Press to Test

Inspirational song: Shock the Monkey (Peter Gabriel)

Alfred needed us to prove our love tonight. We let all the cats out at sunset, when we took a little soak at the end of the day. As is their habit, the girls stayed in the yard. The boys were nowhere to be found when it was time to come in. Harvey allowed himself to be carried in from the front yard. That seems to be his latest game. But Alfred stayed missing.

We watched the Willoughbys on Netflix, figuring Alfred would be back in his own good time. Once it got to be about 10 o'clock, I stopped being amused by his absence. I went out in the alley, and started calling his name. I soon heard him answering me, from the wrong side of the neighbor's fence across the alley from us. He had no intention of jumping back, the same way he got there. He just stretched his paw through a small gap and acted like he was stuck. Mr S-P followed me out a minute later, and reached through the fence to unlatch the gate. I'm glad he did it. I was too shy to do it. Alfred snaked between our legs as we walked back to our own yard, his needs met. He was reassured we wanted him enough to rescue him. At least this time he wasn't locked in the next guy's garage for two days like he was a few years ago. Can we be done with the hiding now? Like forever?

I received a TENS unit as a gift from my mom today. We had both heard about using it as a way to disrupt pain signals for an extended time, and she was the first one actually to try it. She said she thinks it's helping, so after our conversation, she sent me one. The people who say to do it for generalized pain say to do it on a limb -- her PT said arm, the ad I saw said leg. I did neither. I'm having focused pain on my right hip, where inflammation is lighting me up from my waist to my knee. I googled electrode placement for hip pain, and gave it a go. I sat there for well over an hour, gradually increasing the intensity. I can't say for sure there was lingering relief after I removed the sticky pads, but it was sure soothing while it was running. It covered a much larger area than the one big pad I got from the back pain section of Target years ago (that I haven't seen in ages, for all that I've searched). I have hopes it will be better, for being versatile.

Be Smart

Inspirational song: Lucretia Macevil (Blood Sweat & Tears)

This might have been both the most familiar sort of day, and the most indicative of what new normal is going to be. I had to do basic errands, the stuff I would never have thought twice about before. But it took me hours to wind up enough to just drive to the pharmacy and the pet store. I was super nervous about it. Just to get one prescription and one bag of crickets, I had to put in self happy talk that I could go, that I would be able to enter the pet store, that they would have crickets, and that it was not illegal to try. I caught myself still wearing my mask in the car between the two locations, and then when I took it off, I had a moment of crisis, wondering whether I could catch anything just driving past people with the windows open. I don't know which is worse, the stupid paranoia, or getting over it enough to take stupid chances.

Inside stores, almost everyone was masked. I would have preferred 100% compliance. I managed not to touch anything else inside Petco, other than a jar of fish food and the credit card reader. I carried my bag of crickets next door to Lowe's, and that's where things started to feel off. I had grabbed some pepper plants and a gallon tomato, and wheeled a cart into the garden center proper. The area I thought was empty actually contained a line of people waiting to check out that stretched all the way through the Danger Zone, to the edge of the patio paver section. People were sort of spaced out, but I can't say it was all of six feet between us. Just carts and a little breathing room. Lucky for me the line moved quickly, and I did not in fact pick up one of the flowers taunting me with their existence. And when I got to the front, the cashier wasn't masked. I just can't imagine being that cavalier at a time like this. I mean, I know we were inches away from Weld County, which is getting a lot of negative press these days, deservedly. But I learned yesterday that my town had the most cases in Boulder County, something well north of 200. I would be in a freaking plastic bubble if it were me.

I forgot to take hand sanitizer with me, and had a bit of panic when I got in the car without it. I scrubbed my hands thoroughly when I got home, and still felt a twinge of fear until dark. When will that go away? I mean, it ought to last until the vaccine is ready and widespread. It even should linger for years after that point, in a PTSD sort of way. But let's be honest. People will be complacent long before then. I dread that moment.

Watermelon Week

Inspirational song: Maybe Baby (Buddy Holly)

Hang on a minute. You know how March took forever to end and April flew by? It really just hit home to me that May starts this week! I mean, the time when our world suddenly changes for the better is almost upon us! The estimated due date for The Littlest Smith is two weeks from today. It means that we are really at Go as of now. Any time between now and three weeks from now, we could be getting a message from the hospital that the fun has begun. The first guess on the big baby pool calendar I drew up is for this upcoming Sunday. Then, there are 3 guesses on the 5th, a week from today. My pool bet is for the 11th. Honestly, as long as Littlest Smith waits until Friday or after, I will be fine if I lose the pool. Fully formed lungs are my only consideration. The rest are just fun guesses.

Since about Halloween, I've been frequently consulting a chart I found on Pinterest, that compares fetus size to foods, and telling my daughter where we were on the progression of foods. I think baby was the size of a raspberry or grape when we found out about them. Now that we are so close, I checked the chart, and let her know that yesterday closed out pumpkin week, and watermelon week started today. If we make it past next Tuesday, we will close out this time line on jackfruit week. Thank goodness they don't come out weighing as much as a big old watermelon, though. They're more like lifting a stray cat, deceptively light.

I remember clearly the first time I washed and sorted newborn clothes in anticipation of starting my own family. I was amazed at how tiny they actually are. Just holding up those little socks and onesies releases some of those same brain chemicals in me now. So many feelings, holy cow. I helped sort and fold today, and I'm still awash in the feel-good chemicals. At one point I held up a size 2T pair of footie pajamas. I told my daughter that while I was pregnant with her sister, my grandmother's younger sister gave me an 18-month size pajamas, and I looked at them in relation to all those newborn clothes, and thought no way. This kid will never be that big. I'm having a baby, not an adult. I remember fighting back tears that she would ever get that big. (Have I mentioned before that until I had my own children, I'd never really spent time around babies? This memory should serve as proof of that.)

