Category: Writing

The latest food walk destination was to a restaurant so new, my roommate and I didn’t even know its name, genre, dress code nor operating hours. Nonetheless, it was a good walking distance, past many other restaurants and the weather was fabulous.

My roommate walked in like she owned the place, wearing exercise leggings, and a bright T-shirt. I was dressed marginally better: cords with a T-shirt. Despite our raggedly looks, we were warmly greeted and directed to the host’s station, who greeted us with a similar reception.

The host sat us prominently in the middle of the restaurant where there was no hiding us. He handed us menus so new, the thick pages were still stiff.

We planned our order, so we wouldn’t walk back home with leftovers. We both got chocolate martinis since who doesn’t want to start with dessert first? Then we both got a small soup and an entree.

I absolutely loved the chocotini, wonton soup and spicy banana leaf salmon with brown rice. Throughout dinner, we speculated about the significance of the year 1618. After all, it was significant enough to name the restaurant, so it had to be something huge.

First thing that popped into my mind was Marco Polo’s travels to the Far East. On second thought, I remembered he’d lived way before that, which I confirmed on my phone after dinner.

Yet my post-dinner research had just begun. I could have simply asked the server about why that date was so important to Asian culture, but where’s the fun in that? My roommate speculated that it was the year before the first slaves were brought to the American colonies, but I shot that down, saying that that phenomenon wouldn’t have been significant to Asian countries.

Then we discussed the significance of numbers. We knew that in Asian culture 8 was an auspicious number and 4 was unlucky, but neither one of us knew anything about 16 and 18.

Soon it was time to leave and I suggested that we leave out the door where the parking lot was since I wanted to see how to access it when I drove to the restaurant. My roommate noted the restaurant’s name on the side of the building and commented, “Wouldn’t it be funny if 1618 was the address?”

We took about three steps to the right when we saw the adjacent business was numbered 1620. We lost it. She doubled over laughing, whereas I stood in stunned silence. After all the intellectual debate involving history and numerology, turns out we’d overthought the whole thing.

“One point for Yale!” She screamed, having figured out the mystery before I had. Well, I’ve made my alma maters proud on many other occasions, just not that one. “I’m mailing my degrees back to Carolina and DU!” I declared.

Of course, the only thing I’m going to do is recommend 1618 to anyone looking for a mid-range Asian fusion place.

After hearing so much hype about the impossible burger, both from the marketing campaign and then from vegetarians/vegans, my roommate made trying one our latest food walk destination. I immediately coupled this food stop with a coffee shop that served alcohol to help the digestion of fast food.

As we waited in line, we witnessed a dad walk his family’s three burgers back to the counter because they all wanted cheese. At this point, my roommate stated that she wished she could take those sandwiches and give them to the campers–the people living in tents and lean-tos on the grassy median in front of the fast food joint.

I found her comment confusing since, silly me, I thought the food servers would merely add cheese to the burgers, especially since the sandwiches had sat on the counter for a while. Suddenly, the cashier swooped them up and threw them in the trash with such food-wasting flair.

I tried to comfort myself. “Well, I’m sure dumpster divers will enjoy those burgers later.”

My roommate popped that big happy bubble of delusion. “They bleach all the food they throw away.” Seeing the look on my face, she agreed that our country hates poor people.

Once we had our burgers, we sat at a table under too bright fluorescent lights, too close to the indoor playground, which was technically enclosed in another area, separated by glass. Foolish me thought I could improve the fast food burger experience with hot sauce–as if hot sauce was available.

Although the burger definitely tasted like meat, a feature some meatless eaters don’t like about it, I disliked the lettuce dripping out of the buns due to the excessive amount of mayonnaise. Nonetheless, I wolfed it down while thinking about how much food was thrown away on a daily basis, which meant my mind wasn’t obsessing about the cleanliness of the establishment.

We left in record time.

En route to a proper beverage, my roommate gifted her leftover fries to one of the campers who was walking in the opposite direction, eating a boxed fast food meal. What are the attainable food options for people experiencing both food and shelter insecurities? Granted, this neck of the woods wasn’t a food desert, but how could people prepare food? The cheapest, most convenient food is often the least nutritious.

