The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 56

Cross One Off the List

I felt a bit selfish today, heading to Home Depot to buy a carload of PVC. I had placed the order yesterday, but it never got picked. When I called, they said they were so far behind, they might not even get to it today.  I wasn't entirely sure if it was better to fill the order myself, wandering around the store, or if it was better to attempt to pick up curbside. This order wasn't an emergency. It was a project. But it was a project I wanted to do, on Mother's Day.

You see, I've never had my kids on Mother's Day. Not since the separation and subsequent divorce. At first, years ago, it seemed kind of strange, or even sad, that they weren't here. But I've also never really had a love of holidays, never been date-obsessed. And with working so many years in the restaurant industry, Mother's Day was always just a hectic work day, where you ran a lot and made a lot and drank a lot when it was all over.

So, not having the kids today was the norm. And it gave me a gift of uninterrupted time. It was Project Time.

Off to Home Depot I went. 

In hindsight, I should have gotten a flatbed cart, instead of a shopping cart. Because 10' lengths of PVC tend to shoot off the cart randomly in the aisles, clattering to the ground. They also shoot of the cart randomly in the parking lot, nearly piercing the Prius next to me. But, I was a bit stressed, not only by having to pick the order myself --needing to find the exact items, since I'd already paid for them-- but also by wearing a face covering, which always makes me feel anxious, conspicuous, and clumsy. And Home Depot's aisle/bin/box system on the picking sheet is much clearer than the actual labeling on the shelves. I ended up matching aisle and price point on the items rather than sku #, because the shelving was a hot mess. Finally, after having to swap out several items because of a lack of inventory on the shelves (even though the website said they were in-stock in-store) and having to return/repurchase most of the order, I awkwardly rolled out the door, attempting not to roll into oncoming traffic and unsuspecting shoppers (and their cars).

After saving the Prius and loading up my Jeep, it was time to gingerly head home. Driving a stick shift, one-handed, while you hold on to 7 pieces of PVC so that they don't slide out the hatch and impale the driver tailgating you on the way home is not easy. Corners are tough. Accelerating is tougher. Hills are the worst. Between Home Depot and my driveway, there are 3 corners, 1 hill, and 7 stoplights. I hit them all. 

But, I made it home. And then, I made a kayak rack. It might be a bit wonky because I refused to be exacting (which drove poor Michael inside in frustration about 30 minutes into the project), but it's a kayak rack. 

I also randomly saw the kids when I ran to the hardware store for more PVC cement, and to the drug store for more beer. They were there with their dad, buying water and snacks. I hugged my son and embarrassed my daughter, just like any other hectic work day.

And now I can cross one more big project off the to-do list. Next up? Clean my desk. I'll do it tomorrow. Promise.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 55

#runwithmaud is not enough

Today, I ran with Ahmaud Arbery. I ran with Ahmaud because his family asked us to. I ran with Ahmaud because I needed to do something, say something, and running is how I sort my thoughts. I ran with Ahmaud because never once have I felt unsafe as a runner. As a white woman, I can run through any neighborhood near my home, at any time of day or night, and know that no one is going to murder me because of the color of my skin. 

I have run in Washington DC. I have run in Denver. I have run in Seattle, in Spokane, in Chicago, in Detroit. I've run in Florida and Kentucky and Texas. No matter where I am, I run. And no one has ever run after me, waving a gun.

I ran with Ahmaud because my friends of color need to know, now more than ever, that I am an ally and I will run with them, beside them, no matter where we are.

I ran with Ahmaud because my contacts on social media need to know where I stand. I need to make it clear: I stand with Ahmaud. There will be no debate.

But it is not enough. It is not enough for white people to go for a short run, take a selfie, and hashtag it on Instagram. It is not nearly enough. 

It is not enough for us to give lip service to demanding change. A hashtag, a photo, a petition signed: these are meaningless if we do not also act. 

We cannot allow ourselves to feel like we did something meaningful, just because we went for a run. 

Posting a photo on social media does not provoke change. 

Signing a petition does not provoke change.

Sharing a Facebook post, no matter how profound, does not provoke change.

