COVID-19

Monday miscellany: Gig-worker taxes edition.

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Instacart, Uber, Amazon Flex, DoorDash – these and other gig-worker jobs were a nice side hustle for many people. Since the pandemic began, they’ve helped some laid-off workers keep the wolf from the door. When you spend all your time putting out that day’s fires, you might not have stopped to think how gig-worker income … Read more

Found money in 2020.

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This was not a good year for found money. In the last 12 months or so I picked up just $5.88.

Frankly I’m surprised I found more than a buck all year, given that I (and everyone else) stayed home a lot during the pandemic.

In addition, my gut feeling is that COVID-caused unemployment/fear of unemployment might also have made people clutch their coins a little tighter. It might even have made some folks  stoop to pick up that dime they dropped at the cash register.

Or the dime that someone else dropped. Maybe more money was out there all year, but other people found it before I could.

That’s fine with me. I don’t technically need this found money, being one of the lucky ones whose job did not fade away in part or in full in 2020. The reason I pick up cast-off coins all year long is that I donate them.

As always, I’ll round up the donation. This year it’s going up to $30, which is what I sent to the Food Bank of Alaska yesterday after a Facebook friend asked everyone to donate to FBA if they could. Doing this reminded me that I hadn’t counted my found money yet this year.

Now I have. Here’s the total:

 

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Monday miscellany: Return of the dragonfly.

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Last week’s Alaska jewelry giveaway had a bunch of commenters kvelling about the dragonfly pendant. (See illustration at left.)

Can’t blame them; I love the piece myself. It looks as though Alaska’s official state insect is about to take wing. That suggestion of motion stimulates my senses, especially during such a sluggish time (thanks, pandemic!) and sluggish season (hint: I’m not a skier).

The good news: Those who expressed admiration for the piece still have a shot at getting it, because the winner chose a different pendant. (Jeanne: The necklace and earrings should go into the mail today or tomorrow.)

What else is available? So glad you asked. 

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COVID fashion: Puttin’ on your grubs.

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When I got home from a dental appointment recently, I told DF that I couldn’t wait to put my grubs back on. They’re what I also call my freelancer’s three-piece suit: sweatpants, T-shirt and bathrobe. In other words, I was COVID fashion before COVID fashion was cool.

Sure, some people still dress up to work at home. (Although some dress up only from the waist up: Business upstairs, sweatpants party below.) My guess is that a lot fewer have been doing this as the pandemic stretched on and on.

And speaking of stretch: COVID has also given us “the quarantine 15,” as people exercised less and ate their feelings more. Stretchy waistbands are a crucial part of COVID fashion.

I’ve been seeing a lot of “athleisure,” “leisure wear” and “comfortable WFH clothes” ads. Again, I’ve been dressing like this since I went freelance full-time, way back in 2002. My grubs are not just comfortable, they’re frugal: no more spending money on shirts with buttons, pants with zippers or, heaven forfend, pantyhose.

Instead, I wear my grubs. Damn right they’re comfy.

Within half an hour of my arrival that day, DF handed me a few verses of a song parody: “Puttin’ on your grubs,” to the tune of “Puttin’ on the Ritz.”

Can’t help lovin’ that man.

I tinkered the verses a bit, making this our first satirical collaboration.

Before I share the words, I will share a bit of backstory. Like “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” the song “Puttin’ on the Ritz” has an introductory verse that uses a different tune than the following verses. Listen to the following video clip as Fred Astaire sings that first verse: 

 

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Frugal stimulus spending.

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My fiscal stimulus* check got deposited a day earlier than the projected Jan. 4 date. Thus far I have used some of the money to:

Award $25 each to my great-nephew and great-niece, asking them to go forth and support the local economy.

Donate $25 to a GoFundMe for a Fairbanks woman in a tough situation.

Give $50 to the Food Bank of Alaska.

Buy $300 worth of gift cards at a small local restaurant. The young cashier was startled when I asked. “How much?” she said, and when I confirmed the figure she ran to get her boss. The supervisor thanked me several times and when I told him I’d done the same thing with the previous stimulus he said, “You’re helping us keep the lights on.”

Not sure where the rest of the money will go. But it will definitely go, i.e., it will definitely be spent. This is despite the advice I keep hearing to “invest it” or “save it.” Back in 2008 I resisted spending the fiscal stimulus, because I was anxious to rebuild savings depleted during my protracted divorce.

But that’s not what this money is intended to do. The idea is to give struggling businesses (local or national) a bit of a goose.

To be clear: I understand why some people would much rather build their own savings, or give the landlord a bit against the back rent, or pay down their credit card debt. I was there myself. But now I want to play some small part in helping others.

Some of you probably want the same. And I’d like to point out that it doesn’t all have to be bonbons and pretty shoes. You could also opt for frugal stimulus spending. That is, spending with an eye toward getting not just the most bang for your buck but also the most value from the result.

 

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Christmas in the time of COVID.

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I wasn’t really feeling Christmas this year due to my dad’s death. But I found some workarounds.

A couple of weeks beforehand I tried to jump-start old memories by visiting the city’s largest nursery and walking among the Christmas trees that were all lined up and waiting for new homes.

