariness, and the chill took it up a notch.

The weather kicked off a craving for thin sliced fried potatoes, and with potatoes there needs to be onions, and with that there was a hankering for kielbasa. Or maybe it started with the kielbasa and moved to potatoes from there, who knows. But there it was in the skillet and then in a bowl. 

I don’t eat much meat and the stuff I crave is rarely steak, it’s more likely to be bacon, kielbasa, or pepperoni. That’s how I roll. And I never park in front of other people’s houses to dine and then dump the packaging on the ground, but that’s just me being more of a private slob. 

“Remoted – Hybrid” – Day 588 (Monday)

The morning seemed to set the day up failure. It was cold and dreary and perfect for sleeping, but it was a work day, so there would be no lounging about. It was trash day, but the trash bag was barely half-full, and the idea of going out in the rain to set it in the empty bin and then drag the big bin with a half-empty trash bag through the rain to the curb wasn’t appealing. Trash day was skipped. I felt decisive and powerful.

The rainy weather required wardrobe planning. What pants won’t get all wet on the hems? What pants actually fit today? What shoes won’t be ruined in the rain and puddles? The winning pants ended up being the emergency fat pants because they were the only ones that fit. This felt less powerful and more depressing. There ended up being two pairs of shoes for the day, one to walk from the garage and the new  navy patent loafers to wear in the office. This is how a person ends up having 12 pairs of shoes at work.

The drive to work was unpleasant. The traffic on Lakeview was piled up and accumulating. I was about the seventh car in line at the light at Aiken. From my spot near the hardware store, I could see the cross traffic moving on Aiken while my line sat without moving for two complete green light cycles.

The backup provided plenty of time for me to contemplate some of the life decisions that led me to that moment in time, sitting in that spot in traffic, with the waistband of my fat pants digging into my belly, time ticking away. Turning right instead of left to avoid the University pedestrian traffic. Getting rid of the CRV and getting the Jeep with no CD player, leaving me stuck hearing commercials. Overeating for months. Probably should have backed off with that before creeping up another size.

The traffic finally moved and to avoid turning right into the backup on the Aiken bridge, I went straight. Once through the intersection, it was a clear path. For about two minutes, things were carefree and easy, all the way until the next bridge. Ugh.  Then it was the joy of the Bridge Street bridge traffic.

This gave me time to ponder the heavier stuff. Like moving back from Tennessee. And maybe I should have just stayed in the crappy marriage and tried harder at the housewife thing. Sure, I was horrible at it because I didn’t have the first clue about how to do it, and sure, life sucked, but at least I didn’t have to work. And what’s life suckage anyway? It’s just a matter of time, flavors, and degrees. But at least it's usually temporary. And a life full of nothing but puffy clouds, unicorns, and rainbows would probably be boring anyway.

Scene from a beautiful day.

After work, the traffic was much less annoying that the ride in. Things were improving exponentially. And when I saw the mail, things got dramatically better. There was a box wrapped in brown paper, safe and dry inside the enclosed front porch. It was a painting of a scene from a beautiful day, sent by my beautiful painter friend. And everything felt better. Hooray for happy memories and thoughtful surprises from talented friends. Life isn't all traffic jams and clouds. Not forever, anyway. It's also beautifully painted summer garden scenes.

“Remoted – Hybrid” – Day 587 (Sunday)

Today really felt like autumn in New England. The morning was chilly and sunny for the ride to belly dance class. There was some yellow and red in the leaves and the air was invigorating. Belly dance class was fun, working with zills and veils and reviewing choreography we were working on oh, so many months ago before the pandemic erased our performance schedule. It’s amazing how much effort is required to toss a silk veil and so it flips overhead and then catch it. The shoulders were burning during the veil work.

Treasures!

After dance there was a meet-up with Mom and my sister at a local antiques co-op, and in perfect planetary alignment we each found affordable items. I got a beaded tassel for $3 and a drawing of a plant in a Nielsen frame for $4, which is less than the cost of the frame parts. Not that I need more artwork, but …

During the drive home, I bypassed the usual turn from route 119 onto 113 mostly just see what was down the road. It was treat with more a stable speed limit of 40 mph for much of the route and the scenic reward of rolling hills and a couple large farm stands stocked with hundreds of pumpkins out front. It was a long and pleasant ride, and as always, nice to finally get home to Winston where the afternoon was frittered away on who knows what but mostly nothing.

Soup was assembled from fresh onion, broccoli, carrots, and potatoes, plus the leftover beans, rice, salsa and cheese from the other night. It is delicious. Soup season is a fabulous season.

“Remoted – Hybrid” – Day 586 (Saturday)

Chicken!

After being awakened for the first time two hours after to sleep, because that is the norm, then at 2:30 am by the guests of the neighbors across the street who were engaging in their usual loud and prolonged middle of the street goodbyes, then again at 3:38 am because that’s within the golden hour for early wake ups, and again at 4:45 am, there was finally a glorious stretch of sleep. At 8:15 am, I woke up for the day. 

