“Remoted” Day 328 (Sunday)

Wavy when wet.

Last week, there was mention of more snow for today, then midweek, I swear I saw a weather report that said there would be no snow. But, then, it was back On like Donkey Kong^TM (a registered trademark of Nintendo). Sunday plans for snowshoeing were shifted to Saturday, which turned out to be a great success.

The new curling iron, recently delivered from Prime, came complete with a tag bearing the thought-provoking message “Caution-this product can burn eyes.” I can’t figure out exactly how one would burn their eyes with a 1.5” barrel curling iron, but I burned my ear immediately on the maiden adventure. Setting number 15 of 30 is pretty danged hot. Parts of my hair are really wavy, and other parts are straight. This means it's being either straightened or curled to remove the bumps and tame the bushiness. In summer, putting it into a bun after the shower has the taming and curling effect, but it stays wet all day. In winter, the heat of the blow dryer is welcomed. 

Instrument of torture?

Today's exercise in hair styling and makeup was intended to minimize the chance of scaring anyone out in the world at large who might mistake me for a pasty corpse driving down the road. It was for naught when the day’s “play it by ear” tentative plan to go over to Mom’s became “maybe next weekend” when the snow was already falling around 10:00 am.

Snow fell all day and all evening. Several inches piled up. Stairs and walkways were cleared multiple times. One side of the driveway still had two feet of snow from last Monday’s storm. A late afternoon shovel session took care of the last of it, which now lives in the front yard snow mountain after having been heaved over the fence, one shovel full at a time. The snow shoveling workouts, free for the taking, keep on giving this week, and are probably the best free and convenient benefit of snowfall. Shoveling can be as meditative as mowing the lawn in the summer.

Potentially more
controlled when styled.

Between the hat and the hair exposed to the falling snow, the day's snow throwing ruined the hair styling, but it’s not like there were any substitute social plans. Instead of seeing Mom, Russet and sweet potatoes, carrots, and onions were oven roasted for the basis for as yet unplanned meals during the week. And many hours of Netflix were watched. Firefly Lane is really good. When that ended, it was on to The Sinner. I really need to find a way to be paid for all the evening and weekend hours of screen time. Maybe I should get with the times and use the modern parlance and find a way to "monetize" this activity. 

For now, TV screen time  is mostly mindless entertainment, although some shows do inspire emotion in my stony heart. Golden Girls is funny and makes me laugh. Firefly Lane brought tears several times. The Sinner has had a couple moments of squeamishness and averted eyes. It is entirely possible I may come out the other side of pandemic hibernation as some emotional, weepy human full of feelings and all that crap. Kind of scary. 

“Remoted” Day 327 (Saturday)

Snowy woods at Saima.

The outdoors was tackled today, and not just the lingering snow piles from Monday’s storm. The snow earlier in the week made for great ground cover, and several of the Denishawn dancers met up at Saima Park. Some of us were on snowshoes, and others were on cross country skis. There were wooded trails to explore and two fields. A snowy stream flowed through the park near the athletic field, with foot bridges for crossing. 

It was sunny when I left Lowell but Fitchburg was cloudy. The clouds cleared a bit and revealed a blue sky and sunshine. The woods were beautiful – evergreen trees, bright white snow, and shelter from the wind, which had a bit of a bite to it when we were on the flat, open fields.

It was nice to be outside, and even nicer to be out with the group of dancer friends. The combination of fresh air, sunshine, conversation, and exercise made for a great time. It flew by.

Fun in the snow.

Before and after the snow shoe excursion, an attempt was made to breach the big snow pile blocking the backyard gate. Winston the adventurer walked belly deep through the snow in the front yard in an effort to reach the space between the house and the fencepost to escape, unhappy with the small cleared walkway. A shoveled path through the backyard snow has moved up on the priority list so the poor little guy has someplace to romp, frolic, and pee without claustrophobia or the need to flee to larger spaces. 

The day's physical activity involving trudging on top of snow and digging through the snow, after many months of exceptional laziness, has led to muscular soreness. A massage would really help right now, but unless someone is providing Saturday night drive up massage services, I’m out of luck. One of the perils of living alone is the absence of another human who can be conned into providing a backrub. The dogs, while adorable, are completely lacking in massage skills.

“Remoted” Workday 216 / Day 326 (Friday)

All through my life, there were many stories from Mummu about Finland, the country from which her parents relocated in 1893. She proudly told the story of the Finns dressed in white, skiing down the snowy hills with rifles and fighting off the much larger Russian Army. Her passion with the story had me thinking she had witnessed this firsthand, but she was born in America and never traveled to the land of her parents except through their stories. Mummu told of “Sisu,” the tenacious spirit that courses through Finnish veins. Her mother was from a farming family in Finland and became an American citizen in her 70s. 

Flag of Finland

Mom’s father, my Grandpa Ray, was born in Finland and came to America as a young child. I learned from Mummu that Mom was mostly Finnish and a bit of Swedish that came from Grandpa Ray, and that made me us kids half Finnish with a smidge of Swedish.

