Category: Random

Holiday in Covid-19

Here in Alabama, we are 2 days into spring break. So far, we have…..we have…..we….um….

Ok, we haven’t done anything. I’ve been putting an hour of work into getting my vegetable garden started, so that if we make it to May, our little 18×23 Liberty Garden, Corona-Edition, will keep us fed. Here’s hoping we fare better than last year.

My gardening skills sort of come and go. Some years were super successful, while others were not so great.

Last year was one of those “not so great” years. As the first gardening season in Alabama, I had tremendously high hopes. I had a 3 season plan that would keep us in veggies from February through November. There were just a few issues.

The sad and lonely, gardenless arbor.

The first being, our Tigger-like pup, Emma, loves to help. She digs a mean hole, and is a professional at weed pulling. Of course, she doesn’t know the difference between a week and an actual plant, so everything gets yanked out, thrown around, and murdered by her. It’s so helpful. I bought some wire fence, some metal fence posts, and a gated arbor, to keep the garden monster out. I then spent a solid 3 months putting up the fence, the arbor, and digging out the grass.

The next issue was that I procrastinated like the true, Professional Procrastinator that I am. Once the garden was planted, I also noticed these little baby plants coming up in tidy little rows. I told Justin that we should wait and see (worst plan for any situation), because maybe they’re something.

Third, I took our kids to NY for a few weeks, and left my husband (who is often at work 16 hours a day, and sometimes as much as 40 hours straight) in charge of taking care of it. I came home to Jurassic Garden. At which point, not only was the entire space overrun with WILD MORNING GLORIES, but my little “Let’s see what these turn out to be” plants were really looking a lot like peanut plants. After 2 weeks of de-wild-morning-glorying the space, I decide to take inspiration from Jimmy Carter and become a peanut farmer……

…..Of course then it ended up my peanut plants were really some kind of weed that only looks peanutish, but is in fact a whole lot of nothing. Jimmy, I failed you.

My garden produced a solid 2 cucumbers. Which, in a space of 414sqft, is sad. I vowed that 2020 would be better than 2019.

February came and went. Every day I told myself that today would be the day I started this garden. Ok, maybe tomorrow. Ok, maybe Monday.

Then the world started freaking out and buying up meat and toilet paper. Nothing like a little Pandemic Panic to Prompt Produce Production. Let the planting begin!

Today is day 4 of my Garden jumpstart frenzy. I have just under 1/2 of the garden planted. According to my fancy Alabama Garden App (it’s a thing, don’t be jealous that you don’t live near a major agricultural university. We can’t all be this rural), I should start having vegetables by the beginning of May.

In the meantime, I guess it’s back to honing my “gathering” skills. Which, aren’t great. Justin told me he doesn’t think my giant dandelion plants are actually dandelions, so I should probably halt all attempts at feeding my family weeds. And since I’ve never shot a gun (don’t gasp. Just because I’m married to a gun-owning soldier does not mean I care to have anything to do with them myself), the hunting portion of this Covid Apocalypse is going to have to go on the back burner–where it will stay until the Zombie Apocalypse, at which time I suppose knowing how to shoot a gun will be a necessity.

As for the rest of spring break? Well, I’ve taken my usual social distancing and really kicked it right up into homebound recluse status. Are we almost out of juice? Yes. Have I decided that they can wait 2-4 months for our garden to start producing and then we can enjoy some fresh-squeezed tomato juice? Also yes. Pandemic Paranoia is Prominent.

Come Together, Right Now, Over Covid-19

These are strange times, indeed. The uncertainty of it all is what makes it seem so…overwhelming? Scary? A third option?

Sunday night I realized that I had better message my PCM and let her know I was getting close to running out of my blood pressure double cocktail. I also asked that, in light of the extra safety measures put in place at the hospital, could they please (please) send my prescriptions to either the refill pharmacy, or any pharmacy that doesn’t require me to go to large military hospital. When I received my notification phone call, the nurse (who also took my stitches out of my forehead a year ago–thanks Mr E) thanked me for trying to be proactive, but they were not allowed to send prescriptions anywhere. I tried, and I was unsuccessful.