We cannot just virtually run with Ahmaud. We have to physically be there. Next to him. With him. With every person of color. We have to confront our own racism, our own discomfort, our own prejudice, our own privilege. 

We have to run circles around those who continue to perpetuate hatred and violence, and then we have to run them the fuck out of town.

Sean Reyford/Getty Images 

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 54

I Can Always Do It Tomorrow

Image from Enza Lacherdis at typerlie.com

It has become increasingly obvious to me that I will never be able to retire. If I do, I will get nothing done.

This quarantine shelter-in-place safer-at-home euphemistic lockdown has taught me a lesson that I probably already knew: it's not that I don't have the time to get the big projects done. It's that I don't have the will.

Usually, I don't get the big things done because there are so many little things on my plate; I am out of room, out of time, out of energy. Working full time, parenting full time, trying to keep a household together that is one step above cluttered hoarding, trying to somehow stay fit, trying to write, trying to pursue my professional dreams: this impossible list of tasks let me be okay with not tackling the big things. Haven't seen the top of my desk or the top of the buffet in 3 years? That's okay; I wrote a journal article and drove the kids to 76 different places and even fed them a meal. I'm doing okay. Look at all of the things I crossed off my to-do list! I'll tackle that big project tomorrow.

But now, my "home office" is in my front yard, me sitting in a plastic deck chair, as I meet with students and grade papers and create hyperdocs. And when it's too cold outside, I sit at the kitchen table. I tell myself that it's because I don't have a home offce. But I have a desk. And a desk chair. They're just piled 16" high with crap, leftover from the great remodel of 2018. Yes, I haven't sat at my desk in TWO YEARS. It would probably take me an hour to clean it. Maybe two. But in that hour or two of time, I can cross 4 little tasks off my to-do list. I can always clean the desk tomorrow.

It's day 55 of the quarantine. I first added "clean desk" to my to-do list almost a full year ago. That means that for 365 days, give or take a few, I have NOT cleaned my desk. And although I am still surprisingly busy trying to teach from home and also parent and and also keep the house one step above cluttered hoarding, I have more time on my hands now than I've had in years. And these big projects? They are still hanging out on the to-do list, watching me invent 26 different ways to ignore them today.

Thankfully, I've got tomorrow. A brand new day of possibilities. A clean piece of paper to write that to-do list on. I just know that I will clean my desk tomorrow. I'll finally cross it off the list. I'm sure I will.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 53

#TeamAXL

I have a long, complicated relationship with Axl Rose. He was my high school boyfriend, although I definitely forgot to tell him about it. It doesn't matter that he never knew who I was. I KNEW HIM. I knew his pain, and his talent, and the way he moved, like a serpent rising from the ashes of his life. That bandana, that head of scraggly hair that no amount of hairspray or teasing could make 80's glam...he was a tortured asshole and I loved him.

The first time I was supposed to see him in concert was in 1991, during the Use Your Illusion tour. But that concert got cancelled, due to the St. Louis incident. Rescheduled in 92, the concert got cancelled when he cut his hand on a microphone stand. I had to settle for a refund, because the next reschedule conflicted with an overseas study I was on.

Throughout the years, the drugs, the alcohol, the rants, the band breaking up, and new the lineups, I always had a soft spot in my heart for Axl, even when he got a bit...soft. And this summer, finally, Guns N' Roses is back together, touring again, and we have tickets.

Except, of course, the chances of that concert actually happening are slim, because the planet is locked down. And it will be the 4th time I've held tickets and not seen the band.

But no worries: Axl is still out there, keepin' it real, taking on Steve Mnuchin on Twitter. Axl gives no fucks. He follows nobody. He tweets rarely. He makes up his own grammar rules. And he calls it like he sees it, telling Mnuchin he's an asshole for claiming, on Fox Business News, that "It's a great time for people to explore America." Even better, when Mnuchin claps back but posts the Liberian flag instead of the American flag, Axl doesn't let it slide. He's tweeted exactly 312 times, and aimed quite a few of those at our incompetent government.

