First day of senior year 2020-2021

Senior Year!! Not exactly how she pictured it, but darn if she isn't making do. Half her time will be in class, and the other half will be online. The teachers decided to do things this way for everyone's safety, splitting the class in half and alternating weeks. Darcy reported everyone was masked everywhere on campus and social distancing responsibly, with students exclaiming they weren't going to be UNC-Chapel Hill.

Ha! Ha!

The president and his wife were visible on campus, masked and six feet apart, to welcome students and answer any questions. Campus Rec re-opened, so Darcy has her job back, and she has been contacted by the athletic department regarding her second job.

Fingers crossed, the students keep respecting the word of officials. We are hoping for a healthy year for our senior! Hard to believe this will be it for her schooling. Wasn't she just in Kindergarten?

Quarantine projects

Last week was for projects. Both daughters painted glass, while the boyfriend of daughter #2 worked on a picture. I had two enterprises--spray paint the outdoor patio chairs and remove the pool ladder --both required assistance from family members.

Since quarantine, I've spent considerable time in the pool, teaching water aerobics, floating and reading, and swimming laps. Not an easy feat in a small, oval-shaped pool--seven arm strokes from one end to the other. Unsatisfied swimming in circles, I hooked my legs to the top step of our pool ladder and attempted to swim in place, which worked until I couldn't stand the pain in my feet. I wondered at the fuzzy, slimy gunk my toes touched underneath the step, and after fifteen minutes of in-place swimming, I went underwater for a peek.

GAG! GAG! GAG!

In my thirty-plus years working in the aquatic industry, I can honestly stipulate I've never seen the horror I witnessed beneath the steps of my pool ladder--black and green algae caked in every crevice. Perhaps because I worked at pools with metal ladders or because we removed them often for swim meets, I hadn't thought to check these steps in the ten or so years we've had this ladder, but there was no way in hell I could ignore what my eyes had just seen. Behold project #1.

Unable to remove the ladder on my own--and I tried--I requested help. It fell on deaf ears.  I Googled for helpful advice, scanned the information until it suggested using a car jack, and turned back to the hubby and boyfriend of daughter #2 (Oleg). Hubby's advice was to clean the steps while in the pool. My counter to that idiocy was to insult their manhood.

Me: "You're probably right. There's no way you two can get that ladder out. It would take brute strength to remove it. It's so stuck in the ground, not even Jason Momoa could yank it out, and he's ripped!"

Both of them were on the deck and pulling at the ladder while Jason's name still echoed through the house.

The ladder didn't budge, of course, but having offered the bait, I flipped my wrist to hook them. A discussion on ladder removal ensued, and I slowly reeled them in, casually mentioning my earlier research and the car jack. Before I could blink, they were dragging in a car jack, using various objects to raise the jack, including items that broke mid-pumping. Bricks from the landscaping in the front yard brought satisfaction and jacking began from different angles.

The ladder did not budge.

By now, I was in the water scrubbing the sides of the pool, so I asked daughter #2 (Darcy) to Google the same information I'd read earlier. Apparently, I'd skipped over a few steps. Like removing the bolt to the anchor wedges. Oops.

Darcy: "Really, Mom? It was, literally, step one."

The bolts were removed, the car jack pumped up and down, moving from one side of the ladder to the other until the only thing moving was the part of the ladder inside the pool, and it was jacked out of the water enough for me to realize that the steps were bolted into the ladder with a simple screw and nut.

My name went on to Oleg and Tom's shit list immediately.

Me: "Well, really, you never listen to what I say without double-checking me."

Tom: "This is an example of why I do just that."

I wisely kept quiet, took the wrench, and proceeded to remove the steps from my now badly mangled ladder--still in the ground. When they got a look at the reason behind my madness, they too wisely kept quiet.

I mean, GAG, GAG, GAG.

Tom has since researched the removal of pool ladders and is contemplating his next move. He soaked the steps for twenty-four hours in bleach. Project number one is temporarily on hold.

**

I've had two rattan chairs since before my daughters were born. They were part of a set that included a couch I no longer own, and they've been sitting on my front porch for several years. They didn't really fit on my porch, although I loved how they looked against my house, and the weather and elements ruined the cushions and parts of the rattan. But not enough that I didn't think they could be brought back to life. Behold project #2.

I hired Darcy at fifty bucks a chair to bleach them and then spray paint them. One day was devoted to washing, and we both agreed they cleaned up as nicely as I dreamed. We found cushions and picked out paint. Then nothing.

