Author: mathdreads

Uzbek Dinner

For my second time participating with this ethnic dining Meetup, I had the opportunity to try a Uzbek food that was touted as being the ultimate fusion between Chinese and Middle Eastern.

Most of the dishes on the buffet I’ve made some version of at home. Yet, I’d never made all of them at once since cooking for one doesn’t require such a spread.

The Meetup organizer had actually arranged to have the buffet with the restaurant, so I’m happy that so many of us, close to 40, actually showed up. I think it may have been the biggest turn out he’s had since he started this group. A huge contrast to the handful of us who came out for the Korean dinner.

I’d been initially concerned whether or not this event would be cancelled because so many people had bailed within 24 hours. As a matter of fact, for a few days leading up to the event, there was a lot of back and forth between the organizer and members.

Being a Meetup organizer myself, I knew the two Meetup rules of thumb: 1) the people who ask the most questions won’t show up; and 2) only half of the people who sign up will show up.

I sat at the all women’s table, which turned out the be the rowdiest table. I’m never quite sure if that’s my effect on things or what naturally happens when a group of motivated women get together in general.

I loved that a few of us brought a bottle of wine since the organizer had warned us that the place didn’t serve alcohol. I sampled everything on the table. I, of course, was the only one who’d brought a silver chalice–mostly because it’s a conversation starter. I’d taken a mostly full bottle of chardonnay that I’d used for one of the latest recipes I’d made, which had called for a cup of dry white wine.

The woman beside me had brought a bottle of Hungarian wine to share except she kept comparing its smell to gym socks or a wet dog, but declared that it tasted better than that. I laughed and told her that that was a great way of not having to share a bottle of wine.

I got a good feel for the table prior to passing out my business cards for The Austin Writers Roulette. I’m always in recruiter/advertising mode when I attend any event. I encouraged them to come as an audience member or a participant since everyone has a story to tell.

I especially wanted to know more about one woman of color who had an interesting family tree that included both Indian and Black and was raised in Wisconsin. She’d recently attempted to join a Meetup group for Black people and had been rejected. She concluded that she didn’t appear Black enough. I scoffed, “Wow, if they rejected you, then I know I shouldn’t apply since I’m even lighter!”

Are we Black people bringing back the brown paper bag test? I know in the past that lighter skin Black people would discriminate against other Blacks who were darker than a brown paper bag. Has the pendulum now swung in the other direction? Can’t we just be free of such hatred?

Despite the fact that I made it home in time to watch the Oscars, I figured I’d hear about it enough in the coming weeks. I’d already done the most thrilling and meaningful things: meeting new people and trying a new genre of food.

Diurnal Ear

Nearly ten years ago when I moved to the Music Capital of the World, I thought I was allergic to beestings and had no problem with pollen. I’ve learned some things since then.

There’s this seasonal Welcome to Austin condition known as Cedar Fever that makes newbies feel as if they’ve come down with the flu. As trial and error would have it, cough drops relieved my itchy throat and sneezing, a neti pot cleared my sinuses and Bikram yoga kept most seasonal allergy symptoms in check–with a host of other wonderful benefits.

Yet, keeping the flora and fauna that resides within the human body in balance is as challenging as maintaining world peace. You never know when something’s brewing until your intel briefs you. In my case, it was ear wax.

I hadn’t experienced a good ear wax flood in years. When I say “flood,” I don’t mean that anything was leaking out, but as I slept the wax buildup plugged my ears, making me feel as if I was underwater. Combined with my heartbeat, I felt as if I could hear waves underwater.

A few days later, I smelled the stench in the water flowing through the pipes in my apartment. The next day, I learned the stench was caused by decomposing zebra mussels that had invaded the water supply. Yet I didn’t realize that those dead zebra mussels had thrown off my ear wax.

I did my usual hydrogen peroxide in the ear to break up the wax. That solution worked for a few days.

Then, women at yoga suggested I use garlic oil drops. One even suggested using my neti pot, which I didn’t think of because I focused on ear wax rather than inner ear pressure. The neti pot helped relieve the pressure from the other side, but only temporarily.

As I battled with keeping my right ear open, the water treatment facility used charcoal to remedy the dead zebra mussels stank. Periodically, my right ear would just pop open on its own, only to re-close just as inexplicably.

Then, it would pop open in the morning and only close as I slept. At that point, I stopped messing with it. After all, I didn’t really need to hear while I slept. No harm, no foul.

Finally, the problem cleared up altogether. That’s when I noticed that the water hadn’t stunk in a few days. Eureka! Those damn zebra mussels had had one last hurrah in death.

