Part 11.5: Still No Rest for the Sequestered

 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.

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.

“So, about those HoHos, Van . . . .” Julie said, checking the box again. Nope. Still empty.

“You know that I love having Michael and Steve in my pandemic pod, right?”

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.

“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!”

“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.”

“But Michael has gourmet chef-level skills, and a palate to match.”

“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 tried to keep up with the cooking. 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 mozzarella and ricotta cheese from an undisclosed, local farm."

"Sounds heavenly," Julie said, trying not to drool.

"Yeah, well, that was then. Last week he made a pyramid out of those single-serving, microwavable mac and cheese cups and told us to knock ourselves out.”

“And Steve . . . .”

“Steve is a stress baker. Steve bakes when stressed.”

“So he's been baking a lot?”

“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 . . . .”

“They stress you out?” Julie guessed.

“They drive me friggin' crazy! I mean, I love those guys, but they need to calm the frig down.”

“O.K., so you're all too busy to cook. Much. That doesn't explain the empty HoHo box on my doorstep.”

“Steve spent all day yesterday preparing for a VIZ (Very Important Zoom) 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.”

“You didn't say . . . .”

“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.”

“I'm sure my mom would be . . . .”

“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.”

“But why do I have the box?”

“Steve is crap at subterfuge. I mean, he tried to bury it in the recycling bin, but yesterday was trash day, so it was a shallow grave. He has to know we know, but this gives us all plausible deniability, you know?”

“That was a sweet thing you did, Van. Weird, but sweet.”

“Besides, if we play dumb he might make us tiramisu out of Twinkies.”

Coming soon: How Muffy became the Machiavelli of face masks.

Part 11: No Rest for the Sequestered

 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 . . .

“Do you remember back when this whole virus-thing started?” Vanessa asked Julie during their regularly scheduled, weekly, lunch-time call.

Julie snorted. “Just barely,” she said.

“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.”

“Oh, Van . . . .”

“OK, so I was going to hire some hot, young hunk to paint my kitchen, have Mexican food delivered, and start exercising.”

“Van, I . . . .”

“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.”

“Been a little busy at work?”

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 me time.”

“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.

“I thought you were working from home already," Julie said. "Why the twice-weekly tests?”

“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.”

“But that's . . . .”

“OK, the other eight. After a while they all blur together. And now I'm in charge of volunteers.”

“How did that . . . .”

“I was late for a Zoom meeting.”

“Didn't they put you in charge of scheduling Zoom meetings when you were late for the last in-person meeting?”

“They did. I am. Someone hacked my account.”

“You mean someone figured out your password was 'Zoom4Van'?”

“If I thought you knew how to use a computer I'd be suspicious.”

“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.”

“Pffft, like the CIA needs a password to track my credit cards.”

“I'm sure Hoover and the boys have better . . . .”

“J. Edgar was a Fibby. No, this goes much higher than that. I caught Sister Mary Katherine Ignacia lurking outside my office.”

“Wasn't she the . . . .”

“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' .”

“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 volunteer to help you with all your other duties?”

“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.

“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.

Vanessa sighed deeply. “Weh-yell,” she stalled, “there is that direct-mail, fundraising project Sister Mary Kat has been putting off.”

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?”

“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.”

“Van, I'd love to help you but . . . .”

“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.”

Julie, who had started pacing when Vanessa made “well” a two-syllable word, paced toward the door.

“I'll send the second batch of 500 letters over as soon as Sister Mary Kat finishes signing them.”

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?”

“That's a whole 'nother story,” Vanessa said.

To be continued . . . with Ho Hos.

Part 10.25: The Case of the Flying Fruit

 The story thus far: Julie is in quarantine and Miss Irene has been kicked out of the grocery store for her role in...

Interrogation Transcript: Deavers' Family Foods Cleanup on Aisle 9 incident.

Voice 1: 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?

Voice 2: 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.

Dale: I think you mean the fifth amendment, and this is . . . .

