Starting every day with a glass of water Walking at least 10 minutes daily
Adding a vegetable to a meal Journaling daily for five minutes
Taking one meeting a day standing up Reading one chapter of a book daily
Long ago, I gave not one damn about making resolutions, but when I opened my work email and saw a suggested list where I’m already doing every single thing they suggest everyone to do, I felt weirdly proud of myself. Hey, it’s the start of year three of the pandemic, so every little celebration counts. At least I recognize that if any middle-aged person isn’t already doing the six suggestions above, then there’s far more pressing problems that some measly resolutions.
The only things that I resolve to do for this year are to continue doing what best serves me and to stop, or at least minimize the things that don’t. That mindset has served me very well over the years, which explains why those six suggestions aren’t new to me.
It would be tempting to say that my sudden willingness to work overtime is part of a New Year’s Resolution to make more money. Truth be told, I’m obliged to work at least four hours of overtime during the first two weeks of January since this is the time of year where all those new insurance policies are entered and activated.
Thank goodness, I’d already figured out how to increase the pleasantness of my work environment, including listening to podcasts, music, audiobooks and streaming standup comedians. All of that truly helped after the second 3-day weekend in a row, the interactive platform cut up as if it had partied too hard over the weekend. Nonetheless, one of the benefits of being an employee meant I still got paid for doing as much work as I could.
A few weeks ago, I’d wished that a full-time day was only 6.5 hours. Although I’d still love that, three days out of five, that extra hour felt like a breeze. Those other two days…seemed like no matter whether I stood up, the pain on my left side (of course it’s always the left side!), just wouldn’t calm down.
On those days, I reminded myself that I was an hour of overtime closer to financial freedom. If that didn’t work, I thought of a restaurant I’d ordered from on Friday. Food, the ol’ standby incentive.
The downside of working an extra hour meant that I had an hour less of creative time. Once again, I had to work on editing my podcast on the weekends. At least that doesn’t have a deadline.
I had been looking forward to another 3-day weekend in honor of MLK Day. Yet, we were notified that we’d receive holiday pay (double) plus OT (time and a half) pay if we worked. Now by my algebraic calculations, that would be 3.5 times my regular pay, but my supervisor stated it was 2.5. Either way, that would put me closer to financial freedom. Certainly that has to be a part of MLK’s dream.
I can’t say that I love or hate to cook. I love eating a variety of foods. I search for the most interesting dishes, depending on which ingredients I have on hand, what genre I’m in the mood for, and in general, however the stars have aligned.
Since Saturday was the start of the new year, I indulged in a touch of superstition by preparing an auspicious meal: Hopping John, Sautéed Spinach, and Cornbread. As far as I know, the greens and cornbread represent money because they’re green and gold. I think the meat in the Hopping John show prosperity since, traditionally, only people with money could afford meat. Beans are meant to bring good luck. Honestly, I think that good luck bit is just to make people feel better because although luck is dubious, flatulence is nearly guaranteed.
My temperament and schedule aren’t such that I’d cook all three in one go. As a matter of fact, since I also believe in leftovers, it suited me just fine to cook one of these recipes throughout the week, culminating in having all three by Saturday.
My grocery shopping day is Monday, unless there’s a holiday.
So Tuesday, I prepared Hopping John, a spicy bean dish, flavored with bacon, onions and chicken broth. The recipe also called for corn, but I was not in the mood for that. Plus, I bought spicy chicken bone broth for the occasion.
Usually when I make a bean and rice dish, I’m reminded of my Peace Corps days. Yet, I never had Hoppin’ John in Tanzania. I hardly ever eat pinto beans at any other time of year. Flavored with pepper bacon and spicy chicken bone broth, this seemingly simple dish was elevated. All the other ingredients add texture and subtle flavor. Since this was the most complex of all the dishes I made, it marinated wonderfully every day up to New Year’s Day.
For lunch on New Year’s Eve, I sautéed spinach in olive oil, fresh garlic and a little salt.
Once the spinach was bright green, I turned off the heat and sprinkled parmesan on it. This wasn’t the way I grew up eating spinach, but since I already had bacon in the beans, I didn’t want to double pork the overall meal I’d have for New Year’s Day.
On New Years Day, I baked corn bread.
I’ve been baking on Saturdays for nearly two years. I like baking a quiche, biscuits, muffins, breads, breakfast casseroles/ bundts, so I can warm them up during the week for breakfast. Once I read how much sugar and shit was in cereal and other processed breakfast foods, I started making my own on a weekly basis.