I’m not allergic to shellfish (yet!) , but I’m a firm believer of drinking tap water since it’s potable. However, the small fluctuation in water quality was enough to cause an immune response as my body knew it didn’t need the essence of zebra mussels.

In the meantime, I’m going to keep doing the things that promote body peace: daily exercise, fresh food, 8 hours of sleep and a glass of red wine!

Decomposing Zebra Mussels

I first noticed the smell in the bathroom. Having just flushed minutes ago, I lifted the lid. Nope, nothing there but a damn near sparkling clean toilet bowl.

Then I refilled my drinking glass with tap water and smelled it again. I brought the glass to my nose and there it was. I dumped out the water, got a new glass and this time filled it with bottled water from the refrigerator, which I had from the last time we couldn’t drink the water since flooding had overwhelmed the city’s water facility.

Even then, I started boiling water and storing it into other containers, but I had to start off with bottled water as a quick-fix until I had my stash of potable water saved up.

Since I had been a Peace Corps Volunteer and had lived and traveled around developing countries, I had a love/hate relationship with bottled water. If I lived in a place where I couldn’t drink the tap water, then I either used a filter, or filtered and boiled the water, or bought the largest container of bottled water I could.

I’d never smelled such a stench emanating from water before; so I immediately put the blame on the construction site adjacent to my apartment complex. Seems as if they’d been working on it for many years, but in truth, it may be closer to two.

The next time I watched the news, the mystery had been solved: zebra mussels had infiltrated the water supply for central Austin and were decomposing. Although the news anchor stated that the officials declared the water safe to drink despite the smell, there wasn’t any clip of an official turning on a faucet and taking a sip of it. Hence, I continued drinking bottled water if I wasn’t going to boil it first.

Fortunately, whatever efforts were made to remove the stench successfully reached my water supply first. Local TV anchors were still talking about the stinky water days after mine had returned to its usual odorless state.

Some may wonder why the fluctuations in water quality don’t cause me to stop drinking tap water altogether. Here’s why I continue to do so: within limits, I want my body to deal with whatever is in this environment, so I’m not always sick in the long run.

Remember the end of Battle of the Wits scene in the Princess Bride where Westley admitted to building up an immunity to poison, which he’d put in both glasses? Within limits, it’s best to build up an immunity to whatever poisons there are around here. Otherwise, my body’s going to react violently every time there’s a shift in the wind.

Why Do Men Always Fuck It Up?

So, if I’m a straight, single woman who has her own money, doesn’t want children, but wants male companionship, why do men always fuck that up? I’ve already gotten over the fact that most men don’t read as much as I do or juggle as many interesting activities, but ever since I started dating when I was a teenager, most guys have either bored me after a date or two or tried to turn me into their housenigger–you know, that woman you cajole into doing all the drudgery you don’t want to do yourself despite the fact you’re a grown ass man and perfectly capable of doing so? And no, I’m not angry. Just realistic. If I minimize the amount of time I do that shit for myself, I sure in the hell don’t want to waste time doing it for another person. Honestly, if I don’t need a man’s money, not even on a date, then what reasonable expectation does he have that I’ll take care of the menial tasks in his life? None, as far as I’m concerned. Tina Turner was right: What’s love got to do with it? Honestly, I’ve never once thought, “Oh my God, I’m spending way too much time reading books. I wish I had more housework and errands to do!”

Here’s another thing: I firmly believe in not comingling funds. If it’s my birthday, then you can buy me dinner or a drink, but even then, it’s not an obligation because I don’t go out unless I have the money to do so. I also expect the same in a guy, along with him taking care of his other basic responsibilities of being an adult.

In addition to not comingling funds, I’m against comingling body fluids with the notable exception of salvia.  Human salvia. If you’re the guy who lets your pets lick all over your face, forget it. Every woman has her standards.

Since I’ve never wanted children, why should seminal fluid or sperm ever enter my body? It just becomes another thing to clean up and we women already do enough of cleaning up. So don’t be that guy who goes on a date or comes over to hang out without condoms. You’re already not spending money on me cause I don’t need it, so you should have enough for condoms. If you’re that fucking cheap, you aren’t worth fucking. And I know what you guys are thinking, “It’s not the cost, I just don’t like wearing them because it dulls the sensation.” But, you know what’s really dull? Not fucking because you didn’t bring any condoms!   Honestly, it’s less mess and hassle to self-pleasure.

