Memorial Day weekend found me fretting over impending full time employment. I’d been offered a job, which was contingent on passing a drug test and background check. The only snag? A glitch in the digital platform, followed by a holiday weekend, which meant I had to wait until Tuesday to give my prospective employer a call since no one got back to me by Friday.
The one fun thing I’d planned for the long weekend was doing yoga in a friend’s back yard. She’d completed teacher training and had begun to give one-off classes. I hadn’t managed to attend any of her previous classes since I prefer to exercise in the mornings. Plus, my existence had reoriented itself to doing everything from home despite the fact that I love to have an excuse to be with other double vaxxed people. Memorial Day provided the perfect opportunity to check several boxes.
She led me in an hourlong general yoga flow under a tree. Afterwards, we shared food and a bottle of wine. An exercise I like to call “detox-retox.” I loved reconnecting with her. Not only do we share yoga in common, but also reading, writing, and we’ve both been teachers for years.
I was in such wonderful spirits, ready to pick up where I’d left off in job search hoop jumping. Put the key in the ignition, and there it was: the check engine light. I took a deep breath, put the car in reverse and ruminated about how to juggle another emotional-financial consideration.
I’d begun my job-seeking mad dash over a month ago. Although I’d worked a brief math tutoring gig that gave me a life line into June, I thought I would have secured a more lucrative, stable job by now. I have a new part time job, but it’s not enough to keep me afloat. Besides, that would have been too easy.
Part of my initial optimism was that society had begun to reopen and was anxious to hire. Yet even for lucrative entry level positions (not really an oxymoronic statement given the past year and a half), there are far more steps in between accepting an offer and getting on payroll.
The day after Memorial Day started off as normal: work, yoga, lunch. Then, with the optimism of someone still in control of her life, I dropped by the car dealership to get that check engine light looked at. My jaw dropped when the guy told me that I’d have to leave my car for at least 48 hours since there were about 40 cars ahead of mine. “I can’t do that!”
I didn’t exactly yell at him, but rather in surprise. I’d mistakenly thought I’d have to wait a few hours for them to diagnose what was wrong and then fix it. Of all the weeks that had just dragged by uneventfully, I actually had some shit to do in the next 48 hours.
I nervously drove to get groceries. The following morning, I went to a drugstore to take a drug test. At least that part of my dilemma had been figured out. My prospective employer had remedied a tech glitch, setting me on the next step. Later that evening, I drove to a networking happy hour.
Finally, on the third morning after seeing the check engine light, I dropped my car off. Prior to the pandemic, the car dealership ran its own shuttle service. For society 2.0, they found it more economical to hire a Lyft on behalf of their customers within 12-mile radius. I nearly fell back when I read the description of the car that would pick me up: Black Maserati Ghibli. Holy shit! I’ll take the hit for being “classist” when I say wholeheartedly, “Why is someone who drives a car like that, driving for Lyft?!”
The driver was as attractive as the car.
The driver was as attractive as the car. I told him that I’d had a challenging week, but his car was a bright spot in my otherwise shitty week.
Sure enough, I had my car back by the next afternoon. Wasn’t picked up in a fancy pants Lyft, but by the time my car was ready, I was in the middle of ploughing through all my on-boarding documents for my new full-time job. I was right, things had started picking up after riding in that Maserati.
I’m going to need a full time job to pay for all the repairs.
Double vaxxed and ready to chillax…with a couple of friends who also believe in science, drinking and lively conversation.
Double vaxxed and ready to chillax…with a couple of friends who also believe in science, drinking and lively conversation. Although we were all board members of a nonprofit organization, no business (OK, not a lot of business) was discussed. We were so giddy just to see one another in real life rather than on our monthly Zoom board meetings.
Apparently, I was the most anxious to get out of the house since I arrived first with a bottle of my favorite spicy red wine, Cabernero. I was tempted to bring my silver chalice, I left it at home. I poured the hostess a taste, saying she could have more if she liked it. She loved it…as did all the other board members who arrived in time before we finished the bottle.
Although everyone had received her double vaccination doses, our host, in an abundance of caution, set up our happy hour in her backyard patio. As beautiful as the evening was, I knew winged spoilers would be out and biting. I’d slathered Skin So Soft all over my arms, legs, neck, chest…pretty much any exposed area except my face. There was no way I was going to wear long sleeves on such a warm night. Besides, I didn’t want to skip the joy of dressing up for a change.
I’ve always been a dog person even though I’ve not lived with one since childhood. Rosie, a beautiful chocolate poodle mix, was a welcomed surprise at happy hour. I met her when I arrived and she was let loose toward the end of our visit. I completely understand how some people derived comfort from adopting a fur baby. Unfortunately, others are returning their fur babies now that the pandemic is nearly over as if they were nothing but pandemic pets.
At one point, someone asked the group what the pandemic had taught us about ourselves. Everyone attempted a positive answer. One woman said she valued having her parents nearby, so they could help with childcare. I talked about how daily yoga, red wine, illustrating and my weekly baked quiche brought me joy. The woman who posed the question answered last. “I learned I have gray pussy hair.”
I only understood what she’d said the third time she said it. The first two times, I heard, “I learned I have great pussy hair.” Since the pandemic, she’d no longer felt the need to wax/shave/laser–not sure what her hair removal method was. Yet, from what I thought I heard, reminded me of a little gem I’d written years ago, “Pubic Hair Cornrows.” I either texted or emailed everyone at Happy Hour the link. The gist is that fashion trends, including bodyscaping, tends to ebb and flow.
The happy hour officially ended when the drizzle began. Even though the rain never came, this is the land of flash floods, better to drive home safely while we could. We hadn’t survived a plague just to die in a flood.
