That ice is slowly melting

At the one-year mark for pandemic lockdown, we finally have a federal relief package targeted at people who need help the most, a coherent policy for vaccine distribution and some real cause for hope.

So the Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun” seems like a good song to mark the occasion. Every lyric seems to apply to our current situation.

 

 

Year of living dangerously

A year ago today, our VP came round the office and quietly told individuals and small clusters of people that, due to the COVID-19 pandemic, we’d be working from home for a few weeks starting the next day. From that day to this, I have not seen one of my colleagues outside of video meetings.

In the intervening period, we’ve launched a new software platform, fought off cyber attacks, undergone a couple of reorganizations and various other things. Teammates have recovered from COVID and lost family members to it; they had to make the announcements via calls and power through with only virtual hugs. They’ve had babies in the middle of a pandemic and “returned” (to their home offices) from maternity/paternity leave. One colleague barely scooted back to his post in Belgium before Europe locked down in March; seriously, he got a client escort from the airport to his home and stayed there for the next two weeks.

We’ve all got used to dogs, kids, delivery people, plumbers and other assorted extras being part of virtual meetings. And some of the not-on-mute surprises have been funny enough to keep us laughing through some of the ghastliest times. (I’m thinking in particular of the outside-agency woman helping with the launch, who admonished—well, I’m thinking it was her son; I hope it wasn’t her husband—“No, do not touch your penis after holding a jalapeño pepper!” Kudos for using “penis” and not a euphemism.)

We refer to the past as “the Before Times” and try to imagine what “the After Times” might look like. Time itself has become unmeasurable. We say, “At Wednesday’s call…well, maybe it was Monday’s…wait—what day is today?” because it all blends and blurs together. We have no more natural barriers. (I myself have worn neither a watch nor mascara since 12 March 2020. Time no longer has meaning and no one sees me because I never turn my camera on.)

As a nation, we all endured the douchebaggery of the elections and the surreal aftermath, peaking with the insurrection at the US Capitol on 6 January. That’s not over, yet, but we have some hope with the Senate’s confirmation of Merrick Garland as Attorney General. (Thanks, Stacey Abrams!) We took to the streets (masked and distanced) to protest the killings of Black people; and (not-masked and not-distanced but armed to the teeth) to support tyranny and White supremacy. Millions of people lost their jobs, their businesses, their homes, while Republicans calculated ways to sluice billions to their corporate donors. We the People voted—in person and by mail—in record numbers, and we tossed the bastard out. But there are more than half a million empty seats at tables around the country and our loss is immeasurable.

We now—finally—have a national policy to fight the virus, and maybe in the next twelve months we can finally have lunch with friends, give and receive hugs, and drop into an optician’s office without making an appointment.

It’s been a very long, very hard year. Stay safe. Vaccinate. Wear your damned mask. I do not want to repeat this.

 

 

Statement piece

I came across this car in an apartment parking lot a while ago.

And, boy, is there a lot to unpack from it:

(I was going to say that I didn't believe the part about the Kessel Run, but then I remembered what the Millennium Falcon looked like.)

This is a full load before anyone even gets in.

Table manners

Ever since my one-week PTO last October, I’ve made a point of sitting down at the dining table each morning for breakfast. Even if it’s just a piece of toast and coffee, I set the table with a napkin, cutlery, coffee cup and glass for OJ or sparkling water.

Sometimes, if I remember to take it out of the freezer the night before to proof, I have a Trader Joe’s bake-it-yourself pain au chocolate. Those suckers are remarkably good.

But here’s the thing I noticed: I do not seem to be able to eat one without getting chocolate all over my face. Viz: this is the napkin from breakfast the other day:

I’m really rather glad that I’m eating this all by myself and only the birds can see me. But I wonder what I looked like in Paris after my petit déjeuner, which also had a pain au chocolate?

Um.

 

 

Gratitude Monday: Shot in the arm

Here was my Friday. Got up, fed the birds, had breakfast and spent much of the day putting out customer fires. (Honestly—software would work a lot better if you just stopped letting users on it.) Then, at 1530, I drove to the other side of Fairfax County and got the first dose of the Pfizer-BioNTech COVID-19 vaccine.

All through February, the county COVID website told me that they were processing people who’d registered for the vaccine on 18 January; I registered on 22 January. Then, mid-afternoon on Thursday, my mobile phone flashed a text—the county telling me I could schedule an appointment. Well, I was in mid-fire somewhere, but dropped everything to go to their site, where I was told that I had three appointment availabilities for Friday afternoon. I was directed to Inova Health Conglomerate’s site, where I had to register as a patient on their kludgy portal. By the time I picked my way through that (shooting and uploading pix of my insurance card), the 1630 slot was gone, so I ended up with 1645—across the county in rush-hour DC traffic.

Ergo me leaving an hour early; I got there just about within the 15 minutes early they tell you to arrive. Just on 1645 I was getting the shot from a school nurse in Alexandria who volunteered to help with the effort. (She was really good; I actually didn’t feel the needle at all.) It was quite the factory vibe, but the process worked pretty well. (Pro tip: definitely do the e-check-in before you get there; much better to do it at home instead of at one of their kiosks.)

By 1655 I was heading home, where I put out some more user fires, poured myself a glass of Chandon and watched a classic Poirot episode, feeling massive relief and gratitude to have got the first dose. (There was an email in my queue when I got home that allowed me to schedule my second appointment, so that’s all set up for 27 March—a Saturday—at 0815.)

This is not just gratitude; it’s sink into Child’s Pose and say the rosary gratitude. I give thanks to all the bench scientists who worked steadily throughout the past year to develop and test vaccines; to all the people who took part in the clinical trials and those who validated the results; to the supply chain workers and the cyber defenders who protected the integrity of the serum from attack; to the folks who built the portals that allow governments and hospitals to process tens of thousands of registrations; to the logisticians and program managers who put together the workflows; to the hundreds of volunteers who get shots into arms; to all the cleaning crews at every facility the vaccine touched; and everyone else who made this possible.

I’ll continue to wear a mask and social distance, but a huge weight has been lifted from me. (And all you maskless people whom I encounter on walks around the People’s Republic—you’re still self-centered, irresponsible douchebags. Mask up, morons!) At the end of the month, I can meet my vaccinated friend for coffee without fretting about being a carrier. I can think about taking a trip later this year. I can play with the notion of going into the office, maybe.

But right now, I’m just grateful.