Just a waitin’ on my stimulus check …

If you got your stimulus check from the IRS, hooray for you! Seriously … I mean that. Hoo-ray! I’m glad for you. It’s just that, I haven’t gotten mine yet, and while I’m not desperate for it – I have snacks! – I do kind of want it. Because it’s mine. And I kind of feel like, well, you got yours, so … WHERE’S MINE!?!

But I haven’t gotten it yet. I know this because I check my bank account roughly 700 times a day … to the point that the tips of my fingers have gone numb and I’m starting to hallucinate about the IRS logo chasing me through the desert. (I mean, what is that logo? An eagle proudly doing his taxes or something?)

Again, don’t worry about me financially. I just get a little neurotic about things. When I was late for my own birth, I started knocking on my mother’s womb and calling out, “Hell-OOOO! Can we get a move on here?!?”

Maybe you’re like me: Wanting that money. So I have put together some helpful hints on finding out more information on your check, as well as coping with the frustration of waiting for it to arrive in your bank account:

• This is extremely important, as in everything I’ve read all experts recommend this: Check your bank account 700 times a day. Do it until the tips of your fingers go numb and you start to hallucinate about the IRS logo chasing you through the desert. It doesn’t matter if you just checked it 3 seconds ago. Because maybe at that moment the direct deposit was still processing and now it’s in there. Yeah, good point. Hold on a second while I go … DANG! Where is it?

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Things you learn grocery shopping for a college student

It was a bit of a scare earlier this month. One of my college students came down sick, and during times like these, you take that seriously. He self-quarantined himself for a little over a week before eventually getting a coronavirus test. Thankfully, it came back negative. What a relief! That had been an unnerving time, and it gets you thinking about things, like how you should never take your health for granted. Or how strong these bonds between teachers and students can be. Or how strange the grocery buying habits of college students are.

I learned this after offering to pick him up some groceries. When I asked how he was situated for food, he told me he had a few cans of soup and that he would be alright. Oh, OK. Sure! “Text me a list and I’ll pick you up something,” I remember writing him, thinking a carton of ramen noodles and a bag of beef jerky would do the trick.

I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

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All the news that’s also news in the midst of a pandemic

There must be other news out there. Out there in the universe. Something new. News stories that aren’t solely focused on the one item that none of us seem able to escape or get away from for one merciful minute: “Tiger King!” No … I mean coronavirus.

But either one, man. Try to find a station, newspaper or media feed where those two aren’t dominating. And I don’t mean to make light of it. I know it’s serious business, but we all need a break. We need a chance to catch our breaths and read something else – to know that there is a world out there that isn’t only about death rates, what the president said or why the greatest country on the planet STILL can’t put more toilet paper on grocery store shelves.

I mean, seriously! We have developed phones that will video-conference us anywhere in the world and vehicles that are road-tripping around Mars, but even the single-ply stuff is impossible to come by!

So for you, my loyal readers (all eight of you), I made it my focus, my challenge, my duty to search high and low for the best news that isn’t getting to you. The news that is still happening, but gets buried under the constant barrage of coronavirus/Tiger King coverage. Consider this your escape – your few minutes of relief and sanctuary before you return to the maelstrom that surrounds us 24-7:

• Story No. 1: … OK, hold on …

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Coronavirus, staying home and all we take for granted

Like most Americans, there are quite a few things I’ve been guilty of taking for granted. The coronavirus is teaching me that. Things I didn’t appreciate enough or went through the motions on. Along with it, and as I find myself finishing up my third week of working from home (and what has already been a lifetime of social distancing,) I’ve also begun to realize how many things I miss. Things I can’t wait to do again once this whole coronavirus pandemic is over and a distant memory.

Usually, it’s the little things. Never the big ones. The small, seemingly-inconsequential stuff that I never used to give much thought to. Like getting my hair cut. My wife has banned me from that one (sorry Price’s Barber Shop!) My hair now looks like a cross between modern art and what happens to a marshmallow when you toss it in a fire. I think my follicles are actually some kind of imprisoned demon yearning to be free, and it takes all of my strength to contain it.

I try to slick it down, pressing and tucking and unspooling, but just when I think I have things under control and go about my business, I hear a loud snap like a pine tree cracking in half and elaborate curls spring out, making my head look like a K-9 agility course full of rings.

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The brave new world of … teleconferencing (Thanks, coronavirus)

So, I’m a teleconferencer now. That’s a thing. A thing I do. How I work. I don’t go in to work anymore, thanks to the coronavirus. Now that Flagler College, where I work, has gone to online classes, staff like me are “commuting” to our home offices where we’ve setup lots of screens, consume tremendous amounts of bandwidth and sit in front of video cameras in our pajamas where we say to other co-workers in pajamas, “So, when was the last time you saw an actual, in-the-flesh human?” or “Do you know how we could make money playing online poker?”

It’s kind of cool and kind of spooky. Kind of high-tech and kind of disorienting. Millions of Americans just like me are now commuting to work on Zoom, Skype, Teams or, for some of the less-technologically-advanced, telegram by Western Union stagecoach.