I had planned on taking it upon myself to pay attention to my daughter during labor, not on the actual birth process or machines or whatever. I was going to be the one watching her face. We had planned on having a collection of people helping her labor, just like I had with her. (In fact, she had invited her godmother to attend, just as she had for my daughter's own birth.) I said my job was going to be to watch for the slightest change in her expression or mood, so that all she had to do was make eye contact with me, and I would clear the room of everyone except my son in law. But since we won't be allowed to attend the labor and delivery, now I just get to sit at home and stress about what's happening after she gets sick of being on a video chat and shuts it down. I really wanted to be a part of it all, but 2020 had other plans for all of us. As long as I am able to see that baby while they are still reasonably fresh, I guess I will allow it.

Stylin’

Inspirational song: Grease (Frankie Valli)

Out of genuine curiosity, are people really this freaked out by their hair growing an extra half inch? Is it that bad to be just a tiny bit shaggy? I really haven’t noticed anyone who looks so weird that I approve of the desperation gripping the nation. No, you don’t have to cut it yourself with a Flowbee. You can get away without begging your girlfriend to attack your head with dog clippers. And you certainly can wait until it’s safe to pay a stranger get within touching distance. Maybe it’s a reflection of me spending the last seven months staring at my own head in the mirror, waiting for my hair to grow out at all, but I am totally comfortable with the idea of the trendy “look” of 2020 being shaggy hair with obvious gray roots. I’m going to lobby for this. I will encourage my peer group to adopt the natural look. It will be a bonding experience.

I delivered the heirloom bassinet to my daughter today. I had taken the one her father and his siblings had used as babies, passed on by my sister-in-law, and sanded down any spots where the paint was chipped. I sealed it under two coats of spray paint. Visually, it appears unchanged from when it showed up in my house, but it feels a little safer. I don’t know that there really is lead paint under where the last person painted over the top of it. This way, we have ensured that if there is, there’s no way for little fingers to get close to it. Littlest Smith will only be in the bassinet for a few months, moving into a crib by the time they are doing any significant rolling. Still it is way cool to have this piece of family history. The one my daughters slept in when they were newborns is long since gone. I have no idea what we did with it, but I know that by the time we had our first military move, it was history.

I wanted to help with set up of the nursery while I was dropping off the bassinet, but I had spent too much of my energy shopping for and preparing a chicken salad for lunch. By the time they started moving kid stuff out of the garage and assembling the stroller, I was a useless hulk. There is still between one and three weeks until time runs out. Maybe I will be able to provide aid in that time.

Socially Not Emotionally

Inspirational song: The King Is Gone (So Are You) George Jones

By the standards of The Before Times, life is pretty lonely. We aren't socializing nearly enough. By the standards of Pandemic Times, we have an acceptable, practically ideal situation. We can still communicate with the people who really formed the basis of our peer group, and we still have our co-mingled safe zone. (The way T's GF put it, we might as well be living in a duplex with shared ventilation systems. It has been true since 2015.) Our emotional health is protected, as is our physical.

The online game night was scrubbed, but that didn't seem to bother anyone. We spend a lot of time keeping each other entertained. We can have lazy Sundays without guilt. Instead we shared a dinner with the other half of our isolation group and talked without screens interfering with our imaginations. A little old-fashioned banter to keep our brains sharp and tribal bonding was a welcome diversion after so much stress.

I've been teetering on the edge of a full-blown AI flare for weeks, while we are all worried over the health of the species and the global financial uncertainty of the next year or two. I only feel better when I remember to take my meds on time, and even then I am only a hair's breadth away from being aware of how much burning pain is always present but being ignored. Today, after making a side dish to take for dinner, I decided it was time to break into the special reserves for the dulling sort of pain. Between dinner and dessert, it all sank in. The all-over pain still exists, but somehow none of the signals from it are fully reaching my brain. I couldn't live like this all the time, but it sure is nice getting a short break from the monotony. 

Relief

Inspirational song: Save It for Later (The English Beat)

I was fired from my first job after graduating college. I mean, at the time they tried to make it sound less cruel: "we are consolidating two positions, and Tina has been here longer, so she gets to stay..." But really, it was because the general manager and I just didn't get on right. I know this is the case, because a year later (after the GM was subsequently let go) I was invited to this small publishing house's Christmas party, which was always a big deal in Boulder back in those days, and the people I did make friends with told me outright why she had fired me. When I was fired, I was three months pregnant, and yes, they knew. I was able to keep my health insurance through Cobra, and if I recall correctly, I only did that because my parents paid the premiums for me.

I remember being overwhelmed by the unemployment system. In pre-internet days, it was all done by paper, through the mail. Each week I had to apply to five different jobs, and write down who I sent the resumes to on a card that I mailed back. Finding enough job listings that even vaguely matched my skillset was hard enough on its face. Doing this while pregnant and having no idea how undiagnosed lupus was dragging me down added complexity and robbed me of spoons I didn't know I needed to save. I went to more horrible interviews and was insulted by more prospective employers than I deserved to encounter. I could never tell how many recognized my baby bump, but it felt like a lot of them were intentionally horrible to me in order to avoid hiring a pregnant woman who would want time off in five+ months.

I avoided trying to collect unemployment forever after that. I most likely could have done it every time the air force moved us and made me leave the jobs I had at each base. I couldn't face it again. It was just too traumatic.

Now that the next great depression is looming, and they have decided to include self employed people and gig workers in the emergency unemployment, my employing broker has suggested on multiple occasions that we should apply. None of us had a high enough income, nor a long list of clients already under contract, that we could turn up a chance to get our bills covered while in-person real estate was actively discouraged. Monday, the first day we were allowed to try, I filled out the form online. I submitted my 2018 taxes, the year in which I had all of one commission before falling ill with cancer. The website said I qualified for roughly $200 a week in unemployment, and that is honestly better than I thought it would say (I expected to be told to take a hike). I couldn't tell at first whether they were actually going to pay. 