My bad I didn’t get we’re hoping 2 emulate Liberia’s economic model but on the real unlike this admin I’m not responsible for 70k+ deaths n’ unlike u I don’t hold a fed gov position of responsibility 2 the American people n’ go on TV tellin them 2 travel the US during a pandemic.

— Axl Rose (@axlrose) May 7, 2020

Axl, love, I will see you someday. Thanks for helping me get through this dark time in our country and in our wold. We will get through this pandemic, eventually. All we need is a little patience.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 52

Going Off on a Tangent

Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash

It's starting to get a bit Pinteresty up in here. The daughters just went outside to pick dandelions by the side of the road, because apparently dandelion honey is a thing they must make at 9 p.m. on a random Wednesday.

Inside the house, a double batch of bread is proofing on the stove. (Just to be clear, Caren, I haven't purchased store-bought bread in a decade, so don't even with me.)

There's a bird feeder made out of a water jug and tree bark sitting on the back table; the table next to me is littered with pins made out of safety pins, packing tape, drawings, and copious amounts of hot glue. [Note to self: add hot glue sticks, safety pins, and packing tape to next Meijer shopping list.]

The basil and peas haven't sprouted yet, and the peat pods are suspiciously vacant, but the kale and asparagus is poking through the compost-and-cardboard lasagna that I layered in the garden.

Michael restored a free-by-the-side-of-the-road grill and cooked hotdogs on it yesterday.

This weekend, I have big plans to build a kayak and canoe storage rack out of PVC.

I am incredibly aware of how privileged we are. We are in good health and financially stable; we can go to the hardware store to buy supplies, to Van Attas for seeds, to the grocery store for flour, to the neighbors for yeast. I restocked the wine and popsicle supply today from Aldi, and the fridge is full of produce.

Our biggest complaints are that we are in each other's spaces too often, that the wifi isn't as strong as we'd like. I'm sick of cooking and they're sick of eating it. We're all tired of not knowing what day it is; we miss our friends and our sports and our restaurants.

But when I take a step back and look at the big picture, it's easy to see that --even though we have lost so much during this strange, uncomfortable time-- we have also gained the time and space to make dandelion honey, to restore a grill, to plant the garden, to make a birdfeeder, and to plan the next project.

It's time for the second proof on the bread. The girls are pulling petals off of dandelions. I'll make Rice Krispie treats for breakfast when the bread is in the oven.

I wonder --when this is all over-- if our lives will be changed, a slight tangent from the trajectory we had been on. I wonder if we will be any different. I wonder if any of this will stick.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 51

Faustian Bargains

Today was a 12-hour work day. I started working a 8:30 a.m., a perfectly respectable time, where I zoomed with a lovely Irish boy as part of a research study about Dropbox. He was in Dublin, and I was at my kitchen table, and did I mention that he was lovely? He laughed at all of my jokes. Swoon.

After that meeting, it was straight into prepping and then presenting a webinar and grading papers and conferencing with students and recording screencasts and emailing parents. Through it all, I was interrupted eleventy million times --to pour Cheerios, listen to a story, commiserate, answer a question, find socks. All day long, I fought with video editors and google forms and screencastify and AP Classroom and pretty much every piece of technology I own --but mostly, today, I fought with my son.

This post --before I got in a late night walk and a glass of wine-- was originally titled, "Anybody Want an Eleven-Year-Old?" All day long he was angry. Angry at me, angry at 6th grade math, angry at his English teacher, angry at Roblox, angry at the Switch, angry at the portable mouse, angry at the chicken noodle soup, angry at the lasagna, angry at the popsicle wrappers, angry at his socks, angry at life. There was much stomping and cursing and slamming of the doors. I kept telling him to just give me a minute. Let me finish my sentence. Let me finish this assignment. Let me finish this paper. Let me finish this project.

I'm not even sure I saw my daughter before 2 p.m. I woke her up in the morning, but then she hid out in her room all day, a hermit crab of a daughter.

If parenting-by-ignoring is a category, I am a winner.

When my partner ventured up from the basement to tell me about the meetings he was just in, about the kudos he received, about the projects he is working on, I tried to look away from the screen. I tried to truly listen, and to respond fully, even when I had no idea what he was talking about. I tried, but my brain was still going, scripting the next slides and writing the next paragraph.

