Today marks one week into January. It seems like everyone was looking forward to a new year more than usual this year due to the awfulness of 2020. Of course, we all know that just changing from 12/31 to 1/1 isn’t going to make that much of a difference in our personal lives, let alone in the global sense. Still, there is hope around the corner as a vaccine is available. And a new year signifies a new start.

And yet…

I’m not sure I’m ready for a new start. Yes, all this sitting around and going nowhere and seeing no one has made me stir crazy. Stir crazy, but also unmotivated. I miss my friends, but I don’t want to leave my house. I have plenty of time to work on home projects, but no desire to do them. I am bored and lonely, but feel anxiety about going out. It’s not even the virus anymore. It’s just me.

We spent Thanksgiving and Christmas at home alone. It was just the four of us. And as sad as we were to forgo our annual trip to see my family in Michigan, there was a simplicity and quiet without all the chaos and busyness of previous years.

Side note: For Thanksgiving dinner we used our Good China. For the very first time. After 23 years. It is called Palace and is made by Pickard in case you are interested. (You bet I still remember the name of it.) We paired it with our silver. (Romance of the Sea, by Wallace). Also never used. I literally had to unwrap it from the original plastic packaging. Both my kids said, “Where did we get this stuff?”

During break, the kids and I spent a lot of time together. We baked. We talked. We laughed. We made six different kinds of cookies and delivered them to friends. We made hot cocoa bombs. We played board games. We drove around and looked at Christmas lights. We opened gift after gift after gift. Yes, I overdid it. No, I don’t care. We watched lots of movies. And yep, we spent a lot of time on electronics.

Even though I look forward to when this pandemic is over, there is a part of me that has a vague anxiety about things getting back to normal. “Normal” being hanging out with friends and going out to eat and driving kids to soccer and guitar and baseball. “Normal” being in-person school and soccer tournaments and going on vacation. “Normal” being Greek Camp and sleepovers and swimming at the pool. In other words, “back to normal” means over-scheduled and overwhelmed and never home and everyone eating dinner at different times while looking at their phone. Remind me again why we are trying to get back to this?

Time slips away and I look at my 15-year-old and realize he’s shaving and driving and I only have two more years left with him until he is gone for good. My 12-year-old, who was in grade school a year ago, will be in high school in a year and a half. I just want to absorb every minute that I have with them.

Someday they will look back and tell their kids about the worst year of their life. Where they were cooped up inside and there was nothing to do and they couldn’t go to school and they couldn’t play sports and they didn’t travel and they were bored all winter. And someday I will tell those same kids about the time where I got to have my babies near me for a whole year and I didn’t have to share them with anyone. Where we played board games and did puzzles and watched movies and baked cookies and stayed home all the time.

And how it was a year I will savor forever.

So make the best of this test 
And don't ask why
It's not a question
But a lesson learned in time
It's something unpredictable
But in the end it's right
I hope you had the time of your life
--Green Day 

I have been the president of the women’s philanthropy group at my church for a year now. We have meetings and social events throughout the year, but the main focus is fundraising so we can support charitable local and national organizations.

Every summer there is a National Convention where several clergy and delegates meet to discuss past initiatives and introduce new ones. We also hear from speakers, and since the conventions are held in big cities, sprinkle in a bit of fun.

This year, because of Covid, the convention was held virtually. What this means is that over 500 (primarily) Greek women (mostly) between the ages of 50 and 70 (that’s me) would be on a zoom call together. For 7 hours. And since it’s run by Greeks, you can factor in an extra hour or so at least because of something we call Greek Time* and because, hello, it is 500 Greek women on a zoom call.

*Greek Time is when you tell everyone to meet at 7:30 but everyone arrives between 8:00 and 8:30. If you want people to show up on time, you say “NOT GREEK TIME” and then everyone shows up between 7:45 to 8:00. One time I hosted a wedding shower at our home for some of Ted’s non-Greek friends when we first got married. The party invitation said 6pm. When the doorbell rang at 6pm I was annoyed, panicked, confused, but mostly NOT READY. It was then that I realized that even though I had been aware of Greek Time for my entire life I did not realize that Americans (which is what we Greeks call non-Greeks even though we are also American. It doesn’t make sense I know just go with it) arrive ON TIME. Like, if the party is at 4pm they show up at 4pm. It’s a hard concept to grasp, I know.