Just like the other two dishes, I tried a new recipe for the cornbread as well. For this culinary experience, I used a combination of coconut flour and corn meal. I took it upon myself to add a can of hot green chilis. I wish I would have taken the same initiative to add sharp cheddar to the mix. Nowadays, my palate associates cornbread with being moist, a little sweet, some spiciness and the cheese adds to the flavor. So, I’ll just have to make this recipe again in 2022 to test out my theory.
My family originally planned to have our Zoom call at 11 AM, then 3 PM.
None of that worked out, but the later time worked in my favor. I didn’t have to rush through my dinner. For the first time, I had all three cooking efforts together. They tasted delicious together regardless of whether the meal brings me luck.
I can’t say that the Christmas spirit had me in its hold, but since I only wear these leggings in December, I’d worn them around the apartment.
For the last dance rehearsal of 2021, I brought the festive look.
Since “free” is my price, I attended a Christmas/smooth jazz concert the following evening.
Although this clarinetist/saxophonist played wonderfully, what I loved the most was how she managed both the band and tech crew and never missed a beat. LITERALLY.
She was on point, coming in at the right time when her mic died.
Signaling to the band when there was a change in music she wanted. Issuing commands to the tech crew when the spotlight wasn’t in the right spot, when the mic didn’t work, or when the sound was off.
All the while, she entertained both the live and virtual audiences.
One thing I hadn’t expected were the libations.
That punch tasted more like an action verb than a noun. Instead of the usual hors d’oeuvres, the event served actual dinner. I’d met a friend for happy hour at a restaurant before meeting another friend for this event. So, I only took a few sips of punch, but on my way out, I asked for some mac and cheese to go. The museum curator, gave me three pieces of fried chicken along with a grandma’s serving of mac and cheese. Not that I complained.
Saturday morning, I attended a holiday brunch thrown by the leasing office.
The type of event my roommate likes to call “free with rent.” So, of course I went to eat and drink a bit of the money I pay for the honor of living in the complex. Since the day turned out chilly, as it should, given it was mid-December, I wore my Santa/Rudolf winter pajama pants.
I wasn’t expecting much. They advertised “mimosas and waffles,” which turned out to be an excellent menu. I made my own mimosa, but they had a woman, who I’d never seen before, operating the waffle iron. She knew exactly what she was doing. Those waffles were crispy on the outside and pleasingly fluffy on the inside. I brought one home to pair with that nicely fried chicken breast I’d brought home from the jazz concert. Hmm, chicken and waffles on a Sunday afternoon. Heaven!
How often are leftovers from two different meals just come together to form one of my favorite meals? I love edible synchronicity.
My Christmas Eve baking consisted of a Breakfast Bundt. Although this was my the first time making it, there’s no way that buttery flaky biscuit dough, pepper bacon, cheddar cheese, cream cheese, red onions and eggs could go wrong!
Looked even better flipped onto a plate.
On Christmas morning, I made a Lemon Jello Cake.
Last month, while interviewing Cousin Universe for Strange Family Folklore podcast, we reminisced about our grandmother’s cakes. So, I made this cake to remember Mama Bea.
After all these years, I never knew how easy Lemon Jello Cake was to make, essentially mixing the cake batter in one bowl and the two-ingredient icing in a measuring cup.
Granted, I used to make more involved desserts such as cheesecakes.
The one thing the instructions called for that I don’t remember Mama Bea doing was poking holes into the cake as soon as it’s out of the oven.
With the juice and zest from two lemons, together with two cups of powdered sugar, the icing was complete.
Either I didn’t make enough glaze or the holes were too deep because those holes remained mostly unfilled after glazing.
No matter, it still tasted delicious. Next time, I’m skipping the hole-poking step.
Even though I started my day around 7:30 AM, I still ran a little late for the family Christmas Zoom call.
I was still eating breakfast when the call was scheduled to begin at 10 AM. One of my sisters had originally sent the meeting ID without the passcode. So, that bought me some time to eat. I still had my camera off when I finally joined the meeting. Instead of Mom complaining about that, the sister who thinks she’s my mom complained.
I made up for lost camera time when I grabbed the one Christmas box I’d received. (My Christmas box from my other sister will probably arrive in January. It’ll be my Three Kings Day gifts.) My sister taped that as if it were full of Ft. Knox gold. Once I finally opened it, the first thing I pulled out was a gift card, which I announced I’d put it away like Mama Bea would by tucking it in my bra.
Then, I pulled out a book. Even you’re not supposed to judge a book by its cover, I could tell the genre was Afrofuturistic. The niece who’d placed it in the box said that she remembered me saying I liked that genre. She’d read it for a college class.