The final stretch of sleep before getting up was glorious, but the late wake up made me miss two potential activity options. One was a volunteer clean up event at the rail trail that seemed interesting weeks ago when I read about it. The other event was the monthly Finnish breakfast, which Mom was attending. Both began at 8:00. Danggit. There was coffee and light breakfast in the living room and episodes of New Girl on Netflix. Next on the day planner was a National Park Service Walk penciled in at 10:00. Nope. That option also did not happen.

Up close, not an air machine.

In the success column, I finally got air into the tires at gas station number four. It had been a couple weeks since conceding defeat at station number one with the "out of service" sign and station two with the inaccessible air pump. When I pulled in to station number three at what from the street looked like an air station, it turned out to be advertising signs for vape products. 

On the other side of the building was an air station with two dedicated parking spots and, surprise, a seemingly functional pay phone. Unfortunately, the air station required four quarters for tire air and five for vacuum, but all I had was one quarter for the cart at Aldi, bills, and plastic. The store behind me seemed busy, so it onward to the place down the street.

At station number four, there it was, glistening in the sunlight – an air station, easily accessible from multiple angles and with a bank card reader. I removed the caps from all the valve stems, then inserted my bankcard to the machine for four minutes worth of air. The transaction was rejected. I tried again. Rejected again. It was into the store for quarters. 

Back at the air machine, a black BMW was now parked. I told the woman in the car the card reader was out. My quarters were inserted and the machine sprang to life. I went around the car adding air but couldn’t tell if anything was happening. The lady in the BMW started coaching me, and thank goodness or I might still be there. Near the end of my four minutes, I gave up and ceded control of the pump to Lady Beemer. She aired her tires while I started the Jeep. The dashboard display informed me that the passenger side was fully inflated, but the driver’s side was still low. As Lady Beemer got into her car, I thanked her for the help for the tenth time, then grabbed the pump, still active from her quarters, and finished off my tires, feeling like a dunce.

At Hollis Hills Farm.

Then it was off to Fitchburg on fully inflated tires for a fundraiser event at Hollis Hills Farm. The beautiful fall day featured sunshine, nice temperatures, and live music in the open space beyond the apple orchard. There were chickens and sheep. There were 70 raffle baskets and many were spectacular. I saw a friend from long ago, and we got to have a quick visit. 

The leaves in North Central Mass are still not quite at peak color, but the hills were still pretty and it was great to be sitting on a hill looking at more hills in the distance. That is one of the things I missed while in Middle Tennessee, where it was relatively flat. 

“Remoted – Hybrid” – Day 585 (Friday)

The longest Friday ever finally ended the week that is a serious contender for longest week ever. There were great hopes today would not follow the pattern of the four days preceding it. Unfortunately, hope is not a plan and it also cannot control time. Of course, the few hours since work ended have flown by. What the actual hell? Why does free time not last as long as work time?

In other time references, today marks the 10^th anniversary of the night I broke my leg playing roller derby. I didn’t even realize it was the anniversary until seeing it in Facebook memories, so that feels like huge progress. The nerve damage is much less than ten years ago and walking lacks the ongoing reminders of shin and foot numbness. The top of foot numbness is now fleeting and random.

Comfort for surviving the day was considered in the form of delivery dinner. Unfortunately, the wallet is still reeling from the recent financial trauma of water tank replacement, vet bills, chimney work, and dental work. Instead of a delivery that could run to $30 or more, it was a $3.10 Tony’s Supreme frozen pizza from Family Dollar. The pizza was an add-on to the intended purchase. The visit to Family Dollar on the way back from the chiropractor was to get sympathy cards, which I’ve bought far too many of this year. 

Cards in hand, I found the end of the checkout line part way down the frozen food aisle. During the long wait in front of the freezer cases, I ended up with a pizza box in hand. The wait was comical. The guy in front of me went from complaining about the wait to all in earshot to making funny faces at the baby on the hip of the woman who landed in line behind me. Thank goodness for that woman and her youngling. 

When I finally got close enough to see the registers, the sight was, well, surprising. A woman at what had been the only open register had a shopping card heaped with items from the kids clothing section and more hangers hanging on the outside of the cart. The counter held a two feet high mound of more kids’ clothes. A second shopping cart was full of rung up and bagged clothes.

Curiosity burned my brain. Why would someone be buying the entire kids clothing department? Was she reselling it?  Is her holiday gift list comprised of 100 kids? Whatever the reason for the heaps of clothes, the result of the massive shop and one cashier was six people waiting in a line that kept growing longer. Finally, another team member arrived to run another register and things began moving.

Supper!

As a former recreational shopper and retail worker and current nosey person, I really wanted to know the retail value of the entire Family Dollar kids clothing department. But the pace of the check out and bagging process was glacial. Three items were rung up from the heap then put into a bag which was tied up and set into the cart. 

As curious as I was, supper was greatly needed and I didn’t have that kind of time available. It seems like a reasonable estimate that two hours later, they are still there checking out. As for me, since leaving the spectacle of the giant order, I’ve baked that $3.10 pizza and dined on half of it, accompanied by a 16-ounce hoppy lager. But dang, I’d still love to know how much that massive haul of kids clothing cost.

