tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-59391646105806045862024-03-14T05:43:27.383-07:00Sandwich Mom on WryJ Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.comBlogger217125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-67074962482200782452021-07-27T19:37:00.003-07:002021-07-27T19:37:17.912-07:00The Goodest Boy<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwVAi9a82XKMEwgW9G5nTZSl4DjAWX1v4cjioFQuts-PyIF418aYLci4ImctW3fCcxaIX2mC-bxKKO5O0kcJhHzQjZjBdPgDfOHI-FJye8FL3MgEq7d6tOGG2fTqa4NLSCXBAhYDrwz5fx/s2048/20170922_121043.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwVAi9a82XKMEwgW9G5nTZSl4DjAWX1v4cjioFQuts-PyIF418aYLci4ImctW3fCcxaIX2mC-bxKKO5O0kcJhHzQjZjBdPgDfOHI-FJye8FL3MgEq7d6tOGG2fTqa4NLSCXBAhYDrwz5fx/s320/20170922_121043.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: times;">Popper
Leonard “Lenny” Salemink passed away Tuesday, July 27, 2021,
after a short illness. (Or it could have been a long illness, we don't really know. Lenny was a stoic and
didn't show pain). He was born April 26, 2010, and -
after a frequently referenced PowerPoint presentation by Gabby on how
she would take care of him - was adopted by the Salemink family from
the Iowa City Animal Shelter on August 4.</span><p></p><p><br /></p>
<p style="line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;"><span style="font-family: times;">Lenny
was not big on snuggles (ask Gabby), but if you needed a glass of
water tipped over or anything knocked off a table, he was your man .
. . er, cat. Lenny had an impressive .95 carpet yacking average,
avoiding throw rugs and hard surface floors with nearly every
at-yack. He could tip spill-proof bowls with ease.</span></p>
<p style="line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;">Lenny
excelled at biting ankles (ask Scott), being underfoot, and playing
“hide and ignore” when sought. He was not a fan of cat toys –
especially toys that crinkled, chirped, or otherwise made noise - but
did enjoy watching his humans try to entice him to play (ask Max).</span></span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: times;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;">He
was the “bestest boy,” although he was disdainful of baby talk.</span></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;">Lenny
was scared of strangers, dogs, work trucks, the doorbell, lawn
mowers, plastic bags, his own shadow, and Max’s room, but not thunder or
fireworks. He detested car rides, and when being loaded into his pet
carrier could out-wrestle Dan Gable.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: times;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black; font-family: times;"><span style="background: transparent;">Lenny
like basking in patches of sunshine, laying on top of hot-air vents,
and sitting on his box/throne to peer down upon the peasants parading
past his window. He liked to go outside, particularly if someone would go outside with him (to guarantee a return indoors). He would occasionally venture
as far as the driveway, where he would lie down under a vehicle, just out of
reach.</span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: times;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="background: transparent;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Lenny
could sound like a herd of thundering elephants when running laps
down the hallway, through the kitchen, around the dining room table
and back. He could jump up onto the counter with the grace and
silence of a ninja. Usually.</span></span></span></span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: times;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;">Lenny
was the best napping buddy ever (ask Joanne), as long as you had a
blanket on your lap and you held perfectly still. He had the warmest
tummy for belly rubs (only when invited), the itchiest chin for
scratches (all the time), and the softest fur for general petting
(and shedding). He was quick to purr and loved “making
biscuits,” although he never mastered the claw-free knead.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: times;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;">He
was a “handsome boy.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: times;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;">Lenny
offered head butts to the sad and would listen to your woes with an expression of
compassion (often mistaken as apathy) on his fuzzy little face as long as you rubbed his
ears. He ignored those who wanted his affection, and circled
unwelcomely near those who did not.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: times;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;">He
was the “sweetest boy.”</span></span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: times;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;">Lenny
leaves behind a plethora of carpet stains, a threadbare area
rug/scratching pad, numerous tumble-fur fluff balls, and a
heartbroken family.</span></span></span></p>
<p style="line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: times;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;">He
was the goodest boy, and he will be missed.</span></span></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span><br /></span><br />
</p>J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-79122093363978162202021-04-13T19:12:00.002-07:002021-04-13T19:12:34.672-07:00Part 11.5: Still No Rest for the Sequestered<p><span style="font-family: times;"> <i>The story thus far: Due to Covid,
Julie and Vanessa have swapped their weekly “wine, whine and dine”
luncheons together at a local restaurant for “cold cuts, catch-up,
and phone call” luncheons apart, with each at her own home. During
their most recent call, Julie inadvertently volunteered to help
Vanessa with an envelope-stuffing project, only to find Vanessa had
anticipated her assistance and left the mailing supplies on her
doorstep . . . along with an empty HoHos box.</i></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Julie understood that Vanessa was
swamped at work, and she didn't mind helping her . . . much. A full
box of chocolate snack cakes would have gone a long way toward
erasing that “much.” A bottle or two of wine would have made
her downright glad to help out. An empty box of HoHos didn't do a
thing to reduce her reluctance.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“So, about those HoHos, Van . . . .”
Julie said, checking the box again. Nope. Still empty.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You know that I love having Michael
and Steve in my pandemic pod, right?”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Vanessa's ex-husband and his new
husband had moved in with Vanessa when their home remodeling project
encountered the same unexpected delays that plague every renovation.
Then Covid hit, adding another level of delays and sending the whole
thing off the rails.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yeah, yeah. No one gets left behind,
no one drinks alone, and you split the cooking three ways,” Julie
paused, certain she had stumbled across an explanation. “Oh my
gosh! They finally realized you can't cook and they voted you off the
island!”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Pffft. My crock pot is better than
any immunity idol. Nothing says comfort like slow cooker ham and hash
brown casserole, or slow cooker hamburger and tater tot casserole. As
long as there's not another potato famine or global shortage of cream
of chicken soup, I'm golden.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“But Michael has gourmet chef-level
skills, and a palate to match.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Yes, and schedule that leaves him
less time than a short-order cook. The classes he's teaching may be
virtual, but the homework he grades isn't. He tries, or at least he
<i>tried </i><span style="font-style: normal;">to keep up with the
cooking</span>. During the first week of the shut down, Michael made
his Zia Rosa's lasagna. We're talking homemade noodles, sauce that
simmered on the stove all day, and fresh </span><span style="font-family: arial;">mozzarella and ricotta cheese </span><span style="font-family: arial;">from an undisclosed, local
farm."</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">"Sounds heavenly," Julie said, trying not to drool.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">"Yeah, well, that was then. L</span><span style="font-family: arial;">ast
week he made a pyramid out of those single-serving,
microwavable mac and cheese cups and told us to knock ourselves out.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“And Steve . . . .”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Steve is a stress baker. Steve bakes
when stressed.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“So he's been baking a lot?”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“No. Between the corporate board zoom
meetings for his consulting gig, and zoom classes as an adjunct
professor, Steve hasn't had time to stress bake. Do you know what
happens when Steve can't stress bake? He gets stressed. And you know
what happens when Steve gets stressed? Michael gets stressed. And
when Michael and Steve are both stressed . . . .”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“They stress you out?” Julie
guessed.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“They drive me friggin' crazy! I
mean, I love those guys, but they need to calm the frig down.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“O.K., so you're all too busy to
cook. Much. That doesn't explain the empty HoHo box on my doorstep.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Steve spent all day yesterday
preparing for a VIZ <i>(Very Important Zoom)</i> meeting early this
morning. He was so stressed out he couldn't sleep. Normally, he'd
whip up a batch of his Nana's cinnamon rolls to calm his nerves, but
he didn't have time. Instead he snuck to the grocery store first
thing this morning to buy a box of HoHos and a tube of store-brand
frosting. He arranged the HoHos on a platter, piped some frosting
down the center of each, artfully arranged M&Ms – 'm' side
down – on the frosting, and passed them off as homemade chocolate eclairs.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You didn't say . . . .”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Are you kidding? When I was growing
up, Mom thought Little Debbie was the anti-Christ and the Keebler
Elves were Satan's minions. The only time I got to enjoy junk food
was when I was at your house.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“I'm sure my mom would be . . . .”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Michael and I gobbled up those HoHos
like we were eight-year-olds high on red Kool-Aid . . . or like
middle-aged adults strung out on stress and espresso.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“But why do I have the box?”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Steve is crap at subterfuge. I mean,
he <i>tried</i> to bury it in the recycling bin, but yesterday was
trash day, so it was a shallow grave. He <i>has</i> to know we know,
but this gives us all plausible deniability, you know?”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That was a sweet thing
you did, Van. Weird, but sweet.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Besides, if we play dumb he might
make us tiramisu out of Twinkies.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: times;">Coming soon: How Muffy became the
Machiavelli of face masks.</span></i></p>J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-7087056130227854862021-03-11T18:50:00.000-08:002021-03-11T18:50:10.061-08:00Ugly Spring<p> </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It's ugly spring in Iowa – that
awkward time of transition between winter and true spring.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">As temperatures climb, Mother Nature
begins her seductive striptease of cold-weather attire. She slowly
raises her snowbank skirts, the lace-melted edges sullied by sand and
dirt, to expose more leggy lawn each day. Her tired sod is mottled brown-gray by matted grass and moldering leaves, lined by
varicose trash veins, and pocked by dog poo. </p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Still, this suggestive glimpse of green provides an illicit thrill to our winter-weary core. We respond instinctively, desire overriding better judgement.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">But Old Man Winter is a persistent
suitor. The wind carries his whispered forget-me-nots, an icy finger
caressing the nape of our necks. We awaken to find his frosty love
notes written on windows and clinging to bare limbs.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">We know Mother Nature is fickle. We
know she will abandon us, lured away by the beauty of a diamond-flake
flurry or fleeing the ire of sleet and ice. Her come-hither warmth beckons, only to be replaced by a (literal) cold shoulder. Her sunny smile gives way to the glower of gray clouds.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">And yet we respond with child-like
optimism, baring arms and legs and feet – sweatshirts replaced by
tank tops, pants giving way to shorts, flip flops kicking aside
boots. We endure her seasonal petulance, knowing that soon (Soon?
Soon!) she will be ours.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Already, snowmelt giggles softly as it
trips over ticklesome, pebble-lined gutters, sprouts foolishly poke
forth from the warm shelter of foundations, parkas are relegated to
the backs of closets and shovels are replaced by rakes.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Spring – true Spring – has begun
her courtship and we are helpless against her charms.</p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></p>J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-56743143327628569872021-03-08T09:22:00.005-08:002021-04-13T18:57:31.279-07:00Part 11: No Rest for the Sequestered<p><span style="font-family: times;"> <i>The story thus far: One of the
things Julie missed most from the pre-virus days was her weekly lunch-at-a-restaurant date with her best friend Vanessa. Protocols, shutdowns,
and closures reduced their meetings to a weekly lunch-time phone call (in addition
to random-time-of-day texts, emails, and phone calls) like this one .
. .</i></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Do you remember back when this whole
virus-thing started?” Vanessa asked Julie during their regularly
scheduled, weekly, lunch-time call.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Julie snorted. “Just barely,” she
said.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“You know, back when we all thought everything
would be shut down for two, maybe three weeks, tops, and then life
would get back to normal? Remember how everyone made big plans for
what they were going to do during those two, maybe three weeks of
forced stay-cation? I was going to paint my kitchen, learn a foreign
language, and start a new exercise program.”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Oh, Van . . . .”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“OK, so I was going to hire some hot,
young hunk to paint my kitchen, have Mexican food delivered, and
start exercising.”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Van, I . . . .”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Fine. I was going to clear off my
kitchen counter, drink margaritas, and buy some cute yoga pants. My
point is, this pandemic has been going on for what, seventy years
now? And I haven't done any of that.”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Been a little busy at work?”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">It was Vanessa's turn to snort.
