The Best of 2020. Which will be a reach.

But before I peace out of 2020...

Best Book I Read:

It's funny, you'd think with me having to Stay the Fuck at Home so much this year, I'd have read more. But for some reason my concentration was shot, and I only ready about 40 books this year. And very few of them really stuck out in my memory--which is nothing against any of the books. Some of them were really quite fine and buzz generating! The Girl with the Louding Voice and Shelter in Place both helped transport me. But oddly, it was America's First Daughter--a fictionalized account of the life of Thomas Jefferson's daughter--that I consider the most memorable, if not the best. I read it about a month before the elections, and it was oddly comforting to read about the governmental dysfunction and toxic party politics that seem to threaten our country from the outset. 

Best Purchase I Made: 

If one good thing came out of this shitshow of a year, it's that I cooked so much this year. Like, more than I have collectively in my entire life. Which tells us less about how much I cooked this year, and more about how little I cooked (i.e., functioned as an adult) in the previous years of my life. Anyway, along with the cooking came the acquisition of several bits and bobs of cookware, including this lovely Dutch oven. It's no Le Creuset, but I'm not fancy enough of a cook to need that at this point; this is versatile enough for me. I've made breads, curries, chilis, soups, and pot pies in this, and my god, I do feel adult-y when I'm  hovering over this pot, stirring away.  

Best Recipe I Cooked: 

Am I actually starting to enjoy cooking? Perhaps, although I will never be anything more than a barely-competent cook. However, I don't enjoy meal planning, so I rely mostly on Dinnerly for my weeknight meals. Nonetheless, I've enjoyed finding and trying out new recipes, and the one that I enjoyed the most this year was this (surprisingly healthy) shrimp and veggie skillet recipe. It was colourful and flavorful and rather delicious.

Best TV Show I Binged: 

Back in January, almost a year ago (!!!) when I was laying on my couch, possibly dying of Coronavirus (I'll fight you on this one; I know I had it), I had very little energy or will to live, so finally settled down and binged all of the existing episodes of The Crown. It's a truly magnificent show, and yes, I am biased because I'm an anglophile, but fuck you. It's great. It's beautiful and heartbreaking and thought-provoking (Queen Elizabeth may be a bit of a cold fish, but goddamn, she knows her duty, and you cannot underestimate that, these days), and it's kind of perfect that I was able to bookend the year by watching the latest season in December when I was laid up with a bad back.

Best Song I Listened To: 

Back in early July, one morning I was minding my own business and walking a letter to my mailbox, I suddenly felt my ankle turn. This has happened countless times before, but something about this time was different. Even as I was falling, I was thinking, Oh, this is going to be a bad one. I smacked my head into the sidewalk; my left cheek hit the cement and I heard my front tooth make contact with the unyielding surface. Immediately I tasted blood; I had bitten clean through my upper lip. Somehow, I hauled myself up and posted the letter and walked back to my apartment, badly shaken and tearful and thinking, Not my tooth. Please god, don't let me have broken my front tooth. I managed to actually do work through a lot of the day, but I was legitimately traumatized, and it kickstarted me into one of my spirals. By the evening, I was exhausted, drained, shaky, I had a bruise and scrape on my cheekbone, a busted lip, and a tiny chip in one of my teeth. On top of that, my mind was doing what it always does with even the slightest encouragement (or, rather, discouragement): I'm clumsy and worthless and can't even walk in a straight line and I'm falling apart and I'm an ugly incompetent mess and everything is awful. I poured a glass of wine and sat in bed, and started to listen to the Decemberists song Everything is Awful. I sniffled and wept a little, and then Spotify decided to intervene and move onto another song, unbidden. And suddenly I was listening to a defiant, angry, brave, female voice bellowing...

"And sometimes when you're on, you're really fucking on 
And your friends they sing along and they love you

But the lows are so extreme that the good seems fucking cheap

And it teases you for weeks in its absence

But you'll fight it and you'll make it through

You'll fake it if you have to

You'll show up for work with a smile

You'll be better and you'll be smarter

And a better daughter or son and a real good friend

You'll be awake, you'll be alert, 

You'll be positive though it hurts..."

I sat there, with tears pouring down my battered face, listening to this anthem, and I have never felt more seen and validated in my whole goddamn messy life. And that night, Rilo Kiley's "A Better Son/Daughter" became my Song of 2020. 

Best Piece of Clothing I Wore: 

Ugh, SPORTS BRAS. DUH.

Best Picture to Sum Up My 2020:

Weirdest. Christmas. Ever.

...But, by golly, it was still Christmas. Having made the decision to lean into the holiday as best as I was able, I went right ahead and did what I could to enjoy things. 

On December 23: RUMBALLS!

Most years since returning home, I've spent the weekend before Christmas in Indy with my friend Dr J; during which, we partake in some sort of iconic Indy Christmas activity, eat an obscene amount, make rumballs and get drunk, and then watch cheesy holiday movies. This year, for obvious reasons, most of this couldn't happen...but Dr J , game as ever, joined me for an evening of making rumballs, drinking, chatting, and whatnot via Google Hangouts. 

Fuck you, 2020. I still win. And my rumballs are better than yours. 

December 24: It wasn't a white Christmas, per se, but it was balls-shrivelingly cold, and snow fell on and off throughout the day. I listened to Christmas music and drove about town, delivering Christmas gifts and nomnoms to people. And, for the first time ever, I went caroling. Not, like, going from door to door with a bunch of people, singing. But standing around, with three other women in Bryan Park, freezing our tits off as we sang to ourselves and each other. In masks. 6 feet apart. We crooned. We warbled. At times, we belted out tunes with gusto, if not pitch or rhythm or harmony. If we opted not to sing a song, we had to do an interpretive dance. It was awkward as hell, and delightful, and I very much hope we can do it again next year, with more of us, without masks. I'm sure the other park-goers wish no such thing.

December 25:  You know, I could focus on the fact that I spent this Christmas alone. But instead, I'm going to focus on the fact that this was, I think, the very first Christmas of my life, that I spent alone. How freaking lucky am I? But even so, I don't feel like I was alone this Christmas: my day was filled with phone calls, Skype dates, text and Facebook messages, cards and letters and emails. And, later in the day, I tuned in for the Queen's annual Christmas Speech. Her possibly immortal Royal Highness said, "Of course, for many, this time of year will be tinged with sadness: some mourning the loss of those dear to them, and others missing friends and family-members distanced for safety, when all they'd really want for Christmas is a simple hug or a squeeze of the hand. If you are among them, you are not alone and let me assure you of my thoughts and prayers."

Then I cried a little. And then, because I'm a demented magpie, I got distracted by the old broad's brooch.

