And then there were 3. OK, don’t panic, I still have plenty of toilet paper, but I have fallen in love with this noir theme that looks cool, amuses me, and allows me to boast about my TP conservation skills. Suck it up, you’re getting at least several more B&W photos of TP before we’re done.
I got a few more hours off this weekend than I got last weekend, so you get a slightly longer post with more random thoughts. Aren’t you lucky?
To update you on my post a few weeks ago, the young ones downstairs still giggle too much, and the neighborhood singalong quality is getting marginally better. And they are useful in that they remind me that it’s 6 pm, because I often have no idea of the time (or the day for that matter).
Under “new annoying things,” I’d like to file the following:
I had $300 of stuff in my Instacart, for pick up—this was actually 2 weeks ago, when I could get Instacart. That has disappeared. Now I’m back to going to the store, which I feel better about. My Catholic guilt kicked in, and I felt bad subjecting someone else to my request for, yes, real food, but also Oreos. If I’m getting Oreos, I need to believe in my immune system. And my natural disposition is to stay away from all you people, so you all should be OK.
But back to Instacart. I waited for some indication on the app and the website that my order would be ready, and my window came and went, and I was like WTF?? No indication, no red banner on my account. I was venting to a friend, and he asked if I had my notifications on for my app. Well of course I do…oh, crap, nope. Then I checked my home email, which I hadn’t had a chance to all day. They’d sent me an email 4 hours before my delivery window to let me know there was a delay and asking what I’d liked to do. Are you freaking kidding me? I really hate it when I only have myself to blame.
The real pissah of this is that now I can’t complain about all the hospital docs who don’t read our emails. We hear all the time, “so and so didn’t know this basic thing, we have to communicate about it!” We did. Last Monday. Wednesday. And we made a video about it. I wrote it, 6 feet away from people, in chalk at the front of the hospital. They need to pay attention! I don’t care if they are too busy to read…awwww, crap.
So food delivery is out, but I can get alcohol delivery within a few hours, and really that’s more important, don’t you think? However, my first order hit a snafu. My card was rejected, and I was like, oh nuts, did someone hack my account? Nope. I got a fraud alert text from my bank and had to answer Y if it was valid. Apparently $130 for alcohol delivery is considered “sketchy.” What, now I’m being judged for my alcohol consumption? During a pandemic? And I’m in hospital communications? This is what you are choosing to declare is fraud? I dare you to sit in my chair 7 days a week and see how sober you can stay. Judgey bastards. But on the positive side, the delivery guy was wicked nice.
So far I have been lucky enough to have Sunday mornings off for a Zoom yoga class. Now, I’ve been doing Iyengar yoga since 2004, but I’ve never internalized the official names of the poses. I admit to having very white bread word functionality. I can write and read English like a mofo, but the minute I hear other languages, I get brain freeze. Which is weird because my dad is from Holland and grandparents were French Canadian, so I’ve grown up with accents. Apparently, that doesn’t mean didly doo-dah when it comes to the actual language.
Anywho, my usual yoga teacher knows all the Sanskrit names but also says the English name, and she’s casual about it like me. That’s why I love her. I know what down dog is, but when you say, “Let’s do svanasana,” I will stare at you blankly or have to peek to see what everyone else is doing. Every position sounds like “sagahyanahan-asana” to me. Enter this Sunday class that is the perfect time and style for me. Except, because it’s a “level 2” it’s like that mean foreign language teacher I had in college who expected us to only speak Spanish. It’s level 2, not a language test for a government post to another country for chrissake. Also, it’s a class with a lot of regulars, so not only am I Sanskrit deficient, I also feel like an interloper. I totally don’t join with my camera, mostly so I can roll my eyes if I want to and not do a pose if I don’t feel like it. It’s also helpful when she says the name and then starts chatting about it for a minute, and I can look it up on my phone. Oooh, shoulder stand. Yeah, I hate that one, I’m not doing that.
You know what else pisses me off? I’m doing it in the small but adequate space between my kitchen and living space, and I look at all these yoga dinks with entire rooms that are seem way more spacious than city dweller ought to have, WTF? I love my apartment and living in Boston, and usually I don’t care. But now that I can see everyone else’s seemingly spacious set up, it pisses me off. Like I need this now? I’m best when I just stay in my bubble. Zoom has breached the bubble, so now I deal with Zoom envy on top of everything else.
Don’t get me started on people’s houses on Zoom work calls. Why the hell does everyone have big windows behind them with sun streaming it? Where the hell do you people live? Is it a background I don’t know about?
OK, tune in next week when I go back to the store with a mask I made from the Surgeon General’s directions without any actual measurements. What could possibly go wrong? Hang in there peeps.