“Between the regular work, the fill-in work caused by
virus-absenteeism, the added virus-related work, the added 'how is
the virus affecting work' reports, the mandatory 'voluntary'
Covid-coping strategy Zoom meetings, and twice-weekly Covid tests,
I've just about had it. As Saint Roch is my witness, I've considered
faking my test results just so I could isolate and have a little <i>me</i>
time.”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Trust me, being in isolation isn't a
'get-out-of-work-free' card,” Julie said, looking at the stacks of paperwork on her desk. Julie was on day three of her
quarantine after coming into contact with “Germy Jimmy,” who had
subsequently tested positive for the virus. Julie had tested negative
herself, but was quarantining out of an abundance of caution. Miss
Irene had taken over Julie's delivery and errand chores, while Julie
handled Miss Irene's usual duties.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“I thought you were working from home
already," Julie said. "Why the twice-weekly tests?”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“The last round of job-shuffling has
me back at the office two afternoons a week – not the same two days
as I go in for tests, mind you. That would be too efficient. I work
from home the other six.”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“But that's . . . .”<br /><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“OK, the other eight. After a while
they all blur together. And now I'm in charge of volunteers.”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“How did that . . . .”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“I was late for a Zoom meeting.”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Didn't they put you in charge of
<i>scheduling</i> Zoom meetings when you were late for the last
<i>in-person</i> meeting?”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“They did. I am. Someone hacked my
account.”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“You mean someone figured out your
password was 'Zoom4Van'?”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“If I thought you knew how to use a
computer I'd be suspicious.”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“For someone who built a
state-of-the-art router from a first-gen iPhone, a broken toaster,
and a discarded Teddy Ruxpin, you are crap at password protection,
Van.”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Pffft, like the CIA needs a password to track my credit cards.”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“I'm sure Hoover and the boys have
better . . . .”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“J. Edgar was a <i>Fibby</i>. No, this goes much
higher than that. I caught Sister Mary Katherine Ignacia lurking outside my office.”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Wasn't she the . . . .”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Volunteer 'Director of Volunteers'?
Yes. She's been trying to retire for years but couldn't find a
replacement. Those big sleeves on her habit really slowed down her
reaction time for 'nose goes' .”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“That, and the fact that she's 103.”
Julie quickly crossed herself to ward off any stray lightning bolts
of smiting. “Now that you're in charge of volunteers, why not have
them <i>volunteer</i> to help you with all your other duties?”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Oh, you sweet, naive girl. Even if
there weren't half a dozen well-meaning privacy and security acronyms limiting
access to my files, there's this pesky little pandemic that limits .
. . well, pretty much everything else – and not just at the
hospital. Most of the other volunteer opportunities around town have
dried up as well. There's been lots of press about people who have
lost their jobs due to COVID, but nothing about all the volunteers
who can't volunteer. And do you know what they do with all their newly un-volunteered free time? Call me to ask how they can
help. Every. Single. Day.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“There must be something they can
do.” Julie licked and sealed another envelope, adding it to the
stack of completed Thank You's Miss Irene had given her to write. She
wondered how she could swing a volunteer of her own.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Vanessa sighed deeply. “Weh-yell,”
she stalled, “there is that direct-mail, fundraising project Sister
Mary Kat has been putting off.”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Julie thought Vanessa's sigh sounded
suspiciously like the sigh of a person about to ask a big favor.
“There you go! Problem solved!” But Julie had a feeling that the
problem was far from solved. “When do the volunteers start?”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“They don't. They won't. They turned
me down.” Vanessa paused, waiting for Julie to take the bait. When
she didn't, Vanessa rushed ahead. “And now I'm stuck with 500
fundraising letters that need to be stuffed into envelopes, addressed
and sorted.”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Van, I'd love to help you but . . .
.”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“Thankyousomuch, Jules! You're a life
saver! They're in a bag outside your door. I dropped them off on my
way to work this morning.”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Julie, who had started pacing when
Vanessa made “well” a two-syllable word, paced toward the door.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“I'll send the second batch of 500
letters over as soon as Sister Mary Kat finishes signing them.”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The thought of the 103-year-old
Nun signing all those letters triggered Julie's latent Catholic guilt. "Fine. I'll do it. But Van, why is
there an empty Ho Ho box in the bag?”</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“That's a whole 'nother story,”
Vanessa said.</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: times;">To be continued . . . with Ho Hos.</span></i></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-67469749074987612042020-11-11T19:14:00.004-08:002020-11-11T19:14:34.567-08:00Part 10.25: The Case of the Flying Fruit<p><span style="font-family: times;"><i> The story thus far: Julie is in quarantine and Miss Irene has been kicked out of the grocery store
for her role in...</i></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Interrogation Transcript: Deavers' Family
Foods Cleanup on Aisle 9 incident.</i></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Voice 1</i>:</b> I keep tellin' ya, this
is not an interrogation, Miss Irene, we're just tryin' to get to the
bottom of . . . is that a tape recorder?
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Voice 2</i>:</b> Not like that Dale! You
have to identify yourself before you start talking. That was Dale,
the store manager. I'm Paulette Palmedo. And I'd like to plead the
first amendment.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Dale</i>:</b> I think you mean the fifth
amendment, and this is . . . .</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Paulette</b></i>: Exciting! Isn't it?
Just like on <i>Jackie Gleason</i>. You know, my Pauley used to call me
his little Della Street. <i>(Giggle)</i> And that's my tape recorder.
My son gave it to me. He thinks I'm forgetful.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Dale</i>:</b> I know, mother. And I
think you mean <i>Perry Mason</i>. Like I was saying, we're just
tryin' to get to the bottom of what happened . . . .</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Voice 3</i>:</b> What happened? What
<i>happened</i>? I'll tell you what happened. That . . . .</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Paulette</b></i>: State your name.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Voice 3</b></i>: That's ridic . . . . .</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Paulette</i>:</b> State your name! Your honor, if it please the court . . . .</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Dale</b></i>: This isn't a court, Mom .
. . er, Ma'am. You are each valued customers here at Deavers' Family
Foods, but we just can't have a repeat of what happened . . . .</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Voice 3</b>:</i> Lena Johansen. My name
is Lena Johansen and I'll tell you what happened. That woman
assaulted me in the soup aisle.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Paulette:</b></i> Let the record show
Lena “Wack Doodle” Johansen pointed at Miss Irene just then.
They'll never hear you shakin' that bony finger of you'n on the
transcript.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Dale:</b></i> For the last time, Mother,
this is <i>not</i> a transcript. Mr. Deavers would like to avoid legal
action at all costs.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Voice 4:</b></i> Then what's Deputy Doug
doin' here? This is Irene Truman speaking.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Voice 5:</b> (Clears throat)</i> Deputy
David Doug . . . do you need my badge number?</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Dale:</b></i> NO!</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Deputy Doug:</b></i> So, what am I doing
here, anyway? Technically I'm not on duty, and anyways I didn't. . .
.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Dale</i>:</b> Deputy Doug just happened
to be the first shopper on the scene. He's the one who called for
backup, er, I mean cleanup.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Paulette:</b></i> Darn. I thought maybe
he was gonna frisk me again.
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Deputy Doug:</b></i> No! I mean, I
didn't frisk you in the first place. I definitely don't want to do it
again.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Paulette</b>:</i> All natural here,
Deputy. No fillers or GMOs.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Lena</b>:</i> If we could please get
back to the heinous and unprovoked assault upon my person. I'd like
to have the term “wack doodle” stricken from the record, please,
as it may prejudice the jury.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Miss Irene</b>:</i> Heinous and
unprovoked my heiny. You failed to yield the right of way in the
produce section, stole that last package of Oreos right from under my
hand, and repeatedly violated the Covid-protocol, one-way traffic
signs in the shopping aisles. Officer, arrest this woman!</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Deputy Doug:</b></i> Like I was saying,
I'm not sure the grocery store falls under my jurisdiction.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Lena:</b></i> I got to the Oreos first
fare and square. Besides, you're about one sandwich cookie away from
needing a wide-load sticker pasted on your rear.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Miss Irene:</b></i> Wide load, eh?
You'll think wide load when I . . . .</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Lena:</b></i> Let the record show the
perpetrator brandished a tangerine in a threatening manner! Oh! The
flashbacks! I may never eat another citrus fruit as long as I live.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Miss Irene</b></i>: One more wide-load
crack and you may not have long to live. Besides. I wasn't the one
who started the fruit fight.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Paulette</i>:</b> It was a random,
drive-by fruiting. Just like the one that did in poor John Travolta.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Dale</i>: </b>That was Pierce Brosnan in
<i>Mrs. Doubtfire</i>, Mother.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Lena:</b></i> Now really, Miss Irene.
You can't expect me to believe that Paulette threw that grapefruit at
me.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Miss Irene</b>:</i> I didn't say a word.
Snitches get stitches and end up in ditches.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Lena</b>: </i>Paulette is three foot
tall and blind as a bat. She couldn't hit the broadside of a . . . .</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Paulette:</b></i> I
used to pitch for the Rockford Peaches.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Dale:</b></i> That was Gena Davis,
Mother. <i>A League of Their Own</i>.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Paulette:</b></i> I was just givin' ya'
the ol' brushback. You crowded the plate, stepped into the pitch . .
. and you were comin' down the aisle the wrong way.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Lena</b></i>: Pfft, one-way shopping aisles. I've got more important things to attend to, like that two for one special on cream of mushroom
soup! I was checking expiration dates when I was viciously assaulted by a flying fruit! I tried to turn my cart around
and head back up the aisle, but Miss Irene was blocking my exit.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Paulette</b>:</i> We had ya' in a
pickle!</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Lena</b>:</i> When I turned around again, a grapefruit brushed my beehive!</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Paulette</b></i>: The runner stole on a
wild pitch! Safe at second base!</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Deputy Doug</i>:</b> I swear I thought that was your waist! I was trying to steady you!</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Paulette</b>:</i> Gravity and old age,
Deputy. Life's seventh-inning sag.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: arial;">(Silence)</span></i></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Dale:</b></i> You can go now, Deputy.
I'm sorry for . . . . Thank you for your service to
our country, sir.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: arial;">(Footsteps receding. A door opens
and closes.)</span></i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: arial;">(Muffled giggles. A snort.)</span></i></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Dale:</b></i> Alright, Mrs. Johansen,
let's talk cold turkey. What's it going to take to make all this go
away? Mr. Deavers has authorized me to make a very generous
settlement. I'm prepared to offer you five percent off today's
purchase.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Lena:</b></i> Twenty.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Dale</i>:</b> Ten, and double coupons for
store-brand items.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Lena</i>:</b> Fine. And I want their
loyalty rewards card privileges revoked.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Miss Irene</i>:</b> But . . . .</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Lena</b></i>: And Paulette has to take
shopping scooter traffic school class before she can get back behind
the wobbly wheels of a cart.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Dale</b></i>: Done!</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Paulette:</b></i> But . . . .</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Lena:</b></i> You whipped around the end of the aisle on that scooter like you were Thelma and Louise heading for
the cliff!</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>(Footsteps receding. Door closing.</i></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br /></i></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><b>Paulette:</b></i> I know Thelma Louise! </span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Dale:</i></b> (Sigh) No, Mother, she means . . . . </span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>Paulette:</b> </span><span style="font-family: arial;">I ran into her the other day, over by the Methodist Church.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Dale</i>:</b> So that's what happened to the bumper on the
Cadillac!</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="font-family: arial;"><br /></i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i style="font-family: arial;"><b>Paulette:</b></i><span style="font-family: arial;"> Pomelo. </span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Dale:</i></b> I'll say!</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><i>Paulette:</i></b> No, that's what hit Lena. I pummeled her with a pomelo. Some people just can't remember
details.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Meanwhile, Muffy is making mischief of her own . . . . To be continued.</i></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</p>J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-67420032912338031762020-11-02T07:47:00.001-08:002020-11-02T07:49:22.372-08:00Part 10: Doing (quaran)Time<p><span style="font-family: times;"> <i>The story thus far: While counting down
the hours (48) until her boyfriend Joe was finally out of quarantine,
Julie found herself in contact with someone who had been exposed to
the virus....</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><i><br /></i></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Julie shoved the few remaining boxes of
food donations onto shelves by herself, muttering angrily. Meanwhile,
Miss Irene and Vanessa charmed, bribed or bullied enough of the right
people to get her in for a virus test that day. Julie wondered if the
nurse administering the test had been one of the bullied, or if the
swab was actually supposed to touch the back of her skull.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Jimmy – or, “Germy Jimmy” as Miss
Irene had taken to calling him – tested positive for the virus, but
Julie did not. Given her interaction with people who were at risk if
exposed, she agreed that it would be best for her to quarantine
anyway.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Once she got over the shock of being
replaced in Miss Irene's organization, (she knew she wasn't
indispensable, but the speed with which her duties had been
reassigned was troubling) Julie realized there was an up-side to
quarantine. Of course she was disappointed to – once again – be
separated from her daughter and Joe, but she thought perhaps it was
all for the best. Lately she had been feeling downright bitchy, and
while she was confident of Joe's affection, she thought it best not
to push her luck.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The fewer people Julie came in contact
with, the more they got on her nerves. Familiarity may not have bred
contempt, but it had certainly bred discontent. When Big George said
he was returning to the shop to work two afternoons each week, Miss
Irene had suggested four.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Alone in her apartment, Julie shuffled
the boxes of photos she planned to organize “when she had the
time.” She idly scrolled through the emails from Muffy (subject
line: “Beauty-Fixes After 50: It's Never Too Late To Start”),
moving them to a folder marked “delete later.” Then she grabbed a
bottle of wine (which Vanessa had left outside her door), a pan of
scotcheroos (from Emily), and the “Pride and Prejudice” box set
(the good BBC version with Colin Firth) on loan from Steve and
plopped down on the couch to sulk.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Mellowed by the alcohol, sugar, and
posh British accents, Julie became contemplative. She was tired of
the drama, fear-mongering and politicization surrounding the
pandemic. As Miss Irene's errand girl, Julie came into (socially
distant) contact with many people – with many viewpoints. She
listened politely to each of them, smiling and nodding her head
whether she wanted to or not.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Julie wore her mask and kept her
distance. She washed her hands and regularly applied hand sanitizer.