Darcy: "It says on the can not to spray during high heat or humidity. I'm waiting until early morning or late evening."

After several days of excuses, I hauled out the first chair, planning on painting it myself. Luckily for me, the husband pulled up while I was prepping the job.

After our typical back and forth exchange, including the following questions--

"What are you doing?"

"Why aren't you doing that on the driveway?"

"Why do you need a tarp?"

"How are you going to spray it?"

--I switched gears and channeled my inner Tom Sawyer.

Me: "What do you suggest? Should I spray the entire chair in a pattern? Start here? Or here? You probably have more experience with this then I do. Here, give it a go and show me."

By the time Darcy realized what was happening, Tom had emptied one paint can while I talked on the telephone from the comfort of my front porch.

Darcy: "I contracted this job out, so make sure you pay me the $100, and I'll see that my subcontractors get their take."

We all had a hand at spraying the chairs in the three days we worked on them, stopping for more paint and allowing for dry times. I'm pretty happy with the end result. Next up is purchasing furniture covers when not in use.

And I suppose painting the table which conveniently was forgotten. Still, I'm satisfied with project number two.

College 2020-2021 move-in

The on-going back and forth of our local open school, no, don't open school, had me grateful I don't have children in the system, but woeful we are still divided. I see zero chance of a solution to this pandemic if we can't work together, and it was with deep trepidation that we set off on Friday to take daughter #2 (Darcy) and boyfriend (Oleg) to their new apartments across from their college campus set to open on Monday.

Darcy wasn't keen on returning to school, concerned beyond the usual roommate worries, and the journey across the bay was solemn--at least in my car where I drove solo with suitcases and the liquor accumulated during the quarantine.

                       

The complex had assigned move-in dates and times, and a makeshift drive-thru booth was erected for the pick-up of keys, rental forms, maintenance requests, etc. The first happy discovery was finding Oleg in the building next door to Darcy's. Literally, a hop, skip, and a jump from one to the other. The second was her key not working in the bedroom she'd expected she'd be placed. (Side note: Before the pandemic, Darcy was to sublet this very apartment for the summer from one of her co-workers, and so she assumed she'd be in that same room) This meant she was not in the room where the closet was built into the bathroom! Suddenly excitement crept its way into our hearts.

Each apartment has a bedroom/bathroom with a lock and common living space, kitchen, and laundry room. Darcy's room has a HUGE walk-in closet, not in the bathroom. Not having a closet at home, nor in any of her dorm rooms, this was the best gift ever to my baby. She moved her dresser inside the closet and we organized it with all sorts of closet items we found at Walmart.

Oleg's apartment wasn't as happy. While the shared area was larger, there were piles of dirty dishes in both sinks covered in mold, and a trashcan overflowing with stinky garbage. Since this had been an issue at his last apartment, seeing this was a downer for the kid. The next day, he discovered it was leftover from a previous tenant who'd subleased his room, and Oleg tossed everything out in the trash bin and cleaned the kitchen until spotless. But at that moment--ugh.

We unpacked what we'd brought for Darcy (Oleg chose not to have my help), made lists of what we needed, and headed back across the bridge for the night. Since Tom and Maddy were unable to help on Friday, we moved the heavier stuff the next day, loading up two cars from the storage unit. Darcy's roommates were gone, so we had the entire apartment to ourselves, and we did what we always do when moving for college--decorating, electric hook-ups, shopping, etc. 

We were there the entire day, but both Darcy and I felt a hundred percent better than we had the previous day when we finally said our good-byes. It isn't the year they expected, but we are hopeful these students will fair better, having learned from the mistakes made at UNC and Notre Dame the week before. 

Happy Senior Year, Darcy! Wash your hands! Wear your mask! We love you!

Quarantine day 161

Several months ago, a flyer was left on our door, telling us work would begin on our roads with the date section blank. It was very official looking, so I kept it, periodically checking if invisible ink had been used that would one day magically appear to announce the beginning of the road work.

Nothing appeared--no date, no workers.

Since I'm rarely outside in the front of my house, I was also clueless that the rest of my neighborhood roads were being torn apart until Oleg ventured out on a walk, returning with the update. Even then, I didn't put two and two together until the next morning when I returned from a haircut appointment to find the entrance blocked by large trucks. I had to enter another way through the hood, assure the flagman blocking my path I did own a house down the street, and bump my way over rocks and dirt to my driveway. Only then did I remember the flyer.