Next, I pulled out the curveball gift. For some inexplicable reason, my nieces and nephew love shower products that essentially prolong or complicate showering. There were two powdery things that one’s supposed to put near the shower that will infuse the steam with scent. Then there was a bar of soap, which I may save my legs with to test it out. So far, all any of that did was powder the inside of the box, causing me to wipe down the table and everything inside the box.
Then, I pulled out one of my long-time stocking stuffer favorites: wool socks. Fortunately they weren’t covered in that shower product dust.
Finally, my sister’s and brother-in-law’s favorite Christmas gift–peanut brittle. But not just any peanut brittle. They’re very brand loyal. I’ll admit it. It is the best I’ve ever had as well. I just never buy it for myself. Even the Austin-based gift boxes I’d bought them had local peanut brittle. They said it was good, but not as good as their favorite Christmas peanut brittle.
I thought taking the group picture after we’d opened our gift boxes would bring a sense of closure and we’d end the call. Yet, Mom and my sister who thinks she’s my mom both found around a half hour more of things to talk about.
After all was said and done, all I really wanted to do for the rest of the day was chill out.
Half the reason I attended this event was to dress up for it.
Given the lack of motivation I had to put a costume together for Halloween, I redoubled my costume effort for this holiday party. At least I had a theme, a place to go, and I already knew enough people to feel comfortable if I didn’t really want to be sociable.
I didn’t have to worry about that, though.
The crowd was small enough not to overwhelm, but big enough to be interesting. Since we were all creatives at varying points in our career, there was no shortage of wonderful conversations. I circulated around the room, even striking up a conversation with two other women after I asked them to pose with me because I liked their attire.
One Christmas miracle: I won a raffle prize!
I’d laughed at myself while writing my name on the slip of paper. After all, I infamously didn’t win one of the 14 raffle prizes when there were 15 of us at a workshop years ago. The joke was on me at this event. As soon as they handed me the prize, I started thinking of which costume my golden purse would accompany.
I knew ‘Rona had destroyed a little part of my soul when I wasn’t in the mood to dress up for Halloween, my favorite holiday as an adult. Granted, I had no place where I wanted to celebrate Halloween, but that never stopped me every other year. Last year, I dressed up twice for Halloween celebrations and never left my apartment. This year, I couldn’t even think of a single thing to dress up as. Unofficially, I went as “Apathy.”
I’d cancelled Thanksgiving plans since I didn’t know my COVID status until Saturday morning following the holiday, but I still had a relaxing, joyful time with a coconut vegetable curry dinner, then a gathering with a dear friend and her extended family after I found that I was COVID-negative.
Even so, Christmas wasn’t on my radar until Mom sent me a family group picture somewhere around DC, posed in front of giant Christmas tree. That picture zapped me out of my Rip Van Winkle time warp. Yes, the holidays still continue even if I’m not in the mood for them.
For years, Thanksgiving signaled the start of hand-making Christmas cards. That time came and went. I barely threw together a Christmas kickoff for myself on December 1st when I sipped eggnog and watched “Jingle Jangle.”
A few days later, I made four Christmas cards and ordered Austin-themed gift baskets for my family. I thoughtfully researched the contents of the basket, so that everything in them would be appreciated by someone in the household. For example, there were a few baskets that had coffee, but my parents don’t drink it, so their basket doesn’t have any. On the other hand, my two nieces and occasionally their mother drink coffee, so theirs could have it.
Yet, for some time now, my life has been one of mere homeostasis with punctuations of some different shit that, by default become the highlights of the week. It’s survival mode, straight through the holidays. Funny how so entrenched in the sameness of my schedule that Christmas caught me off guard. At least I caught it in time to be a part of it.
For the first time in my life, I only had one day off for Thanksgiving. Not really too much of a problem since my present job is super chill and there’s no such thing as a destination vacation for me during a pandemic. Even if I had the time, I don’t have the money.
My original Thanksgiving plans fell through a few days before I’d bought groceries. Although I could have had backup dinner plans, I liked the idea of selfishly spending the entire day just leisurely on my own schedule. Except for the part where I took a virtual yoga class.
At any rate, the sign of the times caught up with me. A few people, who had attended an in-person maskless event where I’d enjoyed myself immensely, had tested positive for COVID-19. So, in a way, things worked out for my selfish celebration. The soonest I could schedule a rapid test was Saturday morning. Honestly, you don’t have to tell me twice to enjoy a day off, work another day, then get two more days off.
After my midday workout, I made my Thanksgiving Day meal: Vegetable Coconut Curry with Tri-Colored Quinoa.
Although I worked on Friday, AKA the notorious “Black Friday,” my coworkers and I joked about being safely at work rather than caught up in all the madness.
As soon as I sent word mid-Saturday morning that I’d tested negative for COVID, I got an invitation for brunch. Fortunately, my schedule was clear.