She held her breath and inched backwards when approached by
no-maskers or maskers who apparently thought they were guaranteed
immunity. She understood the math of exponential spread and knew that
“best” protection wasn't “complete” protection.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">She noticed that when she set her mind
to look for people who <i>were</i> wearing masks, it seemed like most
of them did. When she actively looked for people who <i>weren't</i>
wearing masks, it seemed like most of them did not. Quite frankly she
was too busy obsessing over her own coughs, sniffles and headaches to
worry much about what other people wore or did. She was more
concerned about unknowingly infecting others than she was about
contracting the virus herself.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">She didn't think the virus cared what
your political affiliation was. She knew people who (swore they)
always wore a mask who still caught the virus, and people who
(wouldn't admit they) never wore a mask who didn't catch it. She knew
people who became extremely ill, and others who did not.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The virus, it seemed, was immune to
human concerns.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Julie spent the next day feeling guilty
for not feeling guilty about missing work – or at least not working
as much. Miss Irene had left a plate of snickerdoodles (Julie's
favorite) outside her door that morning . . . along with a list of
donors and a box of blank Thank You cards for her to write.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">During the afternoon coffee break with
Miss Irene and Big George (Skype-ing from across the back yard), Julie
learned that her regular duties were once again being reassigned.
J.J. had to be pulled off deliveries after mixing up orders for Mrs.
Harry Johnson and Mrs. Henry Johnson (sisters who had married
brothers, doubling the sibling rivalry). J.J. would take over grocery
duties from Miss Irene who had been banned from the store for her
involvement in a ruckus that morning.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Pffft,” Miss Irene pffted. “Most
of those people can't figure out which lanes to drive up in the
parking lot. How could anyone expect them to follow one-way aisles
</span><i style="font-family: arial;">inside</i><span style="font-family: arial;"> the store? Although, upon reflection, I may have over
reacted.” </span><i><span style="font-family: times;">(*Coming soon: Part 10.25 “Cleanup on Aisle 9.”)</span></i></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“If it's any consolation, I think
you've managed things very well . . . until now,” Julie said. “I
think people are getting stupider . . . .”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“<i>More</i> stupid, dear,” Miss Irene
corrected.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Julie silently counted to 10 very
quickly. “<i>More</i> stupid every day. I can't tell you how many
times I've wanted to punch someone in the throat. I'm pretty sure the
feeling's mutual. What's your secret?”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Equal parts prayer, patience,
and Templeton Rye whiskey.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Big George sniffed Miss Irene's coffee
mug. “Some parts more equal than others,” he said.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“All right, Mr. Smart Guy,” Miss
Irene laughed. “What's your advice for dealing with this
craziness?”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Big George thought for a moment before
speaking.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“People are scared. They're scared
for their health. Scared for their jobs. Scared for their families
and scared for their country. And each of them is right.” He let
this sink in. “But each of them is wrong, too. When you hold too
tightly to your own fear, you become blind to the fears of others.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Recognizing someone else's fear
requires you to admit that you may be wrong. It's threatening. And
whenever a frightened creature feels threatened, they lash out.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You can't change people's opinions
or actions by force . . . or even through reason, usually.” He
glanced sideways at Miss Irene and grinned. “Believe me, I've
tried.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Miss Irene kissed him on the cheek.
“But you <i>can</i> be a good influence,” she said.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That's what I'm counting on, dear. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Now if you'll excuse me ladies, I
need to get back to work. Remember Julie, the only person you can
change is yourself. Be patient. Be kind. Show the way. Be the light.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Julie leaned back in her chair to look
out her window. She watched as Big George crossed the backyard,
waving up at her window as he passed the garage. She waved back.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“All that wisdom and a great butt,
too,” Miss Irene said, drawing Julie's attention back to her
computer screen. “Don't let that Mr. Miyagi act fool you, though.
J.J. told me Mr. Holmer stopped by the shop this morning and got on a
rant, as he always does. George listened to him for a while, then
excused himself to change the batteries in his hearing aids and never
came back.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“But Big George doesn't wear hearing
aids,” Julie said.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Exactly.” Miss Irene arched an
eyebrow. “We're all doing the best we can, dear. Some days we're
Mother Theresa, some days our hearing aids quit working.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Miss Irene's phone chimed. She grumbled
as she read the text. “Well, dear, it seems I need to go shine my
light up Muffy's . . . viewpoint. It's a good thing I know where to
find you. You may have to arrange bail for me.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>To be continued ...</i></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i><br /></i></span></p>J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-31215537916753494842020-10-12T19:27:00.000-07:002020-10-12T19:27:06.187-07:00Part 9: Wait for it<p><span style="font-family: times;"><i>The story thus far: The pandemic changed every aspect of life in Pleasant Glen, including the way people kept track of time.</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p><i><span style="font-family: arial;">Two weeks.</span></i></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Julie was used to waiting. Or, at
least, she thought she was.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">When her daughter Emily went to off
college, Julie had learned to wait. She waited for Family Weekend,
for Thanksgiving Vacation, for Winter Recess, for Spring Break. She
learned that if she was patient, she would be rewarded with some
small amount of mother-daughter time, even if it was only a laundry date.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The virus changed all that. Schedules
were in a constant state of flux. Plans were made, only to be
postponed. Patience was rewarded with more delays.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Julie tried to hide her relief when
Emily's school-sponsored Spring Break trip overseas was canceled
because of the virus. She tried to hide her disappointment when Emily
decided to stay with friends in Chicago during break instead of
coming home. Julie tried to hide her relief when the Illinois
“stay-at-home” order shut down Rush Street, making Chicago no
more attractive or fun than little Pleasant Glen, Iowa.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Then the school announced that classes would be moved online, and Emily's return to Pleasant Glen was assured. </span><span style="font-family: arial;">Even that relief was short lived.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Since Julie's new job as Miss Irene's
delivery girl put her in contact with people at high-risk from the
virus, and Emily's grandmother was high-risk because of her age,
Emily's homecoming included two weeks of self-quarantine – just to
be on the safe side. The very situations that necessitated that
quarantine, made finding a place to quarantine challenging.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: arial;">Fourteen days.</span></i></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">After much
fretting, Bob offered the apartment above the Bar as a home (not far)
away from home. In lieu of rent, Emily was tasked with making the
space fit for habitation by sorting through boxes of memorabilia from
bands that had played the Bar over the decades.</span></p>
<p style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Julie was relieved
to have her daughter home – or <i>almost</i> home. Julie was
disappointed that seeing her daughter up close-ish involved sitting
on the rickety fire escape outside the apartment – especially since
Julie was afraid of heights.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Eventually Emily's quarantine came to
an end, unlike Joe's seemingly endless quarantine – or rather his
series of quarantines.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Joe had been caught in New York when
the virus struck and left him scrambling to find a flight back to
Iowa. Once home, he began a two-week quarantine at his rural Des
Moines home/office. Nine days in, his father suffered a heart attack.
Joe headed to Arizona to re-start his quarantine and lend
socially-distant support from the safety of the detached in-law suite
at his sister's house, while his mom temporarily moved to the “big
house.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Joe's father recovered and was
discharged by the end of Joe's first week there. By the end of week
two, although happy to see his son – from across the yard – Joe's father was more happy to return to his own bed in the guest house. Joe
returned to Iowa to begin yet another quarantine – this time in the
recently cleared and vacated apartment above The Bar.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i><span style="font-family: arial;">Three hundred thirty-six hours.</span></i></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Since Joe's quarantines were all
precautionary or travel-based rather than exposure-based, Julie and
Joe bent the rules a little. There was a very private concert with
Joe on stage at The Bar and Julie seated at the far end of the
building, and a <i>Romeo and Juliet</i> moment with Julie on the
landing outside her apartment and Joe at the base of the stairs.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Julie was counting down the days –
<i>two</i> – until she could talk with Joe from a distance less
than one story. While she waited, she worked. The weekend collection
drive for the food pantry had been an overwhelming success and now it
all needed to be put away. It was a Monday, and there was work
involved, so volunteers were scarce. Julie's lone helper was a
high-school age stock boy who hadn't had the good sense to look busy
when the manager entered the back room. Jimmy was on loan from the
local Mom and Pop grocery which had hosted the food drive, and his
main duty was to make sure the store's delivery van was returned
A.S.A.P.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">They worked quickly – huffing behind
their masks – to unload the van and stack the goods in the crowded
storage room. They were nearly done when Jimmy received a phone call:</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">His girlfriend, with whom he had spent
the majority of the weekend, had tested positive for the virus.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">While the virus had slowed many aspects
of Pleasant Glen social life, it had fertilized the already fast and
efficient gossip grapevine. Jimmy had just left and Julie was locking
up when her phone rang.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“You know what this means.” Miss
Irene didn't need to say more. Julie sighed heavily before replying:</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“<i>Twenty thousand, one hundred
sixty minutes</i>.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><b>To be continued...</b></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>Julie decides a little quarantine time may be just what she needs.</i></span></p>J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-39747742585747192762020-08-09T19:04:00.000-07:002020-08-09T19:04:18.890-07:00Part 8.2: Who's Zoomin' ... zoomed<p><span style="font-family: times;"><i> The story thus far: Vanessa, like many others, has turned to Zoom meetings while working at home during the pandemic. Things are going about as well as she fears. We'll back up a few lines to get a running start for part two...</i></span></p><p><i><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></i></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The meeting was going well and
discussion had moved on to the photo, when Vanessa felt her heart
begin to race. She listened inattentively, her mind wandering, as the
people in the postage stamp-sized gallery view frames on her computer
screen checked their calendars.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>How many cups of coffee DID I have?
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">she wondered</span><i>. </i>“.
. . second week of July?” a stamp asked.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Two cups were needed for coherent
conversation.</i> “Inside or outside?”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Two and a half made her perky, but
three cups . . . .</i> “Masks or no masks?”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Vanessa felt beads of sweat forming
on her upper lip.</i> “What's the point of a photo if no one
recognizes me?”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>A prickly feeling spread across her
face. </i><span style="font-style: normal;">“. . . temperature
scans.”</span></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Three cups would trigger a . . .
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">“Face shields?”</span> . . .
<i>hot flash</i>.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Vanessa fanned herself surreptitiously
with a Snootyslacks Foundation brochure while the postage stamps
debated the merits of plastic face shields. She reached for her glass
of water, hoping a drink would ease her symptoms.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It didn't.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">She was caught off guard mid-sip by a
question and inhaled when she should have swallowed, causing her to
sputter and cough.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And cough.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">And cough.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The postage stamps went wild. “Do you
think this is funny?” “Is this your idea of a joke?” “Have
you been tested? “<i>Ohmygosh</i>, is COVID a computer virus?”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Steve, who had been hovering in the
doorway impatiently waiting for his VIPZM, rushed in to help his
friend.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Steve, I . . . .” Vanessa croaked.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">As he handed her his “lucky” white
silk, jacquard pocket square (his was a <i><b>V</b></i>-VIPZM), Steve
was struck by inspiration.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“That's <i>Doctor</i> Steve,” he
said, smiling at the stamps with all the candor of a late-night
infomercial host. “Please pardon Ms. Kolkwitz. She's having what we
in the biz refer to as an 'age-related, brief, tropical vacation'.”
Taking the stamps' stunned silence for confusion he added, <i><span style="text-decoration: none;">sotto
voce,</span></i> “A hot flash.” The female postage stamps nodded
with understanding. The male postage stamps looked like they'd rather
be anywhere else at that moment.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Vanessa, having regained control of
herself, tried to regain control of the meeting as well. “The
hospital has a lovely, terraced, rose garden that will allow you all
to maintain social distance without looking too spread out. You can
lower your masks briefly for the photo, allowing us to see your faces
while still showing your concern for safety.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The postage stamps hesitated.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“And refreshments afterwards,”
Steve said.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Assured that PGCHC was COVID-free,
their egos stroked, and photo scheduled, the board unanimously agreed
to proceed, adjourned the meeting and signed off.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">One thing was still bothering Vanessa.
“<i>Doctor</i> Steve?” she said questioningly as she cleared her
things from the desk.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br />
</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“PhD . . . M.D.,” Steve shrugged, “they
don't ask to see my badge when I make a reservation at Olive Garden.”