Today I decided that the longer I put it off, the worse it would be. After asking Justin if there was any way I could drop our maybe-not-so-tiny-anymore humans off to him (and learning that, no, he was still somewhere in the woods, in Georgia, playing dress up with face-paint and all), I did some searching, took a deep breath and accepted that my kids were old enough to be left alone (in Alabama, as soon as you can say “y’all,” you’re old enough; the army says 9-12 year olds can be home alone for up to 2 hours). I set out the rules–do not go outside, and no shenanigans. Xander was even able to repeat them back to me (which you might think is a weird thing to say about a 9 year old, but this is the same kid that usually, when asked to repeat back what we said to him, replies with, “I don’t know…words??”).

I would share a photo of the pre-hospital-entry portion of this adventure, but it’s probably not allowed…or it’s probably something I don’t want to risk getting in trouble for. I really just don’t like to get in trouble. Sammi Steeves, Rule Follower!

I followed the signs pointing the way, and reminding me that if I had a cough, fever, or had been out of the country or in contact with a sick human, I would not be allowed access to the hospital. I’m not really sure how to feel about that final statement. If hospitals are for sick people, and they aren’t allowing the sick people in, where are they going? I hope I just misread the signs, or skipped a section. I hope?

So far, nothing new or different has happened, other than I was able to find parking on the first level of the parking garage! I locate a table saying “Pharmacy Check-In,” and head over, ID card in hand. I’m all smiles and sunshine, because I know this is a weird time, and no one wants to be the guy out front. After asking the same questions listed on the multiple signs I passed on my 5oft walk from the parking garage to the table, he asks, “would you like to come back at 1100? Or 1600? To pick up your prescriptions car-side?” Goodbye smile; hello angry eyes.

“Are you serious? I called and messaged my provider, and asked if there was any way I could get my prescriptions without entering the hospital. And now, after driving 30 minutes to get here, you’re telling me I have to come back at either 11 or 4?!” He said I could still pick them up if I wanted to take my chances going into the hospital. No, buddy, I don’t want to go into the hospital. But I also don’t want to drive home, just so I can turn around an come back in an hour.

I make my way to the entrance. Where I am stopped by another soldier. “Ma’am, the main hospital entrance is closed.” I do a full turn, and say, “so, how am I supposed to get to the pharmacy?” Oh! I see–through the giant army tent tunnel set up. I wash my hands at the hand washing station, say hello to the CPT across from me, and then we make our way toward the tent–where I managed to get yelled at for not leaving 6 feet between me and the CPT. I’m being yelled at by a soldier standing 2 feet from me: “Ma’am! You need to maintain 6ft between you and the person in front of you!” I might have burst out laughing.

Once inside the Tent of Uncertainty, a medic asked me the same questions I had already been asked–twice. I asked him if he was having fun: “well, I’m standing outside in an army tent, taking temperatures.” As he was taking my temperature he said, “honestly, my usual job is way more stressful.” Well, now I want details.

But there’s no time for details, because I now have a fancy green wristband stamped 18March2020, and I get to finish my walk of awkwardness through the tent. Which was surprisingly spacious on the inside.

Every other seat in the waiting area has a SOCIAL DISTANCING DO NOT USE sign taped to it…but of course the seats are back-to-back, so I could just lean over and rest my head on the person behind me, if anyone chose to sit there. Normally the wait can be hours, but I had ticket 135, and they were on 127. This never happens!

Everyone is keeping their distance and keeping to themselves. And then I hear, “excuse me? Can you help me?” Behind me is standing a little Ajumma. “I don’t know what I am doing. My husband always does this for me, and I’ve never picked up my prescriptions before! Can you help me?” Only if you can give me your recipe for kimchi.

I walked her through it. “Do you have your ID? Scan this barcode, not other one. Is that your information on the screen? Touch the confirm button.” Of course the next step could be confusing for anyone, because you have to choose your category. It’s the Choose Your Own Adventure portion of all prescription pickups. Asking a question, Soldier in Uniform, Same-day surgery, 3 other weirdly-worded categories that I know probably pertain to no one, and finally, All other beneficiaries. I told her that was her category. Then, being that she’s Korean and adorable, she thanked me 572 times, and started to walk away. “Ma’am! Don’t forget to take your number!”