Thanks to Meetup, I don’t have to look for an interesting male companion any more. I join the groups that do interesting things. That’s half the battle. Humans are sociable animals and I can socialize with people who have common interests.

Yet, I still wanted to discover why men fuck up companionship with a woman who doesn’t want his money, baby or wedding ring. I know that any combination of those three things can be wonderful for some, but what I see are three traditional ways to control women.

So, I invited some friends to bar where we discussed these issues with three bartenders. (Yes, I focus grouped this one.)

Before bringing the bartenders into the conversation, we first discussed what we wanted out of men since we were all independent women. Not surprising, at the top of the list, none of us wanted a possessive man. After all, what part of “independent woman” would actually be appealing to a possessive guy? 

We want a man to be part of our life, but not to assert himself as if he’s our ENTIRElife. It’s the difference between being needed and wanted. A needed man is a part of a woman’s survival strategy; a wanted man shares in her happiness. If she’s already surviving pretty well before she meets you, then she wants you as a companion, not some knight in shining armor, or meal ticket or sugar daddy. 

Since companionship can take a lot of forms, the next important thing is for a guy to be upfront about his needs. Even the bartenders confirmed this much. Both the guys were Virgos, but whereas one was the most dreamy-eyed romantic monogamist, the other was polyamorous and they communicated clear expectations. The third bartender, a woman who was also the only single parent among them, considered communication and a non-possessive man to be at the top of her list because it’s just exhausting otherwise. 

We women think seriously about having both the time and energy for a boyfriend. And wouldn’t it be wonderful if sex was never a chore? Which is why I strongly advocate for separate residences. Because when we plan to spend time together, I’ve scheduled the time and energy and naps for that. And then he leaves. That’s just the proper punctuation at the end of a well-written sentence. We can spend some quality time together and some quality time apart.  

Nothing makes the heart grow fonder than not being around you 24-7! Have you ever heard people who don’t live together complaining about needing their own space?

And this should go without saying, but with the rise of digital and surgical enhancements, I’ll say it anyway: to love me is to love my body the way it is. If you’re turned off by my looks, I’m going to be turned off by hearing you complain about it. And I expect the same. There are male friends who I don’t find physically attractive, so I don’t go into that zone. If you feel the need to make major edits to someone’s physique, then don’t pursue that person. 

We also agreed that we wanted a man who was spiritually and emotionally balanced. The guy who’s moral, has integrity and goals in life, but not such a fanatic that he zapped all the joy out of living and emotional vampires need not apply. 

Now, I realize some of you are thinking that I’m too picky or unrealistic or stubborn, but you know what I am? Patient. I believe one day in the not so distant future Mr. Perfect will stroll into my life because he’ll be a made to order boyfriend cyborg. And Jeff Bezos will make that a seamless transaction and delivery!

White (Fragility) America

I love serendipity! I’d just picked up Robin DiAngelo’s book White Fragility from the library and out of nowhere, I got behind this truck for a couple of miles en route to yoga.

It’s always shocking to see a display of conservative Americana in Austin although I know this city is a liberal island within a vast conservative ocean. Just reading his bumper stickers, I hypothesized that he considered himself a patriotic American, a gun rights advocate, a Trump-supporting Republican, and that he’d served in the Armed Forces. I figured he was a White guy since that demographic roars the loudest about guns, patriotism and Trump.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have the opportunity to speak with this guy–and I confirmed he was White because at one point, I changed lanes in order to make a right turn from the leftmost lane as my usual route to yoga. If I had been able to speak with him, I’m not exactly sure how that conversation would have started in order to be productive.

Generally speaking, a conversation goes better to start out with something positive such as asking him if he’d served in the military and then thanking him for his service to our country. Then I would have disclosed that I grew up as a military brat since my father had served in the Air Force.

The next part would be tricky. How to ask about Trump without getting into an argument? Given the fact that our paths had crossed in the middle of the longest U.S. government shutdown, thanks to Trump’s desire to have the American people pay for a wall that he repeatedly said Mexico would pay for, I really wanted to know he’s opinion on that.

Of course, I’ll never know. There are White people who’ve stopped talking to their own relatives because of a protracted argument over Trump. Trump supporters want to believe that he’s their champion. Realistically, I wouldn’t have won him over that there’s a better way to strengthen our country. After all, I’m not the same demographic.

Chips na Mayai

I cannot believe that it’s taken me this long to come up with this crowd-pleasing dish. The “crowd” being only myself at this point.