He sat down in the control chair, then checked and re-checked his
watch. “Before you leave would you turn on the ceiling fan?” he
asked, blotting sweat from his forehead. “It's kind of hot in
here.”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>If you liked this (and I hope you did), tell a friend! And check out my novel, </i>Scout's Honor<i>, and the soon to be published </i>Scout's Redemption<i>.</i></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i><br /></i></span></p>J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-64846575732589642952020-08-09T18:52:00.001-07:002020-08-09T19:05:14.507-07:00Part 8.1: Who's Zoomin' ... zoom?<p><span style="font-family: times;"><i> The story thus far: While working from home during the pandemic, the residents of Pleasant Glen, like people everywhere, have turned to Zoom meetings ... with mixed results. Part 1 of 2...</i></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Vanessa's job at the small Pleasant
Glen hospital changed with the ebb and flow of budget cuts and staff
reductions, compounded by her habit of being tardy to staff meetings
which routinely started 30 minutes earlier than scheduled. Thus, when
the pandemic struck and she showed up for the 8:30 a.m. staff meeting
at 8 a.m., she found that she had been named the hospital's new
liaison officer at 7:45 a.m.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Her new duties included being the
(masked) face of Pleasant Glen Community Health Center for all
donor-related virtual interactions. In lieu of a pay increase, she
was allowed to work from home (as were all non-medical employees),
and permitted to use her own computer and internet connections.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Vanessa wasn't sure what she had done
to deserve “this fresh hell” (as she called it), but she
suspected it had something to do with threatening an insurance
company representative that she would “reach through the phone line
and punch him in the throat” if he didn't approve a cancer
patient's treatment plan. Julie thought it had more to do with the
fact that, as J.J. said, “even with the face mask, she's smokin'
hot.”</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Normally Vanessa would have been
thrilled by the opportunity to do away with her cross-town commute,
but she had come to value those 10-minutes of alone time. Things had
been a little crowded at home since her ex-husband Michael and his
new husband Steve (her “ex-husband-in-law,” as Steve referred to
himself) had moved in with her while remodeling their house.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">For the most part, this unorthodox
living arrangement worked well. They all got along, no one was bored,
and no one had to drink alone. Household chores were more or less
equally divided. Steve volunteered for extra kitchen duties, as he
was a stress baker. Michael, who's blood type was Kona, made sure
there was always fresh coffee. Vanessa provided the technological
wizardry to keep them all supplied with a strong WI-fi signal.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">But every positive has a negative, as we shall see.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">With all three of them working from
home, Zoom meetings were scheduled even more closely than bathroom
times. A section of bookshelves in the den was designated as the
official backdrop and was tastefully decorated with carefully
selected, non-offensive books (hardback), photos (black and white),
and one realistic-looking plant. The lighting and web cam were
arranged to create the most flattering image possible.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">On the morning in question all three
had Very Important Zoom Meetings scheduled. Vanessa, worried about
her VIPZM, had slept poorly. While Michael dialogued virtually with
the other faculty leaders of nearby Big State University, Steve
assured Vanessa the bags under her eyes were not <i>that</i>
noticeable. Steve, worried about his VIPZM had made his nana's sour
cream, cinnamon streusel coffee cake – which tasted exactly the
same as Vanessa's nana's coffee cake. The two of them reminisced
about their nanas and tried to eat their way to confidence, washing
it all down with multiple cups of fresh Kona coffee.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Bolstered by sugar and caffeine,
Vanessa was at last ready to meet virtually with the board of
Snootyslacks Foundation (the philanthropic arm of Fancypants Inc.)
about their grant for community COVID preparedness. The hospital had
already received provisional approval thanks to her work on the
application, support data and testimonials. All that remained was to
show that PGCHC was deserving and humble and – most importantly –
could provide a COVID-free environment for the publicity photo.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;">The meeting was going well and
discussion had moved on to the photo when Vanessa felt her heart
begin to race. She listened inattentively, her mind wandering, as the
people in the postage stamp-sized gallery view frames on her computer
screen checked their calendars.</span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i><br /></i></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>How many cups of coffee DID I have?
</i><span style="font-style: normal;">she wondered</span><i>. </i>“.
. . second week of July?” a stamp asked.</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Two cups were needed for coherent
conversation.</i> “Inside or outside?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p>
<p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Two and a half made her perky, but
three cups . . . .</i> “Masks or no masks?”</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i>To be continued ... Keep reading for part 2!</i></span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-family: times;"><i><br /></i></span></p>J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-46537066841301305312020-07-20T19:10:00.000-07:002020-07-20T19:10:37.792-07:00Part 7: It's All Fun and Zooms<i>The story thus far: While self-isolating due to the virus pandemic, Miss Irene organized relief efforts in the town of Pleasant Glen, a task made more difficult by the inability to meet in person.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
With the pandemic limiting in-person
meetings, the residents of Pleasant Glen – like people everywhere –
turned to video conferencing. And – like people everywhere – they
found their results varied.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After a frustrating day of non-stop,
disorganized organizational phone calls, 90-year-old Miss Irene asked
19-year-old Trey to help her move her committee work to the cloud.
Once all the participants figured out how to share their screens and
turn their microphones on, the Zoom meeting proved to be an efficient
way to showcase everyone's pets. Despite the background distractions
of cats, dogs, husbands and grandchildren, the group finally managed
to organize a food drive – something the previous day's phone calls
could not accomplish.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In fact, the virtual meeting was so
efficient Miss Irene announced at dinner that night that she would be
moving her weekly poker game to Zoom.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“But how are you going to deal the
cards?” Julie asked.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Miss Irene stared at Julie and blinked
slowly. Julie knew from previous experience that during times of
apparent age-related confusion such as this, it was far more likely
that <i>she</i> was having difficulties with cognitive comprehension
than Miss Irene. Both women looked to Big George to explain what each
of them thought should be obvious to the other.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Julie dear, Irene and her friends
have discovered that playing cards interrupts the flow of the game,”
he said, the twinkle in his eye contradicting the seriousness of his
tone. When Julie showed no sign of understanding, he tried again. “It's hard to keep up the pace of the gossip when you're
distracted by cards.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Miss Irene held up her hand to inject a
point of order. “We refer to it as 'sharing information',” she
said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“So, your poker games are just an
excuse to . . . gossip?” Julie asked, still not understanding.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Oh, no. They drink, too,” J.J.
said, rolling his eyes. “Poker night is code for whiskey sours.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Used to be sloe gin fizzes back in
the day. But then . . .” Miss Irene shuddered in lieu of further
explanation.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“What about your bridge club?”
Julie asked.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Intelligence gathering,” Miss
Irene said solemnly.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Puh-lease!” J.J. threw himself
back in his chair and rolled his eyes so hard Julie expected to see
them skitter across the floor. “They draw straws. Losers have to
play, winners drink mimosas.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Only during morning games,”Miss
Irene clarified. “Afternoons are gin and tonics.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Euchre?” Julie gave it one more
try.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Of course they play euchre, dear,”
Big George said. “This is Iowa. It's a state law.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
J.J. shook his head. “Beer drinking
and gossip are written into the rules of euchre.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“But why bother to call it poker, or
bridge, or even Crazy 8's if you're not actually playing cards?”
Julie asked, her frustration getting the best of her.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Miss Irene shrugged. “A little
harmless fun. Just like your 'book club meetings',” she said,
making air quotes, “are an excuse to drink wine.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“But I really <i>do</i> read the
books!” Julie protested.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Miss Irene gave Julie the slow blink
again. “Of course you do, dear.” she said, patting Julie's knee.
“And that's why we love you.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Miss Irene sounded so sincere and her
touch was so comforting that Julie wasn't sure if she should be
flattered or insulted.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Meanwhile, Julie's best friend Vanessa
was finding it can be just as hard to make a good first impression
virtually, as it is in person.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>To be continued...</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<br />J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-62686533451560673892020-06-28T19:52:00.000-07:002020-07-20T19:10:53.044-07:00Part 6: Distancing, Socially<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>The story thus far: Miss Irene and Big George volunteered to self-isolate, given their elevated at-risk status to the virus due to "accomplished age," in order to ease the youngsters' minds. That went about as well as could be expected</i>.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Irene's
self-imposed home-isolation lasted a week, which was three days
longer than Julie expected. Trey won the family's “Jail Break”
pool, although charges of collusion were raised when it was
discovered that he brought Miss Irene a chocolate milkshake each of
the last three days.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
On the eighth day,
as Julie was crossing the back yard from her apartment over the
garage to the main house, she was nearly run over by Miss Irene, who
was headed in the opposite direction, dressed in motorcycle leathers
and carrying a full-face helmet.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Let's take The
Scout on deliveries today,” she said, handing Julie a cup
half-filled with coffee. “I'll load up while you finish your
coffee.” Julie wanted to say that she couldn't <i>finish</i> her
coffee until she <i>started</i> it, but she recognized that
determined look on Miss Irene's face and knew resistance was futile.
By the time Julie gulped the lukewarm coffee and entered the garage,
Miss Irene was sitting in the sidecar, ready to go.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It was a beautiful
day for a motorcycle ride. The sun was shining brightly – the first
sunny day they’d had in weeks – and it was warm . . . -ish, or at
least warm-<i>er </i><span style="font-style: normal;">than it had
been</span>. Spring was more fickle than usual in its arrival, as if
it, too, was practicing social distancing. Winter-weary Iowans, tired
of being cooped up by ice storms and bitter wind-chills, were forced
to extend their stays indoors not only by fear of the virus, but by
weeks of gloomy, overcast skies. Cabin fever was rampant.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Miss Irene's first
week of “house arrest,” as she called it, had been more difficult
than she expected. She was used to attending <i>kaffeklatsch</i> at
the bakery at least three times a week – Tuesdays were reserved for
church meetings, Thursdays for beauty shop appointments. That week
she had ventured no further than the edge of her porch. Although she
was in constant phone contact with friends and informants, she had no
physical contact with anyone outside her immediate family (and
Julie). Virtual socialization proved effective and efficient for
coordinating donations and distributions of food, money and supplies
for virus relief, but it left Miss Irene with a vague feeling of
emptiness.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Julie, meanwhile,
had been Miss Irene's boots on the ground, running errands and making
deliveries for people who were unable to leave their homes. Her
“outdoor” time had been spent driving Miss Irene’s 1980s
Lincoln Town Car – which Julie thought was big enough to deserve
its own zip code and created its own weather patterns.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Julie's social contact
– virtual or otherwise – had been just as limited, if not more
so, than Miss Irene's. When Julie picked up supplies, there was
barely time for a mask-muffled hello or a tired wave. And when she dropped off deliveries – setting them on the edge of porches, a
safe distance from entryways – the recipients were shadows in darkened windows or foreheads and eyes peering cautiously
from behind curtains. Julie felt claustrophobic, constricted by her
own skin. She didn't necessarily <i>want</i> to socialize or travel,
but she missed the <i>potential</i> for socialization and travel.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Even The Scout
seemed anxious to get out of the house . . . or garage. Big George
kept the 1941 Indian Sport Scout motorcycle running better than new,
but cold starts could sometimes be difficult. That morning she
started on the first kick and settled in to a throaty purr. After
several adjustments, she still wanted to run fast so Julie gave in,
goosed the throttle and let her have her head. The exhaust rang out
joyfully as they accelerated through the corners, echoing through the
deserted streets.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Scout was a
beautiful motorcycle with glossy black paint set off by white tire
skirts and sparkling chrome accents. Julie watched the workers' faces brighten when The Scout pulled into the pick
up lane. The sidecar seemed to expand to hold all the packages<i> and</i> Miss Irene.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
As they set out for deliveries, Julie noticed more and more people out in their yards –
whether lured out by the warm weather or, as she imagined, by The
Scout's siren song. They paused their raking to watch The Scout pass
by, reassured by the familiar sight. “We turn more heads than the
ice cream truck,” Miss Irene boasted. When Julie placed the
packages on porches, she caught her first glimpse of the recipients
as they smiled and waved – albeit from behind closed doors.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
By the time they
returned home, Big George and Trey had set up a “clean room” in
the garage for Big George, who had been providing mechanical advice
via phone while in self-isolation. “There are a few problems even I
can't solve over the interwebs,” Big George said with a twinkle in
his eye. Coincidentally, Trey had picked this day in the family's
“Jail Break II: Big George Is Back In Town” pool.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The next time Julie
took The Scout on deliveries, people chatted with her from behind
their screen doors. And the next time, they stood just outside their
doors to visit. Even as the number of deliveries started to decrease,
the time it took to make those deliveries increased.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Soon after that,
virus-relief efforts in Pleasant Glen took on a new challenge. Miss
Irene coordinated neighborhood walks which featured scheduled “stop
and waves” or “stop and chats” – from sidewalk to porch –
bringing bringing back the old-fashioned, small town notion of
socializing, distantly.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>To be continued...</i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>For more stories about life in (fictional) Pleasant Glen, read my novel </i>Scout's Honor<i> and the soon-to-be-published </i>Scout's Redemption<i>.</i></div>
<br />J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-4863696210880430032020-05-23T10:53:00.000-07:002020-05-23T10:53:48.741-07:00Part 5: Chip Overplays Her Hand
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;"><i>The
story thus far: While Miss Irene has been organizing Pleasant Glen's
virus-relief efforts, we've been temporarily sidetracked by the story
of how Muffy became head of PG's face-mask sewing efforts. In order
to proceed, we need to back up a sentence or two and get a running
start</i>:</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background: transparent;">“<span style="font-size: small;"><i>Ehh</i>-vry-one's
who's <i>ehh</i>-ny-one is talking about it,” Chip said.</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;">Muffy
imagined she saw Chip's eyes roll back, like a shark preparing to
attack. “Shark Week” was “Must See TV” for Muffy, and she
knew that a quick bonk to the snout was (sometimes) enough to repel
such an attack.</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background: transparent;">“<span style="font-size: small;">Oh
<i>that</i> old news,” Muffy said in a bored voice. “I thought
you had something new and <i>interesting</i> to share.”</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;">Chip
flinched, then circled again, still probing for a weak spot. “I
heard Miss Irene's meeting with the mayor this afternoon. I heard
he's giving her the key to the city. <i>Again</i>.”</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;">Muffy
sneered, revealing razor-sharp teeth of her own. The mayor was her
second cousin, twice removed, and in Pleasant Glen, family gossip
spreads even faster than community gossip. She knew all about Miss
Irene's attempts to blackmail (Muffy's opinion) the mayor for his
toilet paper hoarding (<i><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">reported in Part 1 of this series</span></i>). </span></span></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background: transparent;">“<span style="font-size: small;">Oh,
I seriously doubt <i>that</i>,” Muffy said. “In fact, the mayor
and I were just discussing how <i>I</i> would handle relief efforts
<i>much</i> differently.” She had actually called him to commiserate about
TP-Gate – since she, too, had been caught with extra rolls – and
to assure him that she hadn't been the whistle-blower. (At least, she
hadn't been the <i>first</i> to snitch on him, a point which she
thought cleared her of all guilt.)</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background: transparent;">“<span style="font-size: small;">You?”