Today, a debit card arrived in the mail. I haven't activated it yet, but it is sitting on my lap now, bringing up long-repressed stressors. I don't know how much is on this card. Is it just the 200 bucks, minus the taxes I asked them to take out? Is that other 600 on there, or will that come later, when they figure out how to disburse the CARES stuff? Do I qualify for that too? I'm a little afraid to spend it yet. Do I go ahead and pay a couple regular bills with it? Spend it at the grocery store? Save it for a few weeks and see what happens in the world? For now, it is comforting to know it's there.

Now if I can just convince the Mr to go on the IRS website to chase down our relief/stimulus money. Maybe then my stomach would fully unclench.

Unintended Swimming

Inspirational song: I'll Never Fall In Love Again (Dionne Warwick)

Somebody (several somebodies?) observed that the month of March lasted over 300 days. The month of April has run about 14.5 hours so far. I don't know which is harder to live through, a month that never ends, or time that flows seamlessly in and out of existence. This fleeting time makes it more of a challenge to latch onto a solid topic to write about each night. Did I do stuff in the last 24 hours? Yes, lots. Can I make any of it sound good? Meh. (Shrug)

I was hiding in my room this afternoon, just waiting for the day to roll by. The Mr was outside, spending his afternoon in the hot tub, which he does sometimes during quarantine. I heard a sound I could not identify clearly, but my brain decided to interpret it as the sliding glass door rolling over something rough in its track. It wasn't an exact match, but it sort of worked. I stood up, and walked into the other room. The door was still open. There was water on the floor. A voice called out from the patio saying that I probably wanted to grab a towel and dry off the boys... both of them. I can't imagine what happened to knock two cats into a hot tub at the same time, but I feel cheated that I didn't get to witness the flailing and the escape. They were not impressed by my attempts to chase them down and rub a towel over them.

Mic’ed Up

Inspirational song: I Can Feel Your Heartbeat (The Partridge Family)

Don’t judge too harshly. For going on five years, we have basically been living as one commingled household with T next door. That has been harder to break than any other social interaction, so early on in lockdown, I gave up trying. Video games still happen over there, and game night still goes on here, although T is the only one who comes here in person. Everyone else is on a Google hangout.

Tonight was the big group, for the game Mr S-P wrote. It was the first time we played since I went out and got a quality external microphone for the table. We had a test run playing cards against humanity (knockoff) online Sunday, but this was the first time with T at the table with us. He didn’t see the funny looking white ball on a tripod, kind of hiding behind his dice tower. He had no idea it was pointed right at the two of us. He started chatting with me, about the NFL draft that was going on tonight, about the imminent arrival of the newest Smith, and other non-game things. I started getting texts from my daughter saying that T and I needed to learn how to whisper. How far we have come from the group griping at us that they can barely hear us, and they can’t make out half the words we said.

Once we alerted T to the existence of the mic, he dissolved into charming giggles. The rest of the group said our audio was so clear it was like being inside him, which just made him giggle more. They said they could hear his heartbeat. After that, he and I tried harder to communicate by sign language or just holding up our phones to each other. We might want to move the mic back for future games, until we can have everyone back in the same room.

Someone's Knocking

Inspirational song: Let 'Em In (Paul McCartney and Wings)

After yesterday's unbearable inflammation, I was pleased to discover that I had a little flexibility back today. I am not yet strong or pain-free, but I didn't need any additional medication, beyond my usual daily anti-inflammatory and hydroxychloroquine (yes, that stuff, for lupus). I was even brave enough to try the hot tub, which I avoided yesterday, for fear of lighting up the parts that already felt like they were on fire. 

My house is over 60 years old. Part of the reasons I fell in love with it were the remnants of the 1959 house that remained after all that time, like the sea foam green sink and bathtub, and all the original cabinetry in the bathroom and kitchen. The back patio, for all its faults (like the cracked concrete that is sinking) has a kind of fun fiberglass overhang. It's deteriorating faster than most of the house, and covered in lichen. If we could find new corrugated fiberglass in the proper size, we would replace it. We gave up years ago on that, and will eventually just turn the whole thing into a room that can enclose the hot tub in the winter time, so it's less of a test of strength to walk to and from the house in January.

We were sitting in the hot tub this morning, and the door was open so the cats could visit with us. Athena was on the folded-up lid of the tub, when we heard a noise. A bird was on the roof, pecking at it to remove bits of fiberglass to take to its nest. This happens every spring. Thus far, they haven't poked a hole all the way through, letting rain leak through, but that's just a matter of time. It is a race for which will happen first--birds peck a hole in the roof, or we finally have the disposable income to remodel and add a sun room.

 

Flames

Inspirational song: Get Up Stand Up (Bob Marley)

Spending too much time sitting is a real danger during these quarantine times. There might be a lot of jokes about the people who are taking their dogs on fifteen walks a day, or eye rolling over the people who are still braving golf courses and hiking trails, but these people are not necessarily on the wrong track. They might be risking a bit if they aren't masked and steering clear of other humans, but the fact that they are out there continuing to move is a point in their favor. 

Me, I have gone the other direction. I've spent so much time sitting on my bed, watching TV, that I've compressed a permanent dip in the mattress right next to the pillows. Even when I was out front, frantically ripping creeping bellflower from my flower garden, I was sitting on the ground, all my weight on my right hip, with my legs tucked under me on the left. This is the way I always sit when unsupported. It causes me lasting problems, and it appears to have been one of a cascading set of unforced errors I've committed over the last month. I should have been walking around much more than I have been. And now it's too late.