“Remoted – Hybrid” – Day 584 (Thursday)

This has been another drag-ass work week, and it’s not over yet. Only almost over.

It was the new same old with confusion over what day it is and where to go to make the work happen – downstairs or downtown. While walking from the garage to the office, I realized my phone was still at home. That required a snap decision to settle the debate of going back home to get it and being late for work versus winging it all day sans cell. Sometimes my phone is needed to execute work activities, so there was a legitimate degree of problem potential. The decision was to go phone free.

The view from the office window was another interesting sunny charcoal gray cloudy morning, and there was no phone to take a picture, but the pain lasted just a second or two. Lunch was the interesting and tasty leftover rice, Gardein pretend meat crumbles, and veggies from Wednesday’s supper. There was just one scheduled meeting and updates and info flowing in and around and across and back out. Then it was finally time to leave. At the end of the day, having survived the entire stretch of the very long feeling day cell phone-free, victory was declared. 

Maybe not so pretty, but tasty.

Upon arrival home, supper was again rice based, but this time it was with black beans, salsa, cheese, and corn chips. Instead of layering the components, everything was cooked together in the pot. The end result looked kind of skeevy, but it tasted really good. 

Food seems to be the one thing that anchors the days and the nights. Meals have been the constant thread through the initial days of remote life and the long stretch of uncertainty that followed, and now through the confusing alternating schedule of hybrid work days. No matter what else the day delivers, the kitchen, (and occasionally a restaurant) has delivered some form of lunch, then dinner, and sometimes a snack or two or ten in between. Hooray for a baseline of continuity.

“Remoted – Hybrid” – Day 583 (Wednesday)

The day started extra early with a routine medical check before work. As in 7:00 am, before work. That meant being up 45 minutes early and then out the door around the time I am usually getting dressed. Luckily, the appointment was close by at Lowell General and the department is exceptionally well run. The whole thing, including round-trip travel, took only about 40 minutes, and I was back at the house with time to drink coffee and cuddle with Winston before heading to the office.

Coco and Winnie.

After the cuddly and productive start, the day was met with the now routine computer challenges (boo!), some progress on to-do lists (yay!), and sad news from a friend (sniff, sniff). In the ongoing string of crap in quite possibly the crappiest year ever for each of us, Winston’s doggy girlfriend Coco passed away. She was a sweet and stylish gal, blind and deaf, and an impressive 17 years old.  

When Moose, Winnie, and I stayed with my friends for several weeks before closing on the house, between their dogs and mine, it was a most entertaining puppy gang of six, plus a cat. The tail wagging wiggle butts of Cash, Coco, Riley, Emmett, Moose, and Winston kept things lively, and the ever elusive Tilly the cat watched (and sometimes hissed ever so subtly) from between the balusters at the upstairs landing. 

All the fur babies were old-ish and several died this year. Now Winnie is the last one standing. Rest in peace Coco. And Cash, Emmett, Riley, Moose, and Tilly, I hope all y'all are playing in the happy fields of the fur baby afterlife. You live on in our hearts and memories (and our 10,000 photos and videos).

Once upon a time there was an adorable doggy gang ...
 Cash, Coco, Winston, Riley, and Moose (Emmett was elsewhere.)

“Remoted – Hybrid” – Day 582 (Tuesday)

Another day of more of the same. With “the same” being the reemergence of my bad technology karma. It’s a special talent, sitting near equipment and having it go haywire. Must be my magnetic personality.

Within the first couple hours of the day, I was on the phone with our help desk four times. First, I had no email, which turned out to be because I had no internet connection, while everyone else in the immediate area was fully connected. After that was resolved, suddenly the PDFs were behaving badly. I felt bad for the help desk team each time I presented a new situation, but they are all true pros and actually helpful, so they handled whatever came their way.

Recent technology quirks have forced me to dig down deep to old school roots. My first instinct is to send emails. I can write the message, review it, massage it, and then send it. Last week, however, there was an email quirk and I had to pick up the phone and call people. The phone is not really my thing. Texting? Sure, all day. Calling? That is less great. It was stressful. Today, when I couldn’t make notes on the PDF for a time-sensitive project, I used the copier to scan a document with hand written edits to email to get it to a designer for updates. It was kind of quaint.

The king is his comfy bed.

In other exciting workday news, lunch was a piece of quiche I found in the freezer during a madcap search before heading to the office. Once again, I ate while working and failed to take an actual break. I thought of taking a walk at 1:00 but I wanted to do “just one more thing.” The next thing I knew it was 3:15 and then it was too late. Maybe tomorrow.

Meanwhile, at the house, Winston seems to just laze about all day. When I arrive, he doesn’t even great me at the door like he used to. I call his name and go upstairs to greet him, remove his diaper wrap, and head back downstairs to let him outside and begin our quaint and quiet home life.  He is almost always upstairs, curled up in his bed in the bedroom. He has even managed to turn the bed inside out so it no longer has raised sides.

“Remoted – Hybrid” – Day 581 (Monday)

After several days of temperatures in the high 60s and low 70s, the temps in the 50s today felt chilly. Sure, it’s mid-October and the 50s are more seasonable than the 70s, but … <insert the “I’m cold” weather whining here>.

