“Remoted – Hybrid” – Day 607 (Saturday)

Eight weeks ago, an appointment was scheduled for today at my regular hair salon, an hour from home. On Friday, it was learned that today was the only Saturday of the month that the veterinary office was open, 45 minutes away in a different direction, and Winston’s insulin is down to just a few more doses. Additionally, a trip was needed to my sister’s house in the same town as the vet to drop something off for an event next week.

Once upon a time I would have tried to pull off all the things. I would have either arisen super early to get to the vet in Fitchburg and then to the hair salon for 10:00 in Worcester, then possibly back to Fitchburg before heading home. Or I might have gone to the hair salon, then raced to Fitchburg before the vet closed at 1:00. I used to rush around pretty much all the time, fueled by caffeine, adrenaline, and stress. I also weighed a lot less and my clothes were two sizes smaller back then, so there was a benefit to living like a spazz. I appreciate a quieter life now. Operating in a constant state of urgency has lost its appeal.

My mature adult self took the time to analyze the options. Arriving at the vet when they first open has not worked well for me in the past because the person opening the office was 20 or 30 minutes late, which threw that entire morning off schedule. It doesn’t mean it would happen again, but it also means I will avoid the situation when possible. You know, once bitten ...

Oven ready.

Another option was to get the hair done as scheduled and go to the vet one night after work for the insulin. This would put me in 5:00 traffic on 495, which is not my favorite weeknight activity.

The sensible, stress-alleviating, grownup option was to change the hair appointment. The scheduling has lately been around 12 weeks, so really, it could wait another three to four weeks without issue. It’s a mystery why it was scheduled at eight weeks out. There was probably a logical reason, but I don’t recall it.  

Anyway, on Friday the hair appointment was changed, and today the vet pickup was made, followed by a nice and unhurried visit with my sister. As I prepared to leave with two bags stuffed with stuff from my sister, I saw I’d missed a call from Mom. I called her, but it went to voice mail, so I headed out. The loosely planned next leg of the day was stops at Big Lots and Market Basket, and possibly the $3 car wash and Ocean State Job Lot, all part of the usual Fitchburg circuit. 

While heading out of the ‘burg, a call came in from Mom asking where I was. She was en route to my house with StepDad and the repaired lawn mower. The first two potential stops had already been scrubbed as nonessential on the approach to the shopping plaza, and the remaining options, which were mostly for entertainment purposes, were also scrapped and I headed home.

Velcro dog fashions.

When I arrived, Mom was sitting in the truck, and StepDad was pushing the mower to the back yard. Not only had he fixed and delivered the mower, he had mowed both the front and back lawn. Talk about service. 

We entered the house for a brief visit and discovered that Winston, the Harry Houdini of his breed, was parading around pantsless. A mystery was afoot. After Mom left, I found the male wrap with the diaper inside it on the small landing at the bottom of the stairs. It was still closed, and the rough exposed velcro panel was attached to a toss pillow from the upstairs dog bed. It's a wonder this hasn't happened a million times before. Poor guy was attached to a pillow, but somehow managed to get down the stairs and liberate himself. He is a clever pup. 

The next phase of the day was a jump on the usual Sunday food prep with roasting veggies, some of which my sister had given me just hours earlier. Radishes, sweet potato, white potato, and broccoli were cut, tossed with olive oil and seasonings, and put into the oven. The temperature was set at 375 degrees, knowing that 400 causes the smoke detectors to go off. 

Roasted, broccoli half eaten.

Despite the temperature adjustment, the smoke detector went off anyway because I had forgotten to turn on the vent over the stove. Dish towels were waved and windows and doors opened. Winston sat trembling on the living room rug. The detector stopped briefly before going off several more times. Annoying. Embarrassing. Funny, because just hours earlier, I was telling my sister about the optimal temperature setting to avoid the smoke alarm going off. I failed to account for the teeny tiny broccoli bits that char to the delicious crispiness that I eat immediately upon removing the pan from the oven. At least I know the smoke detectors work.