For about four days, I've been pretending my backache/right hip pain was no big deal. It has been getting worse, making it where I can barely hold my arms away from my body empty-handed, and holding any kind of weight is ill-advised. By last night it was obvious I'd crossed a line. I barely slept a wink, with the right side of my body on fire from inflammation and knotted muscles. I lost much of today to tramadol and naps, and I will still be able to sleep more tonight. I don't know whether I'll be able to soak this away with hot water. It might be time to thaw out some food from the freezer by wrapping it in a towel and setting it against my hamstring. I promise, once I get the inflammation under control, I will take the hint and get more walking in.

My Wheelhouse

Inspirational song: Let It Be Me (The Everly Brothers)

For more than a week, I have assumed that tonight I would make a big fuss over this, the seventh anniversary of my blog. It was the morning of Saturday, April 20, 2013, when I was still smarting over an insult (that doesn’t matter anymore) from the night before, when I pulled out my iPad and started a rant that is still going to this day, but in much less emotionally damaged terms. I’m proud of what I’ve done. I’m exhausted by it. I’m self conscious and I wish I had a way to stop it and I expect to keep it up for years. I have a lot of feelings about it. But most of all, I rely on it. Routines matter when my body and my life is so unpredictable and unreliable.

But it’s not the primary focus of my mind tonight. All day, I have been trying to compose something entirely different, yet still right up this alley. I was contacted today and asked to deliver tomorrow’s “moment of inspiration” at the Rotary zoom meeting. I’m flattered and terrified at the same time. I’ve avoided doing this for four years, because I didn’t think I was particularly inspirational. But maybe in this time of forced isolation, I actually am. This is my wheelhouse and I know what to do here. Perhaps I can jot down a few extra paragraphs to offer guidance to the extroverts who are chafing at the lack of human interaction.

The only problem is I have been kicking around ideas in my head for it all day yet never writing anything down. It’s now midnight, and I had to take a prescription pain pill for the inflammation in my hip that is getting significantly worse as I spend too much time sitting on my bed watching tv. I’m sleepy and a little goofy and I still haven’t conquered my shyness over this assignment. It’s going to be a long night, and I’m going to have purple shadows under my eyes when I read my speech into my webcam during tomorrow’s meeting. Is showing the true face of habitual isolation inspiring?

It’s a Jelly, Eh

Inspirational song: You’re Welcome (Moana)

Any food worth making, is worth making gluten-free. At least that’s how it works around here. If there is a gluten-containing item that I miss from the Before Times, I will try seven or eight different versions of it without wheat, oats, or any of the other problem grains, until I either find the perfect replacement or decide it can’t be done. I divide my attention between homemade versions and store-bought (and thank goodness there is a really spiffy GF bakery on Main Street, open during non-Pandemic days).

Today’s home cooking experiment was with jelly donuts. Yeah, I said what I said. I made my own, and it wasn’t even all that hard. Okay, there was an hour break in between frying them and getting home from King Soopers after discovering that jams with fruit chunks will not go through a narrow opening in a squirt bottle. (We ran out for actual jelly, plus a large cartload of other stuff, since it was my first trip to the grocery store since before the lockdown started.)

I was pleased to learn that there were still signs of life in the bulk bag of yeast I bought late last year. It had gotten left on the counter, almost touching a hot pot on the stove, and I thought the yeast was all dead. Put it in a cup of milk that was one day away from going bad, and a hefty scoop of sugar, and it foamed right up. Success! The recipe was fairly simple—Bob’s Red Mill flour, baking powder, sugar, eggs, butter, and the sloppy yeast mixture. It rose for an hour in a warm oven, and with gentle folding and dusting with more flour, I had a workable dough to cut up. I waited fifteen minutes for the oil to heat all the way, and I felt like the temp it called for was too hot. The outsides got too dark and the insides were just barely done all the way. Next time I would probably make them just a little thinner to compensate, as well as turn down the heat. Once they were sugared and jellied, they tasted a lot like beignets, which leads me to think it might be more direct to cut them into squares rather than using a biscuit cutter, for simplicity.

I’m not used to such heavy, sugary, ultra-carb and fatty breakfasts, and once I had put down a couple of these little beauties, I tipped over and had a nice long nap. I probably won’t ever eat that much at once again, but it is nice to know that this is a viable option next time I can share them with a crowd.

Flyover Country

Inspirational song: Afternoon Delight (Starland Vocal Band)

Some childhood memories are crystal clear. A person knows exactly where they happened and how. Others, not so much. I'm sure I'm not the only one who has weird amalgams of memories that are impossible to pick apart, that live independent of time and space and context.

I was an air force brat. We lived on and near bases for my first decade on earth. The bases I remember best were in Zweibrücken, Germany and Mountain Home, Idaho. The memory that won't leave me alone today comes from one of those two places... or both. I really can't be sure how it works. I will go with how I imagine this came to be, and if one of my parents wants to finesse the details a bit, they are welcome to do so.

Many of my childhood summer memories are merely emotions. I remember tolerating riding all over town on my bike in Mountain Home. I remember being okay with being out in the sun when I was younger than 8 or 9, as if the sun just didn't hurt me before then, or at least not like it did once I was closer to 10 and beyond. This memory is associated with sun and heat, but not in the way I feel it now. I was probably 8, and it was probably in Idaho when I was at the base swimming pool. It was in a half-barrel shaped building, one that blended in architecturally with 1970s-era airplane hangers and offices. I remember hearing the song Afternoon Delight, and being no older than 8, having absolutely no clue what the song was about. For some reason, even now when I hear it, in my mind, I am back standing next to that swimming pool, either just inside giant arching windows along one long side, or just outside of it, on a narrow sidewalk that ran the length of the building. I feel like I am looking up in the sky, waiting for the Thunderbirds to do a flyover. Also, in my head it's always the 4th of July.