Thus ended Christmas 2020. While it could certainly have been so much worse, at least for me, I can heartily say that I hope we never see its like again. This year took a lot out of us, and this holiday, even moreso. We've made it through, and we'll keep making it through, but we've got a long way to go. 

Stay safe, friends, and keep faith. Merry everything, and happy always.

A Letter To You

'

The thing that I have had the most difficulty processing during The Longest Apocalypse Ever is time. I've remarked on it in several entries before, so I won't bang on about it much now. Suffice to say...one moment, I'm doing battle with the Christmas tree ("Fuck you, Christmas tree! I win!") at the beginning of December, the next moment it's two days before Christmas and where the hell did December go?

(Although, let's be real: I've been saying shit like that for years now. It comes with the whole getting older thing, I reckon.)

Anyway, December has flown past, basically a blur of 10000 work emails, many nights of insomnia, and a ridiculous amount of YouTubers' silly, cozy vlogmas videos. However, I've been relatively engaged in this holiday season; I even managed to send out a few scores of Christmas cards, each with a personal message. Even a couple of actual, handwritten letters!

Writing out, and addressing, those cards was simultaneously very melancholy, yet oddly joyous. Each time I wrote someone's name, I conjured up a memory of our shared past, a vision of our potential future: Dear Jain (one day, we will hang out in your living room and once again bemoan the obliviousness of men); Dear Dotty (When this is over, we will gather together at Divvy and eat overpriced appetizers and share memories of our common ancestors); Dear Connie-Mom (when flying is safe again, I will come to California and see you and let you mother me); Dear Jessica and Eric (maybe by this time next year we will be together, in person, laughing at cheesy Hallmark movies); Dear Beth (I cannot wait to hold your baby, who is not so much of a baby anymore) Dear Casey (remember when we baked cookies and practiced for our Latin finals while John the Saint brandished those silly oven mitts?)...on, and on, and on. Word after word, sentence after sentence, I labored over those missives and sent such powerful love to those who have peopled my life, who chose to keep me in their lives, who I miss so much, and love more fiercely each day. A fucking plague may keep us physically apart, but so help me god, it won't keep folks out of my heart and mind.

Keep Buggering On, friends. 

A Very 2020 Christmas: The One Where I Decorate the Tree and Bore You to Death

So, back about fifteen years ago, in early September, I hatched a plan that, in retrospect, was about the most unrealistic thing I could have concocted. I promised myself that if there wasn't a resurgence of the plague come Christmas, I'd drive down to Florida to spend the holidays with my sisters.

Ha. Ha. Ha. (Definitely not Ho ho ho.)

For a number of reasons that should be obvious, this isn't happening. The plague is resurging. I work with people almost every day, and I would rather not put my family at risk. And even though I've spent most of the past year in isolation, it hasn't turned me into a total asshole. The winter is slowly closing in on us here in the Midwest, and since it's no longer easy to socialize out-of-doors, people are doing exactly what anyone could have predicted: they're being dumbasses, inside. 

Anyway. I digress. My point is: Boy howdy, I will sure as shit be home for Christmas. Home as in my Indiana home, not my Florida past-home. 

It's hard. I love Christmas, weird little heathen that I am. I love the decorations and lights and coming up with lovely ideas for gifts, and I love the songs and parties and foods and glittering, glowing, sparkling joy. I even love the rather melancholy, but entirely inevitable, time of reflection that comes along with the lowering grey skies and the year ending, when memories of family and friends who have moved on or passed on out of my life crowd into my head once more. 

When I made the decision not to go to Florida for Christmas, I sulked and stewed inwardly for a second, and resented anything and everything about 2020. And then I thought, "2020 doesn't have to ruin Christmas. I can still enjoy this fucking holiday. If I choose not to, that's on me." So, I decided to lean into this extraordinarily fucked-up holiday season as much as I could. 

One of my favorite traditions is decorating my tree. One day, I'll have two Christmas trees--one of those shiny sparkly bougie themed trees for show in the living room window, and a hodge-podge tree with all of my lovely ornaments and bits and bobs I've acquired over the years. But for now, all I have is a scraggly old tree with a hideous assortment of ornaments. I usually have a friend or two over to keep me company as I put up the various ornaments, who patiently listen as I share the backstory of some of them. This year, of course, I can't do that. 

Except I can. With all y'all!

This is the latest addition--my brother-in-law sent this along
 to me, and if isn't perfect, I don't know what is!

When my sisters and I were wee mites, we would play with the ornaments

on our tree, much as though they were dolls and accessories. Our cousin

worked for Avon, and provided us with a magical treasure trove of Avon-

issued ornaments to aid us in our earnest flights of fancy. One of our favorites 

from this trove was the set of "Nutcracker" characters; we'd spend countless 

hours, over many Decembers,  with these crude wooden ornaments clutched 

in our fumbling, childish hands. Of course, they disappeared during the various

 traumas and upheavals of our adolescence, but about 12 years ago, Eldest Sister 

scored a vintage set on Etsy and brought this magic back into my life. 

Each year, my friends Michael and Anna give me an ornament with

 a picture of their son, my "nephew". These pictures always remind 

me of how we choose our family, and how lucky I am that 

these lovely people chose me for their family, too. 

One of my ex-boyfriends...we'll call him Mr. Robinson...gave this to 

me, back in 1998. It was originally part of a set (with Mickey, of

 course), but Mickey has long since departed. Or perhaps I showed 

Mickey the door, much was I eventually did with Mr Robinson? 

Also, I don't give two hoots about Disney shit, but the boyfriend 

sure did. I'm still not sure why he got me this, but I know why I keep 

it. Mr Robinson passed away five years ago now, and as problematic

 as our relationship was, it feels wrong to forget it, or him. 

Back in 2002, I was living with another boyfriend (John the Saint). It 

was my first apartment; it was the first man I shacked up with; it was the 

first time I had my very own Christmas tree. It was a beautiful (thematic!)

 tree, decorated in silver and white and ice-blue and lavender. This spray

 of stars is the only remaining ornament from that gorgeous tree...and 

close to the only thing that remains of my time with John the Saint. 

Speaking of boyfriends (again), this is an ornament that I purchased 

back during Indiana 1.0, in 2004, when I was shacked up with my boyfriend

 at the time (Mr. Indiana, AKA the previously mentioned Michael.) In the

 great scheme of my life, it was a fairly short-lived relationship, and it

 ended with me throwing out or giving away most of my belongings, packing 

whatever was left in my car, and driving to California to launch my career

 as a librarian. What on earth made me decide, Yes, I will save this ornament, 

but not my pots and pans, and move it with me all the way to California? 