It was two days of sheer noise. To tear, repair and repave shook my house like I imagine Californians experience during an earthquake. Everything, clear down to the foundation, rattled, and the whine my house emitted from the disturbance got to us by day two. By then, our teeth were also loose.

The idiocy of this is that a month ago, workers repaired potholes and areas on our road that were then torn up in this second phase. Does anyone monitor this stuff? I kept adding up the payroll hours, equipment and mileage used, etc. in my head--government at it's finest.

Now we have new streets covered in black tar that emits heat in our ninety-degree weather, burns our dog's paws, and gets tracked in on our shoes. But, hey, our road looks spiffy!

Plus, it brought us some excitement in quarantine!

Three celebrations

Tom celebrated his birthday by making the dinner he wanted--spaghetti and frozen meatballs--and ending it with an ice cream cake dessert. It was a good day.

Every Monday, Darcy and I go up and down the aisles of every store we enter, looking for Clorox wipes. We struck gold in Target, picking up a pack for me and the kids heading back to college, and then we found Lysol wipes at Publix where a sign suggested we take what we needed. We didn't want to be greedy so we took one.

My niece became a teen! The funny thing was she celebrated with a couple friends on her big day, so by the next night when the family gathered for dinner, her cake was missing a few pieces. I thought it made for a funny photo.

Quarantine day 154

There is nothing new here at Quarantine Bluffs that I haven't written before. We're still staying safe, wearing masks, social distancing, staying out of restaurants unless we pick up food. It's a choice, and all four of us are believers in doing so. When I get down in the dumps watching my friends and family vacation, fly, eat in restaurants, etc., my kids rein me in--Mom, why take the chance?

This brings to mind several times when I have taken chances--times when I've walked away unscathed and others when I've suffered terrible consequences. It's the latter where I've always asked myself why. Why did I take that chance?

People tell me they aren't going to stop living their lives, and I think they mean they aren't going to change their lives for a pandemic, but I've opted to make a few in living mine--for right now. That annoys people--I hear it in their voices, and I read the comments and postings on social media--and I get it. It's a damn inconvenience, this virus.

But I don't want to be asking, nor do I want my daughters asking why I took a chance.

**

I lost another friend this last week. He was 56 years old. I had just mentioned him the previous day. My heart aches for his parents, his wife, and his son.

We have several storms brewing in the Atlantic, and the experts are warning Florida. I feel very inadequate in preparation for a positive COVID test, let alone a hurricane.

Daughter #2 heads back to college next week. It's made us all anxious.

Isn't it about time for unicorns and rainbows?

Call me a farmer

I did not inherit my parents' green thumbs. To be honest, playing in the dirt was never my thing, but there have been rare occasions when I felt inspired to plant something. After our pool was built, I placed large flowering pots and palm trees around the deck. One summer, I tried growing herbs, and during springtime several years, I tended to the hanging plants on my front porch. After a month or so of watering and conversing, I become tired of the heat and the effort it takes to maintain plants, and more often than not, they wilt, die, or never grow. My husband will tell you he takes over responsibility from any of my attempts--yes, that is true.

I have more of a blue thumb--from ink--than I do a green thumb.

My father's thumb planted flowers and trees. My mother's thumb cultivated items first in our kitchen before they went into the ground. She'd take the seeds from the food we'd devoured, jab them with toothpicks, so they rested on either side of a cup of water, and those cups sat on our kitchen sill until green shoots appeared. Avocado pits were a favorite of hers. Eventually, after moving to Florida, she took to growing pineapples.

You can read HERE and HERE, where I wrote complained about having to maintain her plantation of pineapples when she was forced into a wheelchair. She'd sit in it and direct, pointing at this plant, pointing at that plant, and making me bend over in uncomfortable positions to trim the leaves and clear out the debris from the pots. I was always a sweaty mess when I was finished, bleeding from holes in my arms where I'd get poked from the plant's spiky leaves. Frankly, I think they were telling me to leave them alone. I mean, how much pruning actually goes on at a real plantation? My gues--very little.

My mother always wanted me to take the plants home and put them in my yard. She thought they'd do better in the ground, but while I didn't know if my husband would like a pineapple plantation, I also didn't believe my mother could get along without her plants. So, I never took them home--until she died. Then, I did it as a tribute, especially after I offered her plants to her condo neighbors, and her downstairs neighbor took the most abundant, healthiest plant, throwing it in the garbage so she could use the pot for something different. Lesson learned.

