“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.

“Remoted” Day 321 (Sunday)

Looks like we're getting pink snow.

Family Dollar, located barely a half mile from the house, has become my go-to when I need practically anything, because they carry a little bit of everything. With a snowstorm forecast for Monday, it suddenly felt important to get milk. What is the deal with snowstorms and milk? I don’t even drink milk because it makes my throat all gross. Since I learned that scrambled eggs don’t require milk and can be made with water, the reasons for having milk on hand are reduced. It’s only ever needed for quiche, the very rare French Toast, an occasional quality cup of hot cocoa, and a few recipes. 

There are a few groceries needed, but not in a true need sense. The pantry and freezer are far from empty. It’s more of an “if I had this, I could do that” sense. It’s stuff like yeast and rye flour for some of the recipes in the recently acquired Finnish Cookbook. Ground pretend meat in case there is a sudden need for American Chop Suey. And, perhaps most important, ice cream for sitting on the couch and watching TV. None of this warranted a trip to a grocery store the day before a snowstorm. But if a Whole Foods delivery window was available, it might be good for that. As an added plus, a delivery would give me something to look forward to.

The grocery cart was prepared with depleted staples like potatoes, apples, onions, plus ice cream, milk, rye flour, and yeast. A delivery window was available on Monday from 3:00 – 5:00. In the time it took to dilly-dally, let the dogs outside, and a few other diversions before completing the payment info, the window closed.

There was some weird and mysterious need to spend money today so it was Family Dollar for the win. The freshly drafted Family Dollar shopping list included a wide barrel curling iron, dog biscuits, canned dog food, a frame for the pet portrait, and necessities like potato chips and cookies. And snowstorm milk. The list was misplaced before leaving the house. Curling irons were available, but not the right size. Dog biscuits, a frame, and potato chips were found. Canned dog food was forgotten about until I got home. 

The new ice cream freezer installed at Family Dollar during the store remodel in the spring has been wonky since the summer. Any time I considered getting ice cream, the containers were soft and squishy like a stress ball and very unlike an allegedly frozen treat. One day while I was standing at the so-called freezer case, having just checked all the containers for firmness, the manager came up the aisle and I mentioned all the soft ice cream. He felt the ice cream containers like I had just done. He pushed a button at the top of the case and didn’t seem satisfied with the result that blinked on the display. Then, without a word, he wandered off the to the back room and that was the end of that. For the next few months, every time I came into the store, the ice cream freezer was empty.

Channeling Mummu.

Today, while rounding the corner from paper goods to the baking/frozen food row, Ben & Jerry’s and Breyers ice cream could be seen in the freezer, along with a few boxes of ice cream bars. This was exciting, because it had been a solid five, maybe even six months since seeing ice cream there. Flavor was irrelevant and I reached in for a container of Ben & Jerry’s. It was stress ball squishy soft. All of it. So was all the Breyers. And that was the end of that.

In the milk cooler, there was one half-gallon container of milk and three one-gallon containers. I grabbed the half gallon because it’s going to snow. I have until February 8^th to figure out what I’ll do with it. There also seems to have been a bit of channeling Mummu with the purchase of chocolate covered graham crackers and Caramel Nips and Chocolate Parfait Nips, some of her regular treats.

With potato chips, cookies, candy, milk, a fresh pot of soup, and dog biscuits, The BungaLowell is ready for the snow. The snow shoes are in the enclosed porch and shovels are posted near the front and back doors. Bring it, Mother Nature.

“Remoted” Day 320 (Saturday)

The work from home lifestyle has resulted in limited selections from the wardrobe being invited to come to work. Five or six sweaters have risen to the top of the list to become favorites in the rotation. Lately, three pairs of pants are in the mix – blue-gray pinwale cords, black Tommy Hilfiger chinos, and black Vera Wang pull-on pants that long johns fit under. Usually, the same pair of pants is worn for a week straight. The pandemic wardrobe is miles from the wardrobe philosophy of my first job out of college where it was three months before an outfit was repeated and that actually felt important.

The sweaters on the short list include a winter white alpaca pullover, light gray cashmere pullover, dark gray men’s pullover with a shawl collar, navy ribbed cashmere cardigan, charcoal gray cashmere cardigan, and winter white vintage cashmere pullover. Yes, winter white is a color and it is a creamier white than the crisp summer whites of summer. The current favorites are all hip length or longer, a style feature that emerged as important when winter set in with the awareness that the office is the coldest spot in the house.  

The alpaca is the most expensive sweater I’ve ever bought. It’s soft, lightweight, and warm. The men’s pullover is a Marc Anthony sweater from the clearance rack at Kohl’s and the sleeves are too long, which is great, because I pull them over my hands like instant mittens when I let the dogs out. The cashmere sweaters are from various thrift shops, and none cost more than $8. My varied super powers include making chocolate disappear, whipping up decent dinners in under 30 minutes, and spotting a cashmere sweater in a thrift shop from a rack away.