Shonda Rhimes, in a commencement speech at Dartmouth half a decade ago (in those halcyon days when we actually had graduation ceremonies) said, 

"Whenever you see me somewhere succeeding in one area of my life, that almost certainly means I am failing in another area of my life...If I am succeeding at one, I am inevitably failing at the other. That is the trade-off. That is the Faustian bargain one makes with the devil that comes with being a powerful working woman who is also a powerful mother. You never feel a hundred percent OK; you never get your sea legs; you are always a little nauseous. Something is always lost...Something is always missing."

 Today I was a decent teacher (as much as one can be, in this isolation). I was a decent webinar presenter. I was a distracted partner. I was a lousy parent. It's impossible to do all of the things well all of the time...especially when you are interrupted eleventy million times.

Working from home is not an easy job, it requires a lot of creativity 😆😆#CoronaVirusOutbreak pic.twitter.com/c0aUsRWdCz

— Pankaj Nain IPS (@ipspankajnain) March 17, 2020

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 50

Dear Quarantine: You're Getting OLD and It Shows

Happy freakin' birthday, Quarantine. You're 50. Well, technically, you're 51 because I started this series one day in, but what does one day even matter when you're halfway on the slow march towards death?

Quarantine, I mean no offense, but you are cranky and hormonal. You are menopausal. You can't decide from one day to the next if you want to be glowing sunshine or pissing down rain. Some days, from the right angle, you look kinda okay, like you still have potential, like there's some inner beauty shining through. But then, on closer look, you are all wrinkled and grizzled, and that shining is just your hormonal combination skin, making your forehead all greasy.

Quarantine, between you and me, you have no sense of style. You try to pretend you're all classy and Chico's with your trendy patterned facemasks and baggy linen pants, but in reality, you're just trying to relive the 80's with your bandana fashion and hammer pants. Nobody looks good in you. Nobody.

And let's talk about your middle-aged friends, while we're at it. We're tired of Karen, talking down to us like we are some kind of stupid, not understanding how math works and what "per capita" means and pretending like she is too fancy to dye her own hair. And then Kyle? Kyle has gotta go. And he can take his camo pants and his stupid guns and and his MAGA hats and his stupid-ass protests with him. We are trying really hard to put up with your moodiness, Quarantine, but we are hella sick of your friends.

And finally, love, we're gonna have to talk about your drinking problem. Your liver is not going to last forever, Quarantine. You're really going to have to lighten up, or at least have a glass of water once in awhile. Day drinking was all fun and games when you were in your 20's, but now, at day 50, you aren't looking so hot. You're kinda doughy and splotchy and I think you maybe need to eat an apple.

I mean all of this in the nicest possible way. Like constructive criticism. Because you've got some good things going for you, girl, like the curve-flattening and the life-saving. You still have potential to change the world --in a good way. But you are going to have to take a long hard look at yourself and make some changes, and soon. Because if you keep going like this until you are 80 or 100, we might just go insane.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 49

Foolish Things

Photo by chuttersnap on Unsplash

Sometimes, we do foolish things. Even when we are a very intelligent, middle-aged woman. Sometimes, we are very, very foolish. Like, for instance, we might sit outside in the sunshine for WAY too long because it's the last day of perfect weather before a cold front rolls in. We might remember to put sunscreen on our face several times, which is a very good thing. But we might overlook the fact that our glow-in-the-dark pale legs are also exposed, because we are in shorts for only the 2nd time this year.

We might, as we sit outside in the sun, build not one but two complete presentations: one for a webinar this upcoming week, and one for our pending Powerpoint party. Between taking 27 screenshots and photo editing and scripting the slides, we may have glanced down at one point and noticed that our shins were a bit pink. But we were in the zone. If we just shifted a bit, then the sun could beat down on a different part of pasty white skin and all would be good.

We possibly remembered but definitely ignored the fact that sunburn always shows up in full strength six hours after exposure. But it is going to be significantly colder tomorrow; it might even frost. A little too much sun today will just help us stay sane the rest of the week.