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Worried eyes and healing eyes as we all come to terms with coronavirus

The two women in the grocery store checkout line were buying pudding packs. Lots of them.

“We’ll eat these first,” said the younger of the two women reassuringly. The older woman seemed frail. From a pocket, she pulled a tissue and dabbed her nose. The other woman took out a bottle of hand sanitizer and squeezed it into her hands. She rubbed them together.

The woman slowly turned her head and looked up at me. The older woman.

I was standing there with a cart full of groceries. This was the weekend before things got really “interesting.” Before you couldn’t find chicken or toilet paper or stuff you never thought stores would run out of. Or at least, not when there wasn’t a tropical cyclone spinning off the Florida coast.

That weekend, things were only slightly off-kilter. Slightly hushed. Slightly concerned. The reality wasn’t setting in yet. People who went to the grocery store that early in the morning looked at each other in ways I haven’t fully come to terms with. They jumped when they heard someone cough. They walked the aisles solemnly. They paused near the cleaning supplies or the respiratory relief pills and stared. Did they need them? Were they overreacting?

Sometimes they just looked at each other, like they didn’t know what to say.

Like the older woman dabbing her nose.

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When the ‘angries’ come to roost

Don’t you round up my age, mama!

Boy, that makes me angry. And I was already a bit perturbed.

I had just canceled a trip to New York for a conference over concerns about the coronavirus.

I was reporting this to my mother, who thought it was for the best. For once in my life, I agreed with her … until she said something I wasn’t ready for: “You know, Brian, you’re 50 now, and they’re saying older people are at higher risk.”

Wait a minute … WHAT did you just say?!?

Fifty!

FIF-ty!

FIF-@%$&#-TY!!!

Hold on for just 47 seconds, because … I AM NOT 50. I am 47 years of age. Just turned 47. A whipper-snapper, when measured against the age of the galaxies. If you carbon date me – I dare you to try … I fight like a 17-year-old! – I wouldn’t even register. Well, maybe back to caveman days, but still pretty darn young.

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How will the face-touchers go on?

This just in from The New York Times: Want to stay healthy? Stop touching your face! Your FACE! Don’t touch it. That’s where problems start.

I’m not being cynical or sarcastic. I’m not poking fun. I’m not mocking health officials. It’s true. The article was a wake-up call and has me freaked out … because I’m not sure I can do it.

The headline read: “A hands-off approach to your face is prudent.” It was about the coronavirus and how experts recommend that one of the best ways to stave off infection and keep the virus from spreading is to do one simple thing: stop putting your fingers near the open parts of that orb on your neck.

Like your eyes. And your mouth. And your nose.

It actually makes total sense.

Our hands are constantly touching things, and picking up all manner of foreign particles and germs as we go. To make matters worse, we chronic face-touchers then give these germs easy access when we rub an eye or touch a lip. Seems so innocent and harmless, but it’s like an interstate on-ramp for a virus.

And I’m one of the worst.

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The future gets flushed down the drain

I don’t know how the topic came up at dinner the other night, but somehow I asked my 14-year-old daughter what the future looked like to her. Because she already has handheld phones that display video calls from friends. She can pay for things with a phone or play virtual reality games with it. All sorts of futuristic things that can turn her brain to mush are within her grasp. You know, cool stuff I dreamed about as a kid.

But if you have it all, what’s next? Where do we go from here?

She said she didn’t know. She had no idea, and that was the problem. It seemed like all the “futuristic” stuff had been invented already.

Besides, she never wanted to look back like other generations and say, “You know, I remember way back in the olden days when I used to hold a phone up in front of my face to see a friend I was talking to. It was like the stone ages!” She is living the future, and it’s pretty awesome. Why have it go out of style or become old-fashioned? Why have it become old, antiquated technology that we look back on as the toys of Neanderthals who didn’t know any better?

Interesting perspective from a child of the future …

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Feline impediments to a freshly-painted porch

Thirteen years. In 13 years, I figure I will have a freshly-painted porch. By that time, I also figure it will be a termite-eaten, water-rotted, sagging, splintering mess. Ready for replacement. But it will be done. Re-painted. A beautiful thing when hauled to the dump. It will take another 13 years to get to that point. That is what I figure.

It’s all thanks to the porch cat.

There is only one now. There had been two. Both were already up there in years when we adopted them from down the street. A duo. A pair that never went anywhere without the other one. Sunburst is the older male – a nick in his ear forever designating him as a former feral cat. He has only three teeth in his mouth and he’s completely deaf. Not likely to win any kitty pageants, but sweet as can be.

Teagrass was the ailing female who started losing weight dramatically and had just gone on thyroid pills. She must have been 16 years or older. One morning a month or so ago she came home, sat on the kitchen floor without eating and just kind of alerted the world to her presence. It was like she wanted to say hello … or maybe goodbye. Afterward, she wandered off and we never saw her again.

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