Suddenly soup weather!

On the bright side, the dip in temperatures made it perfect soup weather, which worked well with the post dental work recommended diet of soft foods or liquids for 48 hours. Somehow, the perfect vegetable soup with a milk broth was assembled Sunday, and it was even better today. It was lunch. It was supper. That’s mostly because I was too cold to have the other liquid diet items bought over the weekend – golden egg nog, pumpkin egg nog, and maple walnut ice cream. 

After eating mostly ice cream and soup for the past couple days, lunch for the office on Tuesday will be a challenge. Beyond soup, there isn't much food that is ready to go, everything is still in the ingredients stage of food preparation. Soup is perfect when working from home, but kind of a pain to transport to work. I don’t trust a single one of my 10,000 containers to not leave me with a tote bag full of leaked soup.

Also easier to deal with working at home is the warm salt water rinse after eating. The way to avoid having to swish and spit at work would be to not eat, but that is not a viable plan. Hangry me is not suitable for the office. Looks like there are some logistics to figure out.

"Remoted - Hybrid" - Day 580 (Sunday)

On this date in 2009, I had the um, pleasure, of attending Driver School in Clarksville, Tennessee. It was after a traffic event in which my beloved 2004 Honda CRV was damaged to the the tune of about a gajillion dollars in repair work. A much smaller car had appeared from nowhere at a high rate of speed and hit the rear quarter driver's section of my car near the tire, spinning it nearly a full 360 degrees. The other car jumped the curb and stopped near the side of the Hobby Lobby building on Wilma Rudolph Boulevard. 

When the souvenirs were handed out, I was given a left turn violation. The gifts kept giving, and after I moved back to Massachusetts in 2013 and transferred my registration, I scored points on my auto policy for a couple years (with the same company I had in Tennessee).

What follows is my accounting of dumb driver school, written in 2009 when it was all still fresh. Although many years have passed, I still remember how useless the class was, and how, with just a bit of effort, it could have provided value to the attendees. 

I didn’t have to go to driver school. I chose to attend. Like most things in life, there were other options: 1) pay the $135 citation for ‘failure to yield ‘and gain 4 points on an otherwise flawless driving record; 2) appear in City Court in front of a judge, plead ’not guilty’ and receive a date to return and attempt to prove not guilty-ness (in my case, without benefit of evidence like witnesses or photos); 3) attend Driver School at the cost of $120 and avoid the points; or 4) blow it all off and live a paranoid life of fear. I chose Door Number 3. I was actually looking forward to the class, because really, who couldn’t use a refresher on the rules of the road?

On the designated Saturday morning at 7:50, I arrived at the old building housing City Council Chambers/City Court, located on Public Square beyond an ornate fountain that sits on the narrow strip of grass in Public Square. The clerk who took my reservation a couple weeks prior had told me the doors are locked at 8:00 and tardy people are not only not admitted, they are assessed an additional fine.

The fountain in the strip in front of
City Council Chambers / City Court, Clarksville, TN.

It struck me as amusing that two class attendees, in their haste to arrive on time, parked facing the wrong way on the street, one in front of me, the other behind me. I hoped this was a driving issue that would be addressed in the class, because people seem to park like that downtown all the time.

The capacity of Council Chambers/ City Court was shown on the wall as 109. The room was about 90% full when I arrived, with a mix of drivers of all ages, evenly split between male and female. At $120 a head, the early session was pulling in over $10 grand for the city, and the encore performance scheduled for 10:00 that day was sold-out two weeks in advance. There had been two classes on Tuesday night of that week. I wonder if they run this many people through driver school every month.

At show-time, an officer stood at the front of the room and in a monotone voice, introduced himself and the other officer in attendance (who he referred to as “Mr. Personality”). The next 45 minutes delivered poor quality videos of dramatic car crashes and assorted police chases (usually European) and a droning delivery of a variety of topics – the proper use of turn signals (use them); the legal limit for DUI (.08 – attainable at a pace of more than one drink per hour, depending upon one’s body size); seat belt rules (yes, they can pull you over for not wearing a seat belt!); child car seat rules (age and weight guidelines change every year); speed traps; school bus laws; the owner’s responsibility even if their car is driven by someone else.

The sobriety check point speech was interesting. He mentioned if a driver approaches a checkpoint and does a u-turn, they won’t be pursued. This is good to know, because even though there is not a single sign stating so, u-turns are illegal in this city, and any other time you will get pulled over for a riveting roadside lecture and/or a souvenir ticket.

The most frustrating part of the class was the series of bar charts with microscopic font that illustrated some point about accident statistics that Officer Monotone was droning on about. Even if some other nerd like myself was interested in the statistics, there was no way to decipher the information displayed in a font size usually reserved for legal footnotes in lengthy, complicated contracts. Yeah, I often read those, too.

My favorite topic, aside from the Officer Monotone’s (questionable) commentary concerning his own (potentially questionable) beer consumption which he confessed to exceed the one beer per hour rate (WHY would he even tell us that?), was the new red light cameras which capture images of drivers running red lights “from four unique angles.” When you receive your ticket from the city, it is accompanied by a web link to imagery of the traffic offense “from four unique angles.” Officer Monotone said a driver can try and fight the charge, but the transgression will be shown “right here in this courtroom, on these many screens … from four unique angles.” He sure did love that phrase … “from four unique angles.” I now sit at stop lights trying to calculate the four unique angles.