I brought home four plants, I think. Every year I've had a pineapple. Every. Year. Some years I get one, some years more. The little pineapple pops out in April, the month when my mother died, and by July, they are ripe and ready to pick. We take every top from these pineapples and stick them in our yard. We genuinely do have a pineapple plantation, although we've lost a few plants. This year I harvested three pineapples.

This pineapple is the second fruit from a plant near my mailbox. It is from a pineapple top of my mother's plant, and it gave us fruit last year. We picked this fruit second this summer, and some parts of it weren't as sweet, so I used it to make pina colada.

This came from another top we put into the ground in front of our house. It got so large, I had to stake it so it could finish ripening. When it came time to harvest it, all I did was remove the stake, and the pineapple fell over and popped right off the plant. This fruit was very sweet, and we ate it in one sitting.

The last pineapple was from my mother's plant in the backyard. These plants aren't as colorful, large, or as healthy-looking as those in our front yard, and this little pineapple never grew any bigger. I found it odd, so I turned to the Internet, where I learned more than when I originally researched growing pineapples. Most of it entailed getting out into the plantation and getting dirty if I want my next crop to not be as small as this little sucker.

My plants are a ratoon crop and require the least amount of work. Yep. My kind of farming. Unfortunately, ratoon crops grow smaller each year if not plucked from the mother plant and replanted. Ugh. Since my mailbox plant already has three new shoots, I will have to remove these eventually and place them separately in the ground if I don't want them to kill one another off by competing for light, nutrients, etc. 

Looks like if I'm going to continue being a pineapple plantation owner, I'm going to need to invest in gardening gloves. My mother would be so proud.

Quarantine day 143

1. Corono--that's how, in the beginning, I referred to the virus. I'm not sure if I heard it that way, or if the correct pronunciation was too close to the beer I enjoy, or what, but once the girls and Oleg corrected me, well, it just became our thing to say. 

You know, to make fun of the old lady.

We use it at certain times, like when discussing Trump's latest update on the virus. Or when we watch a television show where someone goes into a crowded bar, screaming CORONO! Or when someone sneezes or coughs. It's a less stressful word than the real one.

2. Sue's mom was released from the hospital and is recovering at home. Other than being extremely tired, she is doing well. Now, it's SueG's brother's turn. First came the loss of smell and then the cough and fever. He is self-quarantining away from his wife and daughter in a room at home. So far, SueG is healthy. It annoys her I won't social distance to see her, but why take the chance? How dumb would I feel if doing so led to getting sick?

Pretty damn dumb.

3. I have tennis elbow in my left arm. I had it a couple of years ago in that elbow, and then I got it in my right arm, and now it's back again in the left. Yesterday I swam laps in my pool and today I'm unable to lift any objects. Darcy and I ran errands this morning with my left arm hanging limply at my side. She had to carry and unload and scan everything. She also had to retrieve my phone from my left pocket when needed. 

4. I'm going to miss Darcy when she heads back to school--which will be in a couple of weeks. Move-in day, which had to be scheduled, will be quite different than our previous three dorm move-ins. We are moving her into an apartment, but we are moving in Oleg as well. Hmm...now that I think about it, my tennis elbow in the right arm flared during move-in last year. I wonder if it's related?

5. Tom wants to drive to the mountains in the fall, far away from people. Because it will be cooler. He worked outside this weekend mowing, weeding, and shooting hoops. He always does this during the heat of the day. His researching places to stay reminded me of our trip to South Bend in November of last year when he sought cooler weather. Remember? The trip that was "for MY birthday" and I ended up sick for two weeks. I told him we should wait and see how things go in the next month or so. (insert rolling eye emoji)

6. I'm helping to edit my MIL's memoirs. It's a great project, and I'm learning a lot about her and her family. It's also giving me an excuse for why I'm not working on my own damn projects. EEK!

BEEP

As we head into month #985 of the virus, my nights and days are screwed up. I've always been a night owl, but this quarantining has really messed with me. I thought it was due to minimal exercise, so I made a conscious decision to move this week. I walked the neighborhood, exercised in the pool, and stood when my Apple watch suggested it instead of waving my arm up and down in the air like my SIL does to meet her goals. I made myself get out of bed before 8:30 every morning, no matter what time I went to bed, and I wouldn't let myself nap even if my body begged for it.

It didn't change a thing. 

Friday, I crawled between the sheets after two o'clock. I'd waited for my youngest to return from a social distance get together, and then I'd spent time chatting in bed with my vampire eldest, who always exceeds my bedtime by at least an hour, sometimes more. I tossed and turned for probably a half an hour before my brain shut down and sleep crept into my body.

