random truths – Day 1,026 (Saturday) – negative events

The most splendiferous day began with a negative COVID test. Finally, and hooray. There are still sniffles, but at the normal winter level of mild snot suckery and not the recent excessive volume of gross unwellness.

Early in the afternoon, the idea struck to peel, chop, and boil the few remaining potatoes. Before I could think too long or procrastinate my way out of it, potato peels were flying from the last three white potatoes and a lone sweet potato. Part of the idea was to also drain the water from the cooked potatoes into the latest batch of soup after having read that potato water and pasta water both thicken soups. The plan for the potato chunks was to mash and bake them in a dish with pretend meat crumbles and mixed frozen vegetables in a loose interpretation of shepherd’s pie.

In a scene of domestic industriousness, laundry tumbled in the dryer and potatoes cooked on the stove in my favorite saucepan. In the living room, Amazon was being browsed for scarves that were being imagined worn in Rome in March, and new drapes for the dining room sliders and café curtains for the window over the kitchen sink. No suitable drapes or curtains were found, but there are six scarves in the shopping basket pending further deliberation.

Oops. 

At some point during Season 2 Episode 2 of Netflix's Ginny & Georgia, a charred, burnt smell wafted into the living room. That’s when I remembered the potatoes, which had been unattended for about an hour because I totally forgot I was cooking. 

The water had boiled out. The top surface of the potatoes looked ok, but beneath that, potatoes were blackened and stuck to the pan. So much for adding potato water to the soup. The whole thing started from a desire to not waste the aging potatoes, so they were mashed with butter and milk and mixed with Italian blend cheese. The bottom of the baking dish was layered with the browned fake meat crumbles and a layer of Italian blend cheese and topped with the mashed potatoes.

Tasty, considering.

The oven timer was set to prevent another fragrant but negative kitchen mishap like burning down the house. A candle was lit in the living room in an effort to cleanse the air. It wasn’t until partway through the baking it was realized I forgot the vegetables. 

After 30 minutes, the timer buzzed and the dish was removed from the oven. It was pretty good. A smoky flavor was infused in the potatoes, but it was mild and not horrible.

random truths – Day 1,025 (Friday) – snowy

The planter shouldn't
even be on the deck.

When Winston went out this morning at 7:00 no precipitation was visible but the sounds of very crispy something hitting the gutters and roof provided a soundtrack to the gray morning. By 8:00, from the office window I could see large, fluffy flakes as they floated silently from the sky. 

It was mid-afternoon before the snow was sticking to anything. It frosted the tiered planter I meant to move from the deck months ago. Oops.

After work, the front stairs and walk were lightly coated with deceptively heavy, wet snow. Sweeping the stairs and walkway for the no-contact dinner delivery took some effort. It would have been better to use the shovel I was too lazy to walk six steps to retrieve. My laziness often results in more effort being expended.

Blanketed.

By 7:00 p.m. there was an inch or so of the stuff blanketing the yard. It resembled the batting used in quilt projects. Winston picked his way around the front yard, sniffing the snow and lifting his paws high to clear the snow he could feel on his paws but not see. 

Meanwhile, inside, it was dry and snow-free. Netflix’s Ginny & Georgia streamed on the TV. After seeing that a new season was out, it was decided to watch all of season 1 again because too much time had elapsed since the original binge.

There was an inkling of an idea to put away the Christmas decorations, but it was cast aside. Saved for tomorrow. Or Sunday. Or whenever. It’s nice to have options.

random truths – Day 1,024 (Thursday) – moose memories

Moose, December 2009.

In January 2010, Moose and I and the sometimes cat were still getting used to each other.

Merriwether, the stray cat that would stay for a few days at a time before taking off again, was still coming around and tormenting Moose, but had at least stopped hissing at him all the time. At least when I was around, anyway. Moose would eat the cat food, Merriwether would play in the water bowl, and I figured he was probably spitting in it. Merriwether meowed incessantly, Moose followed at my heels as silent as a shadow. 

One day I came home and Merriwether was sprawled on a couch cushion in front of Moose, who was backed into the pillows in the corner of the couch as far as he could be. As I walked into the house, Moose’s eyes locked with mine as if in a silent plea for help. Merriwether looked at me with more of a “yo, wassup?” casual attitude.  

If Moose was on the couch with me, Merriwether would cast off his aloofness and climb onto the couch and invade Moose's space. In his defense, Merriwether had been coming around for about a year, but only when he felt like it and could never be convinced to stay. He'd come back looking a bit ragged, stay a few days, and then take off again.

One night when he was on a visit, Merriwether climbed onto the couch, curled up, and jammed his butt in Moose’s face. Shortly thereafter, the too familiar nasty hiss was issued. It was followed by an unfamiliar and surprising bark that startled me and caused the cat to launch himself from the couch. That was the night that Moose found his voice, and for the next 11 years he used it. A lot.