And after 45 minutes, with no discussion of proper use of turn lanes (I’m pretty sure they are NOT high-speed travel lanes, people!), proper four-way-stop procedures, or other stuff that would have been helpful based on the crazy driving that goes on every day, he announced we were done, THEN he asked if there were any questions. One poor dude had questions, but the answers couldn’t be heard over the sounds of 100 people racing for the exits. I had even contemplated asking my "Is it acceptable to park facing the wrong way on the street?" question, but it was hopeless at that point -- I knew the answer and the clueless transgressors had already sprinted for the door.

Driver school could have been worse, but it could also have been a lot more interesting,  informative and even educational. But it’s over now ... as long as I can watch out for those left hand turns.

"Remoted - Hybrid" – Day 579 (Saturday)

This morning began at 3:00 with waking up thirsty. But really, it began about 20 months ago on February 13, 2020. That was the night I broke a molar while eating popcorn, which had me in the dental chair on Valentine’s Day. The 14th had been booked as a vacation day in a strategic move to avoid dealing with colleague’s flowers, candy, and special date plans where I’m forced to smile pleasantly while the lonely old lady inside me dies a thousand times. Instead, at the dentist, I was peppered with 100 direct questions about my Valentine’s plans. It was delightful, and really, why would I ever want to do something fun on a vacation day when there are so many non-fun activities like visiting the vet or  doctor, or maybe the dentist to be interrogated about Valentine’s Day.

The pandemic and shutdowns hit about a week before the next scheduled dental visit, and it was months before the tooth could be addressed again. Then the crown didn’t fit, requiring a new one, and another visit for the mounting. It cost many hundreds of dollars after the sliver of cost that insurance paid.

This winter saw the cleaning visit with 18 x-rays that left me with TMJ and unable to open my mouth for a solid week. Spring and summer had the endodontist consultation for a root canal, where testing resulted in a recommendation for an extraction. The saga continued with the consultation with the dental surgeon. The surgeon said the appointment would take two hours, and the insurance company said it would cost nearly  twice as much out of pocket as the crown.

The week saw moderate-level perma-stress leading up to today. There was high-level crankiness this morning with no coffee, no breakfast, not even water. The mandatory fast for anesthesia saw my last sip of water at 3:00am, so in a way waking up was a blessing that allowed for the last bit of anything before the eight-hour window slammed shut.

Mom drove an hour from Gardner to take me to the oral surgeon. Basically, she paid the price for my lack of both a significant other and local friends. We chatted for a while before it was time to go, partly to sort out the various bits of info from the dental office. The string of mail, texts, and emails leading up to today often included contradictory information. 

Glorious empty waiting room.

The initial appointment sheet said the appointment was at 11:00, and in bold all caps text screamed, “RIDES MAY NOT LEAVE THE BUILDING.” Follow-up text messages said the appointment was at 11:15, to arrive 30 minutes early, and that patients must come alone to appointment and the driver must remain in the car. When I checked in, the receptionist asked where my driver was. Well, she was in the car, as instructed in the three text messages received in the past week. The receptionist said that during the week, they ask people to not wait in the waiting room, but on the weekend it’s okay. And I would know this, how? She also said the appointment was 45 minutes, not the two hours the surgeon said during the consultation. 

The equivalent of two week's take home pay (also known as one mortgage payment) was collected via credit card for the portion not covered by insurance. Gotta love the American health insurance system. The other option was to let the tooth rot in my head and continue damaging the jaw bone, which received a bone graft as part of the process today.

There a blood pressure cuff, wrist monitors, finger monitor, IV. After that, it was a lovely span of nothingness, and then it was over. I didn’t even receive the most expensive tooth in my head as a souvenir, which was disappointing. There was a post-operative care sheet and a trip to the pharmacy. The sheet was skimmed, the prescriptions were reviewed.

After we were back at the house for a while, Mom commented that I was less ghastly pale and not walking like a drunk any longer. After assurances that I’d be parked on the couch the rest of the day, she felt comfortable leaving. There was a lovely nap of several hours, some ice cream, and more napping. Unfortunately, it was a solid six hours before I carefully read the care sheet and saw I was supposed to have been icing my jaw for 25-minute stretches for the first 48 hours. Oops. 

Avoid smoking though a straw.

The instructions also state, in bold text, “Please avoid smoking and drinking through a straw for 3 days.” I’ve enjoyed imagining someone smoking through a straw. A liquid to soft diet is recommended and for a second I thought it would be party time at The BungaLowell. The potential fun of a champagne diet was shattered in the next sentence with “Please avoid alcohol for 48 hours.” So much for that idea. 

Now there are only about 300 more steps and many, many, more dollars to be spent to fill the crater in my head where a dead tooth used to be. Things to look forward to.