No fucking clue, but I'm glad I did!

Speaking of California...this little dangly, wobbly...crawdad? bay bug? came 

into my life around 2007, given to me by one of the first friends I made when

 I came to California. Kristin and I both had (and hopefully still have) a ridiculously
 absurd and quirky sense of humor, and every year, when I unpack this little guy, 

I laugh as much as I did when I first got him. Damn, I miss Kristin. 

My time in California (along with my marriage) finally and thankfully

 came to an end, and I returned home to the Midwest. I was so freakin' glad 
to shake the California dust from my shoes,  but I still stayed in touch with 
some of the folks I had befriended there. My first Christmas back in Indiana, one 
of those California friends orchestrated a Secret Santa exchange with all of 
her Facebook friends, and I decided to participate...only to be gifted, by some
 well-intentioned stranger, these ornaments. At the time I unwrapped them,
  I maybe shuddered a little bit, but enough time has passed now that when I
 put these ornaments on the tree, I smile and remember that past life and don't
  curse all those who peopled it to the bowels of hell. (Also, they live in 
Palm Springs, so I'm pretty sure they're already in hell.)

Whenever I travel to someplace new (oh, travel! remember that?) 

I like to pick up a Christmas ornament to remind me of my travels.

 In 2019, I journeyed to Australia, and picked up this little guy. 

It's a cassowary. Otherwise known as a Murder Bird. 

The end result of all these ornaments, gathered over various lives within my life. And 

yes, that is a mask you see, dangling towards the bottom of the tree. Fuck you, 2020.

I Got Lost In My Travels: Australia, Part 2

Flying across the world is no joke--particularly when your flight requires you to jump ahead in time. Brian and I departed from LAX on a Saturday evening, and when we shuffled, zombie-like, off our plane  into the Brisbane Airport 14 hours later, it was Sunday night. The flight itself had not been awful--on the contrary, it was probably the best flight I've ever been on, with plenty of food and wine and leg room and enforced, guilt-free idleness. But a 14 hour flight is a 14 hour flight--plus, as much as possible, we fought hard against the temptation to sleep on the plane. The reason being: we had a 12 hour layover in Brisbane before the final leg of our journey to Cairns the following morning, which was  a freaking awesome opportunity to try to orient ourselves to Australia time. We rented a hotel room adjoining the airport, and collapsing into the bed was utter bliss. 

Too soon, we had to wake up for our next flight, but we were nearly there, nearly to the real start of the vacation. As we left the hotel, I hounded Brian about putting on sunblock--"Highest rates of skin cancer in the world, dude!"--but when we stepped outside and took in the fact that the sun had not yet even risen, Brian simply smirked and shook his head, and I knew I would be in for many years of mockery. 

Three hours later, as our flight began to descend over Cairns, I happened to glance out the window--my eye had caught an interruption in the endless blue of the Coral Sea. Below us was a massive reef. I nudged Brian, and together we silently watched one reef, and then another, and then another, pass by far below, and for the first time, I grasped the sheer size of the Great Barrier Reef. And what we were seeing was only a tiny, tiny portion.

Cairns: The Gateway to the Great Barrier Reef. My initial impressions were somewhat muted--travel and sunlight and heat and crowds often overwhelm me, and there was plenty of all of that! It's a bustling city, or at least it was a year ago. I suppose, a bit, it reminded me of a far-less-trashy Daytona Beach. And to be fair, most folks don't go to Cairns to go to Cairns; it's a stopping off point before moving on to the really good stuff. And that's exactly what we used it for. We didn't waste a moment. The instant after we tumbled out of our cab, we hit the ground running--we got to our hotel and dumped our stuff and charged ahead. The next couple of hours we spent  exploring, getting some local currency, and grabbing a bite to eat, before heading to the Marina, where we took a ferry to Green Island. 

Not much to say about Green Island--it's a resorty-kind of island, catering to daytrippers and overnighters. We booked a brief excursion to there, simply because the idea of me not exploring the Great Barrier Reef on my first day was anathema. And it was worth it; we snorkeled a bit, and it felt a bit like an appetizer of things to come. And we got to spend some time stalking this little fella: 

 

Our time at Green Island was brief--perhaps mercifully so, as it really was crowded-- and after a few hours of snorkeling and walking about the island, we hauled our waterlogged bodies back onto the ferry, which soon deposited us back on the Mainland. Blissfully exhausted, we made our way back to the hotel for a bit of rest before we went out to dinner. 

Later that evening, we sat outside on the terrace of an Indian restaurant, and enjoyed a soft breeze finally start soothing away some of the heat of the day. We relaxed over our paneer masala, lamb vindaloo, and naan, watched the crowds of tourists pass by,  and agreed that no matter where one went, Indian food was delicious the whole world over. We managed to stay awake long enough to devour it all, and then stumbled back to our hotel for a few hours of sleep. 

(To this day, I resent the amount of time I had to spend on sleep when I was there. Anyone else feel like that about vacations?) 

Our next installment will find your intrepid heroine on the high seas, trying her best to befriend sharks and keep her cool whenever she finds Nemo.

I Got Lost In My Travels: Australia, Part 1

I've never really trusted time. It seems to be one of the most inconstant concepts, you know? You're experiencing something wonderful, and time flies. You're witnessing a catastrophe unfold and 5 seconds can feel like 5 minutes. You're engaged in something absolutely boring and time seems to move backwards. You graduate from college at twenty-two and then five years later, you're forty and trying to figure out how many years have actually passed. 

So? Time? Never to be trusted, in either the best or worst of circumstances. And then there's time in 2020--we'll call it "Plague Time." I've recently started falling into the habit of saying something like, "Oh, yeah, we did such-and-such about seven years ago, back in August." Y'all know what I'm talking about. I've heard a dozen variations of it over the course of the last eight months; I've seen it play out in countless ways. Someone forgets to pay their rent at the beginning of the month because what is time anymore? Someone no longer can find their watch, because they haven't had to be anywhere at a certain time since god only knows when. I've missed more than one meeting, forgotten more than one appointment, and entire months have blurred together for me.     

So it seems a little ridiculous for me to say what I'm about to say, given that Plague Time makes the following statement feel a little impossible: 

A year ago today I was on a flight to Australia, with my friend and travel companion, Brian, headed for an unforgettable Bucket List experience.

Whenever I start to feel a little low, or anxious, or isolated, or completely defeated--which is to say, about once every ten minutes--I remind myself of how, a mere year ago, I was so very lucky and privileged to be able to go on that journey. The timing was freakishly lucky--the Australian Bushfires had already started but had not yet gotten out of hand, and we had about four months to go before the world really went to hell in a handbasket, with the pandemic. Of course, when Brian and I were sitting on that plane, happily availing ourselves to the free booze and trying to figure out which movies to watch first, we didn't think about pandemics and travel bans and masks and crowds and all the ways that our lives were about to get completely upended. 