Back to the online convention. We have been instructed to have an appropriate background and dress professionally and refrain from eating during the meeting. Check, Check, ummm…

Since the convention was supposed to be held in Cleveland, our entertainment part of the day has been changed from a tour of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame to a prerecorded video hosted by a representative from the museum who looks the love child of Mama Cass and Weird Al. The presentation is certainly interesting and entertaining, but I will admit, after so many hours of looking at a screen, it is hard for me to give it my full attention. I am starting to get a headache and I have that feeling of exhaustion you get when you do nothing all day. Nevertheless, I keep one eye on the screen because we have been informed that soon there will be a Rock and Roll Trivia Game. If there is one thing I am good at it is trivia and if there is one thing I am it is competitive (except for with sports as I know I am not athletic). I do not want to miss the contest which I feel sure I will win based on the demographic of the contestants. Let’s face it, I am on a call in which 70% of the people owned 8-tracks. I am a shoe-in to win a contest about music. Unless this quiz is going to ask questions about Simon and Garfunkel or Steely Dan, I am going to win.

The contest begins and I quickly realize that my cockiness was unwarranted as the questions are based off the 20 minute video we just watched that I was only half paying attention to. How many square feet is the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame? How should I know? Why don’t you ask me which Spice Girl I would be? Posh, obviously. (Okay, fine. Probably Scary). What year was the first band inducted? Who cares? I can name all the boys in One Direction, does that count for anything? Why was Cleveland chosen for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame? I don’t know! But you should see me do the dance from Thriller!

Shockingly, I tank on the Rock and Roll Trivia Game. It turns out Haroula, 79, from Pittsburgh was paying a lot more attention than I was. Which is fine because it turns out the prize was a life alert necklace. JUST KIDDING! Do NOT write me letters or impeach me from my presidency please. Zayn, Liam, Niall, Harry, and Louis and I were just making a joke. Sheesh.

It is hour six, and by now I am not even trying to hide the fact that I am snacking. I have also moved from my desk chair to the couch in the playroom which is still in peak toddler decor complete with princess frogs painted on the wall behind me. I do not care. I see a lady in her square with her head in her hands, looking down and dejected. As if she has given up on any hope of saving the rest of the day. Same lady, same. I see another lady lounging comfortably on her couch. I feel sure this is against the rules. Another woman has only her neck in the frame. I notice with absolute glee there is a woman GETTING INTO HER BED with her dog! It’s like I am in my own version of Rear Window except I am not anywhere near as elegant as Grace Kelly and Ted is no Jimmy Stewart and even if for any reason he was injured enough to be in a wheelchair temporarily (like say, a bee sting, or a scratch from a twig) he would not be spearheading an investigation. He would be too weak and I would be too busy waiting on him while completely annoyed.

But I digress.

We are nearing the end and one of the final speakers is just finishing up her presentation. When she is finished, the moderator asks if there are any questions. There is a strict protocol where you raise your digital hand, wait to be called on, and then un-mute yourself to ask the question. When questions are over, they are over. You cannot ask a question about a previous presentation.

What happens next is the most exciting part of the convention. Althea from Rocky River raises her digital hand and she is not happy. Althea wants us to know that she was called on during the last Q & A period but she was not unmuted by the moderator so she could not speak. She then proceeds to tell us what question she was GOING to ask if she were allowed. She ends her comment by saying, “I will take a pass on asking my question.” And then she smiles into the camera. But she is doing that Greek elderly thing where she is smiling but she is not happy and you can just tell. I don’t know if grandmas in other cultures do this but if you have seen it you know. It’s a passive-aggressive smile that makes you nervous-laugh while the hair on your arms stands up.