Merriwether.

On January 5, 2010, according to Facebook memories, I discovered that Moose had managed to potty in the bath tub while I was out. It was a mystery how he figured it out, or even how he got into the tub and then back out, but it was a lot easier to clean up than when he went on the wool rugs and the hardwood floors. He soon abandoned the concept of the big porcelain litter box and returned to peeing on the rugs, usually under the coffee table. 

In the years that followed, Moose had other bathroom antics. One time, he opened the doors under the sink, pulled out all the plastic baskets and emptied them onto the floor and chewed the edges of baskets. He also peeled the facing off the front of one of the vanity doors. Until that day, it had been innocently believed that the vanity was made of wood that was painted white. Moose’s handiwork revealed it to be the popular pretend building material glit (glue and shit) with a covering of some sort. I learned a lot about a lot of things from my time with Moose. Dang, I miss that little guy.

random truths – Day 1,023 (Wednesday) – the goat

The Facebook memories feature for today has photos from a memorable night. And not memorable just because I was looking at a photo of it. The photo is from 2011 and the earliest days of the Red River Sirens Roller Derby team. It was our first time on a track with another team when Vette City Roller Derby in Bowling Green, Kentucky hosted us at their rink for a scrimmage. Ready or not (mostly not), we skated with them and against them and learned a lot. 

Red River Sirens at our first scrimmage - January 2011.

It was an exciting and exhilarating and educational night. And I got to be “the goat,” but in this case we are definitely not talking the “greatest of all time” kind of goat.

A roller derby “goat” is when a player from one team is surrounded and trapped by several members of the other team. Trust me on this, it is not fun to be the goat. “Getting a goat” is a strategy to slow down the pace of the game.

If the pace is getting too fast, one team might target a slower, weaker, newer player from the other team (on that night, usually me). A few players will surround the goat and slow down, forcing the rest of the pack up ahead to slow down. The pack is defined as the largest group of in-bound, upright skaters from both teams skating within 10 feet of each other. The rules state that there can be only one pack, so if the group splits into two or more groups and they are more than ten feet apart, there is a “no pack” situation which affects scoring.

The worst part of being the goat was that every time I was surrounded, the other players would yell “we got a goat!” to signal their other team mates that things should slow down.

That first scrimmage was amazing. It showed us what we were working towards, what we needed to work on, and how to use the drills and skills we worked on at each practice. Roller derby was as much fun as I thought it would be when we began forming our team some seven or eight months earlier. Even all these years later, I still miss it. Except for being the goat. That was not fun at all.

random truths – Day 1,022 (Tuesday) – new low

It was a day of learning. Before work, as my nose was running, stomach was doing flip flops, and I felt cold while in three layers (base layer shirt, flannel, and cashmere), an email was sent to my doctor’s office through their portal of which they seem so proud and constantly recommend using. The portal works for me – a message is sent at my convenience and later during the day, someone sends an answer. Brilliant! No conversation required.

This morning’s concerns were: It’s the ninth day of symptoms and the home tests are still positive. Do I need to worry about this, and what about leaving the house?

Someone from the doctor’s office called me right away. It was during work hours and my mind was on work. The caller’s name was missed because my brain wasn’t checked in until “…from Dr. C’s office.” I grabbed a pen and rummaged for a piece of paper and mentally checked in at “blah, blah … couple more days …  fever … symptoms could be secondary cold or flu … blah, blah same treatment.”

The most interesting tidbit heard in its entirety was, “Some people can test positive as long as three months after COVID.” Wait, what? Wow.

She asked if I had a fever, but chills have been my issue, which was a new one for her.  With freezing as a starring symptom, temperature wasn’t taken, but after the call, it was. According to the reasonably new, used just three- or four-times digital thermometer, my temp, which is usually around 97.8 or so, was a new low of 96.7 degrees. 

Yes, it seems I am the ice queen and ice water does, indeed, move through my veins, likely at a slushy, glacial pace. Or that thermometer is broken. 

random truths – Day 1,021 (Monday) – magic slate

Before the morning coffee and chopping and rationing the dwindling chicken supply for Winston’s breakfast ... before the runny nose and search for tissues in the bathroom closet … before the sneezing and headache, couch snuggles with Winston, the news and Wordle, there were ideas. Great ideas. Ok, probably more like lame to mediocre ideas.

And before a single reminder or keyword or nugget of any of them was written down, the ideas were completely forgotten. The only thing left was the memory that there had been ideas, but no actual ideas. Again.

It’s not the first time and it’s kind of depressing. Ok, a lot depressing. And sometimes frightening.

This used to be fun.