Chip said, incredulously. “But you're . . . <i>lazy</i>!” The mayor had
reacted the same way. Muffy's usual mode of operation was to steal
someone else's idea, graciously accept the title of chairman before
it was offered, then humbly select a co-chair to actually do the work
and take the blame. </span></span></span></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;">The
temperature inside the small car dropped rapidly. Poppy and Bitsy
leaned as far away from Chip as they could, which, given the size of
the back seat wasn't far. What Chip said was true. Even Muffy knew
this. All of the women knew it was true . . . of each of them.</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;">But
it was one thing to say this behind someones back (which they did
frequently), and quite another to say it to their face.</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;">The
silence in the car turned awkward. Chip, realizing she had been cast
adrift, did the only thing she could do: She led the sharks to weaker
fish.</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background: transparent;">“<span style="font-size: small;">Did
you see the picture Mitzi Finderstien posted on Facebook from her
granddaughter's second birthday party last weekend? Definitely more
than 10 people in that tiny yard of hers. <i>No</i> social
distancing. And a pony ride!”</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background: transparent;">“<span style="font-size: small;">Are
you sure that picture was from <i>this</i> year's party and not one
of those 'Memory' posts?” Poppy asked. “Didn't it rain all
weekend?”</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="background: transparent;">“<span style="font-size: small;">I
wouldn't know,” Chip said haughtily. “I was <i>inside</i> all
day, self-isolating and sewing face masks.” She held up a sad scrap
of fabric held together with safety pins and good intentions as
evidence, then quickly stuffed it back into her purse.</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;">In
fact, Chip <i>didn't</i> know when the picture had been taken. Unless
the post featured a cute kitten or a nearly naked fireman, Chip
scrolled right on past it. She had only noticed Mitzi's post because
the man leading the pony had a tattoo of a kitten on his well-formed
bicep. “What does it matter? It's people like that who are putting
the rest of us in danger.”</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;">The
women eagerly took the bait and began discussing other photos they'd
seen on Facebook which may or may not have been taken during the
shutdown.</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="background: transparent;">Muffy
ignored the frenzy. Seeing Chip's poor excuse for a face mask had
given her an idea....</span></span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">
</span><i>To be continued. </i></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-decoration: none;">
<i>For more stories about life in Pleasant Glen check out my novel "Scout's Honor" and soon to be released "Scout's Redemption."</i><br />
</div>
J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-55480722179321668252020-05-08T19:09:00.000-07:002020-05-08T19:09:18.666-07:00Part 4: The Making of a Mask Maven<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The story thus far: Miss Irene, Julie's 90-year-old landlord, is assembling a crack team - some more cracked than others - to provide pandemic relief services. So how did Muffy become the Machiavelli of Masks? Read on...</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Muffy Smith wasn't Miss Irene's first choice to head the Pleasant Glen volunteer face mask sewing group. She wasn't even in the top ten.<br /><br /> Then again, heading up the volunteer sewing group wasn't Muffy first choice either. Her <i>first</i> choice would have been Miss Irene’s job as head of <i>all</i> Pleasant Glen's volunteer virus-relief efforts. It wasn’t that Muffy didn’t think Miss Irene was capable, or that Muffy was fond of doing anything remotely resembling work, she just preferred to be the <i>center</i> of attention – not orbiting slightly off center.<br /><br /> Muffy was meeting with her clique (Bunny, Poppy, Bitsy and Chip) when she first learned of Miss Irene's efforts to organize donations and resources to help those affected by the virus and resulting closures. Prior to that, Muffy's only virus-related concern was locating a manicurist and beautician who would make house calls. She found the restrictions to be quite inconvenient and thought the governor was going overboard with some sort of personal vendetta against her.<br /><br /> Case in point: before the pandemic, Muffy and friends met each Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning at Coffee Olé, Pleasant Glen's combination coffee shop/Mexican restaurant. (Tuesday mornings were reserved for Pleasant Glen Women's Religious Council meetings, Thursdays for beauty shop appointments.) From their booth in the cafe's front window, the women could observe the comings and goings at the shops surrounding the town square and pass judgment on it all: the unfortunate clothing choices, disastrous hair styles, and the frequency with which certain people visited PeeGee's Bakery.<br /><br /> When businesses closed because of the virus, the women were forced to get their lattes to-go, and sit in Muffy's Camero coupe. Although it was small, it was new-ish (Muffy's son “gifted” it to her when he defaulted on the payments) eye-catching and sporty, and it made them feel almost like they were back in high school (except for the difficulty they had climbing into and out of the backseat). Sitting in the car had other advantages, too: they didn't have to pretend to hide their bedazzled flasks (Bailey's Irish Cream Mondays, RumChata Wednesdays, Kahlua Fridays), and they could linger as long as they wanted without being pressured (which they ignored) to move along.<br /><br /> Their parking space on the town square put them right in the middle of the action, providing an edgy thrill – like the shark tunnel at the aquarium. Unfortunately, there wasn't much action to be a part of, or to comment on. In fact, by the end of the first week, the whole situation was losing its appeal. Ridiculing the few shell-shocked citizens still out and about was like shooting fish in a barrel. That didn't mean Muffy and friends didn't try: “I can see her split ends from here.” “Spandex is a privilege, not a right.” “Only a man would consider <i>that</i> six feet of distance.”<br /><br /> But Muffy could tell their hearts weren't in it. Between snarky comments, the women would sigh and twirl the ponytails protruding from their Lululemon caps (a necessity now that the salons were closed). Muffy knew if she didn't chum the water soon, they would turn on themselves. While she was willing to sacrifice any one of them, she couldn't run the risk of mutiny. She was about make them walk the plank when Julie drove by on The Scout, the sidecar filled with grocery bags.<br /><br /> “Well! That seems like an excessive amount of groceries for a single woman living alone!” Muffy said, her eyes lighting up at the scent of fresh prey. “Looks like 'Miss Goody Two Shoes' is Pleasant Glen's biggest hoarder!”<br /><br /> “She's probably just doing deliveries for Miss Irene,” said Chip, not bothering to temper the boredom in her voice.<br /><br /> “Deliveries?” Muffy watched Chip in the rear view mirror closely. In her experience, the quiet, bored ones were the most dangerous.<br /><br /> Chip, sensing a weak spot in Muffy's leadership and – as Muffy expected – hoping to improve her position in the food chain, sighed and flipped her ponytail before continuing. “<i>Ehh</i>-vry-one's who's <i>ehh</i>-ny-one is talking about it,” Chip said.<br /><br /> Was it Muffy's imagination, or did Chip's eyes roll back in preparation for an attack?</span><br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">To be continued.</span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">For more stories about Julie and the gang, check out my novel "Scout's Honor" and the soon to be released "Scout's Redemption."</span> </i></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> <br /><br /> </span>J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-33404789958867647312020-04-26T18:18:00.000-07:002020-05-08T18:34:51.091-07:00Part 3: Irene In Charge<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: small;"><i>The story so far: Miss Irene, Julie's 90-year-old landlord, is using her shelter-at-home time to organize relief efforts for Pleasant Glen, Iowa, </i></span><i style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"> residents </i><i style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">hardest hit by the virus outbreak.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "cambria" , serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Miss
Irene was the perfect Pleasant Glen Virus Relief Czarina. Big George
said she had moxie. J.J. said she was bossy. She had money, she had
brains, and most importantly, she had connections.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">A
lifelong resident of Pleasant Glen herself, Miss Irene's family had been
among the first settlers and were instrumental in the establishment
of Farmers’ Bank of Pleasant Glen (later Pleasant Glen Savings &
Loan). Under her father's tutelage she had risen through the ranks
from teller to vice president (while completing college and raising
six children on her own) and was still a member of the bank's board
of directors.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Rumors
of her personal wealth, in addition to her association with the bank,
put her at the top of the potential-member wish list of every
philanthropic organization in town. Once she agreed to become a
member, her work ethic and unparalleled accomplishments kept her
there. She had years of experience working on both the fundraising
and distribution sides of community charities.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Miss
Irene was also a savvy business woman. She had gone on to earn an
M.B.A., backed up with practical experience from working at the bank
and her role as the (not very) silent partner in Pleasant Glen Cycles
and Motors.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Perhaps
most importantly, she was a key member of the Pleasant Glen gossip
grapevine.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">In
addition to her previously mentioned sources of contact, each of her
six children (seven, if you included J.J. – and everyone did), had
been outgoing, with legions of friends (and parents) who were fond of
(and occasionally cowed or indebted to) her. Although Miss Irene's
children had all left Pleasant Glen, she still stayed in contact with
those friends (and their parents), and by extension, their children
(and sometimes grandchildren) who made up the current crop of PG's
business owners, employees, and the town's movers and shakers.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: small;">Miss
Irene and the cadre of other mothers along the grapevine knew how to
apply just the right amount of diplomatic arm-twisting, guilt, or
fawning to extract vital information from the youngsters who spent
every day working on the front lines. With just a few well placed
phone calls, Miss Irene was able to find out where and when shipments
of much needed goods – like toilet paper – would be delivered . .
. and more.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The
manager of the local discount grocery store – who had once had a
crush on Miss Irene’s eldest son – was more than happy to share with her mother (who shared with Miss Irene) the names</span> of the people who had
bought up cartloads of toilet paper when the first wave of panic
buying hit.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The hoarders themselves were less enthusiastic about sharing their stash. Eventually Miss Irene was able to wheedle enough donations to include a couple rolls in each of the care packages delivered to the town's elderly shut-ins. And, after reminding the mayor that it </span><i>was</i> an election year and (mis)quoting the Lash proverb: "Give (ill-gotten toilet paper) cheerfully with one hand you will gather (votes) well with two," the food pantry was restocked with TP as well.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But for every #toiletPaperGate Miss
Irene sidestepped, other problems arose. Take, for example, the near
mutiny amongst the mask making volunteers . . . .</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">To be continued.</span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /></span></i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">For more stories about Julie and the gang, check out my novel "Scout's Honor" and the soon to be released "Scout's Redemption."</span> </i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-22002931581123038982020-04-20T19:17:00.000-07:002020-04-20T19:17:59.626-07:00Part 2: Dinner at Miss Irene's<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><i>The story thus far:
The virus has hit Pleasant Glen. Julie, worried about the health of
90-year-old love birds Miss Irene and Big George, plots with J.J. to
convince them to stay safely at home. Miss Irene and Big George plot
to make Julie and J.J. think they've convinced them to stay at home.