It was an incredible trip; we spent almost twelve days exploring Tropical North Queensland, snorkeling the Great Barrier Reef, hiking through the Daintree Rainforest, and simply reveling in a land so completely different from what we've known and experienced. And then, in a blink of an eye (that pesky, fickle concept of time again) we were back Stateside, and returning to our homes and our jobs and our cats and the holidays. And what with one thing and another, I never did get around to posting on the ol' blaurgh about this magical trip. 

Well, now that we are in the middle of a raging pandemic, and the weather here in Southern Indiana is turning pretty durned cold and precluding even outdoor gatherings, I certainly have a bit more time on my hands than I used to. So I'll see if I can't take a bit of that fickle time and spend some of it recalling and recording my journey to Australia, and my explorations there. Maybe it will only serve as a memorial for that one time I went somewhere--or maybe it will be an inspiration and reminder that fuck yeah, some day, some time, I'll go somewhere again. 

And you will, too. 

Plague Thoughts, September 2020

Normally this is almost my favorite time of year--summer is in its death throes; a peep of scarlet and gold starts tingeing the trees; the mornings are sometimes a little bit cool; the last of the crickets keep chirping, a bit feebly, but grimly holding on though they must know, instinctively, that their season is coming to a close. We are on the cusp of what is usually my favorite time of year--fall fun and frolicking with friends, followed by wintery, cold, bleakness outside, and cozy companionship inside. 

But this year--not so much. Fall and winter will come, and that is comforting enough, I suppose. Time will keep on keepin' on, and each passing month will bring us closer to the end of this current bizarre, lonely, masked universe in which we've landed ourselves. It's only been, what? 6 months since we relocated to this current Dumbest Timeline, but really, it feels like literal years. Memories from the first few months of 2020 are fuzzy and fading, and it now feels like all I've ever known is this. Zoom meetings. Masks. Nightmares about being stuck in crowds without masks. Grocery deliveries. Things like casual shopping trips, hugs and handshakes, simple library processes and policies, nights at the local bars, plane trips, and buffets--all of them distant echoes from the now-mythical Before Times. 

Just after the "shutdown", but before everything really seemed to go into stasis, I attended an impromptu meeting at the library. As we spoke about various pieces of business related to how to operate in the weeks ahead, I looked around the table and wondered, When will we all meet in person again?

6 months later, and we haven't yet. 

In late July, during the lowest point of my (inevitable) isolation and depression, I had the good sense to set up a recurring "family time" with my aunt and uncle. Once a week, I drive out to the country where they live and the three of us sit on their front lawn and watch the sun set and the birds and squirrels and chipmunks frolic--all of us masked, and me sitting far away from them. It's a peaceful and sweet and comforting routine, and I hope we can keep it going until the winter. 

The other evening, as I was driving home from my weekly family time with them, I drove past a sushi restaurant on the outskirts of town. This sushi restaurant has been here for a dog's age--since before the first time I had lived here. For 16 years at least, and probably a lot more, that sushi restaurant has stood in the same location--slightly shabby, but always there. And in business. What unremarkable sushi and indifferent service failed to do, the pandemic seems to have succeeded at. The place seems to be a shell--the building is dark and empty and silent; the business sign isn't lit. Has the sushi restaurant gone completely out of business, or have the owners only gone to ground, temporarily, until happier, healthier times? Either way, I realized that I had hit a new point in These Pandemic Times (TM)--I found myself relating to a building. I'm still present, still enduring, but I feel weirdly empty, dark, and silent. Abandoned, even. My existence feels as though it has dwindled down to the basics: work, which is comforting for its routines and schedules and company, but also stressful and a little heartbreaking; grocery deliveries; occasional visits outside in parks and on lawns with a dwindling group of friends. Several of the people in my social circle have moved out of state over the course of the pandemic. My dreams and ambitions (such as they were) are on hold--if you will, on a leave of absence. Closed until further notice, but not permanently. One day, I hope to re-occupy the building of my life, but right now, all I have it in me to do is...well, exist. Endure. 

Indiana feels the same. 

The Summer of Our Discontent

The other day, I popped into my office at work. I rarely go in there, now--I am in the library only one week in every three, and the work is non-stop, so my office serves only as a bolthole to which I retreat to shove a hastily-grabbed lunch down my gullet before returning to the often exhausting efforts of supporting curbside work. 

Anyway. My office has a faintly abandoned air about it, unsurprisingly. I had simply popped in to see if I could find some pens, and was on my way back out when my eyes happened to land on the coat rack by my door. Dangling there, forlorn and completely useless at this point in the year, was a scarf. I had probably hastily slung it there, back during the week of March 9, and then forgot it before I left for my long weekend vacation. The one I never took, because the world ended and our Library closed. So that scarf remained there as winter turned to spring, and spring melted into summer--four months ago, but honest to god, it feels like a hundred years ago.

I stood there for a moment, almost dizzy with discombobulation, before shrugging it off and soldiering on. My world has dwindled to focusing on the current day, the current task, the current duty. I answer emails, I do schedules, I try to support my colleagues, I binge watch television, I sleep, and I mourn the old life, the old routines, and I wonder if we will ever go back to that. But introspection is a dangerous, depressing venture that frankly, I don't feel equal to embarking upon. 

It's July now. Outside, it's hot, hot, stupidly hot, and the sun shines relentlessly in a brassy sky. It's been rather dry, too, this summer. My country has lost its goddamned mind and a very vocal segment of the population feels that bowing to mask mandates to preserve public health will lead to the mark of the beast or a microchip or something, and when they are not busy protesting masks, they are denying the existence of historic and current systemic inequity and racism. COVID-19 cases are absolutely skyrocketing and my sisters live in Florida and I'm worried to death for them. And while each brutally hot, suffocating day seems to drag on and on, I know that in a moment I will blink and three months (aka ten years) will pass and autumn will be upon us. And we will still be stuck in this pattern because 'MURICA. 

I'm hot, I'm tired, I'm scared, and I don't know how we are going to make it through this.

Welcome to the summer of our discontent. 

Days of the Week Mean Something Once More

If the last few months have taught me anything, it's how to properly value Fridays.

This was my first week back at work. We've started up curbside appointments, and it's taken what seems like months to iron out all the procedures, and a fair bit of helping to keep things running smoothly and safely fell on my shoulders, along with a group of about 20 others.

On Monday, I put in 16,000+ steps, and passed out as soon as I got home.