Side Note: I first remember experiencing this smile from my Yiayia circa 1987 and I believe we still have the episode on video somewhere. It was several years after my Papou had passed away and she was still wearing all black, the custom for Greek widows from a certain time. She had maybe ventured into navy and brown, but patterns and colors were non-negotiable. So she opens her Christmas gift to see my mother and aunt have given her a lovely dark maroon dress, very modest and simple. With a look of shock, disdain, and horror, she exclaims “A RED SHIRT?” closes the box and says, “No.” She then looks up, sees the video camera, remembers she is being filmed, and says “Thank you,” and smiles.

THAT is the smile, dear readers, that Althea is currently giving the moderator.

And that would have been entertaining enough for me, but what comes next is just an added bonus. For whatever reason, Althea does not mute herself back up. Which means she is still on full-screen. So the next thing you know, poor Althea, WHILE ON FULL-SCREEN, gets up and starts walking around her bedroom hanging up clothes. Did I mention she is on full screen? I wish I had a picture. Okay, I do. But I have to show some restraint. Let’s just say that for around 60 glorious seconds, 500 convention goers watched, spellbound, as Althea reorganized her closet.

It was a pretty good ending to a long day. I heard the next convention is in New York. I better start brushing up on my pizza trivia…

***Names, ages, and cities have been changed to protect the innocent. There is also a good chance stories have been embellished.***

Let me preface this by saying I am ardent supporter of mask-wearing.

Now let me also say that these masks are uncomfortable. Sometimes they are too tight. Sometimes they are too loose. Sometimes they ride up. Or down. They pull on my ears. And don’t get me started on how much I sweat underneath them. It’s like a constant rainforest from my upper lip to my chin. (Which actually makes wearing the mask convenient because it then doubles as a little hanky I end up using to wipe off the sweat). When I am wearing a mask, I feel like a can’t talk, breathe, or hear what anyone is saying.

A couple of weeks ago I was due for my yearly eye exam. In case you have never read one of my blogs before, you should know I have terrible eyesight. I have had glasses since I was 8 and then switched to contacts at 13. I am nearsighted and haven’t been able to see far away up until about two or three years ago when suddenly I couldn’t see close-up either. You would think that this phenomenon would cause my eyesight to even out and eventually my eyes would be back to 20/20, but no. It just means that now I can’t see close up OR far away.

Since the eye doctor that I had been seeing for years just retired, I seized the opportunity to move to a clinic closer to home. I did not think this would be an issue since I have had the same prescription for years and have been wearing the same brand and type of contacts forever. The new doctor would merely give me a routine checkup and hand over my standard prescription.

Side note: This seems like a good time to tell you that if you are thinking about getting your eyes checked, stop and ask yourself if you can suffer through with the same glasses or contacts for the next six months or year or however long this pandemic lasts. If the answer is yes, then wait. If the answer is no, wait anyway.

I walk up to the clinic and I am greeted at the door by a 15-year-old boy with a thermometer that I think must be the receptionist’s or doctor’s son who was bribed to be there for the summer or maybe he is getting paid minimum wage I don’t know. Before he lets me in, he checks my temperature with the little gadget that gets close to my forehead but not really. I mean, either we have come a LONG way with technology or this thing is just for show, because I don’t understand how something one inch from my body can tell my internal temperature when it seems like just yesterday I needed to stick a glass tube of mercury under my tongue. I mean, how have we gone from pushing something up our baby’s butts to a hovercraft on our forehead? How accurate can this method be? I’m 51 and pretty much always hot and plus it’s 95 degrees out but with the humidity feels more like 101 so how do I know that those factors aren’t affecting my internal temperature and by the way did I mention under my mask I have droplets of sweat running down my chin?

As Opie checks me, I worry I will register at 104 degrees and be sent directly to the hospital where they will discover it was a false alarm and that I in fact do not have Covid but instead diagnosis me with “post-menopausal-hot-flash” syndrome.

Luckily, I am approved to go inside. I check in with the receptionist who tells me to sign in. I take the pen from the “clean” container and sign in and place it in the “dirty” container. This gives me a false sense of confidence so I try not to think about the fact that I just opened the door using the handle everyone else did and also rested my hands on the counter everyone else did. The receptionist is wearing a mask and there is a Plexiglas divider between us so everything she says is muffled and I think she tells me to take a seat but as far as I know she could have said you are the 100th patient and you win a trip to Mexico but that’s a long shot so I sit down in the waiting area in a chair and wonder if I am in a “clean” chair or a “dirty” chair as it has no label.