Paulette: Exciting! Isn't it? Just like on Jackie Gleason. You know, my Pauley used to call me his little Della Street. (Giggle) And that's my tape recorder. My son gave it to me. He thinks I'm forgetful.

Dale: I know, mother. And I think you mean Perry Mason. Like I was saying, we're just tryin' to get to the bottom of what happened . . . .

Voice 3: What happened? What happened? I'll tell you what happened. That . . . .

Paulette: State your name.

Voice 3: That's ridic . . . . .

Paulette: State your name! Your honor, if it please the court . . . .

Dale: 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 . . . .

Voice 3: Lena Johansen. My name is Lena Johansen and I'll tell you what happened. That woman assaulted me in the soup aisle.

Paulette: 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.

Dale: For the last time, Mother, this is not a transcript. Mr. Deavers would like to avoid legal action at all costs.

Voice 4: Then what's Deputy Doug doin' here? This is Irene Truman speaking.

Voice 5: (Clears throat) Deputy David Doug . . . do you need my badge number?

Dale: NO!

Deputy Doug: So, what am I doing here, anyway? Technically I'm not on duty, and anyways I didn't. . . .

Dale: Deputy Doug just happened to be the first shopper on the scene. He's the one who called for backup, er, I mean cleanup.

Paulette: Darn. I thought maybe he was gonna frisk me again.

Deputy Doug: No! I mean, I didn't frisk you in the first place. I definitely don't want to do it again.

Paulette: All natural here, Deputy. No fillers or GMOs.

Lena: 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.

Miss Irene: 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!

Deputy Doug: Like I was saying, I'm not sure the grocery store falls under my jurisdiction.

Lena: 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.

Miss Irene: Wide load, eh? You'll think wide load when I . . . .

Lena: 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.

Miss Irene: One more wide-load crack and you may not have long to live. Besides. I wasn't the one who started the fruit fight.

Paulette: It was a random, drive-by fruiting. Just like the one that did in poor John Travolta.

Dale: That was Pierce Brosnan in Mrs. Doubtfire, Mother.

Lena: Now really, Miss Irene. You can't expect me to believe that Paulette threw that grapefruit at me.

Miss Irene: I didn't say a word. Snitches get stitches and end up in ditches.

Lena: Paulette is three foot tall and blind as a bat. She couldn't hit the broadside of a . . . .

Paulette: I used to pitch for the Rockford Peaches.

Dale: That was Gena Davis, Mother. A League of Their Own.

Paulette: 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.

Lena: 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.

Paulette: We had ya' in a pickle!

Lena: When I turned around again, a grapefruit brushed my beehive!

Paulette: The runner stole on a wild pitch! Safe at second base!

Deputy Doug: I swear I thought that was your waist! I was trying to steady you!

Paulette: Gravity and old age, Deputy. Life's seventh-inning sag.

(Silence)

Dale: You can go now, Deputy. I'm sorry for . . . . Thank you for your service to our country, sir.

(Footsteps receding. A door opens and closes.)

(Muffled giggles. A snort.)

Dale: 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.

Lena: Twenty.

Dale: Ten, and double coupons for store-brand items.

Lena: Fine. And I want their loyalty rewards card privileges revoked.

Miss Irene: But . . . .

Lena: And Paulette has to take shopping scooter traffic school class before she can get back behind the wobbly wheels of a cart.

Dale: Done!

Paulette: But . . . .

Lena: You whipped around the end of the aisle on that scooter like you were Thelma and Louise heading for the cliff!

(Footsteps receding. Door closing.

Paulette: I know Thelma Louise! 

Dale: (Sigh) No, Mother, she means . . . . 

Paulette: I ran into her the other day, over by the Methodist Church.

Dale: So that's what happened to the bumper on the Cadillac!

Paulette: Pomelo. 

Dale: I'll say!

Paulette: No, that's what hit Lena. I pummeled her with a pomelo. Some people just can't remember details.

Meanwhile, Muffy is making mischief of her own . . . . To be continued.

Part 10: Doing (quaran)Time

 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....