I’d first had chips na mayai (fries and eggs) in Tanzania as a Peace Corps Volunteer. In that case, the thick-cut potatoes were fried in a deep skillet of grease and when they were just about done, whipped eggs were poured on top, then one topped it off with a condiment or two. Nothing too fancy or elaborate.

Many years later, I got into the habit of buying frozen precut fries, baking them in the oven and either putting them on top of a salad or, covering them with some “loaded” toppings.

Then, out of nowhere, I got the bright idea to line a pie tin with parchment paper, bake the fries until they were golden brown, top with chopped spinach, parsley, tomatoes, cheddar cheese and red onions, then pour an egg batter on top of that, return it to the oven and bake until the egg was cooked. Once I took the dish out of the oven, I easily slid it onto a plate, and topped it with my favorite hot sauce, followed by avocado slices.

Talk about a culinary delight delight! I love how I took the same ingredients, changed the cooking method, and achieved a much better dish. Reminds me of the dark times when I didn’t know how to cook in my 20s when I’d buy fresh food and “cook” it, resulting in edible poison.

Karmic Messages

On a surprisingly cold December Thursday night here in Austin, a friend and I searched with our smartphones where we could find a decent nearby restaurant that actually served food and wine at 10 PM. After striking out both online and in person at one restaurant, which claimed to be open until 11 PM, but had closed the kitchen early due to the sudden cold front, we ended up at a jewel of a Vietnamese place that I pass at least once a week, but have neglected in all the years I’ve lived here.

I’d only dined there once, on a date, and had never returned because I usually cook at home. Yet, after all the years, I remembered the orange beef. It was just as delicious as when I’d had it years before. Since it was so late at night, I only ate a third of it and boxed up the rest.

Then the urban magic arrived: two fortune cookies in one packet. Disregarding the fact that those “Chinese” fortune cookies were served at an Vietnamese restaurant (but were really an American dessert phenomenon), I reacted far too excited. My friend, sensing my over-the-top happiness, told me to take all of them, the twin packet as well as all the rest.

Granted, it’s human nature to see patterns and construct stories, but I loved that both wise sayings implied “earth.” Whether you call it “ground” or “dirt,” it’s earth. As an earth sign, I appreciated the reminder of being true to my nature. If the old broom is my past experiences, then I must remember the thorns and not just the roses. The second “fortune” is the way I’ve approached my life, striving for the best, but at the same time, being logical.

A few days later, I received yet another karmic message. This time it was on a page near the beginning of a book I’d just checked out of the library about the Burundi genocide in the early to mid 90s, which overlapped with my time as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Tanzania. I’ve no idea if the author of the note meant it for a particular person or whether the author just wrote it out for the next reader of the book, but it’s now found a home on my wall. When I’m having a rough time at work, I inevitably glance at this note and smile at the simplistic, encouragement of it all.

Reinvented Butterfly

Throughout your lifetime, you’ve got to stop doing some things in order to have new beginnings. It’s a sign of maturity. At the very least, it’ll keep life fresh and interesting. On a serious note, the ability to adapt to the changing environment keeps you on the right side of natural selection. Nowadays, instead of worrying about things ending, I focus on how I can reinvent myself.

Imagine if a fully-grown butterfly could return to a cocoon and reemerge a different butterfly. One capable of occupying a different niche within the overall ecosystem.  Wouldn’t that be grand? At least for that butterfly?

That’s what we humans, if we’re not so stubborn, can do. Granted, the older I get, the better I get at being stubborn. Yet, that doesn’t mean I won’t change my ways in order to preserve my life and forge a new way of life. 

All around me, people are being priced out of their apartments and homes because the cost of living has exceeded income. A wise woman once told me, back when I thought I’d retire as a science teacher, that the only way to make money was to be an entrepreneur.  I politely nodded and smiled respectfully, thinking I’d never have to heed those sage words. After all, I had a Masters in Education and lots of teaching experience. I could get a teaching job anywhere in the world. 

After several professional reinventions, where I’ve enclosed myself within a new cocoon of knowledge to learn different skill sets, I’ve come closer to being an entrepreneur. Suddenly, my favorite number is 1099 and I’ve discovered that one path to happiness is setting my own schedule. I’m not merely talking about which days of the week I’ll work nor how many hours during the day, but even down to the micromanagement of my time such as no middle management asshole dictating when, how long and how often I use the bathroom. 

I can eat when I want. Run errands when I need to. Go to yoga in the middle of the day. And since I work from home, pajamas are my work clothes. Commuting consists of walking from one part of my apartment to the other. And if I ever think, in the middle of the work day, “I could use a drink….” (heeeeeey), I pour myself a drink. 