Today required a trip out of the house to pick up the poorly drawn pet portrait from the Humane Society fundraiser. The Humane Society is conveniently located down the street from the Saint Vincent de Paul Thrift Store, so there was no way I wasn’t going there, too.

Today’s trip to Vinnie’s had the mission of finding sweaters to mix into the regular lineup because the same few sweaters are marching steadily towards “familiarity breeds contempt.” The current spots in heavy rotation were earned by being warm and long and therefore well-suited for the daily stretch in the home office. One-by-one, they go downstairs and depending upon the angle of the sunlight and the angle of the computer, may even appear in video meetings.

The current favorites are my warmest sweaters that are also not itchy, but they have become tiresome. Even still, putting them aside out of boredom in the midst of a cold snap without replacement sweaters on the bench is not smart. Winter is far from over.

New used sweaters.

The yellow tag items at Vinnie’s were half off, and three yellow tag success stories came home. The lucky winners are a white zip front sweater with a made in Italy tag, a brand-new looking white vee neck pullover of indeterminate material and a tag written in Korean, and a very soft heather purple long cardigan with pockets. There were a few cashmere sweaters, but one was a shade of gray identical to the sweater I was wearing, and the others were too big. The gray sweater infatuation is a mystery and it takes a lot of effort to not buy every single one I see, especially when they are cashmere and only a few dollars. 

Today’s $6 injection to the sweater rotation should help with the wardrobe fatigue. Hopefully, they will break up the monotony and help with the “what day is this/was that?” Assuming I get them run through a hand wash cycle tomorrow, next week I could have three days of not having to play “Do I have a team video meeting today and did I wear this during the last one?” 

“Remoted” Workday 211 / Day 319 (Friday)

Today is the anniversary of Mummu’s death. I was married and living in Tennessee at the time. Mom called with the news that Mummu was in the hospital and not going to make it. After the call and talking with the now-former husband, I stared at the flight schedules on the computer screen. Pushing the button to book a flight was terrifying. It felt like as long as I didn’t book it, it would just be a sad, bad dream, but once the ticket was bought it would all be very real. 

The day before the flight I took the car for an oil change. The day of the flight I drove myself to the airport in Nashville and flew home alone, wondering why I had left my family in Massachusetts to live in Tennessee with a husband who couldn’t be bothered to come with me to my grandmother’s death. Hell, he couldn’t even be bothered to drive me to the airport.

I sat with Mummu in her hospital room. She was in a medically induced coma and looked frail and tiny in the hospital bed. Her mouth hung open like an Italic O. The nurses came in and out while I sat there quietly. I didn’t even know what to do, so I just sat there in the chair beside the bed. It wasn’t unusual for us to sit quietly at her apartment, but back then, she wasn’t dying with me staring at her. Was she aware of what was going on around her? 

Mummu and Me, 2001.

During her life, Mummu was a contradictory mix of fiercely independent and dependent. She lived on her own in a high rise apartment that started out as elderly housing and later included younger tenants. Each small concrete deck on the building was accessed via sliding glass doors and shared by two units. The guy next door would often lean on the railing and smoke on his side of the deck. Mummu was afraid of heights and never went on the deck. From the decks on her side of the building, the old site of the Historical Society could be seen in the street below and rolling hills beyond Greek Town could be seen in the distance.

Even after multiple knee surgeries and cancer and a mastectomy, Mummu insisted on living alone and independent in her own apartment. She didn’t want “to be a bother” to anyone. In her independence, she was completely dependent upon on Mom and my sister for shopping. She never drove, and in her more active years she walked and took the bus to the grocery store, but as she got older and battled breast cancer twice and knee problems, going out was increasingly difficult.

In Mummu’s later years, while I was living in Tennessee, illnesses and family stress and caretaking were happening and I wasn’t around to help. My life choice came with a bonus buttload of guilt. Mom dealt with doctor appointments where Mummu would nod her head to everything, and then in the car ask what the doctor said because she hadn’t actually heard it.

Mom and my sister provided emotional support. They grocery shopped for their own homes and Mummu’s. They each called to ask if Mummu needed anything before regular trips to the grocery store. The answer was often “no,” and then the very next day, an urgent call would be received that there was no food in the house and groceries were desperately needed. Schedules were shuffled, another grocery trip was squeezed in after work, and when the goods were delivered, it would be discovered the pantry and refrigerator were still full from the last shopping trip.

Despite repeated offers from my sister for Mummu to come live at her house where she would have her own rooms on the main level that were equivalent to the size of her current apartment, Mummu insisted on staying at her own place. It seemed puzzling at the time, because it would have simplified things for everyone. After my many years of living alone, though, I understand Mummu more.

Mummu landed in the hospital that final time after her neighbor of the shared deck heard her screaming in pain during the night and called for an ambulance. She passed away at the hospital within a day of my arrival. Mom said Mummu was waiting for me. While meeting with the funeral director, Mom said I was the daughter Mummu wanted, but she was the daughter Mummu got stuck with. This explained a lot. It also broke my heart for my Mom. It still does.