A family dinner has been called ….</i></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="docs-internal-guid-fae85dd1-7fff-b63d-1bf9-4cb824d72c3c"></a>
Before the pandemic (B.P.), it had been a challenge for everyone to
clear their schedule for Miss Irene’s once-a-week, mandatory family
dinners. (Julie became an honorary family member the moment she moved
into the apartment above Miss Irene’s garage.) Everyone –
particularly Trey, who was a senior at Pleasant Glen High School –
had been busy with meetings, classes, concerts, sporting events and
work (Pleasant Glen Cycles and Motors was open until 8 p.m. on
Thursdays). When they did gather together, the dinner table was abuzz
with gossip and stories about their daily adventures.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
After social
distancing and stay-at-home recommendations, they found their social
calendars empty. “The boys” all moved to Miss Irene's sprawling
Victorian home, making it easier for her to fret and cluck over them.
The once-a-week, mandatory family dinners became nightly,
by-necessity family dinners. Between the lack of outside contact and
Miss Irene's “no virus talk at the table” rule, conversation
dwindled.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Even so, it was
quieter than usual around the table that night. Each person was lost
in their own thoughts, weighed down by secrets and schemes none of
them were used to keeping from the others.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Julie wondered how
angry Miss Irene and Big George would be when she and J.J. asked them
to curtail their already limited outside contact even more.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Big George wondered
if Miss Irene, who he affectionately called “my little bull in a
china shop,” knew the meaning of the word “subtle.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
J.J. wondered how
he could keep the “new” used car he was buying Trey for
graduation a secret if they were together all the time.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Trey wondered how
he could avoid letting his father know he knew about the “new”
used car he was getting for graduation if they were together all the
time.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Miss Irene wondered
if Big George would think her “Naughty Nurse” costume was in bad
taste given the current circumstances. What about the “Frisky
Firefighter” costume? </div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Unable to bear the
silence any longer, Julie cleared her throat and gave J.J. “A Look
of Some Importance,” complete with eyebrow wiggles and head nods,
telepathically urging him to start the conversation.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
J.J., who had been
a single father for nearly 16 years, was unused to reading female
nonverbal cues and mistook this for the “please pass the salt”
look. A swift kick to the shin and some more emphatic head nodding
from Julie brought him up to speed.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Uh, Dad? Miss
Irene? . . . Julie has something she wants to tell you.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Julie gave in to
the inevitable. “Well, you see . . . the thing is . . . .”</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You are
absolutely right,” Miss Irene interrupted, her need to control the
situation trumping her desire to let Julie think she was in charge.
“The support system in Pleasant Glen is in a shambles. I've already
been in contact with the food pantry, hospital and Meals-On-Wheels.
We have our work cut out for us.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Big George and I
will set up a command center here in my home office. I'm sorry, but that will leave all the outside work to you kids. Julie, since your party planning business is on hold, you
will be our pickup and delivery girl. J.J., you can provide backup
when things are slow at the shop. And Trey, you're going to help your
granddad with remote repairs by phone. Think of it as an experiment in telemechanics.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Trey, J.J. and
Julie stared at Miss Irene in stunned silence.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Very subtle,
dear,” Big George said with a wink.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Miss Irene colored
slightly. “That is, if it's ok with you kids.” They nodded
slowly, still trying to process their marching orders.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Alright then,
let's get to work! J.J., I need you to set up a card table in my
office for your dad. He can be my receptionist when he's not working
on repairs.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Big George helped
Julie and Trey clear the dishes from the table, but hung back as they
slipped through the kitchen door, whispering furiously. As he passed
Miss Irene, Big George stopped and planted a kiss on the top of her
fluffy cloud of white hair.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Does this mean I
get to wear the sexy secretary costume?” he asked.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Miss Irene grinned.
<i>Maybe there was an up-side to this pandemic after all</i>, she thought.</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">To be continued...</span> </i></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-82085094141865299602020-04-18T18:53:00.000-07:002020-04-18T18:53:18.565-07:00Part 1: The best laid pandemic plans
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">T</span>he virus hit Pleasant Glen like an
Iowa summer thunderstorm.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At first, the angry red blob
hopscotching across the radar on the other side of the globe was
dismissed with a healthy dose of Midwestern skepticism. “Those
forecasters aren't right even half the time,” they said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As black clouds roiled on the horizon,
people gathered on porches and in parking lots and cast a doubtful
eye. “Can't be as bad as the winter of 19--,” they said. “Can't
be as bad as the Spanish Flu.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
They smelled rain in the air – cases
confirmed on either coast – and buried the metallic taste of fear
under a veneer of Iowa stubborn. Plans were made to make plans . . .
eventually.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When at last the storm hit, it brought
the thunderous rumble of businesses shuttering their doors, and
lightning strikes of homeschooling frustration. The winds howled
with the fury of middle-aged women forced to miss hair color
appointments. A tidal surge of panic swept shelves clear of toilet
paper, hand sanitizer and Busch Light.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">J</span>ulie's first concern was keeping Miss
Irene safe. Julie realized that her 90-year-old friend and landlord
was more healthy than most 45-year-olds, but she was also more social
than most 21-year-olds and more headstrong and harder to restrain
than a two-year-old.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Miss Irene had a kind heart and a
strong sense of civic responsibility. There was rarely a charity or
relief project that took place in Pleasant Glen that she didn't
endorse or – more likely – organize. And where Miss Irene
volunteered, Big George, her beau of 50 years, was sure to be
dragooned. (Not that he was any less benevolent.)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But with older adults being at higher
risk for complications from the virus, Julie thought this was one
battle Miss Irene and Big George should sit out – or at least
observe from the (relative) safety of their home.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
After yet another unsuccessful attempt
to buy toilet paper, Julie stopped at Pleasant Glen Cycles and Motors
to talk to J.J., Big George's son.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">“W</span>hatever we do,” J.J. said, “it
has to seem like it was their idea. You know how hard my dad will dig
in his heels if we try to tell him what to do.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Julie nodded in agreement. “The
trick is to keep them busy, so they don't have time to think about
being stuck at home.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Remember how Dad griped when I cut
him back to 40 hours a week at the shop?” J.J. had taken over all
managerial duties at PGCM long ago, but Big George remained the
shop's top mechanic.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“You know he still works more than
40 hours, right?” Julie asked.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“And that's why he's back on salary.
The overtime was killing me!”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">A</span>cross town at Miss Irene's house, a
similar discussion was taking place.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Whatever we do,” Miss Irene said,
“we have to make the kids believe it was their idea.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Big George nodded in agreement. “The
trick is to keep them busy, so they don't have time to worry about
us.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Do you remember how pleased with
herself Julie was when she thought she had convinced me to quit
Taekwondo class?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I take it she didn’t find about
your little agreement with the instructor?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I didn’t tell her, and you can
sure as heck bet that Mister Ricardo didn’t tell <i>anyone</i>.
Pffft," Miss Irene scoffed, "<i>best four out of five</i>.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“It was nice of you to let him win
that last match, dear. Good thing Chuck Norris threw in a few acting
lessons when he taught you Chun Kuk Do.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Isn't it, though?” Miss Irene
said, ignoring Big George's sarcasm. “Those skills will come in
handy when we tell the kids we're self-isolating. Although it's going
to require something a little more subtle than taking a dive.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: x-large;">A</span>ll four of them quietly contemplated
the situation. Or rather, three of them contemplated quietly while
Miss Irene, who found movement helped her thinking process, reviewed
her taekwondo forms. After much consideration and a near miss with a
floor lamp, schemes were hatched and a family dinner with mandatory
attendance organized for that night.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“If all else fails . . . .” J.J.
said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“. . . we’ll tell them it was
Trey’s idea,” Big George said.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Julie grinned. She knew that Big
George couldn’t resist his grandson’s charm, and neither could
Miss Irene.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Miss Irene kihaped loudly. She knew
that J.J. was a pushover when it came to his son, and Julie was
nearly as fond of the boy as the rest of them.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<b>To be continued...</b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">To learn more about Julie and the gang, check out my novel, "Scout's Honor." Coming soon: "Scout's Redemption."</span> </i> </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-2407403777356382832020-02-02T12:28:00.001-08:002020-02-02T12:28:57.935-08:00And That's Why I Don't Wear Makeup<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The other day I woke up looking a
little haggard – ok, more haggard than usual – and since I was
ahead of schedule – ok, not as behind schedule as usual – I
decided to put on makeup.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I don't usually wear makeup because: 1.
I'm lazy; 2. I'm not very good at applying it; and C. I usually don't
have the time. Even though I have my makeup routine down to five
minutes – ok, 3 minutes for the basic conceal and spackle – I
figure I can use those 3-5 minutes for more important things, like
finding a cure for cancer, writing the Great American Novel, or
playing spider solitaire.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But that day, I was looking <i>so</i> haggard
I decided to use what precious little, not-behind-as-usual, time I
had to put on makeup. My decision may have had something – and by
“may have had something” I mean “had everything” – to do
with two recent incidents:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The first incident was when a friend
said “Wow! You look younger when you wear makeup.” I'm not sure
if that's true or not, because I see my face every day. I have tried
different types of moisturizers, concealers and foundation, and I
don't notice any difference. But they meant it as a compliment and I
took it that way. (Besides, photographic evidence from that night
does seem to indicate that I was looking – at a bare minimum –
“not bad,” and maybe even “smokin' hot.”)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The second incident was when an
acquaintance said “Wow! You have big feet.” I know this is true,
because I see my feet every day. I have tried different styles of
shoes – from rounded toes to high heels – but aside from avoiding
shoes with extremely long, pointy toes, there's just no way to
camouflage my flippers. They meant it as a statement of fact, but I
was still taken aback. (Besides, I was wearing my normal running
shoes, not my big-as-an-RV-but-more-comfortable Hoka running shoes.)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The point is, on the morning in
question I decided to try and enhance my appearance by
wearing makeup. Disaster struck early on, when an errant swipe of
coverup covered up not only the steamer trunks beneath my eyes, but
my wispy eyelashes as well (see #2 above “not very good at applying
it”). I thought I could return a little definition to my eyes by
applying eyeliner. Unfortunately all this did was make me look like I
had drawn circles around my eyes. It did nothing to return my
eyelashes.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was now dangerously close to being
“more behind schedule than usual” (see C. above “don't have the
time”), so rather than washing it all off and starting again (see
Appendix: “rarely does the sensible thing”) I got out the mascara
that I only use a handful of times – ok, twice – each year.
Despite my best attempt to apply an even coat of “non-clumping”
mascara, I managed to glue together all seven of the eyelashes on my
right eye (four on the top lid, three on the bottom lid).</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
While struggling to open my eye –
which was weighted down with a 5-pound clump of mascara – I managed
to pull an eyelid muscle and worked up a good eyelid sweat that
washed a combination of concealer, eyeliner and mascara into <i>both</i>
my eyes (the left eye watered in sympathy for its fallen brother).</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So now I had bloodshot, smudge-ringed
eyes, tear-streaks through my foundation, and a red, runny nose. And
I was definitely behind schedule.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This is why I don't wear makeup.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'm not sure if I looked any younger
(although I did bear a striking resemblance to some drunken,
after-hours, party-girl pics I've seen on Instagram), but no one said
anything about my big feet.</div>
<br /><br />
<br />J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-57534199312894282782019-08-21T13:21:00.000-07:002019-08-21T13:21:31.314-07:00Giving In To Google<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am not technologically savvy.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
That is a gross understatment. I have,
however, found a way to co-exist with technology. Or so I thought.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Until now.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Google and I have been involved in an
escalation of hostilities that has me reaching for a white flag of
surrender. I'm not sure who started it (Google
did), but my own hubris (totally Google's fault) may have played a
part.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I recently started using Google Docs
and Gmail more and I thought we were getting along pretty well-ish.
Life was good-ish. We were happy-ish.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My only problem was that I couldn't
access my Gmail from my cell phone. I could pull up the Gmail log-in screen on my browser (Google) and type in my password – luring me in with a false sense of
progress – only to be crushed by the pulsing blue line of death.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then I discovered the Gmail app for my
android phone.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The clouds parted, the heavens opened,
and a chorus of angels sang.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I downloaded and installed the app.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I logged in to one of my Gmail
accounts.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then I switched to another.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then I tried to log out.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then Gmail told me I needed a lock
screen.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So I added a lock screen.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And I tried to log out.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But I had to log in before I could log
out. And I couldn't log in because Gmail told me I needed to upgrade
my program. But I couldn't upgrade because I needed to back up my
information first but I didn't have room to back up anything because
I needed an upgrade which could only happen if I logged out and I
couldn't log out until I logged in and . . . .</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So I uninstalled Gmail from my phone.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Except that I didn't.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And it kept reminding me that I needed
to upgrade.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And back up.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And add a lock screen.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And log out.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So I re-installed, lock screened,
logged in, logged out, uninstalled and unlocked.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And then my calendar was wiped clean.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As in, all past, present and future
engagements were gone.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
All of them.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Gone.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I can live without accessing Gmail from
my phone. But my calendar? Most (all) of the time I can't remember
what day of the week it is, let alone what I am supposed to be doing.