“Now serving B128,” and Ajumma hops up and says, “oh, that’s me! That’s my number!” I asked if I could check her paper, and told her she was one-thirty-eight, and they had called 128.

I don’t know why her husband was unable to come with her today, but I can guess it had something to do with his health. Did I have to break the 6 foot spacing rule in order to assist her? You bet I did. Did she get to go home and tell her husband she was able to fill her prescriptions without his assistance? Probably! Did I get her to write down all of her Korean recipes? No! I should’ve held her number hostage until she told me the secret to making perfect dumplings!

In the end, I made it home in less than 2 hours. My children had stayed inside, and hadn’t gotten caught up in any shenanigans. So we all got in the car and went grocery shopping…which was much less frenzy-filled than I expected it to be!

Tore Your What?!

Life with Justin is nothing, if not exciting. And often comical. This is entirely out of love.

You need to know that Justin has a way with words. His own special way. Whether it’s throwing down “scraw” on the scrabble board and then defending it with, “you know—pine scraw.” Or deciding on what movie “gene-ree” we should watch. In case there’s confusion, it is pine straw, and genre. I refer to it as Justinese. His own special language of greatness.

About a week before Easter, as we sat at the dinner table, Justin said to me, “so Jeremy’s wife is Episcopalian—you know where I’m going with this.” No, no I don’t. I wondered if she had some wild Easter tradition that was religiously based. Justin continued: “she only eats fish.”

Cue the uncontrollable laughter. “Justin, it’s pescatarian. Episcopalian is a religion!”

This has been discussed, and giggled about, ever since. Honestly, I think what makes it even more hilarious is the way he matter-of-factly makes these statements.

Yesterday, he outdid himself, and I love it.

He walked into the kitchen after work and said, “so, I tore my labium.”

“Wow,” I said. “Me too—when I was birthing Xander.”

Justin rolled his eyes. “Not my labia. My labium. In my shoulder.” This, of course, is the first time I’ve heard of the dreaded shoulder vagina tear. I google it. And of course, it’s actually his labrum—the cartilage in his shoulder.

Take a moment to giggle at Justin’s torn shoulder vagina. Thank you for being amazingly adamant…and so very wrong, all at once.

Watch Your Language!

Everyone with a phone knows that autocorrect is not impressed with bad language. Fucks become ducks, shit gets turned into shot. Or spot. Or Camelot…ok, maybe not (oh great, now I’m rhyming).

This evening, on our drive to gymnastics, Justin texted me—he got held up at work, and was letting me know that it was foggy out. Of course, I was driving, so I let Siri do the work: “hey Siri. Text Justin. ‘No fog at home stop. Love you.” My next response from Justin was “what?”

What? What’s so confusing about no fog at home. It’s a pretty straightforward concept—on post there is fog, and 10 miles south, there isn’t. Of course since I was driving, I decided to wait until we reached our destination, rather than try to explain meteorology via Siri.

Once at gymnastics, all was revealed. Siri has a potty mouth, and is trying to start shit.

So, what you’re telling me is that autocorrect won’t fix my blundered curse words, but Siri can go and tell my husband off?! Dang it, Siri! If you have a problem with Justin, take it up with him—I refuse to get in the middle of this!

And watch your mouth!

New Year, New Me

Just kidding. It’s more like New Year, Same Me…hopefully a better version of me? I’m trying.

In all honesty, in 37 years I have yet to remake myself in any way. I went away to college and told myself I would be outgoing. I transferred and told myself this time I would be outgoing. By my 20s I realized that was not really ever anything I would be, let alone anything I actually wanted. I embraced the introvert in me.

Organization is another issue for me. I’m a disaster. I’m a tornado in a trailer park. I really do try. Every move, every season, I try to be better at not being a train wreck. Again, this is easier said than done. Lists are made, and lost. I try every approach imaginable, and I always seem to find myself back in the land of Overwhelmed.

I can accept that I will never be the person whose home is something out of a magazine, but this year I really, really would like to be able to get it together and keep it that way. Fewer naps; more organizing.

Here’s hoping my depression and ADD are willing to cooperate. Because the excuse, “I couldn’t do the dishes–it was raining,” doesn’t always go over well…seeing as though dishes (and laundry, and most other cleaning tasks) take place indoors.

Happy 2020!