The warmth of the coffee shop melted away the fast food experience. I knew I wanted hot chocolate with a shot of something, preferably Kahlua or some Irish cream whiskey. Instead, I basked in front of a wall of infused alcohol. After what felt like far too long, I chose a shot of vanilla and almond infused vodka.

I sipped my warm cup of chocolatey joy on the patio. Who knows if my digestive track needed an alcohol chaser to aid with that fast food. It was a beautiful way to end the day.

I’d lost motivation to move that fast just to exercise.

I knew the risk I took. Inaction leads to negative results. Doubling up on yoga proved to not to be strenuous enough. Working out in the fitness room on my own, too boring. I joined a fitness place, which boasted “the best workout in an hour.” True, but I could only stand to do it once a week despite the pumping music and variety of exercises.

When I learned earlier this year that one of my favorite capoeira teachers had started his own side hustle by offering a Monday night “capoeira conditioning” class, I checked it out. Now THIS was what I’d been searching for: Core and balance training, using capoeira moves and music without any fast-paced sparring.

My enthusiasm for the class enticed my roommate to give it a try. Despite how self-conscious she felt with this new exercise discipline, she became a regular.

Since the facility is quite a distance and the capoeira instructor doesn’t have a key to the place, I text him either the day before or the morning of the class just to make sure that it’s still happening. As a matter of fact, this past Veterans’ Day, we had a special class at my former capoeira studio with the contramestre. What a jolt to the system! Not only did the contramestre teach a full capoeira class, but many advanced students participated.

The following week, my roommate and I were back for more. Fast forward to Thanksgiving week. I texted the instructor to see if class was on. My roommate and I didn’t care that we were the only students there. Core and balance training is its own reward.

“What would you recommend if you’re already having a bad day?”

“A curried margarita.”

So began the latest meeting of this writing group. Me drinking alone an hour early before the meeting at an Indian restaurant because it was too much trouble to go home. My chiropractic appointment was unexpectedly canceled. Of course it was since we writers planned to meet. 

The first time I attended this writers’ group, I drove through the rain, which transformed into a deluge complete with flash flooding and damn near zero visibility. Worth the effort since we table read my short film screenplay.  Not that I’ve polished it up much since then, but the experience brought me closer to the goal. 

For my second meeting, we met at an upscale grocery store. I’d never shop there for my weekly provisions. Honestly, any “good for your health and the environment” grocery store is out of my budget. Anyway we’d met to discuss a feminist children’s religious book. Such a rich conversation ensued despite the unconducive ambiance. Plus, a con artist sat amongst us.

She brought her disruptive energy to the mix, which I fought everything within me not to tackle head on. Only my respect for the feminist religious children’s book author/illustrator restrained my verbal parry. I didn’t want to consume her creative feedback time by drilling the Imposter. 

For our next meeting, we gathered at a relaxed chic Southern restaurant I’d recommended. Since the noise level inside rivaled a sports arena, we sat outside in triple degree weather. A Bikram yoga hot. The weather app on my phone read 105 degrees, confirming my suspicion. I’d learned years ago when I first moved to Texas that I couldn’t drink alcohol in such heat. Nonetheless we had an enjoyable discussion about one of our member’s poem. Another member brought a box of hats, which inspired our next meeting: to select a hat to write about. 

I knew just the hat. A very wide-brimmed one with stuffed cloth bones dancing along the brim and long thin bamboo sticks jutting out the top. I wrote a haunting poem about how the hat evoked evil to the wearer and all who saw it. I wore red and black belly dance pants and a red lacy kerchief over my face. I’d made that costume for a performance at The Austin Writers Roulette and used it as my Halloween costume for that year. It had sat dormant for years until then.

Prior to joining the other members at our table, I talked extensively with one of the food truck staff about what to get. Unfortunately, another dude took my order. I believe the hat razzle-dazzled him into mixing it up. The silver lining: I had enough leftovers to get my money’s worth.

After finishing the last of 156 rough draft paintings for my upcoming “World’s Sexiest Dictionary,” I hopped into my car and sped into the nearest traffic jam en route to the next writers’ meeting. GPS guided me to a toll road. I’m still not sure how I feel about toll roads, but I was hungry for Thai food and anxious to share my paintings.