Finally, it is time for the doctor to see me. We go through the usual pleasantries and information gathering and then it’s time to take the exam. At this point I realize with alarm that once the machine is pushed up to my eyes, because of the mask I am wearing, my breathing is causing the lens I am supposed to look through to immediately fog up.

Now let’s face it, the outcome of this exam is going to decide whether or not I graduate to old-lady bifocals, so I can’t risk any mistakes on my vision test today. And right now, my face is too close to the machine, my mask is too close to my face, and with each breath I take, the letters are getting more and more blurry.

“F-Z-D-P…” I read the next line down. I squint even more. One more line down. I stumble through it. There is only one line left and things are really hazy by now. At this point, it’s like I just opened the dishwasher after a steaming hot cycle while wearing my glasses. I hate to exaggerate and say I was in a full-blown panic, but I WAS IN A FULL-BLOWN PANIC.

Finally, I admit to the doctor that the lens is just too foggy because of the mask. “That happens,” she says, “I can wipe it off if you need.” I need. She wipes the lenses. But every time I breathe out it happens again.

“Which looks better, one, or two?”

“Wipe please.”

“One or Two?:

“Wipe please.”

“One or Two?”

“Wipe please.”

Dear Lord, I can’t ask her to wipe it after every time she rotates that lens. I know this drill all too well. We are going to be doing this lens switcheroo another 8 or 9 times.

By now I am having an out-of-body experience, so I make the ridiculous decision to just hold my breath for the rest of the exam. I mean, why not limit even MORE oxygen to my brain? Which would have been a good idea if not for the fact that it’s nearly impossible to hold your breath and talk at the same time. And so when the next question comes, I croak out “ONE?” while in complete ophthalmological hysteria.

At this point I am positive I am giving all the wrong answers and also I might pass out from not breathing and l am pretty sure my prescription is going to come back wrong and I will get my contacts and I won’t be able to see out of them and in the meantime “One or Two?” is done but now I need to look for the hot air balloon and everything is a blurry mess and what do you mean YOU WANT TO DILATE MY EYES TOO?

Finally, it is over.

“Your prescription stayed the same,” she says and smiles. “Did you know they make bifocal contacts?”

 

So it seems that summer break is over.  Did anyone notice?  Did anyone realize back when summer officially began?  Does anyone else feel like we are living in some sort of time warp?  Like time is going by so slowly but also quickly?  Even though I have all the time in the world the days fly by and I find I’ve gotten nothing done. I have had a photo album project sprawled across my dining room table for weeks. At any other time, I would relish an extra week to work on this.  Yet I’ve had days, weeks, months even, and I can’t seem to be motivated to work on it.   Time seems to be slipping away but nothing is changing. And instead of things getting easier as I adjust more to this new normal, they seem to be getting harder.  I am having such a difficult time focusing, staying on task, and getting things done.  Proof of this is the fact that I haven’t written a blog in over two months.

When the virus hit, it was technically still winter.  We had at least one snowfall while on lockdown.  And then spring and then summer and now we are in August and school is starting and it feels like we didn’t even have a summer but also like all we have been doing is summer.  And it’s really hard to enjoy “downtime” when that’s all you have.  I haven’t done any of the things I planned do and was so motivated to do back in March.  And I’m worried that I should be using this time for learning and growing but instead I’m just wasting it.  