Why does this memory persist? Why do I automatically associate Afternoon Delight with watching a trick flying squad from near a swimming pool? It gets me every single time, and I can't tell which is the most ludicrous part of it. If I had to guess, I'd go with permanently thinking that a song about daytime sex was a theme song for the air force's top flyers, and that it was totally normal for a grade school kid to think so.

Today was the graduation ceremony for the Air Force Academy. They went ahead and had it in person, although the family members were not invited, and word is the cadets were seated a proper distance apart. The vice president came in for the ceremony. The Thunderbirds did a flyover of the graduation, and then while they were here in Colorado, they did a special loop up and down the Front Range, ostensibly as a treat/salute for medical personnel and essential workers. They were supposed to be overhead right around 1 pm, so I made sure I had clothes on, after a fashion (dirty jeans, slippers, and a cardigan over a clean shirt), and I went out at about 12:58. I slowly wandered around my front yard, and greeted T who was next door using his table saw in his driveway. I squished snow with my slippers, and waited. I tried to take a photo of my peony sprouts, looking abused by the most recent snow, and had to brighten my screen and remove my darkened glasses to recognize that the first picture was of me scowling at the camera that was pointed the wrong way. I stayed out for at least 15 minutes before I gave up and went inside, wondering whether the cloud deck was so low that they scrubbed the mission. (I asked the Mr if he thought that was the case, and he said he doubted they would be flying under the deck, to be seen.)

I started scanning Twitter, namely the Denver station that alerted me to the planned flyover in the first place. Lots of people in Northern Colorado were checking in, saying they were still waiting. Eventually, people started saying that they were sighted over Greeley. I went back out and waited, watching the skies, and trying to listen for a sound that was different than the highway that is a mile from here.

I had been out about five minutes when a neighbor (from somewhere) walked by with his dog, a handsome mastiff/boxer type pupper. I was standing halfway down my driveway, and the good boy stopped, looked at me, and waited to be acknowledged. When I said hello, he wagged his tail and daintily stepped through the snow to see me. I agreed to his request for pets, as long as he came to me so I could keep 6 feet away from his human.

So it was that my camera was still in my pocket when we heard the sound of jets. They didn't come from the north, as I expected, but from the southeast, looping around in formation, arcing west toward Boulder. I couldn't believe how low they were, how close they were to my neighborhood. It was fantastic!

With no photos of my own, I retweeted a video that might have been from my hometown, maybe? You're welcome to go see it on my page, @smithparkccl, but strong advisory: Here I am 98% apolitical. There, I let my freak flag fly. Proceed with caution.

OFO

Inspirational song: Ain't That Pretty at All (Warren Zevon)

Five full weeks into complete lockdown, and seven weeks past the start of extreme social distancing, and finally I broke. Other than one trip to my pharmacy three blocks away, and a few walks around the park a block up from the house, I have stayed ridiculously close to home. But I had things I needed to buy, and time was running out for them. I tried ordering from Target, from the baby registry we set up, but apparently they refuse to ship crib mattresses directly to people's homes. Same with J&J baby shampoo and diapers. Who knew? So I made a quick curbside pickup order, and my daughter and I masked up and went for a drive. It was amazing to get to spend an hour with her, getting the items she needs to have ready to go at any moment in the next four weeks. It made just as much sense for us to travel together in her car as for me to get it and drop it off. One way or another we would interact, and this way I got to chat with her. I feel much better now.

We also did a pickup at Staples. I tried to have a microphone delivered, to make our game night videoconferencing work better. I couldn't find any company who could deliver sooner than next Thursday, and most said it would be a full month. Forget that nonsense! I tried websites for four different stores in town where I could pick one up this afternoon, and Staples was my winner. The mic is set up downstairs, just waiting for the next game night.

It occurred to me I haven't done a recipe post in a long time. Now that everyone is stuck in their own kitchens, looking for something new, I have a meal idea to offer. This evening I made one of my earliest creations, something I invented back in our extreme poverty days, pre-military. It's the ugliest dish I make, but it is one of my family's absolute favorites. I didn't put much effort into naming it way back when the kids were preschoolers. We just called it "CTM." I think I've shared this recipe before, but why not offer it up to newer readers? A word of warning about this one: it's hideous when made as intended. Twenty-five years ago, our old college roommate (the one from our game group) saw me make it, and he said, "It looks like you threw up on your plate!" Yeah. Maybe. But it sure doesn't taste like it. It is dreamy.

CTM (Chicken-Tomato-Mozzarella Stuff)

All measurements are relative to your needs.

Dice an onion and sauté in olive oil that has been liberally sprinkled with sesame oil. Just as it begins to soften, add boneless chicken pieces (tenders, breasts, or thighs). Brown on all sides. As chicken cooks through, season heavily with paprika, allspice, and marjoram. Salt if desired. Mince 1-2 cloves of fresh garlic, and stir in. When chicken is nearly done, cut up several whole fresh tomatoes over the pan, so all juices drip into dish. Just before serving, add chunks or shreds of mozzarella cheese, and stir until it melts. Serve over egg noodles (obviously I now choose gluten-free). 

I'd love to know whether anyone tries it and likes it.

Spring Snow

Inspirational song: Keep Your Distance (Richard Thompson)

Quite honestly, I'm impressed. We rarely get solid accumulations of snow here. It's almost like the nearest 14er shadows and blocks us. Most storms split coming down from Estes Park, and they go north and south of us, leaving us warmer and dryer in the middle. There was just too much moisture in the air this time. We were pounded, just like everyone else on the front range. I talked to the boss this morning, and he said it was really deep in Fort Collins, but even we ended up with a foot of snow down here. You know in your heart that I don't mind it one bit. I beg for a "snowmageddon" every year. Twenty-four hours of straight heavy snow was close enough to make me happy.

