The pandemic hasn’t changed the view from Doni’s dining room window/office
Because I’ve already worked from home for 13 years, I have, like many writers, adapted to a fairly isolated occupational reality. So when the pandemic hit, I was confident that I’d ace staying home, venturing out for only the most essential needs.
For me, staying home isn’t the hardest part of this pandemic, but the unanswered questions that loop around inside in my head, spoken like a weary, terrified child on a treacherous road trip: Are we there yet? How much longer? When will it be over? Are people still sick? Are people still dying? Are we safe yet? When will we be safe? Will we ever be safe? When can I see my family? When can I see my friends?
Over and over again.
I didn’t realize how stressed I was and how close my emotions were to the surface until I unexpectedly lost it three times, despite my best attempts to hold myself together.
The first time was when I fell apart after mailing my 2-year-old granddaughter’s kitty-cat birthday cake for a party cancelled by the pandemic.
The second time was when I walked into La Cabana, my favorite Mexican restaurant, to pick up my first to-go order. The parking lot was empty, most of the restaurant was dark, and chairs barricaded access to the booths, tables and chairs inside the normally packed dining room. The only lights on were over the kitchen, where the LaCabana guys cooked, and at the cash register, where one of the sisters rang up my order. Everyone at LaCabana was so pleasant and cheerful. They carried on as if we weren’t all standing in a dim, empty restaurant, where I was the only customer. I held back the tears until I reached the privacy of my car.
The third time was during a video chat with my 6- and 9-year-old grandkids, who bop in and out of the frame, mostly bored and uninspired by the lame video-communication option. But on the last call my granddaughter did discuss her upcoming 7th birthday, something she’s been planning for months. She mentioned that on her actual birthday, she’d wear the dress we’d bought together, and maybe I could see her wearing that dress by video that day. I did my best to not react, but failed.
Aside from those kinds of meltdowns, I’m doing great with the pandemic. Actually, great is too strong a word. I’m doing OK with the pandemic. Scratch that. Last try: I’m dealing with the pandemic. That’s about the best I can muster.
Nevertheless, not to get too Pollyanna Pandemic, but there have been surprises.
For example, I’m the kind of person who, when stuck inside my car during a drive-through car wash, will use those found minutes to happily clean out my console and glove box. Given that practical personality trait, I always figured that if I had a bunch of free time stuck at home, I’d embark on a cleaning, home-improvement and file-drawer-organizing frenzy. So imagine my surprise when those activities do not currently appeal to me in the least. In fact, a little more than a month ago I decided to paint my bedroom, and had removed everything from the walls and puttied the nail holes. My bedroom still looks that way. I’m just not interested in painting my room right now, and I cannot explain why.
And about six months ago, while organizing my garage, I dumped all the tools and hardware on the workbench to surely sort everything out on a rainy day. Yet there everything still sits, patiently waiting for order. It’s not happening today, probably not this week, and most likely not even this month. It’s just not a top priority for me right now.
What – besides running ANC – is a priority for me? The main thing, aside from maintaining human contact despite social distancing, is cutting myself some slack and giving myself grace to cope with the pandemic in a way that suits me. That’s why I felt so relieved when ANC’s own Deb Segelitz addressed this very subject recently. Lord knows we’re all under enough external pressure without beating ourselves up internally, too.
One of the biggest surprises about myself was when I decided to teach myself how to grow sourdough yeast starter for baking, something I’ve never had even the most remote interest in before. (I’ll write soon about what I’ve learned.)
I’m on my third batch, and surely this batch will be a winner, because you know what they say about the third time being a charm.
But whatever. I’ve got time to start another batch if this one fails. Time at home. Lots of time. So much time at home that I can literally watch yeast’s development, from humble birth to ripe adulthood.
My interest in growing yeast surely taps into some primal pioneer DNA that kicked in right around the time the pandemic became a US reality. Suddenly, I had the urge to be as self-sufficient as possible. My pandemic pioneer-woman to-do list is growing by the day, but so far it includes building a kitchen garden, planting fruit trees, and following my twin’s footsteps as an urban bee-keeper and chicken farmer. Oh, I also want to build a wood-burning bread oven. And I’m honing my bartering skills, as I’ve exchanged my baked goods for others’ fresh eggs and even wine shipments.