See how I’ve embraced this new reinvention of my life? I cannot believe I dwelled in employee-dom for so long. Granted, I may not ever be able to retire, but the whole retirement thing was really a contemporary social experiment to ease older employees out of the workforce, so younger ones could enter. 

In the past versions of civilization, people worked until they died. They may have slowed down along the way, but there was no such thing as a retirement package other than the expectation that the younger generation of relatives, usually adult children, would take care of them. So, instead of dwelling on the fact that we’re living through the last vestige of retirement as we know it, I’ve embraced a far less stressful working lifestyle and no longer worry about work/life balance.

Of course, there are some limitations to this path I’ve forged. Our alleged developed country does not have universal healthcare, so I have to pay for that myself. I no longer get paid sick nor vacation leave. Honestly, there was only one time in my life I actually needed my sick leave and all the other times I used it to do other things because I was well. My habit is to live below my means and save money, so when I do take some days off, I’ll still be able to pay for everything.

At the same time, I know there’s a work lifestyle where I don’t have to trade hours of my time for money. I can still get paid even when I’m not technically at work. It’s called residual income. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a part of heaven on earth that I need to incorporate into my work life. 

I feel another metamorphosis coming. 

2018 Christmas Celebration


Everything we’d planned to do for Christmas was delayed by a day. My sister and her family had vacationed out of the country and were supposed to fly back into Reagan International Airport around midnight; so I purposely flew in late to rendezvous with them at the airport. As soon as I landed, not only were no red-wine-serving restaurants open, but my family was stranded and I had to get a room at hotel for the night.

En route to the hotel suggested by my sister, the cab driver double checked the address with me, which I thought was strange, but when I looked it up on my phone, the words

PERMANENTLY CLOSED 

appeared on the screen. To cross check, I input the street address and discovered the name of the hotel had changed because a new chain bought them out. Yet, once we arrived in the dark parking lot with construction material in the driveway, I requested the cab driver to take me to the next nearest hotel. Although he offered to drive me to 3-4 other hotels, I’m sure with the meter running, I said I’d check the availability at the next hotel and stay there.

Not only did the next hotel have a room, but I had 30 minutes to order room service. I was so tired and hungry, I kept apologizing to the front desk guy in between food- and sleep-deprived giggles. I ordered a lump crab cake burger with sweet potato fries and a glass of Malbec as part of my check in.

When the food arrived, I propped it on the bed and devoured it before I knew what was what. On my first flight, I’d only had a cup of apple juice and on my second flight a cup of water with a sad bag of pretzels.

I slept like a baby, worked out in the morning like a rockstar and then had a fabulous breakfast. Later on, I reunited with my family, who had a similar starvation story to mine the night before.

When we got to their house, there was a flurry of activity needed to be done, first of which was clearing junk from some areas of the house to other areas. It was quite a feat of physics. Afterwards, all the guest beds had to be made since my parents, my other sister and her son would be arriving later on in the day. Plus my nephew and brother-in-law had to go out and get a tree. This had been the latest they’d ever bought a tree–two days before Christmas.

Magically, among all the cleaning and rearranging, my nephew still found a creative moment to put together this ensemble as if he were a weary traveler when in fact, he was merely taking all of the items he was wearing and the bottle of rum to another location of the house. Since he’s never met a camera he didn’t like, he willingly posed for this picture.

By Christmas Eve, the tree was finally decorated and all the gifts were around it. My sister, who hadn’t slept a wink from Christmas Eve until mid Christmas Day last year, managed to catch a few hours of sleep before breakfast was served.

A few years ago, my nieces and nephews were too old to excitedly wake up on Christmas morning and open their gifts. Thus, starting the wonderful tradition of eating breakfast before our gift exchange. As usual, we adults ate first and slowly the kids woke up and ate.

At that time, my sister was on her Christmas morning nap and I did some editing work.

By late Christmas morning, the “kids” were in position for the gift exchange.

They just had to wait patiently for the rest of us.

I think the best gift was spending lots of laughs with family.

I can’t say what prompted this pose other than general Christmas Day silliness, but I know that family time has become more precious now that both of my nieces are in college.

Of course once my brother-in-law saw the incomplete family portrait, he joined in.

The second best gift was the digestive medicinals I gave Mom. She is the Queen of Home Remedies, so I knew she’d get a kick out of the digestive bitters. After trying a few drops of all three, she claimed that she felt tipsy. I just laughed at her, read the ingredients and discovered they all contained vodka. One of my nieces and I had multiple drops to no effect.