What I have learned, however, is that the less you have to do, the less you get done.  I have also learned you can run every day and walk the dog every day and still mysteriously gain weight.  I have learned that the only thing worse than a muffin top is when there is also a muffin middle and a muffin bottom.   I have learned that when you are with your family all day every day when you finally go on vacation it doesn’t exactly feel like a vacation.  You are still with the same people, doing the same things, having the same arguments, except now you are doing it in a nicer house on a lake.  I have learned that my extroverted self is becoming more and more introverted and that I have no desire to go anywhere or do anything anymore.  I have learned that my husband would rather have a sandwich on anything but bread. Hamburger buns, pitas, bagels. I mean, he literally will not eat bread.   I have learned that my kids only use their drinking glasses for one glass of water and then get a new one for their next glass of water.  The good news is: I now know they are each getting their required 8 glasses of water a day.  I have learned that when your kids eat lunch at home every day each morning starts with “Can we go to Chik-fil-A?” like it’s a normal request.  I have learned that, yes, kids can stare at a 5 x 2-inch phone screen for 7 hours a day 6 inches from their face and still want more.   I have learned that Arrested Development is just as funny this time around and that Jason Bateman has aged incredibly well.  I have learned that if you teach a dog to press a button to get a treat she will press that button 57 times a day until you finally hide the button.  In fact, I have learned enough these past five months to live a lifetime and am quite frankly done with the learning and the self-reflecting and the analysis of why Ted would rather stuff a piece of ham inside a hot dog bun instead of two slices of wheat bread. 

Thankfully school started this week.  I know that because my son is in front of a screen in the basement now instead of in front of a screen in his bedroom.  He comes up every now and then to ask what’s for dinner and to get another glass of water.  I feel bad he is missing soccer this fall and can’t go to school, but he is resilient and after seeing all the PPE he would have had to wear maybe it’s better this way.  

Franny starts next week.  Honestly, it’s five days away and we have no schedule, no books and no idea what’s happening.  For her, I am just praying her new contacts come in because she has been wearing her sports goggles for three weeks now and that’s no way to start middle school.

You could say I’m losing it.  In fact, if I write the blog I want to write or feel like writing, someone is going to send over a wellness check for me because this quarantine is getting to me. Remember my blog back in June when I said I was enjoying this?  That was (relatively) mentally stable Samantha.  This is I-need-to-get-out-of-this-house-and-have-some-space-of-my-own-and-everyone-get-the-heck-away-from-me-and-stop-using-17-glasses-a-day-and-just-put-your-turkey-on-a-regular-piece-of-bread Samantha. 

But that’s for another blog. Or maybe just my personal diary. 🙂

 

For days I have been counting down the time until June 23rd. And though I am not one to dwell on death dates, this year has been different. Maybe it’s the feeling of loneliness and isolation during this quarantine. Maybe it’s the fact I haven’t seen my family in a really long time. Maybe it’s just because I am getting older. But I have been tracking the days more than normal, made especially difficult by the fact that tracking days these past few months seems pointless.

But as I sit here and write and the hour turns to midnight, I realize that today, June 12th, has snuck up on me.  Facebook’s “memories” has reminded me that it is the 21st anniversary of my dad’s death.  All along I’ve been dreading the upcoming date of my sister’s passing, only to find I was looking too far ahead.

And maybe my spirit and my soul have known all week. Because I have been off. Feeling a little lost and sad for no reason in particular. Or maybe it’s no more complicated than the fact that I miss my dad.

I’ve said it before but it’s worth saying again. When you lose someone, it’s not necessarily the significant days you think about. Most of the time it’s the everyday moments you long for. I wish my dad were here so I could ask him if we should lease our next car or buy it. I wish he were here so I could tell him how mad I am that Franny lost her Air Pods so he could tell me, “It’s just stuff, Sal, don’t worry.” I wish I could see his pride while watching her play catcher (also his position) on an all-boys team. I wish I could tell him that one time I was “Customer of the Month” at Starbucks so I could hear him say, “Jesus Christ, Samantha, is that all you have to do all day?” I wish I could tell him that I’m worried that I’m sucking at motherhood and that I’m completely messing up my kids. I wish I could tell him how smart Teddy is and wants to be an engineer like him. I wish I could ask him a million things about work and life and parenting and what he liked to do when he was little and if he played pranks on his siblings and which one of his parents did he get his sense of humor from and a million other things I didn’t think to ask him when he was alive.

Twenty-one years is a long time. In some ways, it seems like yesterday.  In other ways, it seems like a lifetime ago. And what started out being a blog about Chris has turned into something else, which I am finding out more and more can happen when you write.  Sometimes what you want to say is not always what you need to say.

Above: My dad and Chris, Christmas 1965.