Remoted - Hybrid – Day 578 (Friday)

Time has had a quality of going by both fast and slow. Sometimes at the same time.  It’s weird. When I worked for the time clock company and would see "master timekeeping systems" in our materials, I would imagine a prankster-type being who controlled all time and would speed it up and slow it down at whim, just to mess with the humans. 

Today dragged, then suddenly, it was 5:00, as if the master timekeeper had hit fast forward, and thank goodness for that. There have been entire weeks where each day seemed to drag, yet the week as a whole seemed to fly by, and vice versa. In any event, however slow and/or fast the day actually passed, things were accomplished. Information was gathered. Content was prepared for use. The red pen was used to cross things off the list which is my favorite part of any day.

Fatigue set in almost immediately upon arrival home. This means that zero household tasks were accomplished and zero items struck from a list. It took every effort to produce food for supper, and if I hadn’t been hungry, I would have just skipped it. Delivery was considered, but when compared against the volume of food already in the house, practicality won out and delivery was dismissed.

Shells and cheese,
not shells in creamy sauce.

Nothing in the fridge seemed appealing. It was all remnants of things already eaten a couple times this week. The freezer is too full and disorganized to even explore. The solution was a box mix from the cabinet that required boiled water and cooking for nine brief minutes while I sat on the couch. It was only after it was dumped in the pan that I realized it wasn’t shells in a creamy sauce, it was shells in a cheese sauce, so basically it was mac and cheese. Again. 

The texture was good, but the cheese was very mild and there was a weird flavor, probably from the mushrooms that were allegedly in the mix, which were not visible to the naked eye, although rather prominent in the picture on the box. It wasn’t great, but it also wasn’t horrible and I was hungry and tired, so I ate most of it and saved the rest. If nothing else, it will find its way into a soup this weekend. True adulting.

And now it's officially the weekend, which means time will fly by. That is one of the cruel facts of life and time for the working folks.

Remoted - Hybrid – Day 577 (Thursday)

Oh, rutabaga. That may be my new cuss word. Not that I have ill feelings toward rutabaga, it’s just fun to say. And we are acquainted now that the Fine Finnish Foods Rutabaga Casserole has been tackled.

The peeling of the thing was fun, as in hard and round and like peeling a bowling ball. The small balls used in real bowling with narrow pins, not the monster big balls that could take out Stonehenge. The knife nearly broke during the slicing.

The mashing was hard,
but the eating was good.

The recipe said to slice and cook until soft and then mash. The slices boiled. And boiled. Twice the water had to be replenished. The slices were cut smaller in hope of faster attainment of “soft.” After an hour of boiling, it was still not soft enough to mash, but I was done with waiting. Maybe the slices needed to be cut thinner than the quarter- to half-inch I cut, but I can’t imagine getting thinner slices off the bowling ball. And maybe there is a faster way of cooking it, but none was specified, so boiling was the first method that came to mind. 

A knife was called upon again when the plastic masher wouldn’t mash and a metal serving fork wasn’t much better. Some ended up properly mashed, some was not quite. It was mixed with the other ingredients and put into the casserole and baked for 30 minutes. It was lumpy goodness, and the flavor was like mild turnip, which was nice because I love turnip. It worked well with a side of mac and cheese. And now lunch for tomorrow is set. And probably the next week. If I ever come into possession of a rutabaga again, the Rutabaga Casserole will be a go.

Remoted - Hybrid” – Day 576 (Wednesday)

Not quite a rabbit hole.
More of a tunnel.

Today delivered a lot of spreadsheet work to compile info requested from a vendor. The original request was for a report of total orders by branch for a period of a year. The report I imagined receiving was a listing with one figure for each of 26 locations. The report received listed every individual order from each branch for roughly a year and required a bit of adding and organizing and compiling to finally get to the magic totals by branch. These numbers would tell how many envelopes were used in order to estimate quantities for another project. It felt like I had asked the time and been delivered a box of clock parts. There was a fair amount of whisper swearing during the unplanned excursion down the rabbit hole of spreadsheets and data and flashback to my days as a treasury analyst. It’s a nice place to visit. Sort of.

The biggest quirk of the day may have been the unexpected text from the guy at the chimney company saying he was at the house to clean the chimney. Unfortunately, I was not at the house, had no plan to be at the house, and did not know there was a chimney cleaning scheduled for today. Maybe someone at the office of the chimney people woke up and thought today was a grand day for cleaning my chimney and ran with it and in the excitement, they forgot to clue me in to the plan. Or maybe it was supposed to be a surprise. 

Sadly, this sort of thing happens more than I would like. It might be an innocent oversight, or someone else’s piss poor planning that suddenly becomes my emergency, or a deliberate attempt to surprise me. Most of the time I end up stressed out and scrambling to rearrange things.  There was no scrambling or rearranging today. Not over the chimney anyway. Chimney cleaning was scheduled for a day I actually know about. 

I feel you, broken bike.

There was a pleasant afternoon walk downtown in lovely weather. There were photo-worthy moments. The sparkling water in a canal. A waterfall bursting from a cluster of greenery. Flower pots along a brick building. A partially dismembered bicycle which has been tethered to a sign for weeks, a feeling to which I can often relate. A man I passed on the sidewalk said, “Hello young lady” and I almost laughed out loud at the “young lady” part, but it was successfully stifled. Sometimes my self-control surprises almost as much as my random lack of it. 

