Freaky Furlough

My inaugural blog. What a sense of achievement that came with typing those three words. That mini euphoria is how I generally start my days on furlough. I awaken with a Brene Brown zen and list of new accomplishments to conquer in the next ten hours. By hour eight (okay, maybe six), I declare that my life is a dumpster fire and I reach for the boxed wine in the fridge. This pendulum is my furloughed existence. My companions, Scratch and Sniff, did me a solid and illustrated the vibe with a perfect quarantine pose. I am just walking along and, without warning, something — could be a song, the dishes, a bill — flips me on my back, pins me to the mat, and knocks the breath clear out of my lungs. It’s funny, “furlough” used to bring to mind smokin’ hot soldiers in charming war movies aka “Biloxi Blues” who set forth to play hard and sow oats. Now, the term begets images of tight pajama bottoms and empty toilet paper shelves. I have been able to find the quiet upon occasion and thoroughly enjoy the gift of this extra time with my daughter, even if she is holed up in her room navigating 8th grade online. But, more often than not, I operate in a state of confusion, desperately hoping that the post-furlough me does not emerge a Quasimoto. That bewilderment shows its face in the strangest tasks. Yesterday, I took a life-risking trip to the grocery store and picked up some fresh zucchini to throw on the grill (some sesame oil, soy, garlic powder — yum). I selected several of the unscarred ones and tore a plastic vegetable bag from the rack to find that I could not open the dang bag. Rubbing my finger tips together at the edges, trying to find a tiny opening to gain access so I could deposit the green gourds in there and get the heck out, I gave a sigh of defeat behind my homemade mask. If only I could just lick a finger and a thumb, this would take no time at all. And, then, I cracked up at the hilarity of it all. The poor folks in the fresh vegetable section had to witness a stranger’s complete mental breakdown, plastic bag in one hand and three zucchini in the other.

I have succumbed to the age of the side hustle to make a few bucks and feel like I matter to something. I turned my daughter’s bottom bunk bed into a mini sound booth with blankets and stuffed animals to absorb the echo, so I can knock out the occasional voiceover gig for university online courses. I deliver food to the masses for Postmates — that’s a whole new blog post. You know the tune…Post about Postmates! Two bits! What I thought would be the easiest of side hustles is a marketing campaign on your car. The company sends a big sticker to put on the back window of your car and you get paid for driving around town with it on there. Easy as pie, right? I was out on a rainy day and my windshield wiper damaged the sticker. The sticker included a logo with a “made you look” hand…you know what I mean? Forefinger and thumb in a circle…kinda like an ‘ok’ signal? I did not realize for several days that my windshield wiper had peeled off the part of the sticker with the last two extended fingers on it. I had been driving around town flipping everybody off. Being a basically decent person, I striped the offensive remaining sticker off my car and will not get paid a cent because I cannot supply the required photo of the sticker on my car. It is not without value though because the thought of momentarily giving the universe the bird brought some solace in one of my dumpster fire moments.

In this moment somewhere between zen and fire, I feel hope. I wonder what the term “furlough” will bring to mind a year from now. I will continue to pointedly mark the good moments and attempt to nudge away the bad ones. Alas, you can’t have the Yin without the Yang. For now, I will change out of these blue plaid pajama bottoms and enjoy some zucchini.

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