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

She noticed that when she set her mind to look for people who were wearing masks, it seemed like most of them did. When she actively looked for people who weren't 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.

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.

The virus, it seemed, was immune to human concerns.

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.

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.

“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 inside the store? Although, upon reflection, I may have over reacted.” (*Coming soon: Part 10.25 “Cleanup on Aisle 9.”)

“If it's any consolation, I think you've managed things very well . . . until now,” Julie said. “I think people are getting stupider . . . .”

“More stupid, dear,” Miss Irene corrected.

Julie silently counted to 10 very quickly. “More 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?”

“Equal parts prayer, patience, and Templeton Rye whiskey.”

Big George sniffed Miss Irene's coffee mug. “Some parts more equal than others,” he said.

“All right, Mr. Smart Guy,” Miss Irene laughed. “What's your advice for dealing with this craziness?”

Big George thought for a moment before speaking.

“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.

“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.

“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.”

Miss Irene kissed him on the cheek. “But you can be a good influence,” she said.

“That's what I'm counting on, dear. 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.”

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.

“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.”

“But Big George doesn't wear hearing aids,” Julie said.

“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.”

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.”

To be continued ...

Part 5: Chip Overplays Her Hand

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:

“Ehh-vry-one's who's ehh-ny-one is talking about it,” Chip said.

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.

“Oh that old news,” Muffy said in a bored voice. “I thought you had something new and interesting to share.”

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. Again.”

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 (reported in Part 1 of this series).

“Oh, I seriously doubt that,” Muffy said. “In fact, the mayor and I were just discussing how I would handle relief efforts much 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 first to snitch on him, a point which she thought cleared her of all guilt.)

“You?” Chip said, incredulously. “But you're . . . lazy!” 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.

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.

But it was one thing to say this behind someones back (which they did frequently), and quite another to say it to their face.

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.

“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. No social distancing. And a pony ride!”

“Are you sure that picture was from this year's party and not one of those 'Memory' posts?” Poppy asked. “Didn't it rain all weekend?”

“I wouldn't know,” Chip said haughtily. “I was inside 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.

In fact, Chip didn't 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.”

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.

Muffy ignored the frenzy. Seeing Chip's poor excuse for a face mask had given her an idea....

To be continued. 

For more stories about life in Pleasant Glen check out my novel "Scout's Honor" and soon to be released "Scout's Redemption."

Part 4: The Making of a Mask Maven

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...

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.

Then again, heading up the volunteer sewing group wasn't Muffy first choice either. Her first choice would have been Miss Irene’s job as head of all 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 center of attention – not orbiting slightly off center.

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.

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.

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.

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 that six feet of distance.”

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.

“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!”

“She's probably just doing deliveries for Miss Irene,” said Chip, not bothering to temper the boredom in her voice.

“Deliveries?” Muffy watched Chip in the rear view mirror closely. In her experience, the quiet, bored ones were the most dangerous.

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. “Ehh-vry-one's who's ehh-ny-one is talking about it,” Chip said.

Was it Muffy's imagination, or did Chip's eyes roll back in preparation for an attack?

To be continued.

For more stories about Julie and the gang, check out my novel "Scout's Honor" and the soon to be released "Scout's Redemption."

Part 3: Irene In Charge

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,  residents hardest hit by the virus outbreak.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Perhaps most importantly, she was a key member of the Pleasant Glen gossip grapevine.

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.

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.

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 of the people who had bought up cartloads of toilet paper when the first wave of panic buying hit.

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 was 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.

But for every #toiletPaperGate Miss Irene sidestepped, other problems arose. Take, for example, the near mutiny amongst the mask making volunteers . . . .

To be continued.

For more stories about Julie and the gang, check out my novel "Scout's Honor" and the soon to be released "Scout's Redemption." 

Part 2: Dinner at Miss Irene's

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 ….

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.

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.

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.

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.

Big George wondered if Miss Irene, who he affectionately called “my little bull in a china shop,” knew the meaning of the word “subtle.”

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.

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.

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? 

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.