Of course, that’s all about food, and making sure I have enough sustenance for myself and others. I derive a lot of comfort from that image. People will die without food. Not on my watch, pandemic be damned.
Food aside, I’m thinking of even more serious topics, too, such as what happens when I die. I’m pretty pragmatic, so notice I didn’t say if I die, but when I die. I’m not being morbid, but let’s face it, living in the middle of a pandemic serves as a good reminder to get our affairs in order. If not now, when? I want to avoid a scenario where my adult kids are left to bicker over my house, car and massive awesome collection of white dishes and obscene quantities of baking supplies. So I’m working with a lawyer who’s started the process for estate-planning, which includes taking care of my will, something I’ve been meaning to do all my adult life. Leave it to a pandemic to make a grown-up out of me.
Speaking of which, I’m a stress eater, which could prove risky now more than ever. Although I’m not exactly throwing all dietary caution to the wind, I’ve certainly had my moments, such as that one night while binge-watching “Ozark” when my dinner consisted of freshly baked sourdough bread and butter and a good part of a bottle of excellent red wine. I did not regret it (much) in the morning.
Doni’s first loaf of sourdough bread made from home-grown starter yeast.
To reduce my stress levels, I do my best to not torture myself with dire predictions of COVID-19 numbers, death and the economy. Some days I succeed. Other days, not so much. It doesn’t help that my job requires being steeped in facts and news, for better or for worse.
I try not to fixate on weird things, like the expiration dates on food or my next prescription refill, wondering what the world – my world, your world, our world – will look like when those dates finally arrive. Even the term — expiration date — now takes on an ominous tone.
Much as when we wore face masks here in the north state during the Carr Fire, once again I find one up side to wearing a mask is not feeling compelled to wear make-up, or earrings.
For that matter, since we’re keeping a distance of six feet or more anyway, what’s the point of wearing perfume, either?
Still, I find myself thinking of random things that I suspect this pandemic will change forever, like Chex mix in a bowl at a party, pretzels and peanuts on a bar counter, shaking hands, indiscriminate hugging, and fondue. Definitely the pandemic will be the final nail in fondue’s coffin. RIP, fondue.
Things are changing by the minute, requiring us to be flexible and go with the flow.
On the one hand, I go along willingly with some new ideas, such as wearing masks in public, and the trending suggestion on Nextdoor.com to put a teddy bear in the window, so children going for walks or drives with their families can spot the bears, just for fun. Sure. Harmless enough. Couldn’t hurt.
Joe Domke’s teddy bear, a gift from an aunt when he was born, sits in Doni’s window, waiting to be spotted by children, or stir-crazy adults.
On the other hand, I roundly reject ludicrous rally cries to put up Christmas lights as a show of what, I’m not sure. No. Hell no thank you. I don’t have the inclination to paint my bedroom and organize my garage, let alone put up Christmas lights in April.
I do attempt to look at the positive side of things as much as possible, such as having an appreciation for how much money I’m not spending on movies, gas and trips.
And I seek out humor wherever I can, such as acknowledging that if I don’t wash my jeans for a long time, then they won’t shrink, and then I’ll never know how much weight I’ve gained. Ha ha. So funny.
Which reminds me of the additional perk of virtual doctor appointments, because nobody asked me to step on a scale during a phone appointment. Victory is mine!
I adapt without complaint to our freaky new normal, such as the downtown Redding post office, where clear shower curtains serve as impossible barriers between clerks and customers. As if. Seriously?
The downtown Redding post office’s pandemic protection features clear shower curtains.
I notice annoying things, like my tendency to forget what day it is, because most of my calendar landmarks have disappeared, such as Hal Johnson’s Live Entertainment in the North State Wednesday column, which I miss so much! Wednesday just isn’t Wednesday without Hal.
I recognize displays of frayed nerves and short tempers, as if the entire world is suffering from a severe case of PMS.
I am touched by our new way of signing off, whether it’s an email, phone call or parting words to a grocery delivery person or front-line essential worker, no longer goodbye, but, “Stay safe!”
But when it all gets to be too much, then I do the very best thing I can to lift myself from the depths of sadness, worry and fear.
I check on my sourdough starter. I sniff it. I stir it. I feed it. And if it fails, then I throw it away and start all over again. There’s always tomorrow. A new start. A new starter. A new day, whichever one it is.