On Tuesday, I awoke thinking "I can't do another four days of this." All that day, I was in a high bitch of a mood--tired and exhausted and in pain, even.

On Wednesday, I got my second wind--it helped that there were various work fires to put out, and a noticeable uptick in work to be done, and we were a bit short staffed. It's almost like, when there are more challenges, it's almost easier to rise to the occasion with good cheer and energy.

On Thursday, I plateaued. I chugged along and did work and remained present and reminded myself that the weekend was almost here.

And on Friday, I basically just spent it doing all of what I had done earlier. And I thought, with increasing glee, oh god. The weekend. I can't wait. I just have to get through the next several hours of work, drop shit off for T---, work for The Prof, send off about twenty emails, oh! and pick up wine. But, oh, god: the joy of Fridays. What a lovely, lovely thing. It is a simple, pure joy, and I will never forget it.

At 10 PM on Friday evening, Mama Manager put down her sword.

My Dogs Are Barking

7:30 AM on June 1
Fourteen years ago, I started my first professional, full-time job. I was 26 years old, and had just moved to California after graduating with my master's and spending what seemed like countless years in a (comparatively) footloose and fancy-free student lifestyle. The student life I had led had been characterized by deadlines of hyper-inflated importance, odd hours, hastily-arranged lunches and coffee dates and happy hours with friends, late nights of reading boring technical literature, and unending anxiety about grades. It was grueling and stressful and, in hindsight, absolutely glorious for the freedom it gave me without my realizing it.

I don't remember what I wore on my first day of work; I don't remember if I had first day jitters. I do remember realizing, very early in my day, that my boss was a bit of a mercurial and moody person; I remember eating my lunch in the stuffy attic of the old Carnegie part of the library; I remember the little thrill of pride and glee I got when I answered my first basic reference question. And I remember returning to my empty, lonely, overpriced apartment that night, completely fucking exhausted. 

Today, I start back to work after the longest stretch of relative freedom I've ever experienced in my adult life. While the last good few weeks I've spent glued to my laptop at my kitchen table for unending odd hours, including evening and weekends, returning to the library building and putting in up to 8.5 hours a day in there is going to be a bit of a shock to the system? Will I be as exhausted as I was on that summer day, 14 years ago?

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6:30 PM on June 1
Oh my god my poor feet.

I'll be sleeping the sleep of the blameless tonight.

Plague Diaries, Issue 64: May 25, 2020

March 7 was a predictably chilly day here in Southern Indiana, typical for late winter. Probably it was a day where it wasn't quite cloudy, but not quite sunny, either. I honestly don't remember. What I do remember about that day is that I spent the afternoon in the company of two of my oldest friends, Michael and Anna, and their sons, Wes and Miles. I held three-month-old Miles for a little bit, and hugged Michael and Anna and Wes, and we didn't do much of anything--just sat about, close to one another, making lazy conversation, and playing with our phones. Eventually, we ate pizza, and I bade them good-bye. I ran to Target for a quick shop, and returned home for the evening.

Later that night, I jotted down in my diary, Coronavirus fears still running high. Target was sold out of a lot of stuff.

I didn't know it that day, but Michael and Anna were the last people I saw, socially, before the world ended. And so I thought it rather fitting that they would be the first people I would see, socially, when I emerged back into this new world. Which is what I did today. Today was 40th birthday, and I had originally intended to spend this day with an intimate group of family and friends in Cincinnati, and goddammit, I didn't want this day to be a total wash. So when Michael and Anna reached out to see if they'd be able to do a drive-by today, I thought, Fuck it. To my surprise and relief, the spike that so many models had predicted has not yet happened. And so, we concocted a plan for a picnic. Just me and Michael and Anna and Miles, outside, on picnic blankets in the shade at Bryan Park, giving each other plenty of space. And it was absolutely a joy to be with them--these dear friends who have been family to me for a very long time. We didn't get near each other, we didn't hug, I wasn't able to hold Miles--almost three months older, and bigger, and changed, so changed! This is the "new normal"--the necessary normal, the normal that I am trying to make work for me.

Which makes me think--it's now time to bring this volume of The Plague Diaries to its close, on the day when I "broke quarantine" and began to resume life in its altered form. Next week, I start back to work in the library building. And while we'll be following all sorts of protocols of social distancing and PPE, the fact remains that my risk vector will go up significantly once this part of my life starts back up. It doesn't mean that I'll be going to get-togethers, or demanding pedicures, or hopping on planes to see my family and friends. But it does mean that I will have to take cautious, calculated risks in order to start rejoining the world in its altered form. Or, as I laughingly told Middle Sister earlier today, "time to resume my usual, voluntary social isolation."

If there's another lockdown/quarantine, I'll probably start "Volume 2" of the Plague Diaries, but I will be very surprised if this will happen. Because, of course, #'murica. But regardless, I will definitely try to post more regularly here, whether or not it's about Life During COVID-19. Posting on here regularly--it's been one of the only 2020 goals I've really been able to follow through on. And really, it's been something I've been meaning to be better at for years, and now, finally, it's happened.

All it took was a pandemic.

Plague Diaries, Issue 63: May 21, 2020

Question: Why is divorce so expensive?
Answer: Because it's worth it!

The other day, in the middle of the day of meetings that never ended, a few of us got rather punchy and started doing a show-and-tell of "What's on my desk." I'd like to think I won the contest when I got my boss to dissolve into giggles when I showed them all the picture that my sister gave me right after I filed for divorce from my husband:

And then, because the universe has a sense of humor (and when you're middle class white chick, of course you think the universe is paying attention to you) my ex-husband called me later that evening.

Now, the artist formerly known as Mr. Melissa and I have a fairly amiable, amicable relationship. I've never been particularly talented at holding grudges against my exes, and once my ex-husband and I managed to disentagle from each other, we were able to re-establish a cordial, sometimes even warm, camraderie, perhaps like two seasoned soldiers who have weathered untold battles and trials. Except we were the battles and trials for each other.

Anyway, turns out that he needed a copy of our divorce paperwork. I'm always happy to take a stroll down memory lane and recall one of the best decisions I ever made, so I dug out the packet (still haven't gotten the decree framed, but perhaps it's now time?) and as I was flipping through, I noticed that the paperwork also recorded our wedding date: May 21, 2020.

Well, well, well. Happy not-anniversary. It would have been our 10 year anniversary today! Thank god it's not.