Remoted - Hybrid” – Day 575 (Tuesday)

Today was one of those annoying days where there were about 1,000 minor annoyances that accumulated all day long. There were technology issues and email issues and basically every kind of issue. After work and a board meeting that had Zoom issues at my end, it was time to relax, feet up and TV on. That’s when the sudden disappearance of the Netflix app from the “Apps” menu was discovered. It was there last night. I was watching it. Now it’s gone.

Fine clothes I'll never afford
and fine recipes I can.

Then I checked the mail which had finally arrived. It's no longer a daily event so it feels special when it happens. The mailbox was full. There were a couple statements, a catalogue of fine clothing items I’ll never be able to afford unless I win the lottery or suddenly marry rich, a card, a few pieces of junk mail, and a puffy yellow envelope that instantly made the day better when I saw the return address. 

The envelope was from a friend who lives halfway across the country and contained a booklet of recipes for "Fine Finnish Foods" with a note. The recipes had been rescued from the “donate” pile during a home downsizing. It was so thoughtful and performed the miracle of shaking off most of the dust of the day. And the first page I flipped open to was a recipe for rutabaga casserole, which solves the produce drawer mystery of “what do I do with this rutabaga?” and will even use some of the jug of milk bought for the Finnish pancakes on Monday. Instantly winning! 

Remoted - Hybrid” – Day 574 (Monday)

The Monday holiday morning kicked off with a bout of insomnia after being awakened by Winston at 3:00 a.m. so he could go out to potty. We went back to bed, where he fell asleep with a light snore and I remained awake for a solid 1.5 hours. Unlike Moosie, who was up at 6:00 a.m. no matter what went on at night, Winston sleeps as late as possible, often until he is hungry, thirsty, or needs to potty.

Despite deliberately keeping the alarm set for 6:15 in an attempt to maintain a regular schedule for Winston’s insulin as much as to not “waste” the morning, the alarm was snoozed. The next thing I knew, it was 8:00, but at least I got back the sleep lost from earlier. Then it was the routine making of coffee, doling of kibble, and sitting on the couch for a slow waking up and easing into the day.

Batter in the pan.

Part of the waking up included a riveting inner dialogue about making Finnish pancakes. Not pannakakku, the pancake baked in the oven in a pan. The debate was about the small, thin ones closer to a crepe that are cooked in a cast iron pan. We grew up knowing these as “blet-doos” and it was only recently I learned the name is actually “lettu.” I haven’t made these since I lived in Tennessee, but I have wanted them many times. IKEA has a frozen Swedish pancake that is much like this and is really good.

My family always made them in the cast iron pan with seven mini circles. These were one of my favorite dishes growing up, right up there with American Chop Suey and Mom’s meatballs with spaghetti. After I moved back from Tennessee, when Mom asked what I wanted for lunch or dinner, my answer was often “blet-doos.” They are kind of a pain to make and messy, so the request was not always fulfilled. 

The Finnish Cookbook was consulted for ingredients, but after seeing “buttermilk” the book was placed back on the shelf. This led to a frantic search through the recipe box for the family recipe, which certainly does not use buttermilk. We are not fancy buttermilk people and our recipe uses regular milk. It took a lot of rifling and trying to remember if the recipe was filed under “B” for the incorrect name “blet-doos,” or “F” for Finnish pancakes, or “L” for the correct name “lettu,” or in the catchall miscellaneous. It was finally located.

Mummu’s recipe uses two eggs, one cup of sugar, one cup of flour, two cups of milk, an unspecified amount of salt, and butter for the pan. Compared to other recipes found, my family’s uses about four times the sugar. I don’t know why.

There was no milk in the house, just half and half, the volume of which was depleted by using a bunch of it in the mac and cheese on Sunday. Milk was procured at Family Dollar, where buttermilk is definitely not available. The batter was mixed. The pan was heated. The mess began.

The first batch never, ever comes out right. The pan just isn’t ready. The batter makes many batches of seven, which takes forever. So many batches. Many pancakes were eaten like a cave woman while standing over the stove and still cooking more pancakes. Few came out crispy and browned like the ideal, which I later learned is probably due to using too much batter for each one. They taste like I remember. There is a plate of extras in the fridge and another bunch layered with wax paper in a container and frozen.

So many little lettu left over.

Rebuttering each little circle in the pan ends up using a lot, lot of butter. Mucho butter. The butter and the batter seem to splatter all over the place, and the stove and counter and dish cleanup can take a while, which is why I rarely make these. There was spraying and scrubbing and now the stove is too clean to use again for a while, but that’s okay. The refrigerator is loaded with mac and cheese and lettu and apple crisp and other prepared food that could be microwaved while I stand nearby admiring the clean stove.

There were lessons learned after the fact, based on an Internet search that should have been done on the front end, but I didn’t want to lose enthusiasm. Less batter in each circle for thinner and crisper is the big takeaway. Maybe next time I’ll cut the recipe in half so there aren’t a million pancakes that take forever to make.