I couldn't sleep to save my life last night. I had caved in and taken a pain pill, hoping for a reset of lupus symptoms, at least to neutral, if not enough to feel "good" per se. I expected it to make me sleep most of the night through. It had the opposite effect. I woke up every fifteen or twenty minutes, the whole night long. I had left the curtains open just enough to see when the snow arrived, and two or three times each hour, I squinted toward the window, marveling at how heavily it was coming down. I turned off the bipap machine at 5 am, and got up and walked around the house a little. I took photos out the windows, amazed at how bright they looked with just streetlights reflecting on snow. Cell phone cameras have come a long way.

Semi-Routine

Inspirational song: Love's Great Adventure (Ultravox)

So far, I really don't hate this isolation, at least, not like everyone else is. I'm kinda hitting my stride. I get just enough done on an average day that I don't hate myself, but I'm avoiding being an overachiever and thus am not hurting myself. I found the sweet spot. I planned well on what foods I stocked up with, and have managed to keep it interesting without breaking a budget or using up too many specialty ingredients. To be honest, I've enjoyed digging through some of the weird stuff in the pantry and fridge, finally making things with them, so they neither rot nor seem like wastes of money. We might run out of dairy products in a week or two, but beyond that, we don't actually need to shop yet.

I've tried to give the Mr plenty of space. There were people on social media within the first week who were complaining that being locked indoors with their spouses or SOs were driving them batty. A couple of times we have been a little short in our answers to each other, but I feel like generally we have avoided sniping like a house full of sixth graders at the end of a long sleepover. (How did any friendships survive those?) I set the bar pretty low on my expectations for projects in and out of the house. I figure I don't push him, he won't push me, and there will be peace. 

We had our weekly game this evening. We finally have a setup that works, although I think I need to purchase a table top microphone to make it where the others can understand us. The laptop we have been using has a terrible one, and our friends can't hear the Mr speak 90% of the time. It's not quite as much fun as having them all here around a single table, where I can feed them dinner and cakes on special occasions, but it helps break up the solitude. 

I know a lot of people around the world are fed up with this, and protesting strenuously. Don't give up yet, people, please. A few more weeks of this, and I can feel safe leaving my house to visit the newest Smith when they arrive. Give up now, and I'll have to fix up that old farm truck we got last month like the RV from the Walking Dead to get to my newly expanded family. Don't think I won't do it. Have you seen how full of materials my garage is?

Miscalculation

Inspirational song: Her First Mistake (Lyle Lovett)

The error seems obvious now. As a headache builds and motivation evaporates, it occurs to me that I probably shouldn't have had a glass of cheap red wine while I lay in bed and watched the Lego Movie 2. I don't want to be positive and encouraging. I want to switch back into jammies and close my eyes. I may or may not actually turn the noise off early. But writing seems hard right now. Let's take tonight easy and see how inspired I am by tomorrow, okay?

Tell Me

Inspirational song: Gemini Dream (The Moody Blues)

Audience participation time. Tell me what you’re doing to get through these days? For one, I’m genuinely curious how other people are filling their days. For another, who doesn’t want new ideas for things to do these days? And for good measure, I’ve found that sharing my feelings is a healthy, helpful release. It feels right to offer to be the listener, not just the one doing the unloading. If you want to comment, here or on the SFSP Facebook page, go for it.

We are definitely struggling with sticking to a regular routine here. I think for the first time, neither of us showered or changed out of pajamas and bathrobes all day. It had been one or the other of us thus far, and it only happened a few times. I hope this doesn’t portend a decline in our status.

So far I have maintained mostly healthy habits. Not all, but most. Sure, I’m not exercising to speak of, and I’m even less enthused about house cleaning. But I’m not drinking excessively, and I haven’t dipped into emergency pain medication. I’m not resorting to retail therapy (not even online shopping). I still eat real food, although I have had popcorn for dinner once in the last week. The cats and dogs still want to cuddle with me all the time, so I think that means I haven’t turned into a dangerous grouch. Other than an over-reliance on screen time, between the TV, iPad games, and Twitter, I think I’m dealing with it about as well as I could hope.

So how are all y'all holding up? Are you on the third wearing of the same sweatpants? Or are you super motivated to bake all the sourdough bread? Who picked up a new art or craft? I went down a rabbit hole of watching people make fish ponds and plunge pools out of concrete and bricks today. It made me want to create, except for the part where you had to lug around bags of concrete and bricks. Oh, and all of that digging nonsense.

I've said it before, and I meant it. No matter how you are handling this crisis, be easy on yourself. People process trauma, fear, and grief differently. Whatever you are doing, it's okay. Just staying out of the fray, assuming you can, is enough right now. Be safe, friends, and be well.

Hangout

Inspirational song: Easter (Marillion)

Someone on Twitter said they were advised to keep a journal during quarantine, but they didn't heed the advice. They tried to feel bad about it, but recognized they just weren't that diligent. I got a tiny little shiver of satisfaction, knowing that I have been doing that for more than 2500 days straight now. If there was ever a thorough chronicle of life before and during the pandemic, I created it. Here's to hoping I get to write the "after" portion as well.

The snow we were promised arrived exactly on schedule, and was every bit as deep and constant as it was supposed to be. That huge section of flowerbed I weeded yesterday? I went out this afternoon and took a photo from above where I had been sitting for hours yesterday. I took it from a standing position, because I'm not a fool, despite reports to the contrary. Spring is fun here. Always keeps a person guessing.