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In plague-related news, I've been working flat-out all week, and I would say that I'm very grateful for the three-day weekend coming up...except I'm pretty sure that I'll need to put in a full day's work on Sunday. And I think that's pretty okay, honestly. It's been a long time since I was able to feel so stressed and frazzled and challenged and accomplished. We will be working from home for a goodly amount of time for a little while longer, and my co-managers and I have been enthusiastically brainstorming projects to keep ourselves and our folks in work during these "at home" weeks. Library-wide, we've been forced to think outside the box, be flexible and creative and just lean into new and different ways of doing things--virtual programming and outreach, information sharing, reference services, etc. And honestly, while I don't know if we will be able to sustain all of it once we totally return, 100%, to in-building work, I hope that we can continue some of this. The plague has been "the great disruptor" and has literally caused death and financial ruin to thousands of people, but god, it would be nice if we could get something good out of it.

Current Indiana COVID-19 Counts:
Total Number of Cases: 30,409 (up from the 28,705 mentioned on 5/19)
1,791 people have died.

Nationwide, 93,061 people have died.

Plague Diaries, Issue 62: May 19, 2020

Consider this my change of address: I am moving into my work Gmail inbox. I live there now. And Zoom is my vacation home, and Google Hangouts is the equivalent of the neighborhood bar, except without any booze or hot young men to make time with. Seriously, I spent all day, except for mealtimes, hunched over my computer, from 9 AM until 8 PM. Who knew that the apocalypse would require so much screen time? And I've got several more days ahead of this. I mean, believe me, I prefer this dawn-to-dusk librarianing for more than 18 hours of moping, brooding, brief naps, and crying, but damn. It's a lot right now.

Nonetheless, I was able to complete the Fourth Day of Birthday--which was giving myself the gift of scheduling my diagnostic mammogram. I had my first one last year, when my doctor thought that there Might Be Something Wrong, and now that I'm officially middle-aged, I need to have one every year. And I definitely see any effort to avoid premature death to be a worthy birthday gift to myself! So later this summer, I get the joy of having a boobsmash.

The only other thing of note--and it barely counts as something of note--was that I managed to snatch some time between meetings to toss together a very basic sheetpan meal--sausage and potatoes and onions.

I know it's not pretty. But I'm actually rather proud of this--I've never been a particularly remarkable cook, and definitely not inventive or imaginative. I don't deviate from a recipe, usually, and the concept of "whipping something up" just seems beyond my ken. But today, I noticed that I had a package of sausages that I had to use or lose, and pondered what other supplies I had at hand, and fuck me if I didn't just throw this together. 

Verdict: Sausages were greasy and yummy (neither should surprise anyone), taters needed to be cooked a little longer, and next time, something green wouldn't go amiss. But it was filling and not wasteful, so, win! Now if only we can make it, like, 15 calories...

Tomorrow's another day cram-jammed with meetings, plus an evening at The Prof's house, and my brain is possibly oozing out of my earholes right now, so this is where I leave you. 

Current Indiana COVID-19 Counts:
Total Number of Cases: 28,705 (up from yesterday's 28,255)
1,678 people have died.

Nationwide, 90,340 people have died. We're still under the 100K mark...hurray?

Plague Diaries, Issue 61: May 18, 2020

We're past the mid-point in May, folks. People are starting to emerge from their homes and resume their lives. I'm still as hunkered down now as I was in late March and all of April, but one way or the other, this will end for me at the end of the month. June 1, I will go to my library for the first shift I've worked there in almost three months. At that point, maybe I'll be willing to spend time with friends. Outside. Six feet away from them. With masks. Bright side: at least the masks will give us some sun protection?

Sunday was my second day of birthday; to celebrate, I treated myself to a Get Your Shit Together (Gyst) Day, which basically translates into a day of gentle, but not ambitious, productivity. Dishes were washed, laundry was folded, cats were cuddled, storms were watched from my balcony.

Today, Monday, was the third day of birthday; in celebration, I made a donation to Planned Parenthood. And then realized I accidentally opted to make a monthly donation, which I totally can't commit to, so I'll probably have to spend an annoying amount of time trying to undo that clusterfuck. The only other thing of note that occurred today was that I had the best power nap ever. 

Exciting times here at The Haggery, folks, let me tell ya.

Within the last few days, I've learned that two of my closest friends in Bloomington are moving away--one to Ohio, the other to Alabama. These are two of the first friends I made when I moved home in 2016. Hopefully I will have a chance to see them before they leave/ When talking to Middle Sister today, and telling her about this, she asked me, in classic LCSW fashion, "What do you feel about this?"

I paused before answering. "Hell if I know," I finally responded. "I've not seen them in months. And at this point, it's not like I can even go out and make new friends." I suppose I'm numb. I would like to process this, but I think it's beyond me at this particular moment. It's strange; I feel that my life and existence have been in some sort of suspension these last couple of months. And I assumed that others' have been, too. But I have this dreadful feeling that when I emerge from isolation, I will be coming back into a world in which everything, and everyone, is different. Possibly gone.

It's a REALLY slow news day around here, clearly.

Current Indiana COVID-19 Counts: 
Total Number of Cases: 28,255 (up from Saturday's 27,280)
1,621 people have died.

Nationwide, 89,407 people have died.

Plague Diaries, Issue 60: May 16, 2020

Driving over to The Prof's yesterday, I noticed that the delicate green of spring foliage is yielding to the rude, thrusting, vibrant, deeper green of summer. While we hunkered down and hid in our homes, an entire season passed us by. We're halfway through May, and then, soon, we will be halfway through this cursed year. One way or another, whether we are living or waiting, time marches on.

In another way, things are shifting and changing: I spent a large portion of this past week hard at work, helping plan our phased re-opening. Countless hours I've spent in my home workspace, making calls, attending meetings, writing notes, composing and abandoning schedules, firing off emails, shooing my cats off the table, and wondering how far we will get in this process. Will there be some resurgence of the plague that sends us all scuttling back into our homes? Or will we just...power through, and ignore any potential risks, and give a half-hearted nod to precautions, but somehow just resign ourselves that COVID-19 is our unwelcome bosom companion for the foreseeable future?

I went to Target the other day, for my one weekly allowed supply run. Of the people I saw there, only about half of them were wearing masks. And as for people ignoring social distancing protocols...well, let's just say that if there was a Venn diagram of social-distancing and mask-eschewing people, that diagram would be one fucking circle. I try not to be one to be snooty and dismissive of "the masses" or think that the majority of people are stupid (they may very well be, but I believe we all have been one of those stupid people at some--or many--points) but jesus h. christ, folks. Let's at least try, okay? The country is re-opening so we can have our Chili's and haircuts and mall excursions, but it doesn't mean we have to be utter, insouciant chumps about things.