Dad’s ancestral roots are in England and France. His mother died when I was four, and I have no memories of my Grandma Olive. She was an exotic looking dark-haired beauty in a portrait in the photo album. After her death, Dad, Mom, my brother, infant sister and I moved to the family home. We lived upstairs and Grandpa Simonds and one of my cousins lived downstairs. Despite living upstairs from Grandpa for about five years, I have few memories of him. He was tall. He liked flipping his dentures around in his mouth to horrify us kids. Mostly, he stayed downstairs and we stayed upstairs. He fished. Mom bought him flannel shirts for Christmas.

There were no stories of England or France or Canada or Simonds family pride at our nightly dinner table. There were occasional references to the family rumor of alleged but undocumented Mi'kmaq roots. I only recently learned my paternal grandma Olive was born in Nova Scotia.

When I was in high school, my aunt shared what she had learned about the family tree and our connections to Johnny Appleseed and Count Rumford. It was exciting and the first time ever hearing anything about the family history.

Finnish lion flag (1917-18).

A relative asked recently about my connection to Finnish ancestry and the absence of recognition of the paternal side of my background. I’ve been thinking about the question ever since. The answer is actually pretty simple. I grew up hearing about the Finnish side of my lineage from Mummu. She shared her pride in where her parents came from, and the enthusiasm made it easy to connect with being "half Finnish." That’s the background I know. I learned very little about Dad's family background.

Stories of Dad’s family and his youth were scarce. They usually involved attending parochial school under the tutelage of “the Crows at Saint Joe’s.” He had rheumatic fever as a kid, spent time at Children’s Hospital in Boston, and as a result, his mother wouldn’t let him swim. These few nuggets didn’t give us much to grasp on to. There were no funny sibling stories like Mummu’s favorite about the time her sister Julia accidentally stepped in the pies that were cooling on the pantry floor. The Simonds siblings as adults were people we sometimes visited. As children growing up, they are a complete mystery, and it was almost as if Dad had been an only child. I still don’t know any stories about his life growing up as one of six kids that include any of his siblings. It’s hard to feel a connection to something you know next to nothing about. There is still time.

“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.  

“Remoted” Workday 214 / Day 324 (Wednesday)

Rough trip from Helsinki.

On Tuesday, I was anxiously awaiting a package from Finland. Ok. “Anxiously” is overstating it, and more for dramatic alliterative effect. It was more like “looking forward to receiving” a package. It was ordered last week from varusteleka, a company in Finland that sells a variety of clothing, military surplus, fun stuff, and food products. The magic of modern transport had the order leaving Helsinki Thursday, January 28, and traveling to Germany, Cincinnati, Boston, then Lowell. It was scheduled to arrive on my doorstep Tuesday, February 2 “by end of day” (whatever that means, my clock only has numbers), but the blizzard held it up in Boston for a day with the status of “Delayed.” 

The box showed up this afternoon, looking a little travel weary. Luckily, it contained nothing breakable. The Finnish military surplus faux fur hat seems to firmly indicate I now have a new obsession with Finnish military hats. It would have been handy for Tuesday’s snow shoveling escapades, but this weekend includes snowshoeing plans, so it can come out to play then. I got a can of the “Fish Cock” which is salmon baked in a rye bread and packaged in a can. Maybe that will be my special Valentine’s dinner for one. Perhaps more interesting is the fact that the ham version is “not allowed to be sold/shipped to [my] country.” What do we have against Finnish baked pork products?

Finnish stuff!

There are also some embroidered patches. There is a patch with the Finland lion and one for Vaasa, the city on the west coast in Ostrobothnia where Grandpa Ray was born. The same juvenile that is fascinated with fish cock ordered a patch version of the Gadsden flag that says “Don’t sneeze on me,” and one with a Finnish swear word that I don't know how to pronounce because after 212 days of Duolingo Finnish lessons, I still have learned no swears. The magical curse word is “Perkele,” which Wikipedia says is “a popular Finnish profanity. It is most likely the most internationally known Finnish curse word.” It is often shown translated as “devil” which has zero pizzazz. 

Tonight’s entertainment involves watching  Traveling Robert from Miami who does RV trips all over the world. The show has the absolute cheesiest theme song that sounds like tired tape recording from the 70s with a guy singing, “I'm riding … riding … riding in my RV.”  Nordic Road Trip 2018 has Traveling Robert on a two-week trip driving through Finland, Norway, and Sweden. It’s June, so there is no sunset and he keeps trying to see the midnight sun. This is being watched while wearing the Finnish faux fur military surplus hat, because why not? 

I haven’t seen any of Traveling Robert's other trips, but the Nordic show is hysterical because it is so normal. The poor dude is always pulling into towns hungry and no restaurants are ever open. He arrives at a place "that sometimes has a guide" except for when Robert arrives. He keeps miscalculating distances so getting anywhere takes him longer than planned, so it's basically every vacation of my youth. The roads he is traveling are all narrow and I am pretty sure I will not be a driver when I go to Finland. Which is no surprise, really, I don’t even like driving here.