We didn't do the traditional Easter dinner with my in-laws, not even by Zoom as so many did this year. We smoked some ribs (yes, I made that man do all the marching through snow to check them), and the gang got together for Jackbox games on Hangouts. It's not as much fun when we aren't all in the same room, but it sure is better than nothing. We wore ourselves out laughing at the early games, and by about 9:30 we were playing Murder Trivia Party in near silence. Who knew you could giggle yourself to the point of exhaustion? (Okay, probably everybody, but it still seemed like a surprise when it happened.)

Weeds

Inspirational song: Perfect Day (Lou Reed)

What a difference a day is about to make. I've spent most of the last week with the doors and windows open, even sitting outside getting various tasks done. I spent hours sitting at the front garden bed, the one just under my window. Now the house is closed up and the cold front is starting to blow through. By the time I wake, all the pretty flowers will be under a thin blanket of snow. I have to hope there isn't so much that it weighs down all those trees just starting to bud out. That's how branches break at this time of year. And thank goodness my cherry trees hadn't flowered yet. The nectarine is trying to, but it has only just begun. It may survive and bear fruit yet.

Remember last year when I was grousing about rapunzel? It's that weed, also called creeping bellflower, that has taken over my front yard. We turned over large patches of the front bed and dug out every scrap of it we could locate. The Mr worked quickly on a section around the stepping stones up to the house bib. I spent a lot longer, being as thorough as I could be, all across the front between two lavender bushes. I am amazed anew at how pernicious and evil this weed is. I dug down deeper than my whole hand and wrist would reach, and still managed only to uncover the top of a cluster of roots bigger than carrots. The longest one was easily 14 inches long. And I probably broke off 2-3 more when I dug it up. No wonder it takes such diligence to remove it. The lady at the county extension booth last year said if we weren't willing to use roundup, then we would probably have to remove the top foot of soil off our lawn, and start with fresh dirt. Based on these roots today, I don't think that would have helped.

I wore myself out, sitting on the ground to pull weeds twice in the last few days. I feel like I was run over with a truck, and that's after a soak in the hot tub, a muscle relaxer, a warm shower, and a small amaretto over ice (in that order). I was so tired, I almost fell asleep without writing. I hope I turned over enough dirt and picked out enough roots to make a dent this year. I was useless gardening last year, so I have a lot to make up for. I am so sick of seeing my pretty flowers overrun by rapunzel and vine weed (which I pulled from my roses by the garage on Thursday). I have miles to go before the yard is free of it. At least I got a good start before a week of snow slows me down.

Magic Beans

Inspirational song: Oliver Cromwell (Monty Python)

All last summer, when I was as sick as a chemical cocktail could make me, I rarely left my bedroom. Hell, I rarely left my bed. So why is it that I feel like it was easier to find new things to write about back then? I'm in reasonably tolerable health. It's one of the best time of year, when the world turns green (and pink and white and yellow). I have lots of things I could be doing. But wow, it's difficult to find motivation to do those things, and when I do, it's hard to remember anything five minutes after I'm done. And that doesn't even factor in how impossible it is to keep track of days and dates.

I let most of this day pass in a haze. I was in one of two bathrobes until late in the afternoon (and a swimsuit in between the two). I didn't have to cook, electing to eat leftovers instead, so I didn't have my usual fallback to feel useful. It's harder for me to do the same sort of work from home as everyone else, having been mostly out of my career field for the last year and a half. And now all the required in-person activities are actively discouraged by our regulatory agency anyway. (And I'm pretty sure I don't qualify for unemployment, even with the expanded qualifications, because I was too sick to work at all last year.) I'm a little freaked out about which way to go now. Do I restart my career, that had only just gotten rolling when I found the lump in my breast? Do I try to find something with fewer recurring costs, that I can do from home? Working a regular schedule outside the house isn't possible anymore, with new autoimmune diagnoses turning up every year. I wish I had the answers. If this global crisis doesn't focus my mind well enough to find a clear path, I'm not sure anything can.

Until I figure it out, I will keep doing what I've been doing for seven years (anniversary is this month). I will write stories about my tiny piece of the planet. I will garden. I will wrangle furry quadrupeds. And I will wonder why I could never turn my words into income. I've written the equivalent of about 2500 pages so far. And I gave it all away for free.

The Rocky Mountain Way

Inspirational song: Bark at the Moon (Ozzy Osbourne)

By now all y'all have seen it: news stories about the 7 pm cheer in New York City. If you haven't heard of it, allow me to state the obvious. It has become a nightly tradition, people leaning out of their apartment windows, cheering, clapping, banging pots and pans, all making noise to express gratitude and appreciation to health care workers, and everyone in the emergency services. If I read it right, the first few times it happened, it was at 7 because it was the shift change at the hospital closest to where this began. I don't know how many other places have started doing this, but I imagine it's a big deal in a lot of locations.

Cheering just isn't "Colorado" enough for us around here. A week ago, one of my kids' cousins (or a spouse thereof) invited us to join a "go outside at 8 pm and howl at the moon" group. I resisted at first. I didn't think poorly of my family for joining this group, I just didn't want to do it. I neither joined the Facebook page nor went out to make noise. I could hear the Mr do it sometimes, but just as often, I had my TV too loud and the windows closed and missed it. A few days ago, it went from only one or two in the neighborhood to several. Yesterday someone started shooting off their leftover fireworks during the howl. 

Tonight was our D&D night. We were all talking to each other over the Google Hangout screen, when someone (I think my son-in-law) noticed it was almost 8. We paused our game and we all ran outside our respective homes to howl. This was the first time I did it. At straight up 8 pm, the neighbor a block or two to the east shot off a big aerial firework, and it started. Murray and Elsa were very confused why we were in the backyard right as it started getting dark, making the noises usually reserved for when Murray sings the song of his people. He almost joined in too, but he was too busy dancing with his front feet, jingling the harness on his wheelchair.