Having an electronic calendar on my phone has been a life saver –
especially since I figured out how to save appointments on it
(usually).</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I decided to try to access my Google
account from my laptop to see if my calendar had been saved there.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Google told me I needed to add a new
gmail to my account before I could do anything. But it can't be one
of the FIVE gmail account names I already have (between part-time jobs and personal)
because those are already taken. By me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I lost my temper.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Flock yourself, Google!” I said. Or something that sounded like that.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“<i>I'm sorry. I wasn't listening.
What would you like me to do?”</i>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Voice-Activated Google Assistant on
my phone – the same VAGA that can't understand me when I am
speaking Slow. Ly. And. Clear. Ly. And. Di. Rect. Ly into the
microphone – suddenly decided to answer me <i>from across the room</i>.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I nearly wet my pants.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It's the computer-buddy equivalent of
“would you like to step outside and settle this?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Rather than risk having my phone
open a can of whoop-ass on me, I've decided to spend the rest of the
day trying to sort out my various Google accounts.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It's not like I have anything else to
do.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I mean, my calendar is clear.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<br />J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-3940073525465788822019-05-13T08:05:00.001-07:002019-05-13T08:05:21.087-07:00First Run Move(y)<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Day 8 of Fit in 42</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As part of my campaign to – as King
Julian puts it – “move it, move it” (also sometimes known as
“procrastination, nation”), I went for a run Friday. And I lived
to tell the story. So far.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I didn't run at all last summer due to
a minor but nagging injury. An injury which <i>was not</i> caused by
running or lifting (sounds like irony, but it's not). Moral of the
story: don't sit on one hip while staining the deck, and don't ignore
an injury hoping it will go away.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Anyway.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRhz6UgXzoCS93Xb6sANheedTyJKW81DPvf5wNS87TG7-Pf00wnrQPL-COxd7ryVhrRg-Z4W-cVmo6ZcPlyLeUJ2ZDC-_UZP5P3A-MoMoKSpTcBvFjRFq6GDv_eklKXjZpAB_Uh6Xu9SLG/s1600/Hokas.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1224" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRhz6UgXzoCS93Xb6sANheedTyJKW81DPvf5wNS87TG7-Pf00wnrQPL-COxd7ryVhrRg-Z4W-cVmo6ZcPlyLeUJ2ZDC-_UZP5P3A-MoMoKSpTcBvFjRFq6GDv_eklKXjZpAB_Uh6Xu9SLG/s320/Hokas.jpg" width="244" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, my Hokas are larger than the pine tree.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Inspired by the sunshine and joggers I
saw in Iowa City, I laced up my new Hoka's and hit the road. After
stretching, of course. And swearing. A LOT. I may have set a new
personal record for saying “Oh, sh*t” during this hour of
exercise.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
First I had to find my old, but
serviceable Garmin watch and set the run/walk feature (that's at
least 10 “oh, sh*ts” right there). Then I had to track down my
old, but serviceable ipod, armband (right where I left it), and ear
buds (not where I thought they were). On the plus side (!), both the
watch and ipod were charged up and ready to go because I've been
planning this for … quite a while.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am terrible at guesstimating how warm
I will be while running, so after finding a sweatshirt and deciding
it would be too warm, finding a light jacket and deciding it wouldn't
be warm enough, I settled on the sweatshirt and headed out the door.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
How long has it been since I ran? Long
enough for me to forget how to untangle the cord on my ear buds, to
forget which bud went in which ear, and to forget how much it hurts
when that rubber-y cord tangles in my hair.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I really want to avoid another injury,
so in a rare show of sense and sensibility, I decided to follow one
of the BAZILLION Couch to 5K programs that can be found online, and
set off on a 1 minute run/2 minute walk interval for 10 runs.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was out of breath by the end of the 5
minute warm up walk. My left foot hurt and my right knee ached. In
other words, nothing out of the ordinary.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
During the first 1-minute run interval,
I ran half a block. But my knee didn't hurt any worse, and my foot
felt fine.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Random running thoughts:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>From the beginning of the run:</i>
“Who knew one minute was such a long time?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>From the middle: </i>“I should
learn the difference between wild parsnip and poison ivy.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>From the end:</i> “Who knew two
minutes was such a long time? Who needs a two minute recovery time?”<i>
(Spoiler alert: Me. That's who needs a two minute recovery time.)</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At the end of my 5<sup>th</sup> run
interval, I had completed one mile! WOOT! It had taken me 15 minutes,
but I had done it. I remember watching the big, digital clock at the
finish line of my second 5K (the first one when I didn't FALL), and
putting all my effort into finishing in less than 45 minutes. It took
44 minutes and 55 seconds, but I came in at under 45 minutes. That
became my time to beat. Friday's 15 minute mile isn't going to finish
a 5k in under 45 minutes, but it's a start.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
15 minutes is the time to beat. Don't
bet against me.</div>
<br />J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-42515705080117246542019-05-10T16:23:00.000-07:002019-05-10T16:23:38.506-07:00Weighty Thoughts<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Day Five of Fit in 42</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wednesday I came up with a list of
goals, which, even before I posted, I realized were incomplete.
Still, you gotta start somewhere, amIright?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My successes so far have been mixed:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
+ I have made some more healthful
choices regarding foods. (I passed on the fries. Once. Trust me, this
is an accomplishment.)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
- I haven’t fully implemented my
Master Meal Planning Plan. (I can never remember, is it “Keep It
Simple, Stupid” or “How Freakin’ Complicated Can I Possibly
Make This?”)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
++ I have been overwhelmed by the
outpouring of support! I’m not in this leaky canoe all by myself,
and that helps. Hearing about how others have repaired their leaks
gives me hope that I can do the same. And I hope I can give others …
um, hope.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In other news, there was this: </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioNNlgH4o2tsKP1aFQxLmCSpsWckd0lQk2C_JqFFvlxQ6lcgzbxC0Onu00-4Tn3NblorIlMaeytV3pq5yZz1ssqQ2hhTJT2dOwKIEZM2wLptM3nbQ8XYs_yeHGB2d9J7gEZwgBdMxX00_G/s1600/32+KG+sm.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="341" data-original-width="266" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioNNlgH4o2tsKP1aFQxLmCSpsWckd0lQk2C_JqFFvlxQ6lcgzbxC0Onu00-4Tn3NblorIlMaeytV3pq5yZz1ssqQ2hhTJT2dOwKIEZM2wLptM3nbQ8XYs_yeHGB2d9J7gEZwgBdMxX00_G/s320/32+KG+sm.jpg" width="249" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I carried 32 kg! I couldn’t actually
lift it into place for the goblet carry by myself (my “bell boy”
:) had to do that for me), and I carried it only about 30 yards (3
times), but hey, I did it! And that’s something to celebrate.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I don’t know when I am going to need
to carry 70.5 lbs for 30 yards, but by golly <i>I know I can do it</i>.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And that’s the point.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When I saw this on my program I thought
it was a typo. Lemme tell you, there’s a BIG difference between 24
kg and 32 kg (like, 17 lbs!), and 24 kg was challenging. The first
time I tried, I hoisted that 32 kg kettlebell to my waist … and no
further. I thought “Well, that’s that. Uh-uh. Ain’t gonna
happen.”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But as soon as I put it down, I got a
little mad.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I wasn’t going to let that weight get
the better of me. After all, I had lifted it part way up.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
With Adam’s help, I got the
kettlebell in place, and started walking.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t easy.
(It could have gone horribly wrong at any time, so please use
discretion.)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But I did it. Next time I’ll do even
better.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Finding out you <i>can</i> do what you
didn’t think you could? Wow. What an amazing feeling. I think one
of the biggest benefits of lifting weights (and I'm biased towards
Grit Gym) is the incredible amount of confidence it gives you.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And that confidence leaks out of the
gym and into every facet of your life. If I can carry 32 freakin'
kilograms, I can finish Book 2. I can change my eating habits. I can
say no to french fries (some of the time).
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I can.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />(The video is on my facebook page, and at <a href="https://www.facebook.com/gritgym/">https://www.facebook.com/gritgym/</a>)</div>
J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-71243139317595893822019-05-08T15:00:00.001-07:002019-05-08T15:00:34.487-07:00Day Three. And welcome to it.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
How will you know when you get there,
if you don't know where you're going?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
How will you know <i>how</i> to get there, if
you don't know where you're going?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZMlYx4KsiqUUyL4wpdESEC30DICTwwB9AxqMMg9vGd6zm9uAoN8LePlcAfqYgyQKRKGWIepd1Bp3Sx3rMkVj6FQjfVWirg_EutnziDn8Fdclpj8oPomfnpmD5xdqYOneswbi47o-hF02q/s1600/Carpe+today.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="716" data-original-width="1122" height="204" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZMlYx4KsiqUUyL4wpdESEC30DICTwwB9AxqMMg9vGd6zm9uAoN8LePlcAfqYgyQKRKGWIepd1Bp3Sx3rMkVj6FQjfVWirg_EutnziDn8Fdclpj8oPomfnpmD5xdqYOneswbi47o-hF02q/s320/Carpe+today.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I have goals. I've always had goals.
But I've never been one to write them down. I usually just kept them
as abstract and intangible ideas floating around me, loosely
tethered. When I sat down to write this I called them “ephemeral,”
thinking that meant gauzy, wispy things you couldn't touch. But it
doesn't. It means transitory and fleeting, and maybe that's what they
became.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, there's that.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But, if I'm really going to commit to
getting control of my health and happiness – taking back my life – I have to make my goals tangible and tactile and measurable.
I need to know where I'm going so I have some idea of how to get
there.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Or at least have some idea of where I
want to go so I know where to start. I see a very fine line between
setting goals and creating limitations. I also have problems with
affirmations and challenges. What can I say? I'm my own kinda' crazy.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I want to:</div>
<ol>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Feel better.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
To do this I need to: eat more healthy
(health-ily?).</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Finish book 2.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
To do this I need to sit down and
work. Avoid my favorite forms of procrastination ... like making lists :)</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Lose weight.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
See #1.</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Get sh*t done.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
See #2.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
To do this I need to take control.
Figure out how I let my schedule get so chaotic.</div>
</li>
<li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wear that little black dress with
the leopard print shoes.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
See #3.</div>
</li>
</ol>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, today's goal? Make a schedule.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Tomorrow's goal? Stick to the schedule.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And take over the world.</div>
<br />J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-76057440429813166762019-05-06T20:19:00.003-07:002019-05-06T20:19:48.394-07:00Time to Begin Again. Again.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Once upon a time, about three or four
years ago, I wasn't happy with how I looked or how I felt.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So, I started getting serious about
working out and I paid closer attention to what – and how much –
I was eating. I started eating less, tried to eat better, and
exercised more.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Little by little, like the proverbial
frog being boiled alive (which is to say, without noticing it) I
started losing weight and changing my life.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When life threw stress in my way, as
life always does, I ran more, lifted more and ate less of the crappy
foods that made me feel crappy.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then one day I realized my knees didn't
hurt, my hips didn't hurt, I was having fun doing things I never
thought I'd do, going places I'd never gone, I had dropped two
(sometimes three) clothing sizes, I had written more consistently
than I had for a long time, and I had finished writing a novel like I
had always dreamed of doing.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It wasn't easy. There had been good
days and better days, bad days and badder days. But I was happy with
how I looked and felt.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Unfortunately, like that boiling frog, I still wasn't
pay attention.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I grew complacent.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And the wheels fell off.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
That's not true.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I ripped the wheels off, built a
bonfire, roasted marshmallows on the bonfire and made s'mores.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When life threw stress in my way, as
life always does, I stumbled. When injuries – unrelated to my
workouts – made me change the way I exercised, I grew depressed by
the things I couldn't do, instead of focusing on the things I could
do. When the pain kept me awake, I fretted over not being able to
sleep, ensuring I couldn't sleep. When I was too tired or achy to go places and do things, I sat at home
and felt sorry for myself.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then one day I realized I was
depressed.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Because I was depressed, I deserved a
cookie instead of an apple. Since it hurt to walk, I deserved to sit
and binge watch TV. Since I couldn't sleep, I didn't have get up for
that early morning workout.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So what if my clothes didn't fit as
well as they used to? So what if I didn't have the energy I used to?