How else have I spent the last several days? Eating, like always, of course. I'm really, really, really proud of a vegetarian (and vegan? although unintentionally) curry recipe that I made earlier in the week:

The third Friday in May (yesterday) was National Pizza Party Day, so I ordered a pie from Wheel Pizza, my favorite local pizza joint.

I don't know what it is about this particular place... Mother Bears and Avers are both great local pizza restaurants, too, but Wheel Pizza is the closest I've come to a New York Style pizza.

But perhaps the highlight of my week was this evening, The First Day of Birthday. (Yes, you read that right: if I cannot have the 40th Birthday Blowout, by god, I'll do my best to celebrate it with flair in quarantine.) So anyway, this evening I celebrated The First Day of Birthday enjoying a glass of champagne, chomping down on a charcuterie board, and binge watching The Great, this obnoxiously delightful, absurd costume drama about Catherine The Great. It's a production from Hulu, and you can tell everyone seems to take great joy in rendering everything as inaccurate as possible. It's the ridiculous you didn't know you needed in your life...

Oh wait, sorry, I guess you'd rather see a picture of the charcuterie board, huh?

This layout of delicacies came from a local business called Blooming Boards, courtesy of--who else?--my sisters, who, had COVID-19 never fucked up our lives, would now be packing their bags to come see me. Anyway, of course the food was amazing, but there is still so much of it sitting in my fridge. It's the kind of thing meant to be enjoyed with others. Sisters, specifically. 

So, anyway. As time marches on, and 'Murica starts to re-open and resume life, I'm going to get more and more wrapped up in my work, which usually sucks up the majority of my time and attention and energy. I'd like to say that I'll continue blogging on the regular, but if this last week is any indication, that might not be a likelihood. I've often struggled with blogging--coming up with subject content, which is hard because my daily life is pretty humdrum; pondering, why am I doing it, anyway? Is anyone reading? And if I think it's possible that people are reading, am I writing this in some sort of performative, and therefore not entirely authentic manner? And why the hell should it matter anyway? It's my life, humdrum though it is, and I like to document it.

At least I've gotten into something of a habit of blogging more than before. All it took was a pandemic.

Current Indiana COVID-19 Counts
Total Number of Cases: 27,280 (up from the 25,473 noted on my post on 13 May)
1,596 people have died.

Nationwide, 87,315 people have died.

Plague Diaries, Issue 59: May 13, 2020

Happy Hump Day! (I think. It's Wednesday, right?)

That's going to be one of the hardest things about coming out of isolation--we will have to actually remember what day it is, and have to adhere to more strict, unforgiving schedules. Boss, what do you mean, I'm not allowed to leave the Info Desk to take a 45 minute nap? What do you mean, I can no longer work from home at 11 PM?

It'll be a minute before we get there. But at least in my life, in my job, we're starting to take steps towards that. The last several days, many of us have been hard at work on a plan to safely restore library services to our community. It's a wrench, quite honestly, because we need our libraries...but it's still scary out there.

As part of the planning and preparing, today I spent about six hours on the phones with almost a score of my colleagues, in some cases hearing their voices for the first time in three months, talking about timelines and next steps. Tentatively, it looks like I'll be returning to my physical library on a limited basis in early June. Dang. I'm equally excited and apprehensive: will our customers respect our safety and their own? In the news, recently, there has been more than one instance of people inflicting physical violence upon those who would have them respect a business's protocols. More than once I've wondered, is this how the next American civil war starts? Because of some asshats that get their balls in an uproar about wearing masks and attempting to keep their fellow humans safe? Freedom! Second Amendment! 'Murica!

Something about those masks, though, that I am really not looking forward to: wearing them in the summertime. In fact, I'm already dreading it. At least I'll be able to hide my horrible, sweaty grimaces behind a possibly ineffective but definitely pretty scrap of paisley-patterned fabric. Bright side, I guess?

Current Indiana COVID-19 Counts: 
Total Number of Cases: 25,473 (up from Monday's 24,627)
1,482 people have died.

Nationwide, 82,246 people have died.
(Sources: Indiana State Department of Health and the Center for Disease Control)

Plague Diaries, Issue 58: May 12, 2020

Today is one of my favoritest days of the year--my Eldest Sister's birthday! Rather than bemoan yet another special occasion spent in exile, away from dear ones, instead, in her honor I thought I'd do a bit of a special thing here on the Plague Diaries--have Eldest do a guest post! So instead of hearing my weary, mopey voice blathering on about the end of the world, or cats, or how the world will end in a plague of cats, you get the privilege--yes, privilege, I say--of "meeting" Eldest Sister, one of the most beguiling and original voices to echo across the Internet.

Eldest Sister, otherwise known as Sarah E, or Mlle Ghoul, is quite the gadabout online: she's infamous as the creative genius behind Heal Yourself, Skeletor (have you noticed the proliferation of Skeltor memes, tshirts, and other sundries in recent years? You've got my sister to thank for that) but more importantly, she is prolific on her own blog and website, Instagram, YouTube, and Twitter, to say nothing of her frequent contributions to Haute Macabre. She's soon to be a published author (and not that self-published stuff, either!) In other words: Bitch gets around. 

But most importantly, she is the absolute goddess of working from home. She's done so quite successfully for close to a decade. and can certainly tell us a thing or two about a thing or two. Which is to say: here's how she manages to work from home--and how Apocalypse 2020 barely made a stir her world!

"I have been working from home for my current employer since October of 2012, and though now I have my act relatively together in terms of working alone, remotely, it was definitely a transition. As someone who would rather be left alone while I am working, and who doesn’t give a hoot about hanging with coworkers, it wasn’t the absence of human interaction that gave me issues, so I am afraid I can’t speak to that. Wooooo, no more employee Christmas parties! No more awkward small talk! THANK GOD.

What actually worried me was more along the lines of producing results without my boss, in-person, breathing down my neck. Or being able to prioritize and manage projects without being distracted by “home stuff”; being able to communicate effectively and efficiently (I worked in a small office and we yelled through the walls at each other when we needed something); setting boundaries and not overworking. I spend a lot --A LOT-- of time on the phone with my boss. Sometimes I feel that he must think that if he’s not bending my ear, then I must not have anything to do, and I’m just, you know, sitting around waiting for him to call. This is...not true.