It didn't feel cathartic yet. I was still pretty self conscious. I imagine as this forced confinement drags on, it will become more of a release, more of a community bonding experience. 

The number of people in my county who have died more than doubled today. It went from 3 to 7. Our confirmed cases are well over 200 now. I am trying not to think about whether the Weld county statistics include part of my town. County Line Road is maybe two miles from here. Weld numbers are twice as bad as Boulder's. If I howl again tomorrow, I will let myself feel these questions, and the sound I make will reflect the anguish I have been burying for weeks.

Holiday

Inspirational song: Only the Lonely (Roy Orbison)

Okay, for real. I’m okay, but I really need a break. The anxiety gets to me every once and a while, and this evening it’s strong. I don’t want to stay up late struggling to write my usual essay. I want to say that I hope those who celebrate found a way to connect with their loved ones for Passover. I hope everyone finds a modicum of peace tonight. And I want to share this picture of my handsome Boy. Now everyone get to bed at a decent hour as I plan to do right now. See you tomorrow.

The Only Ones

Inspirational song: In Spite of Ourselves (John Prine and Iris DeMent)

Do people in my neighborhood not have sewing machines? Maybe they think they have immune systems fit for the gods of Olympus? Or maybe they just don't believe that this virus is for real, because "only" three of the two hundred and six confirmed cases in our county (as of today) have died so far. 

We went on the same walk around the park this afternoon, mixing it up by going counter-clockwise to keep it interesting. Several cars went by. I watched a workman walk east on the same sidewalk where a lady in spandex was jogging west. Neither veered. There were a couple guys who appeared homeless just sitting on separate benches near the playground. (I say appeared. I'm not judging, just guessing.) There was a family with two very small children playing on the ballfields. There was a guy practicing swinging a golf club. (If he was hitting balls, he was sending them into the creek--I didn't get close enough to check.) There were a couple of groups walking north by the time we had looped back south. And lastly, there were two teenage girls, one on a razor scooter, one holding a black cat on a leash.

Not a single one of these people wore masks.

Of course we did. A few people looked at us like we were aliens. Probably called us mocking names in their heads, based on the looks on their faces. I don't care what they think. I know my immune system. I know my medical history. I know my man's medical history. I'm not effing around with this virus, not for either of us.

When we got home, our daughter was just arriving to pick up the masks I made for her and her husband. It was nice to be able to see her and her rounded belly, even if I couldn't get close enough to touch that belly. I regret not ever getting to feel the smallest Smith kick a single time. But by keeping my distance, I'm increasing the chances that we will all stay healthy enough that I can hold the little one when they are still reasonably fresh. I can wait, but the waiting is tough.

Day

Inspirational song: Mad World (Tears for Fears)

The local Fox affiliate (I think) in Cleveland has perfectly captured the vibe of this national experience. They started a new segment last week, called "What Day Is This?" It has a cute little graphic, and zippy 1970s game show music. The weatherman or reporter (I don't know which) points at his green screen and delivers a deadpan line. "It's Wednesday." Music resumes. 

I have managed to keep track of the days of the week, for the most part. The date, however, is absolutely lost to me. If I didn't still have bills due and occasional appointments that weren't canceled, I'd give up on all of it. What's the point of tracking the date through April? Just tell me when it is May. Days of that month matter to me, if only to know who wins the baby pool.

The Mr had to go out today. On his errands, he got us more crickets to feed the lizards, and while he was that close (less than a football field away), he made a little detour into the Lowes garden center. When he got back home (with french fries in hand for me, bless him), he pointed to something he left on the porch. He acquired two tulips and a hyacinth that begged to come home with him. And so it begins.

In the Yard

Inspirational song: Keep Your Hands Off My Power Supply (Slade)

Spring came calling again today. The day could not have been more lovely. It was just warm enough to be outside in short sleeves, but not so hot to be uncomfortable. I would have appreciated a few more clouds, but we all know I'm weird that way. I was in the yard as much as my lupus would allow, and when I needed to come inside and hide from the sun, I did. It worked out perfectly. 

I'm still struggling to sprout seeds indoors, so I took a risk and carried my starter pots outside to the back stairs, to get some more heat and sun. I left them there, for better or worse, knowing it would get cool tonight but not freeze. I'm hoping for the best. It was suggested I help move the strawberries from the north garden to the south, but I was slow on the draw. He had done most of them by the time I went out to try. I got exactly one set (of two root bundles) dug out. It was way harder than I imagined it would be. I was so glad to have missed most of the work. We concluded the workday by clearing out yard debris and burning it. I broke up the old Christmas wreath that had been dumped out back, waiting for just this day. Then he pruned the spent raspberry canes while I ripped out the overgrown catnip bed. All of that went into the fire pit. 

I hope I didn't end up getting too much sun exposure on the day. I can't be out too much, especially considering I'm on that now-infamous hydroxychloroquine. It makes my sun sensitivity worse. That being said, I'm quite worried about running out of it at the end of the month. People are being incredibly irresponsible, putting unwarranted attention on it without any proof it will help with the Rona. And while they are doing that, the government is buying up stockpiles, doctors who have no business prescribing it are getting it for their friends and families, and people like me are suddenly unable to access the medication that helps us to live. Without it my pain is unbearable, as my body attacks itself relentlessly. The pandemic is taking away everyone's good sense. This is a serious drug. It takes months to get used to (it took 6 months to take away significant pain for me). It can cause serious side effects, particularly a macular degeneration that can cause permanent blindness. And by itself it can cause heart damage. I've heard that adding Zithromax, as has been rumored to be the combo they are pushing, can make the heart arrhythmia worse, potentially fatal. All I can do now is wait to see whether they make enough of it in the next three weeks that I can get my refill through the mail-order pharmacy. Think positive thoughts.