That extra slice of pizza made me feel better. That brownie, those
chips, that ice cream, that pudding with whipped cream, that candy
bar, that doughnut, that soda . . . .</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I had good days when I felt like I had
almost pulled myself out of the quicksand. I had bad days when I
realized I was no closer to the top of the dark well I was trapped in
than when I started. All those little set backs and disappointments,
all those tiny little insignificant, first-world, non-life
threatening problems were boiling me alive.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I don't have the energy I used to. My
clothes don't fit the way they used to. I'm not happy with the way I
look or the way I feel, or what I've accomplished. (But let's face
it, I'm mostly upset about the clothes thing. Damn it. I have a whole
closet full of cute clothes I can't wear without looking like an
overstuffed in all the wrong places sausage. And I'm too cheap to buy
a whole new wardrobe. And cute shoes can only carry me so far.)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It's time to start over.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbJ7GOE5WtRm_i7MCCXvuE8zXnBi28i7svPBpBVnsMQBkDxMMmBoJrNWQKT9IhrvYIQf-o1kpjvF3wB9VDTVFMWVhkVsjJqtN8MBDAUYGFScj3tXcpQA5HPO4cgbW2WchojUeOp67B8SkQ/s1600/IMG_8515.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1550" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbJ7GOE5WtRm_i7MCCXvuE8zXnBi28i7svPBpBVnsMQBkDxMMmBoJrNWQKT9IhrvYIQf-o1kpjvF3wB9VDTVFMWVhkVsjJqtN8MBDAUYGFScj3tXcpQA5HPO4cgbW2WchojUeOp67B8SkQ/s200/IMG_8515.JPG" width="193" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Let's do this.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Today I'm starting a new program at my
gym – <a href="https://www.gritgym.com/">https://www.gritgym.com/</a>
– because I realized I need a little extra help when it comes to making good
food choices, setting fitness goals, and finding better ways to deal
with stress.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Because this frog just realized the
water's getting a might hot.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
(And those new leopard-print shoes
would be totes adorbs with that little black dress.)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<br />J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-89683587655171580192018-12-09T11:30:00.001-08:002018-12-09T11:30:17.144-08:00Of All The Things I've Lost, I Miss My Shoes Most<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
While I was sifting through the usual
pile of holiday catalogs, I saw a nifty bluetooth fob that is
supposed to help you find your lost keys. I'd like to give a better
explanation, but I lost my train of thought before I read the entire
description. And I can't go back and look it up because I lost the
catalog.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My point is, I wished I had some kind
of super-duper, bluetooth finder fob this morning when I was looking
for my cup of coffee – which I lost somewhere in the house as I
went about my normal morning routine. A quick internet search
confirms that the fobs can be used to track everything from keys to
phones to cars. They don't mention coffee cups, eye glasses and tape
measures – my top MIA objects – but I'm sure adjustments can be
made. And, judging by the way their ads took over my Facebook feed,
I'd say they actually are quite good at tracking.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
While it would be wonderful to tag and
track all the <i>tangible</i> items I lose on a daily basis, what I
really need is some way to track all the <i>intangible</i> things
I've lost. Of course, sometimes the two are related. As the search
for my coffee cup continued, I lost my sense of humor. And, since
this wasn't the first time I lost my coffee cup – not even the
first time <i>today</i> – I'm pretty sure I have lost my mind.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There are some things that are probably
lost and gone forever. For example, since becoming a parent I have
lost not only my cool, but my <i>cool</i> as well. My children don't
think that I ever was <i>cool</i> and argue that you can't lose
something you never had.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On the other hand, some things I've
lost have found their way back without me looking for them. It seems
every time I lose weight, all I have to do is turn around and I find
it right behind me. And, just when I think I've lost my fashion
sense, I find another trend or fad is back in style. This usually
happens right after I've cleaned out my closet.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Sometimes the reason for my loss is
clear: a good book makes me lose track of time, while driving through
downtown Iowa City makes me lose my patience. I know I should avoid
the things that cause me to lose my temper, but I haven't lost my
sense of optimism. Well, not all of it, anyway.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Sometimes I'm at a loss for words, and
sometimes I lose sight of my point. Sometimes I lose the battle and
sometimes I lose interest. I've backed lost causes and lost my
objectivity.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I sang “You've Lost That Loving
Feeling” after <i>Top Gun</i> helped it find popularity again, proving that I've lost my
sense of decorum, decency and pride.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I've lost people I love.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I've lost my way, lost my place, and
lost my sense of self. I've lost money, lost sleep, lost my nerve,
and lost my sense of adventure.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I have occasionally lost hope, lost my
will, and lost my faith.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I frequently lose my balance, and once
in the late 1980s, I lost a really nice pair of penny loafers. That
one still baffles me.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I don't know if these wonder-tags will
help me find everything I've lost, but I think it's obvious that I should
order the multi-pack.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
You know, just in case I lose one.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Have I lost you with my rambling? What
have you lost? Please leave me a message.</i></div>
<br />J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-35344039823892649372018-10-09T20:25:00.000-07:002018-10-09T20:25:26.823-07:00A Fresh Look at Leftovers<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Does anyone actually eat leftovers or
are they just part of an elaborate plot to sell more plastic storage
containers?</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My family is – at this very moment –
protesting indignantly: “We eat leftovers. What are you talking
about?”</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
To them I say: “Ha.” Or, in the
style of leftovers: “Ha. ha.” Eating leftovers once every three
months is not the same as eating leftovers at least once every week.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In the interest of transparency, and
because my family is – at this very moment – preparing to protest
indignantly once again, I will admit that I am lax when it comes to
eating leftovers as well. However, since I work from home, there is a
much greater chance that I will come in contact with leftovers for
lunch. Granted, sometimes that “contact” is limited to sliding
the leftovers out of the way so I can reach the mayo and lunch meat.
But my point stands.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Leftovers were a staple when I was
growing up. In fact, I'm pretty sure we ate leftovers every night,
which is pretty impressive given that you would think something would
have to be a first-over before it could become a leftover.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Whenever I complained about having
leftovers <i>again</i>, Mom would tell me about the bad old days when
times were tough and money was tight. Back then, she said, the family
would have a big roast or ham with all the fixin's for Sunday dinner
(roast one week, ham the next), followed by roast or ham with fixin's
leftovers on Monday, roast or ham casserole on Tuesday, leftover
roast or ham casserole on Wednesday, roast or ham sandwiches on
Thursday, roast or ham soup on Friday, and roast or ham leftover
surprise on Saturday (Surprise! We still have leftovers!).</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Things had improved by the time I came
along, but we frequently experienced the 3-day leftover rotation of
roast beef, hot beef sandwich, beef and potato hash; as well as the
4-day leftover rotation of baked ham, fried ham, cold ham sandwiches, and last but certainly the best -- ham and potato soup.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My dad, having spent several years as
a bachelor, was a master of the leftovers as well. For lunch on
Monday, Dad would combine a can of Chef Boyardee beefaroni, a can of
vegetable beef soup, and a can of northern or cannellini beans (sometimes branching out to lima beans). This would serve as the base for his lunch
leftovers for the rest of the week. Bits of dinner leftovers or
another can of this or that were added as needed. Dad always stored
his lunch leftovers in the sauce pan, in the fridge, ready to go the
next day. He washed down his leftover stew with a glass of iced
coffee – which was leftover from breakfast.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I know that eating leftovers reduces
food waste and saves money. While I like to think I inherited some of
my parents' sense of frugality – my favorite clothing designer is
“sale” – none of that penny pinching practicality is left over
when it comes to leftovers.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
That doesn't mean I don't try, though.
Take today, for example. After having hot pulled pork </div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRF1dwFTXFCdSLv8sGJHJzzqoMX-nNcJJst0t7v9hH7n3SpO-n1vBANuWVnOJ4Y3wOGq7UVSENV9tsfNmLkYUmrNFMM_yX4FNgs45MmkvYXwBVKXesqGSGKjPqPooHWKeiheXzHKh12JhG/s1600/20181009_220339.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRF1dwFTXFCdSLv8sGJHJzzqoMX-nNcJJst0t7v9hH7n3SpO-n1vBANuWVnOJ4Y3wOGq7UVSENV9tsfNmLkYUmrNFMM_yX4FNgs45MmkvYXwBVKXesqGSGKjPqPooHWKeiheXzHKh12JhG/s200/20181009_220339.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Being frugal isn't cheap.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
sandwiches
Sunday evening, and cold pulled pork sandwiches Monday noon, I
decided to make ham salad for lunch today. But before I could do
that, I needed to replace my grandma's old, hand-crank grinder. While that grinder is one of my favorite leftovers, I'm
not sure rust is the best way to get iron in your diet.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
How hard can it be to find a small
food grinder? Pretty dang hard, as it turns out. Nevertheless, I
persisted. Bright, shiny, stainless steel blade grinder in hand (so
to speak) I returned home to capitalize on the “economics” part
of “home economics.” As I ate my ham salad sandwich I couldn't
help but feel a little smug for having saved money by eating
leftovers.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And to think, saving money only cost
me forty bucks for a new grinder!</div>
<br />J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5939164610580604586.post-86320914076397358992018-06-20T19:52:00.000-07:002018-06-20T20:04:48.697-07:00I Think That I Shall Never See<br />
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am not a tree
hugger.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Oh, I like trees
just fine. I admire them, actually. They're beautiful! Majestic, colorful and downright amazing. They're useful!
Breathing clean air is one of my favorite things to do. They're fun! I used to love to climb them and always wanted to hang a tire
swing from one.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
But I always figured
a tree was a tree was a tree. You chop one down, you plant another
one. Sure they take a while to grow, but eventually . . . right?</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Until today.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
We had two big, old,
beautiful trees removed today. In addition to the two not so big, but still beautiful in their own way trees that were removed yesterday.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
All the removals
were necessary. The two not-so-big trees were ash trees and had
apparently been visiting all sorts of web sites catering to emerald
ash borers, sending them nude pictures, and setting up 1-800-Eat-Meee
hotlines It was only a matter of time, really. A preemptive strike.
Mercy removal.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The two big,
beautiful trees were actively sick. One barely had any leaves and
the other had some sort of sad, tree-leprosy that caused it to shed
chunks of bark quicker than Chris Hemsworth sheds his shirt as Thor –
but it didn't look nearly as good as Hemsworth. And they were both
too close to the house (the trees, not Hemsworth). They were so close
to the house that every time the wind picked up I worried I
would find a limb – if not the entire tree – <i>inside</i> the
house. Heck lately, what with the leprosy and the maple pattern
baldness, I worried all the time, regardless of the wind.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was not home when
the two ash trees were removed. It was not by design, but that probably
worked out for the best. I wasn't emotionally attached to them. They
were located at the backety-back of the back yard. They were lovely to look at
from the deck or window over the kitchen sink, but grew right next to the
property line, so they were not an integral part of back yard
exploration and play. And they produced an unreasonable amount of
leaves to rake, come fall, for no bigger than they were. I think they
pushed a few extra bushels out there at the end of the growing season
just to spite me.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Still, their absence
creates a hole in the view. There are now two gaping spaces -- like missing teeth -- between
the evergreens. (Another “good” reason to get
rid of them -- things were getting too crowded out there. And you don't
have to rake leaves from evergreens.)</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was home today for
the removal of the two, big, beautiful (dying) trees. I was trapped,
actually, as I couldn't get my car out of the garage because of the
tree removal equipment. So I watched, off and on, and waited
nervously, on and on, as first one and then the other tree came down. I
worried – What if it falls on the house? What if it crushes the
tree guy? – and I wondered – Should we have waited until next
summer? Were they <i>really</i> dying, or were they just resting,
like those bloated deer along the side of the highway? What were the
odds either tree would actually fall <i>on</i> the house, and not <i>away</i>
from the house? Although, with one on either side, chances were
pretty good someone's bedroom was going to get redecorated.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Their bad points
were their good points. One tree shaded the east-ish side of the
house from the morning sun, the other shaded the west-ish side of the
house from the afternoon sun. I could see the leaves from one tree
shimmy in the breeze, looking through the windows in my office and the living room, I
watched the squirrels scamper through the other tree, looking from windows in the
bedroom and the dining room. One protected the plants along the front
of the house from the summer's heat, the other protected the deck –
and provided the squirrels easy access to the metal roof over the
bedroom so they could run back and forth at 6 a.m. The little
darlings.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The yard looks so
empty now. We've lived here for almost 16 years. Those trees –
which were already well established – grew so much in 16 years. The
Little Princess and The Little Prince managed to get a hula-hoop
stuck in one of those trees. Don't ask. Their swing set sat under the
other tree. The kids grew so much in 16 years.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I can hear thunder
in the distance. Another storm is forecast for tonight. There will be
lightning – at least one of the trees had been hit at some time, the tree-guy
said – more rain to soak the already soggy ground, and winds. There
will <i>not</i> be limbs tapping on my office window, or brushing
across the roof over the bedroom.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Tomorrow we can
start to plan what type of trees we will plant and where. Tomorrow we
will plan a day when The Princess and the Prince can help plant the
new trees.</div>
<br />J Saleminkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10824547528125562397noreply@blogger.com1