I transversed town much faster than if I’d taken the free route. That momentary win soured when I arrived in the vicinity of the restaurant but couldn’t find it. I parked and stomped around on foot. When I still couldn’t find the restaurant, I called the member who’d recommended it. I described all the other stores I saw, but none of that rang a bell for her. She exited the restaurant and into the shared parking lot. We saw one another after a few minutes. I took a few deep yogic breaths as I made my way to the restaurant with the understated signage.

At least the libations hit the spot and since no other member had brought anything to discuss, I had a captive audience to show my illustrations to, complete with reading the definitions and example sentences. What the experience lead me to believe was that I needed to revamp the sentences. I’d originally wanted to keep them short and sweet, but since I’m essentially telling a one-sentence story, the more descriptive ones received a better reaction. The nude illustrations didn’t hurt either.

By virtue of all experiences, good and bad, becoming writing fodder, my creative contribution to this latest meeting was documenting all the sideways shit that happens when I’m meeting these women writers. I’m sure I only see a pattern because these are the times I’m meeting with them. Bad shit happens all the time. I just don’t have a unifying activity to recall them and string them together.

Since Halloween is my favorite holiday, the ones that follow to close out the rest of the year are just a strain on time and money. Yes, I enjoy getting together with family and friends to share a yearly meal of thanksgiving, but I’ve become more of a Scrooge when it comes to bought gifts.

Many people see the arrival of cold weather as the signal of the coming of the holiday season, especially if it snows around Christmas time–a cliche I’m so over that I make a point to complain when I travel to be with my family in Virginia rather than us meeting in a warmer climate.

Yet, the arrival of the cold, sleet, and rain have worried me more than previous years. This is the first year that homeless people have camped out in tents along the grassy wide medians of major streets. As far as I can remember, they’ve been under major under passes, but now, they’ve spread out to what I would consider far more comfortable accommodations.

According to a recent article, homeless citizens feel that their things are safer in a public space versus the woods. Plus, when they are camped under an overpass, they are nearer to a bus line, so they can have transportation to their job(s).

In the past, I’ve donated coats and canned goods to the less fortunate. How does one donate better housing? Where’s the donation box for that? ‘Tis the season of giving and yet, everything is a band-aid for a temporary fix.

In another article, I read that the city is kicking around the idea of buying a motel (hotel?) to temporarily house the homeless. As a bonus, the city isn’t even going to require homeless citizens to seek services in order to respect a sense of choice.

With that in mind, I researched how to contact the mayor. I’m sure it’s no coincidence there wasn’t an email address for him. Instead, I had to read all the descriptions of his staff to find out which person was assigned to deal with homeless. The gist of my message was a request to donate money to a homeless shelter on the behalf of my family in lieu of buying them gift to add to their cathedral of material goods. If I even get a response, I’ll add that I’d love to help purchase one of those hotel rooms to name after my family. In that way, my gift to them would be housing homeless people.

I never suffered from allergies until I moved to Austin at age 39. Apparently, The Live Music Capital of the World affects many newcomers the same way.

For years, my inexpensive go-to strategies for dealing with my newfound allergy involved using a neti pot, attending regular Bikram yoga classes, and gobbling the cheapest brand of honey-flavored cough drops, which greatly stopped the sneezing fits.

The most recent allergy symptom has been wax buildup as if, even my ears, want to keep that benign pollen out of my body like it was something deadly. Last year when I first suffered allergy-induced wax buildup, I figured it was just a new facet of middleagehood.

My usual responses–drops of hydrogen peroxide, earwax removal drops, waiting it out–didn’t work. Weeks rolled into months. I’d become accustomed to telling people that I temporarily couldn’t hear out of my right ear. I made the “mistake” of telling this to my chiropractor. He casually placed his powerful thumb below my right ear, where the Eustachian tube was, and rubbed it. Talk about pain.

Nonetheless, it didn’t break up the blockage even though I’d mimic a less painful rendition of his technique for a few weeks afterwards. The interesting popping sound made me feel that something was going on. I had no fever nor pain, so I knew there was no ear infection. Yet, this condition persisted.

I researched and applied other techniques, but this case was beyond those remedies. The only two remaining options were going to a clinic to get it irrigated or ordering an ear irrigation system online. Figuring that ownership was cheaper than a copay, I ordered one.

The delivery date came and went. I tracked the package through the vendor. Double checked my order. For some inexplicable reason, Amazon had used my previous address. I’d moved months ago within the same apartment complex and had since ordered some things prior to this, using my current address.