It happens with ideas for work, potentially fun things to do, singular sentences and entire topics. Very little is spared. But ask me what I wore when I was 12 and my family went somewhere on vacation and there is a very good chance I remember that. Go figure. 

The disappearing ideas are like the Magic Slate toy I had as a kid. You know the one – you write on the plastic sheet with the plastic pencil stick and the words and images appear and when you lift the plastic sheet, they disappear. Somehow, the ideas disappear just like lifting the sheet on that Magic Slate. It was fun when it was a toy but now that it's more like real life, not so much. 

Overall, this week's Monday holiday was a lot of more of the same. There were the daily forgotten ideas, but also some special touches from the COVID. Streaming shows and chilling on the couch featured the return of actual chills, plus blankets and a nearby box of tissues. When my hands were frozen, there was a trip to the kitchen sink to hand wash the never-ending collection of plastic storage containers that don’t fit in the dishwasher. The hot water feels nice and thaws the hands for a bit.

The afternoon included the initial phase of the Christmas decorations round up. Wreaths were gathered and bagged on the dining room table staging area in preparation of their return to the storage tubs. The return to the couch included hours of laughing out loud to Key and Peele streaming on Netflix.

A superhero friend texted to see if I needed a roasted chicken for Winston. I did need one, and suddenly it was handled and there were two roasted chickens on the table in the porch and I am grateful. Canine Overlord Winston dined like a king on the usual portion of fresh, warm chicken mixed into the expensive and seemingly horrendous glucose management food he doesn’t like. He avoids eating it until every last tiny morsel of chicken is gone and sometimes not even then. But we are restocked with roasted chickens which have both been carved, portioned and packaged, and some of it sent to the freezer.

The house is filled with the aroma of the carcasses simmering in the pot for bone broth. I’m glad to be able to smell it and thankful for thoughtful friends. And the countdown is activated until the next holiday. Two whole weeks. Oy.

random truths – Day 1,020 (Sunday) – New Year

A new day meant new players in the rotating team of COVID symptoms. It was a restless night of sleeplessness, accompanied by tossing, turning, and some colorful sweary thoughts during the extended and undesired awake time, but none out loud to avoid waking the peacefully slumbering Canine Overlord. The first day of the brand new year dawned with a headache back in the lineup, along with runny nose and queasy, delicate stomach.

Foggy morning windows.

The unusual New England weather with spring-like morning temperatures around 50 degrees had the storm doors and windows on the enclosed porch artfully fogged over. The view through the fog looked dreamy. The air smelled earthy, like in the spring after a rain, creating a pleasantly confusing January environment. 

Inside the house things were lazy and quiet, partly due to the Sunday morning vibe but mostly a result of the visiting headache and friends. It was the perfect setup for a Hallmark movies and Netflix streaming day.

On Hallmark, the handsome leading actors with interesting careers (Architect! Holiday decorator!) grappled with work issues and budding romances against a backdrop of Christmas decorations and festive events that attempted to recreate the best childhood memories of family togetherness with a generous side of “my parents want me to live their dream and don’t care what I want.”

On the Netflix stream, it was the continuation of the full three-season binge of Emily in Paris begun on New Year’s Eve. It’s just as delightful on the second binge as it was on the first. So many pretty people in Paris with exciting jobs in art, fashion, and food and the usual heart entanglements and family issues. But in Paris! Sigh.

Predictable plots are comforting and a nice distraction from being obsessed with the shifting symptoms of COVID, which gave new meaning to starting the year on “a positive note.”

The pizza purveyor was open. Unfortunately, the Cowboy Bites I’ve been craving, an on-again, off-again side item is off the menu again. It was a large pizza with pineapple and Kalamata olives for the  no-contact delivery win.

While waiting for the delivery, usually heralded by a knock on the door after the items are left on the table in the enclosed porch, Winston paced near the door like he wanted to go out. The pizza tracker showed the order as still being prepared, so it seemed there was time. I opened the door to let Winston into the porch and out to the yard. As I approached the storm door, the pizza delivery driver was on the other side.

Pineapple and
Kalamata olive pizza.

Being stricken with cooties, I scurried back inside to maintain the “no contact” aspect of the delivery. Meanwhile, the delivery dude stood on the steps peering through the storm door, probably confused, as though awaiting an invitation to enter. I yelled that he could put it on the table, which is exactly what was printed in the instructions on the slip taped to the pizza box. 

Out on the porch, someone else’s bottle of Diet Coke was left with my order. Oops. The order may have lacked the beloved side item of fried balls of bacon, jalapeno, corn, and cream cheese with a dipping sauce, but the pizza was as good as ever. The perfect mix of sweet pineapple, salty olives, and melted cheese on a crust was the ideal supper. This concoction hadn’t been ordered in many months, and it was as good as ever. It was another instance where something was predictable and comfortable.

Happy Pizza New Year.