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.

“Uh, Dad? Miss Irene? . . . Julie has something she wants to tell you.”

Julie gave in to the inevitable. “Well, you see . . . the thing is . . . .”

“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.

“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.”

Trey, J.J. and Julie stared at Miss Irene in stunned silence.

“Very subtle, dear,” Big George said with a wink.

Miss Irene colored slightly. “That is, if it's ok with you kids.” They nodded slowly, still trying to process their marching orders.

“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.”

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.

“Does this mean I get to wear the sexy secretary costume?” he asked.

Miss Irene grinned. Maybe there was an up-side to this pandemic after all, she thought.

To be continued...

Part 1: The best laid pandemic plans

The virus hit Pleasant Glen like an Iowa summer thunderstorm.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

Julie'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.

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.)

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.

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.

“Whatever 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.”

Julie nodded in agreement. “The trick is to keep them busy, so they don't have time to think about being stuck at home.”

“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.

“You know he still works more than 40 hours, right?” Julie asked.

“And that's why he's back on salary. The overtime was killing me!”

Across town at Miss Irene's house, a similar discussion was taking place.

“Whatever we do,” Miss Irene said, “we have to make the kids believe it was their idea.”

Big George nodded in agreement. “The trick is to keep them busy, so they don't have time to worry about us.”

“Do you remember how pleased with herself Julie was when she thought she had convinced me to quit Taekwondo class?”

“I take it she didn’t find about your little agreement with the instructor?”

“I didn’t tell her, and you can sure as heck bet that Mister Ricardo didn’t tell anyone. Pffft," Miss Irene scoffed, "best four out of five.”

“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.”

“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.”

All 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.

“If all else fails . . . .” J.J. said.

“. . . we’ll tell them it was Trey’s idea,” Big George said.

Julie grinned. She knew that Big George couldn’t resist his grandson’s charm, and neither could Miss Irene.

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.

To be continued...

To learn more about Julie and the gang, check out my novel, "Scout's Honor." Coming soon: "Scout's Redemption." 

Giving In To Google

I am not technologically savvy.

That is a gross understatment. I have, however, found a way to co-exist with technology. Or so I thought.

Until now.

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.

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.

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.

Then I discovered the Gmail app for my android phone.

The clouds parted, the heavens opened, and a chorus of angels sang.

I downloaded and installed the app.

I logged in to one of my Gmail accounts.

Then I switched to another.

Then I tried to log out.

Then Gmail told me I needed a lock screen.

So I added a lock screen.

And I tried to log out.

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 . . . .

So I uninstalled Gmail from my phone.

Except that I didn't.

And it kept reminding me that I needed to upgrade.

And back up.

And add a lock screen.

And log out.

So I re-installed, lock screened, logged in, logged out, uninstalled and unlocked.

And then my calendar was wiped clean.

As in, all past, present and future engagements were gone.

All of them.

Gone.

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).

I decided to try to access my Google account from my laptop to see if my calendar had been saved there.

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.

I lost my temper.

“Flock yourself, Google!” I said. Or something that sounded like that.

“I'm sorry. I wasn't listening. What would you like me to do?”

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 from across the room.

I nearly wet my pants.

It's the computer-buddy equivalent of “would you like to step outside and settle this?”

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.

It's not like I have anything else to do.

I mean, my calendar is clear.

Of All The Things I've Lost, I Miss My Shoes Most

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.

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.

While it would be wonderful to tag and track all the tangible items I lose on a daily basis, what I really need is some way to track all the intangible 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 today – I'm pretty sure I have lost my mind.

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 cool as well. My children don't think that I ever was cool and argue that you can't lose something you never had.

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.

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.

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.

I sang “You've Lost That Loving Feeling” after Top Gun helped it find popularity again, proving that I've lost my sense of decorum, decency and pride.

I've lost people I love.

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.

I have occasionally lost hope, lost my will, and lost my faith.

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.

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.

You know, just in case I lose one.

Have I lost you with my rambling? What have you lost? Please leave me a message.