So, when I placed my order, I didn’t notice the old apartment number. I brainstormed the least creepy way to approach the new tenant of my former apartment about the package. How to balance not being aggressive with not essentially accusing them of stealing my package? I called the leasing office and explained the situation. An assistant assured me that kind of thing happened all the time with Amazon.

Last year, my apartment complex installed a package hub, so deliveries could be safely stowed in a secure locker. When residents receive a package, it’s logged in and an email is sent to the resident with a security code. Once the code is entered, the door opens and the resident gets their package.

After calling the leasing agent, I dashed off to yoga and by the time I finished class, I’d received an email, indicating a package awaited. I’m not sure the behind-the-scene things the leasing agent assistant had done, but my package was intact.

After all that, one would think I’d rip the package open as soon as I got home, but suddenly I was apprehensive. I washed the Bikram yoga funk laundry, logged on again to make my daily quota, THEN I read the instructions to irrigate my ear.

First I had to put a few drops of hydrogen peroxide in the blocked ear for 15 minutes to soften the wax. Afterwards I mixed 1 part hydrogen peroxide with 3 parts very warm water in the spray bottle. Next, I connected the tubing to the nozzle with the disposable tip that was shielded by a splash guard.

The trickiest part was balancing the plastic bowl on my shoulder while hooking it under my ear. Even though I sat in front of my bathroom sink, I couldn’t comfortably lean over the sink while also operating the spray bottle. I felt one hand short for that task. Instead, I trusted that the bowl would capture the water and I’d periodically dumped it in the sink.

Once I had the tip properly placed, the pressure and temperature of the water felt wonderful. I dumped the irrigation water from the bowl and started pumping water into my ear canal again. Just as I’d begun to think I’d wasted my money, the dam broke.

Gross.

But I couldn’t run away. I had to keep pumping to remove all the wax debris. Like magic, my hearing returned. I used the remaining water for the other ear. No dramatic wax excavation there, but still a cleaner ear canal.

The first time I turned on the faucet to clean the sink, a rich, beautiful bouquet of sound bloomed. Such joy in everyday phenomena. Far beyond mere hearing.

For the next 24 hours, I discovered the sound character of my new apartment. I hadn’t realized all I’d missed, listening with just one ear and a muted ear.

Without a blocked ear, my sinuses drained. I couldn’t feel the drainage from my right Eustachian tube, but I knew that everything flowed so much better. With another way out, mucus didn’t have to be constantly blown out of my nose.

What a joy to be brought closer to homeostasis.

On its surface, my wildest dream seems rather tame. Curing all of society’s ills through books. But it’s not merely one of my nerdy pursuits. When I hear someone say something uninformed, my impulse is to say, “Oh, you should read such and such book” as if, magically, by having read such and such book, the person will be brought closer to enlightenment and will make a positive contribution to society.

I no longer believe that I have all the answers. Oh, if you wanted to know the answer to anything, you should’ve asked me when I was 17. The best I can do now, is recommend a few books and hope that you’ll use reading to fuel positive societal contributions. It’s a whimsical wish, I know. (By the way, “whimsy” is a Virgo’s way of saying, “I too can be creatively illogical. I just don’t live there.”)

What’s the book that will motivate us to share, value one another and respect our differences? Has it been written or are we all writing together? What kind of book would it even be? Religious? Economic? Philosophical? Scientific? Would the ideal be a combination of all things? Or would it narrowly focus on one everlasting truth from which everything else spring forth? Or should it be a magical book that whenever you open it, the knowledge you need at the time, will present itself upon the pages in a manner that not only resonates with you but motivates you to enact a positive action? 

Surely this book would put us in such a safe place that it wouldn’t need trigger warnings nor threaten to take away our guns, right? There’s my whimsy showing again. Wars have been fought because one group thought their book, describing their idyllic way of life, was THE answer. But this book couldn’t be like any of those. With all of our access to knowledge, would yet another book be just like another drop of water cascading over us and not absorbed? 

And for anyone thinking, “Well, clearly it would have to be a series of books,” may I ask you, when was the last time you consulted an encyclopedia? And no, I’m NOT counting Wikipedia. 

A book to cure the human condition. If such a thing even exists, what would our world look like once its knowledge was revealed? 

Keep reading.