Remoted - Hybrid” – Day 573 (Sunday)

The mild sniffles continued today, along with a heavy cloud of “just can’t.” I wasn’t sick, but also not fully well. It is best described as BLAH. Winston and I slept a little late. That was followed by coffee on the couch with whatever mind-numbing show I had started on Netflix and then an entire day of feeling just blah. There was a nap. 

The supreme accomplishment of the day was the seeking of comfort in a baking dish in the form of baked macaroni and cheese, which also led to the opening of a new Nancy Drew mystery. Earlier mysteries this week include seven days of “why do I smell cigarette smoke when there is none?” in the return of last fall’s multi-week olfactory hallucination.

Baked mac and cheese.

Cheese was rounded up. There was a bit of a block of sharp cheddar, sliced American, and grated Parmesan in the deli drawer and two opened bags of Mozzarella in the freezer. It was on. The butter, flour, and milk sauce was mixed and brought to boil. The sliced cheese was diced into tiny squares, the block cheese was grated, and it was all added to the boiling milk mixture and stirred. It seemed all melty and creamy and stretchy from the Mozzarella. It was poured into the cooked macaroni in the baking dish, topped with parmesan and paprika, and baked.

After cooling to a temperature slightly less than that of molten lava, lunch was served. It was delicious and creamy except for the appearance of mysterious tiny squares of the hand cut Aldi American cheese. This is the same cheese that didn’t melt in the grilled cheese sandwich the other day. What is the melting temperature of the Aldi sliced American cheese? Clearly, it’s not the 212-degree boiling temperature of the milk to which it was added, nor the 350-degree oven temperature in which it baked for 40 minutes. Is the stuff even actually a food product? Heck, I’ve accidentally melted plastic cooking utensils in the few seconds it takes to drain noodles.

Now that the case of the mystery cheese is opened with two verified non-melting events, it seems there are two choices. The first is easy, and it is to just avoid the mysterious non-melting Aldi American cheese slices. The second is potentially more challenging and fun, and it is to buy more of the stuff and continue using it in recipes to determine at what point it actually melts. 

"Remoted - Hybrid” – Day 572 (Saturday)

Today’s schedule had possibilities that included bike riding and a Jack Kerouac event. These did not happen, Well, for others probably, just not for me. Instead of fresh air exercise on a bike, my day was consumed by exercising caution and waiting.

After learning that several people I was in the same space with last weekend tested positive for COVID during the week, and knowing that I have dental surgery scheduled for next Saturday, I called my doctor’s office for advice. The doctor on call put in a referral for a test, and recited a phone number for Central Scheduling. Central Scheduling said there were no appointments being scheduled due to high volume and tests are walk-in only at Urgent Care. The website for Urgent Care said to plan on two hours for the visit.

11:20 – arrived. There was a short wait at the check-in desk for the attendant who was out back getting a test result for a lady standing nearby. I know this because she told me. The waiting room beyond the vestibule looked crowded. After a few minutes, I was checked-in and told to return to my car to await two calls. One would be from Registration, the other from a Nurse telling me to come inside. 

Parking lot tree on
a Saturday.

The car was started to charge the cell phone. The Jeep owner’s manual was consulted for light reading. The tire pressure info was cleared from the instrument cluster. 

A masked couple was in car beside mine. They were parked there when I first pulled in. Neither seemed very lively. He was fully reclined in the driver’s seat with his eyes closed. She was in the passenger seat, part of the time spent curled up with her back to him. I wondered if she was mad at him.

11:45 – the call from Registration came in and info was requested and provided.

11:50 – remembered I had brought a book for the wait. Read for 30 minutes while awaiting the call from the Nurse. 

12:25 – an hour since check-in and I’m wondering if the two hour time frame mentioned on the website starts at check-in or the registration call. 

1:00 – the neighbor car's engine was started and the car was driven off. It seemed like they gave up.

1:28 – in the past hour the dashboard had been dusted with my hand. The fabric on the ceiling and the sun roof had been brushed by hand. A picture was taken of a tree in front of the car. Using the manual, the headrest was adjusted because the angle of it pitches my head forward and my neck hurts. The guideline said the top of headrest should be above the top of ears. The headrest is at least as tall as my head, and in the lowest position, towers well over the “top of my ears.” Notes were typed in the phone.

1:37 – the Nurse called and and told me to enter the building and tell the check-in person I was going to  Room 1.

Inside Exam Room 1.

1:45 – sitting in Exam Room 1. Vitals were taken and declared “good.” The room was chilly. Waiting for the next step. 

1:50 – medical professional returned and swabbed the right nostril. It burned, and then my right eye watered. Right before my swab a kid was screaming in another room. Shreiking. Oy. I felt bad for the kid and also for the medical professionals doing tests who have to hear the shreiks countless times daily.

2:20 – a doctor came in declaring he had great news. No COVID. No flu. My sniffles and stuffy runny nose were declared a summer cold, and I was done.

The whole thing took three hours. It was great to be declared “negative.” But there had been a teeny, tiny glimmer of hope for a delay of the dental surgery scheduled for next Saturday.