Part 8.2: Who's Zoomin' ... zoomed

 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...

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.

How many cups of coffee DID I have? she wondered. “. . . second week of July?” a stamp asked.

Two cups were needed for coherent conversation. “Inside or outside?”

Two and a half made her perky, but three cups . . . . “Masks or no masks?”

Vanessa felt beads of sweat forming on her upper lip. “What's the point of a photo if no one recognizes me?”

A prickly feeling spread across her face. “. . . temperature scans.”

Three cups would trigger a . . . “Face shields?” . . . hot flash.

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.

It didn't.

She was caught off guard mid-sip by a question and inhaled when she should have swallowed, causing her to sputter and cough.

And cough.

And cough.

The postage stamps went wild. “Do you think this is funny?” “Is this your idea of a joke?” “Have you been tested? “Ohmygosh, is COVID a computer virus?”

Steve, who had been hovering in the doorway impatiently waiting for his VIPZM, rushed in to help his friend.

“Steve, I . . . .” Vanessa croaked.

As he handed her his “lucky” white silk, jacquard pocket square (his was a V-VIPZM), Steve was struck by inspiration.

“That's Doctor 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, sotto voce, “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.

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.”

The postage stamps hesitated.

“And refreshments afterwards,” Steve said.

Assured that PGCHC was COVID-free, their egos stroked, and photo scheduled, the board unanimously agreed to proceed, adjourned the meeting and signed off.

One thing was still bothering Vanessa. “Doctor Steve?” she said questioningly as she cleared her things from the desk.

“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.”

If you liked this (and I hope you did), tell a friend! And check out my novel, Scout's Honor, and the soon to be published Scout's Redemption.

Part 8.1: Who's Zoomin' ... zoom?

 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...

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.

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.

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.”

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.

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.

But every positive has a negative, as we shall see.

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.

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 that 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.

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.

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.

How many cups of coffee DID I have? she wondered. “. . . second week of July?” a stamp asked.

Two cups were needed for coherent conversation. “Inside or outside?”

Two and a half made her perky, but three cups . . . . “Masks or no masks?”

To be continued ... Keep reading for part 2!

Good Night, Sleep Tight (But Not TOO Tight)

I haven't been sleeping well lately. Maybe it's because I've reached that age at which a woman's body goes haywire (but it's not puberty). Or maybe I worry too much. Or maybe I have an over-active imagination.

Or maybe it's my family.

Take the other night for example – it doesn't matter which night exactly, because they're all the same – I was having trouble falling asleep because The Girl Child (AKA The Princess, when I'm not so worried) is starting her second year at college, so she was not under my roof at that moment. And she's a girl so I know how she thinks, because – believe it or not – I was once a college-age girl. And because she's My Little Girl and I'm Her Mommy and I'm supposed to worry about her.

And that made me think of The Boy Child (AKA The Prince, when I'm not fretting), who is starting his junior year of high school, so he was under my roof but won't be for long. And he's a boy so I have no idea how he thinks, or even if he does sometimes. And because he's My Little Boy and I'm His mumblemumble Mom and that's just what I do.

But I forgot about those things because The Darling Husband (AKA The King, when I'm not distraught) was snoring so loud I couldn't sleep, and snoring may be a sign of sleep apnea. And just at that moment HE STOPPED SNORING and I freaked out because OBVIOUSLY HE WAS DEAD!

While I was straining to hear him breath I started wondering if I had “accidentally” smothered him with my pillow because HIS SNORING WAS DRIVING ME NUTS, but all of a sudden SNRKXSZERK he was snoring again and I was glad he was alive, but I was also kind of annoyed because HOW COULD I SLEEP WHEN HE WAS SNORING SO LOUD?

Then the cat, sensing my distress, jumped up on the bed. But instead of purring his rumbly, comforting purr, he curled up behind my knees on the outside edge of the bed, pinning the blanket down. This was a problem because TDH had pulled the blankets tight on the other side of me, so I was TRAPPED LIKE A MOUSE IN A BURRITO and I couldn't move. And between the little, furry body on one side and the bigger, furry body on the other I was HOTTER THAN HELL.

Since I have so much trouble sleeping I hate to interrupt any one else's sleep, even if it is the cat and he sleeps 26 out of 24 hours, so I reached down to scratch his little ears and maybe get him to move just a little bit BUT HE DIDN'T MOVE AT ALL and I realized that HE WASN'T PURRING EITHER, in fact I DIDN'T THINK HE WAS BREATHING and oh, great, first my husband almost dies and now my cat, when all of a sudden SNNNNNTTFF the cat started snoring.

So I was thinking “Phew, really dodged a bullet there,” and I wasn't sure which would be worse, if my husband died or the cat. Because the kids would never believe me if I lied and told them the cat “ran away,” but they might believe their dad “ran away” because they've both threatened to run away whenever I start dancing or singing. On the other hand TDH might help me dispose of the cat's body, but the cat would be ABSOLUTELY NO HELP disposing of TDH's body because I clean the litter box and I know how bad he is at burying things.

In the mean time, I was going to SPONTANEOUSLY COMBUST, so TDH and the cat would both be reduced to ashes and there wouldn't be ANY bodies to dispose of.

And I'd have the entire bed to myself so I could finally get some sleep.

(Hot) Flash in the Pan

I was promised hot flashes.

OK, so maybe it wasn't so much a promise as a threat. Or maybe an ominous warning.

But still.

As I sit here waiting for my toes to fall off one by one, because I'm fairly certain my bones have turned to ice and the cold is leeching through the flesh of my little piggies – is that frost forming on my shoes? – a little hot flash is starting to sound good.

I know I should be careful what I wish for. I've heard the horror stories. I've seen the red, sweaty faces. The sudden, desperate self-fanning and shirt flapping. The discreet opening of doors and windows.

And I sympathize. Really. I do. It's just that . . . I can't feel my toes.

I'm not envious. Really, I'm not.

I just want a little of that heat.

Maybe a luke-warm sparkle.

Just enough to put a healthy, pink glow back into my fingers, which have turned white and waxy and numb. A medical website (Canadian. They're experts on cold.) suggests that I can reduce the frequency and intensity of waxy-finger by wearing mittens. Although, I'm not sure how this helps when the cold is coming from the inside of my fingers.

I'm also supposed to decrease stress and anxiety. Nice idea, but I have teenagers. And a husband. And a cat. Stress is my middle name. Really. I had it changed.

And I'm supposed to avoid caffeine.

Quacks.

What good will it do me to be able to feel my fingers if I am cranky and sleepy? Believe me, if I'm cranky, you don't want me to have full control of my fingers. I'll flip you the middle popsicle so fast it will make your head spin. 

The internet also assures me (Threatens? Warns?) that my time is coming. Menopause is as inevitable as death and taxes. Today I may have icicles for fingers and frozen stubs for toes, but tomorrow I could be one Hot Mama. Literally.

Anxiety, insomnia, fatigue, foggy thinking, thin hair, moodiness, food cravings, weight gain . . . apparently I have been menopausal all my life.

Or maybe I am just too damn young to fully appreciate all the exciting changes that are waiting for me. (As one friend asked, “How can I have hot flashes and cramps at the same time?”) After all, I'm only what, 29? 35? 42? Nearly fifteeeeeee-ish? Plus? (See: foggy thinking.)

And maybe Mother Nature and Father Time don't use the same alternate math as I do.

So I'll wait.

Over here by the space heater. With my blankie. And my mittens. In July.