That evergreen smell usually does it for me, and I did start feeling a bit Kris Kringle-y. This time, however, the fragrance of the season was at war with the fact that for decades my dad raised Christmas trees as a side hustle.

That made me feel a bit weepy, but I fought to counter this with good memories of those trees: helping plant them for a couple of years as a teenager, and doing tree-related chores with him during visits as an adult.

That helped, which is something I should remember when I feel like raging against the COVID that took him away. One of the platitudes people like to bring up when you’re grieving is, “Think of all the good times you had together!” Turns out that this is true and in fact entirely rational, but it doesn’t always help when you’re in the thick of dammit-this-isn’t-FAIR.

This time, it did, and I am grateful.

Bonus: My teen-aged great-niece* accompanied me. We enjoyed looking at the trees, inhaling the fragrance, and clutching imaginary pearls when we looked at price tags. Live trees** are a mania with some Alaskans and they’re willing to pay big bucks for evergreens that have been transported up from the Lower 48.

We also got a great kick out of the nursery’s gift shop, rife as it was with displays of fancy textiles, soaps, lotions, glassware, chocolates and Department 56 holiday village collectibles. The trip was a balm for our gray-winter-day eyes. That close to solstice, we would take any color we could get.

We also noticed that Department 56 now makes Halloween village collectibles, including a subset of Harry Potter stuff. I suppose it was only a matter of time. 

 

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Monday miscellany: Disastrous beginner mistake edition.

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The delightful but definitely NSFW (in a good way!) personal finance blog Bitches Get Riches has tackled a topic that needs a perennial takedown: what to do with retirement funds. “PLEASE tell me you’re not making this disastrous beginner mistake with your retirement funds” is an essential read if you’re just starting out, but also … Read more

Our daily bread.

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Bread-baking became a U.S. preoccupation during the pandemic. In some regions you couldn’t buy flour or yeast, not even for ready money*.

That wasn’t an issue for us, as we’d stocked up on both at Costco before the lockdown began. In fact, DF had been buying flour by the 50-pound bag for some time now. After all, he’d spent some of his formative years living in the Alaska Bush, with groceries delivered once a year. Having 50 pounds of ground grain just made sense.

In early summer we finally got around to trying a recipe I’d been meaning to check out for years: no-knead rustic bread. After we took our first bites, we understood exactly what the Internet has been bleating about since back in the oughties.

Damn, is it good. And damn, is it simple: four** ingredients, a bit of stirring, an overnight nap, a quick shaping and into a superheated oven.

The result is the best bread I’ve ever had. And we’ve become happily addicted to the stuff. “Daily bread” isn’t that far off: DF has been known to bake six times a week, depending on whether his grandkids have visited. Those two girls can eat more than a quarter of a loaf between them, with a slight gloss of butter (the preschooler) or with olive oil, salt and pepper (the sophisticated 8-year-old).

They stop eating only because we stop offering it. Yep, it’s really that good. 

 

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My first virtual funeral.

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It happened one week after my first Zoom farewell. Dad’s funeral took place today at 10 a.m. Eastern (6 a.m. Alaska time), with a family viewing starting at 9 a.m. My sister-in-law called me via FaceTime so that my niece and I could attend.

In fact, she called at 5:45 a.m. so that we could attend the viewing as well. Obviously itwas painful and jarring to see Dad in his coffin. Yet it was actually an improvement over the last time I’d seen him, unconscious and on a ventilator. He looked the way I expected him to look: recognizable as my father, yet not much like him. There, but not there.

My niece and I were also there, but not there, thanks be to technology. I’m not being sarcastic. It was hard, of course, and we cried, but we also got to be part of this ritual from afar. Funerals aren’t actually for the dead. They’re for the living. The dead don’t much care what you do to them. The grieving survivors, however, need some kind of ceremony to come to terms with the reality in front of them.

It was of course surreal to hear the eulogy from 4,300-plus miles away. And it was heart-wrenching to see family photos displayed: Dad as a kid with his siblings, as a teenager with his brand-new ham radio set, as a high-school senior at the prom with my mother (both of them looking sophisticated yet impossibly young, like children playing dress-up), as a father of young kids (us) and then as a father of adult kids.

Dad with dance friends. Dad standing out in front of his Christmas-tree farm. Dad at his wedding to Priscilla.

And nearby, Dad in his final repose. Watching Priscilla kiss him goodbye and gently tuck a light blanket around him brought me to my knees: I will never see my Dad again in this life.

 

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Goodbye, too soon.

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How quickly one’s world can change. Last Wednesday my father had a fairly comfortable night’s sleep at Cooper University Hospital. But early Thursday morning I got the call no one wants to receive.

I am heartbroken to report that Dad died at 5:09 p.m. Eastern on Thursday, Nov. 5, after nine days of hospitalization with COVID.

As I write this it has been fewer than 48 hours since he left us. It seems like centuries.

That call was from my sister, telling me that organ failure had set in and Dad would soon be removed from the ventilator, per his stated request. Before that, the hospital was willing to arrange a “Zoom farewell,” a particularly modern invention. Because of the COVID protocol, no one could visit. But we could dial in on our phones, laptops or tablets.

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