BEEP

The noise was loud and very distinct—smoke alarm. Or, maybe I'd heard it wrong. Perhaps one of Tom's back-up batteries, those that are attached to major electric appliances. I was unsure. I wondered if I could sleep through the series of beeps as obviously, my husband could. 

BEEP

It was definitely a smoke alarm, and since it sounded like it was literally in my bedroom, I decided it had to be the closest alarm in the hallway right outside Madison's bedroom door. I climbed out of bed and pushed open her door. She was on her phone, the eery light illuminating her face.

Me: "Do you hear the beep?"

Madison: "What beep?"

Me: "Are you being funny?"

Madison: "I don't think so. What beep?"

We went back and forth like this with me because I believed she was messing with me. She wasn't. Madison hadn't heard the beep. By now, the dog had joined us, and he stood in Madison's room with us while we waited for the noise to sound again.  

It didn't.

I waited ten minutes for the damn beep, and when it didn't sound, I went back to bed. Elliot chose to remain with Madison. I got settled and prayed for slumber.

BEEP

I ignored it. When it went off a second time, I texted Madison. She didn't answer me because she was already in the hallway trying to remove the battery from the smoke alarm. I joined her.

Me: "So, you heard it this time?"

Madison: "Yes, I heard it. Every time it went off, the dog whined and bumped my mattress."

We took out the battery, laid it with the cover on the piano bench, took the dog outside to do his business one last time for good measure, said good-night, and retired to our separate rooms. We both went to sleep--for approximately fifteen minutes--before Elliot began howling. I heard it almost subconsciously, from far, far away, and somewhere in the back of my brain, I wondered if we should've let the dog stay longer outside. He howls at night only if he needs to go out or it is storming. But my N3 stage of my NREM was overtaking the N2 stage, and I was desperate to let it. I ignored the dog.

BEEP

Poof! I came out of the NREM instantly, my eyelids shooting open. What the hell? Had I seriously just heard that, or was I dreaming? I grabbed my phone and shined the light toward where Elliot sleeps in our bathroom. No Elliot. I moved it, and there he was standing in our doorway, looking straight at me.

Elliot: "It's about damn time!" 

I let my head fall back against the pillow, glancing at the time. It was three-forty in the morning. Elliot whined and pushed his nose against my mattress. 

BEEP

I got out of bed and went into Madison's room.

Me: "Maddy? Are you awake?"

Madison: "How can I not be? The dog's been howling for the past ten minutes! I was asleep, and he keeps waking me up."

Me: "It's because of the beeping. Do you hear it?"

Madison: "Yes. I checked Darcy's room, but she doesn't have a smoke alarm. I don't know where it's coming from, and I'm getting really tired of the dog coming to me when things happen that he doesn't like. Why am I his go-to person?"

Me: "The beep is coming from my bedroom. Your dad has something hooked up behind my dresser, maybe it's that?"

We went to investigate. By now, I was laughing uncontrollably because Madison refused to whisper, and I kept shushing her, she kept saying she wouldn't, and just the thought of Tom waking up while all of this was happening, well, I couldn't stop giggling while imagining that conversation. As I've written multiple times, Tom is not someone who reacts well at being awakened. 

Madison: "That's just a wifi thing behind your dresser. It doesn't beep."

Me: "Let's just sit here until we hear it again. I'm telling you, it's coming from in this room."

Madison: "I'm Googling beeping after removing the battery from an alarm."

We sat, Madison on the floor with the dog, googling on her phone, and me on a chair. Tom snored. When the beep finally came, it was loud, and it came from my left. I squinted at my closet while the dark recesses of my brain stumbled through files until I had a eureka moment, remembering once seeing an object in the closet that resembled a smoke alarm. 

The three of us scrunched into the closet, Madison and I shining our lights around the ceiling. There, above the door, was a smaller version of the smoke alarm we'd already disabled. Immediately it beeped as if rewarding us for our find. Madison ripped the cover off, removed the battery, and added it to the other on the piano bench. This sent me dissolving into laughter again at picturing Tom's expression when discovering this collection in the morning.

It was four o'clock by the time we finally got into bed and were able to drift off to sleep. We slept well into the late morning, where we then told our story and discovered that a month ago, Tom and Oleg had changed out the smoke alarm batteries...with expired batteries.

Tom: "Guess that tells us for sure that the expiration dates on batteries mean something."

He's lucky Madison and I were tired and walked away.