Once again, no traditional turkey dinner with all the trimmings. Not that I complained. Very far from it. After a selection of cheeses, dips, and chips, I enjoyed a deliciously grilled steak with steamed French fries. Of course, I brought some steak home!
For dessert, there were a selection of digestifs.
I insisted on just getting a “taste” of all of them because I still had to drive home afterwards. My favorite treat was the almond-flavored tequila. Some are too harsh for my palate, but not this one.
My friend gave me a boot-shaped shot glass and kept filling it as if it were a firefighter’s fundraiser.
Fortunately, her son was in town and not driving, so I passed the boot to him to polish off, then I tried the next selection.
At the end of the evening, I didn’t recall that I hadn’t enjoy a four-day weekend. No, I wasn’t drunk. After all these years, I’ve had stressful jobs I’ve loved. Stressful jobs I’ve hated. Unstressful jobs I’ve hated. And finally, I’ve got an unstressful job I like. Not love. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. It’s challenging to match the joy of the best days of teaching to what I’m doing now. It’s close though. This among the things I’m grateful for.
One of the first friends I made when I moved to Austin in 2009, started a standing annual date with me to do the East Austin Studio Tour. The only thing that interrupted our touring was the pandemic in 2020, but fortunately we resumed our date this year.
Along our way, we witnessed contemporary history integrated along the art tour.
In the backyard of a historic house that had been converted into an art studio, visitors were invited to paint on a long rectangular canvas, anchored on a fence.
By the time we arrived, only spaces that fit in the palm of my hand were available. A thin brush and magenta and deep blue paint called to me. One thing that has never failed me: a swirling spiral, which never quite manifests as I originally intend. Even so, that motion brings me joy. Given time, the motion usually creates something that I like to call “The Eye of God,” which stares back at me. If one views either the magenta or the blue, one can see the separate eyes. Once I completed the pair of eyes, only then did I notice the bold red streak that it sits upon.
While strolling from one studio to another, we came across a bit of nostalgia.
I asked my friend to check it out. It was purely decorative. Considering how much most of us are on our phones, some to the point of addiction, this was a throwback to a time when we weren’t so available. A phone was merely a means of communication. It’s interesting to note that now we have so many different means of communication, one would incorrectly assume that no one would ever be out of touch or lonely. It’s far too much.
The best part about touring is hanging out with a longtime friend out in the fresh air, being inspired by other people’s creativity.
Time was, we creative women with stylish glasses would reconvene on a monthly basis to share project ideas and give constructive feedback.
Now the mere act of getting together in a public space is the featured activity.
One of the best features of being sequestered for our own good is how much we value getting together once we venture out. And might I add, “venting out.”
I unleashed months of tension that once I got out of my system, I immediately felt a bounce in my mental health. I imagine it like a video game where my character scores some valuable thing and there’s a wonderful increase in health.
None of us had brought any work to share, but we all floated away afterwards with optimistic feelings of how we’re going to tackle our projects. Hopefully, we’ll get to gather our creative minds together on a more regular basis to get back into the groove.
The physical appearance of this on-going pandemic has manifested all over my body: 147 lbs, 35″ bust, 35″ waist, 41.5″ hips, and 23.25″ thigh. Never in life have I ever summarized myself in such numeric terms besides age, but I recently joined a “life improvement” challenge. Granted, the point is both physical and mental improvement. I especially want to lose the pandemic pounds along with the reoccurring negative thoughts.
Yet, the physical measurements are both easier to ascertain while at the same time harsh to read in black and white. I’m well aware that numbers don’t lie, but people can lie with numbers. The lie I may be telling myself about these set of numbers is that they’re the conclusion of an on-going pandemic, middle age hood, and a full time desk job.
I’ve done everything I can to counteract all except the aging part. I’m not obsessed with reversing the aging process–just living through it healthily and pain-free. As far as the pandemic, I’m double vaxxed and considering the booster. As far as the J-O-B, I got a standing desk, which I started off using just for the last 90 minutes of the work day, then the last two hours, and finally close to four hours.
I’m doing all I can to mitigate the curveball changes in the course of pursuing happiness. But those numbers. Once I got those measurements, I felt less attractive. I envisioned the top half of my body as a cylinder and the bottom half as a sphere. Contained within, a restless blob.
As disjointed as that image is, I’m working to reconcile body positivity with getting back into shape and embracing a more positive headspace. Part of the challenge is taking a daily supplement. The upside is that it gives me more energy, better sleep and suppresses the hunger pains, which means the munchies have disappeared. Eventually, the weight will too. The downside, I’ve got one more thing that’s become a part of my morning routine.