Many of these things are issues that I still struggle with, even 8+ years later, but I mean, I still have my job, so I figure I must have figured out some systems and procedures that work for me. I think most importantly though, is that I have realized that I really need a solid foundation from which to start each day, and which will put me in the position for success from the very beginning before I even lift a finger for that day. And while yes, I am writing about these suggestions in the context of my workday, I think ...if you look at it in a broader sense, it’s just good common sense stuff for every day. Whether you’re working or not. And I realize that many folks are not working right now, and that is an unfortunate position to be in. Ugh. What a weird and awful time. I think what I have sussed out for myself is helpful in terms of just being able to exist and function, regardless if there is work to be done or people to be seen or if you can’t even see a point to anything at all, in weird and awful times, or just in the normal course of life. All of these little things help me when I can’t figure out what that point is, and they help me keep going, anyhow

At the risk of sounding cheesy, I need to structure my day around the principles of what I like to think of as R+R. Not Rest and Relaxation--what do you think this is, a vacation? No, we’re working! From home! But still working! So: Rhythm, or a strong, regular, repeated pattern (of movement or sound, says the dictionary, but we’re expanding the definition to fit our needs) and Ritual, or, a sequence of activities, or a series of actions performed according to a prescribed order. In short, I need to cultivate a routine that I do regularly. I guess R+R could stand for Regular Routine. But I like Ritual Rhythms. Or Rhythmic Ritual! Or all the Rs, whatever.

For me this means waking up early. Early enough so that I can do the following things: take a walk, wash my face, make the bed (this is maybe the MOST important--if I don’t make the bed, it plagues me all day long) clean up the kitchen if I didn’t do it the night before, start coffee, record my dreams, have time to read and drink my coffee for 30 minutes to an hour before the work day starts.

For me, this is an optimal morning that got both my blood and my brain moving well in advance of being at my desk, and at the very least I got my reading and exercise in early, so even if the whole day goes off the rails and I end up working until 9PM, at least I already gave myself the opportunity to do those non-negotiable essential things for me. To coin a phrase from Amy Landino, even though I have to spend a large chunk of my day working, at least I got to start the day off 'on my own terms.'

I have to make sure I get a little something to eat before I start my day. Not as soon as I awake...the thought of that makes me vaguely ill, but sometime a few hours after. I am not one for sweet breakfasts, so I can’t do cereal or smoothies or breakfast bars; I might instead eat a hard boiled egg, or a slice of toast with almond butter or avocado--and usually that’s good enough, fuel-wise, to get me started for the day. Pictured here is some sort of bread that I made with leftover fruits and oats and to be honest it wasn’t the best tasting thing ever... but I thought it made a nice photo!

I need to make sure that I am dressed before I sit at my desk. It might be tempting to work in your pajamas but you’ll probably find pretty quickly that practice works better in theory than reality. Or maybe that’s just me. But I personally feel that there’s nothing grosser or less professional-feeling than taking phone calls and writing emails, bra-less, in the same clothes you’ve slept in. And I don’t even have a very professional image to uphold! It’s not like I’m on Zoom meetings all day or anything like that. I work with a small team and we Skype maybe once a week.

Getting dressed makes me feel grounded and connected to reality; it flips that mental switch and signals a shift in my day that I’m about to do the thing that, you know, puts money in the bank. So I strongly suggest that you do not go through the motions of your day in a bed-headed, half-sleep, pajama fog. Put on pants and a clean shirt --at the very least, in something you’d feel okay being seen wearing in public, outside the house--and take a moment to dress, in some approximation, like you’re about to do the thing that makes you money. Unless you make money with your clothes off. In which case, more power to you.

It took me a very long time to loosen up with regard to working from home. I was used to working in an office where if you weren’t on the phone, it was dead silent. No one had music playing, or god forbid, headphones on, listening to music or whatever. I ate lunch quickly at my desk, I didn’t take a “lunch hour” and I certainly didn’t eat lunch off-site. I rarely even walked away from my desk, except for a bathroom break. I didn’t even wear perfume--which I love to wear!-- because my boss was allergic, and very crabby about it, if you happened to forget this.

When I began working from home, I at first adhered to many of these conditioned, in-office habits, but as I slowly realized there was no one around to bother with my music or perfume, I began to shed all of those practices which didn’t make sense anymore. I wear my perfumes now, sometimes, sampling three or four of them throughout the day! There’s no one to notice or complain about it, so why not make my day a little more sweeter and pleasant-smelling? I burn candles and incense and run my essential oil diffuser, too! I now listen to music while I work; there’s no one around to give me weird looks with regard to the eerie pan flutes,  ghost wails, or doom metal sounds coming from my cubicle. I have art and knicknacks displayed prominently, in every shelf and on every wall of my home-office, which I never could have gotten away with in a more traditional office setting. Taxidermy and memento mori make people uncomfortable, who knew? But now that you can add different backgrounds in your Zoom and Skype meetings, who is even going to know?

 I have the freedom now to create a much more pleasant environment in which to hunker down and weather the work day, and I am finally okay with fully taking advantage of that. I still eat my lunch at my desk, though. I know work from home gurus tell you to step away and set some boundaries and eat lunch at the kitchen table, but I haven’t worked my way up to that yet. I’ve worked from home for close to a decade now, so I have a feeling I might never get there.

Lastly, I mentioned some initial concerns with regard to prioritizing and managing my projects and though I haven’t yet found the perfect system that works for me, what I have found--and this is probably just common sense to a lot of people--is the practice of writing things down. What a novel concept, right? Believe it or not, it’s just been in recent years that I have begun to do this. Before I was writing lists and scheduling appointments on calendars, etc., I somehow thought that I was...just supposed to innately remember everything? Like...it was somehow cheating...at life...to write reminders and make to-do lists and things to see visually, to motivate you to take of your obligations and responsibilities and to finish your projects and reach your deadlines? I guess I can be a little dense. Because it just never occurred to me that I could do this. It only took about three years of my annoying baby sister extolling the virtues of planners before I figured out that maybe, this once, I should listen to her.

Now I have a personal planner and a notebook for work to jot down notes and ideas and whatever might need doing, and hey--how about that! I get things done! Don't tell Baby Sister I was right, though.

These are a handful of things that helped me settle into a work from home routine, and which continue to make the workday a little easier the longer I spend time working this way. But they are also things that just...make life a little easier, you know? Wake up early enough to do the things you want to do before the day starts in earnest. Get dressed and signal that shift in your mindset from dream-time to do-time. Scent your person and your space with lovely fragrances, listen to pleasing sounds, surround your space--whether it’s your office or even your bathroom!--with things you like to look at. These things just feel good! Write things down, you can’t expect yourself to remember everything! And above all, be kind to yourself; it may take you to  get it together, and that's okay. By the time you have built a solid routine for yourself, it might turn out that your workplace has reopened. Or perhaps your employer will have concluded that working from home was a positive situation with benefits that outweigh having a team in an office, and you’ll stay put.

Either way, hopefully, like me, you’ll find that you don’t have to make things harder on yourself than they have to be, and perhaps with a few of the tips I have mentioned here, you may even make them easier. Good luck!"