“Remoted” Workday 213 / Day 323 (Tuesday)

Moose, aka “Little Big Ben,” barked me awake at 5:20 this morning. It was not amusing. There was no point fighting with him, so it was out of bed and directly into some snow pants over the pajamas.

The first peek outside revealed lots of snow. The wind seemed to have done some crazy directional shifts and snow was plastered to the siding and the screens all around the house. The back storm door had snow pasted to the corners of the glass creating a vignette effect I’ve seen only in movies (and which I deemed fake). It looked like it had been sprayed with the canned decorator snow found at Christmastime.

Opening the doors was challenging because snow had drifted against them. The back door shovel was outside (it doesn't match the kitchen decor), which is usually not an issue, but this morning, it was in a drift. A path was cleared on the deck and Moose ventured out, only to find himself up to his belly in snow on the stairs. He stood there paralyzed and perplexed as I shoveled around him to clear the stairs and continue with the potty path.

Moose and the snowbank.

Back inside, coffee was started, the Canine Overlords were fed, and then it was back outside to tackle the front door. The snow had drifted deep against the front door, but at least the front door shovel was inside the enclosed porch. It took about 30 minutes to fight my way out the door and clear the front stairs and walkway to the gate. The depth of the snow was about halfway up the four foot tall fencing. The path was taller than Moose when he finally ventured out. 

By 6:30, enough shoveling had been done for the dogs to easily exit the house, but not enough for them to get more than a few feet away. There was more shoveling to do, but it felt important to pace things. There was no need inviting a heart attack before having coffee. Keeling over in the snow wearing my pajamas underneath snow pants and coat is not a scene I want to enact. It was a snowy day, but not a snow day, and it was time to start getting ready for the rest of it by dressing, drinking coffee, and plowing through emails and social media before work.

Even the shed door
is drifted in.

At 2:00, after the usual Tuesday team meeting, it was time for another shovel session. The plan was to open the front gate and shovel the other side, and clear the car before the predicted temperature drop. The snow pants and parka went on over the work clothes. Beyond the front gate, a path had already been cleared across the front of the house and the trash and recycle bins, over to the cleared part of the driveway shared with neighbor guy who installed the fencing over the summer. That was a nice surprise.

It was back through the house and out the back door to tackle the car, which had miraculously already been cleaned off by someone from the multifamily house on the other side of me. It was good neighbor day all around. That left just clearing a path to the car and then around the car. The downfall of the new front yard fence is having to toss the snow up and over the four-foot height. Holy heck that is an added level of difficulty to the snow rearranging. 

After breaching the snowbank left by the plow to get the car out if needed, it was time to go back inside and finish the rest of the workday. I was too warm in the coat and thirsty. The clock indicated it had been a 40-minute athletic recess, and the dogs, who refused to come out with me, had been inside barking the entire time I was in the driveway. 

The shoveling was tiring, and battling the confines of the snow path and the barking seem to have exhausted the Canine Overlords. The household should sleep well tonight. Maybe we can sleep all the way until 6:00 in the morning tomorrow.

“Remoted” Workday 212 / Day 322 (Monday)

Snow!

The snow was promised. The snow arrived. Around noon, there was an official email that our physical locations would be closing at 2:00. Shortly before that, there had been an email with guidelines about potential notifications and procedures for Tuesday morning, and the depressing news for the remote workers throughout the organization. One sentence laid bare the depressing downside of remote work. It read:

“For team members working remotely, any change to our physical location hours should not impact your remote working hours.”

Cue the game show sound effects when someone does not win the big, exciting prize. Whomp, whomp whomp. 

Snow for 120 minutes ...

Goodbye early release days. Goodbye snow days. Goodbye workday afternoon curled on the couch with cocoa and dogs and that rare spark of winter joy. It doesn’t even matter that being on the couch is how I have spent nearly every night and weekend for several years. There is a special magic to it when out of work early because of a snow day. It’s lighthearted. Or, at least, it was, when it existed. And now it is gone. Let the tears begin for remote workers everywhere. 

One forecast said the snow would begin around 2:00, and it did. There was no easing into it. One minute it was just cloudy and the next minute it was snowing. There was no opening act with big fluffy flakes lazily drifting around and down to ease us into the production. It was millions of the tiny flakes that Mummu always said meant there was going to be a lot of snow. Even though the snow is supposed to last into tomorrow, all afternoon and evening, my phone informed me it would snow "for 120 minutes." Perhaps it is in denial.

Between the start of the snow and 7:30 pm, I had cleared the back deck, stairs and made a path to the back yard three times so the dogs could potty. Luckily, the dogs have been napping and so far, the snow has been light and fluffy and easy to relocate. The morning could be a different story, but there is no point worrying about it. The outcome will be the same either way.