Sometimes, we do foolish things. We might even regret them, let's say...about six hours later. But those glorious hours in the sun made this searing pain and the ridiculous crooked red stripes down the front of our shins worth it. Besides, We'll be in sweatpants the rest of the week. By the time it's warm again, no one will even know how foolish we were.

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 48

What's Everybody So Mad About? 

Between yesterday and today, I've been to a lot of places and done a lot of things.

Yesterday, I went on a long walk with the daughters on the trails at Lake Lansing Park North. We made it a joke to yell "pretty!" and point every time we saw wildflowers blooming. We yelled and pointed a lot. We were ridiculous and we knew it and we were laughing. The flowers were audacious, bright yellow shooting up through the fallen trees and dead leaves. We talked about our lives and our loves and we argued and we apologized and we got blisters and we got sunburned and we talked about how lucky we are to have each other. We watched a chubby muskrat slide into the water.

Yesterday, the boy child desperately wanted Chicken McNuggets for dinner. So I went to McDonald's and got him some. The partner wanted beer, so I went to our local liquor store. We wanted to support a local restaurant, so we ordered from The Watershed. We ate our take out and we planned our Powerpoint Party and and we argued and we apologized and we talked about how lucky we are.

Today, I had to go to the post office to grab a Priority Mail box and then mail out something I'd sold online. I went to Petsmart to pick up dog food and dog toothpaste for Dobby. I went to the vet to get a prescription for Katniss filled. I went to Van Attas to get some seeds and a bag of dirt. I made bread.

Later, the daughters and I went to the park on Towner Road. I jogged for a mile. We walked for a mile. Helena skated for several miles. 

After dinner, I walked the dog. We passed a house being re-roofed. Another being remodeled. A third with landscapers in the yard.

There were boats out on the water. People were on their decks; they were on the street, walking their dogs or riding their bikes. The air smelled like burgers and burnt leaves. 

On social media and in the news, so many people are complaining. Mad about losing their "rights." Insistent that they can't garden or fix their roofs or get exercise or buy yeast to make bread. Livid at having to wear a mask in public to go grocery shopping, even though they've always willingly followed the "no shirt no shoes no service" policy without throwing a hissy fit and storming the capitol waving their guns around. 

But what, exactly, are they so mad about? What, exactly, can they NOT do? Because on a beautiful Saturday in May, I was able to do everything I wanted to do and everything I needed to do. The only inconvenience was that I had to do it in a mask, and stand in line to get into a store. But the sun was shining. It was a beautiful day. And if standing in line and wearing a mask are the biggest inconveniences in our lives right now, then we are pretty damn privileged. Instead of shouting into the echo chamber and hyperfocusing on everything we can't do --as if collectively working to save lives is some sort of civil rights violation-- maybe we could all just go outside and take a walk. Look around. Yell "pretty!" and point every time we see evidence of the audacious beauty surrounding us.

Photo by Andreas Schantl on Unsplash

The Coronacation Diaries, Episode 47

If They Were Black

If they were Black, brandishing weapons in the faces of cops, would they live to see international news coverage of their rage? Would anyone listen to their claims of suppression and injustice?

If they were white, would their death rate from the virus be obscenely high? Would the health risks of growing up poor and white still make them highly susceptible to the worst effects of the virus?

If they were Black, wearing face masks into the bank, would they get polite service? Would they be told to have a nice day, stay safe out there, come back in real soon?

If they were white, would they be so damn angry about fishing? About their cottage up North? About their landscaping? About their roots?

If you get infected with #Coronavirus & you die, I doubt you or anyone else will care what your hair looks like. This is a woman from today’s protest in WI. Just dumb. 

— Khary Penebaker (@kharyp) April 19, 2020

If they were Black, would they be able to get a doctor's appointment? Emergency dental care? A physical? A Covid-19 screening?

If they were white, would they be screaming "Heil Whitmer" at the Governor, demanding we all go back to work, because the virus is really just the flu and only 4,000 people in the state have died?

If they were Black, would they even be alive today? Would we listen to what they have to say? Would their lives even matter?