We all tore into an edible arrangement basket–our midday snack. None of us felt we could partake of it until my sister stopped frisking around to enjoy it as well.

How blessed we were to have OG Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus celebrating with us.

Funniest thing about this picture was that Mom and probably just finished nagging my niece about something, but paused to make this pose look warm and fuzzy.

On Boxing Day, my niece was supposed to get her applications together for graduate school, but was preoccupied with selfies and texting to concentrate. (As if I’m the one to talk. I like writing with the TV on!) She airdropped this picture “just to see if it would work,” while I edited. Despite what she said, I think she just wanted to see how tech savvy I was.

I confirmed that I received it, but encouraged her to complete her application since I wanted her to get into either Houston or Denver, and then I offered to help her drive cross country if either of those things happened.

On our final night together, we ate at a restaurant that was inspired by Langston Hughes. At one point, I saw a Black woman walk toward our table, stop in her tracks, double over looking at me, then put her hands on her cheeks as she advanced toward me saying my name. At that point, I went from bracing myself for a confrontation to leaping from my seat to embrace a friend I hadn’t seen since we’d both moved away from Honduras nine years ago.

As we embraced one another, one of my sisters took a picture of us. My long-lost friend then introduced me to her brother, cousin, fiancé and a friend. Then she excitedly told them that I was going to the wedding. I just smiled because in actuality my attendance at her wedding depends on whether or not I have to help my niece drive cross country.

Nonetheless, she was my Christmas miracle.

2018 Christmas Lunch

For our 2nd Annual Christmas lunch, we met at Kobe. Not only did we celebrate our second year as independent agents, but one of my good friends had recently joined us because we’d switched from insurance agents to call center agents or “guides” as our present company referred to the position.

Last year, when we’d all made our great escape from employee-dom, we women had taken our group picture sans the husbands when one of the men shouted, “Fuck A**,” the company where we’d all left. This time around, everyone was in the picture when the same guy yelled the same outburst, soliciting the biggest group photo laugh.

Despite the fact that only one of us remained an insurance agent, all of us absolutely loved no longer being an employee and took full advantage of our flexible schedules. When it was my turn to offer inspirational words for the new year, I advised everyone to stay on the right side of natural selection. After the laughter died down, I explained that if we ever found ourselves in a losing proposition because what we’re currently doing is no longer working, then we have to at least tweak what we’re doing.

After we finished up our Christmas pictures around the tree, the grill show began.  The funniest part was the chef putting out the fire with a boy-shaped bottle, pissing out water, followed by a fake bottle that he pointed at one of my friends who had been constantly on her phone.  

He startled her, causing her to touch her face and look at her clothes, then she asked, “Is there something on my face?” We all laughed at her. I asked her, “How could there be something on your face if you don’t feel it?”

From there, the food and cocktails flowed as wonderfully as the conversation. The courses of fried rice, scallops, and steak, built upon themselves, followed by my dessert drink: a Godiva chocolate martini!

Par for the course, we were the loudest, happiest table in the restaurant. Truly the best intersection of good libations and conversation. That good feeling fueled me all the way home through damn near gridlock.

The following Tuesday, my apartment complex hosted its “Jingle & Mingle” social. I attend these events with the lowest of expectations since I’m only going to eat and drink my yearly increase of rent’s worth. For this event, though, I actually had fun dressing up and meeting new people.

Plus, other people dressed up. My Santa hat with the tiara didn’t escape notice, but this look wasn’t too hard to throw together since a third of my closet is costumes and accessories. I had a very interesting series of conversations with one couple, who I’m sure I wouldn’t have met outside of this event, so I got a little more than I bargained for.

One thing I knew was waiting for me was a bottle of Malbec. After the resolution of the last miscommunication between the leasing office and me, the leasing agent asked if I preferred red or white wine. I told her red, especially Malbec.

I’ve stored it in the cabinet for 2019. I’m still not drinking alcohol at home during the holidays. I’m going to modify that once the holidays are over. I like the routine I have now of making a carafe of fruit flavored water with only three tablespoons of sugar. Along with seven cups of water, it’s not a sugary beverage, but it’s different than just plain water.

One of the best things my carafe of flavored water mocktail does for me is give me an elegant solution to my routine of having a glass of wine with lunch. Just plain water seems too blah, but I’m committed to reducing my alcohol consumption to just with dinner, which that gifted bottle of Malbec will be on Jan. 1st!