Before Biden even entered the room, this was the moment I most wanted to see.
For the first time in the history of the US, we have two women seated behind POTUS during his unofficial State of the Union address. Harris and Pelosi, the respective VP and Speaker of the House, masked because they both believe in science and taking care of their fellow human being.
Once Biden entered the room, the visual looked like a modern-day TV show or movie in terms of both skin tone and gender diversity.
If the sight of this trio sent any progressive’s heart aflutter, Biden’s speech brought it home.
If the sight of this trio sent any progressive’s heart aflutter, Biden’s speech brought it home. He wanted to improve infrastructure, healthcare, provide free community college and to pay for it all, make the rich, including corporations, pay their fair share of taxes. Biden emphasized that trickle down economics have been shown not to work.
Speaking of work, he wanted to invest more in women by closing the wage gap. During this shutdown, so many women have lost our jobs in order to take care of loved ones. As the economy reopens, we need to run the “new and improved” version of our economy and not the “back to normal” version.
Lord knows I’m rooting for his plan not only to work, but in a timely fashion. I’m about at the end of my economic rope as I send out a furry of job applications, sorting out the bullshit as I go along. It’s amazing that employers are complaining that they can’t find people to fill their positions. I got an idea: pay a living wage.
An emotional weight I didn’t realize existed, lifted on April 20th. Despite the date being infamous for marijuana, that had nothing to do with it. On this day, a Black man who was murdered on Memorial Day 2020, had finally received a just verdict. For once, a White man, a former cop at that, was held accountable for murdering a Black man whose life mattered.
George Floyd’s murder sparked international outrage and protest against police brutality. Yet the mainstream media didn’t report how the world protested Floyd’s death. In contrast, mainstream media always report how Super Bowl winners are “World Champions” although no other country participates in the competition. So, football is king except for when it kneels during the national anthem to protest police brutality.
I didn’t watch any of the trial. Nonetheless, it was impossible not to read or hear the highlights. TV clips and soundbites. Snippets in tweets. The thoroughness of the prosecutor reminded me of what my relatives have always told me: “You have to work twice as hard to get half as far.”
The standard is to prove someone is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. The prosecutor had to do far more than that. He had to overcome centuries of conflicting racist dogma, starting with the big Black man trope where he’s a subhuman beast with superhuman strength to justify, using excessive force. Yet when the big Black man is murdered, which disproves the superhuman strength racist theory, then they use the big Black man’s pre-existing conditions and bad habits for not being able to endure excessive force; therefore, the big Black man’s responsible for his own death.
Scatologists identify animals by their shit. I do the same thing with racism. The dominant narrative has recycled the same racist shit for centuries. The defense attorney didn’t stray from the old playbook. Emphasized how a big Black man posed a threat that only excessive force could neutralize, then focused on how the big Black man’s past drug habit, health status, the crowd, the vehicle exhaust and the fact that he had enough breath to still speak when he stated he couldn’t breathe and called for his mother. Did all he could to convince the jury not to believe their own eyes: a handcuffed man, lying on his stomach on the pavement while a cop knelt on his neck for nearly 10 minutes.
Even one of the defense experts fumbled. He suggested that under the conditions, Floyd should have “rested comfortably.” The prosecutor went pie eyed. I wasn’t surprised though. Unfortunately, there are doctors who believe that Black people don’t experience pain like White people do. So, why shouldn’t this so-called use of force expert?
And yet, for once, none of that racist shit worked. At the end of the day, the jurors unanimously believed that the former cop’s actions led to Floyd’s death.
Very few times do things make me cry, especially tears of joy. That verdict did it. On that day, I celebrated. Just for one luxurious moment. Of course, much more will have to be done to eliminate systemic racism and hate crimes against Blacks. After all, the most dangerous place for a Black person to be is still in the mind of a racist.
Usually, no one ever asks me to babysit their kids, fur babies, or even to stop by to water their plants.
For good reason. Although I generally like all three, I don’t have any of my own. I’ve tried with plants. Even those plants that other people with green thumbs say can’t be killed. They haven’t seen my best effort to keep plants alive, which eventually leaves them dead.
Fortunately for me, my friend’s usual dog sitter wasn’t available. There’s very little to break up my weekly routine, even though I live in TX, where the governor has declared us “fully open.” That’s such warm welcome for an emerging superspreader event. At least this opportunity allowed me to safely leave my apartment and normal routine in what felt like a mini spring break.
I spent nearly 48 hours dog sitting. For most of the waking hours, I binged watched Amazon Prime while writing or illustrating along with my two corgi companions, who had very different personalities as I quickly learned now that their humans were temporarily gone.
Introducing, Mr. Sensitive.
Those piercing brown eyes stared me down until I gave the signal (two quick pats on the sofa) for him to hop up and join me.
With a total disregard for whichever device I had at the time–a laptop for writing; an iPad for illustrating–Mr. Sensitive edged those things out of my lap to cuddle. To be clear, he’s NOT a lap dog. Dogs that are so heavy that they put one’s leg asleep cannot pull that off. After rubbing his fur while simultaneously protecting my device, I gently guided Mr. Sensitive beside me where he curled up.
Next up, Little Bad Butt.
She’s not really bad bad. She’s that kid who knows when the substitute human doesn’t know all the rules.
And that foxlike coloration is so appropriate. Notice that over-the-shoulder glance. The look to see if I’m paying attention because she’s got an idea. She took my visit as an “I’m-gonna-get-away-with-some-shit” field day.
Since Mr. Sensitive was usually too upset to eat more than a few nibbles of food, Little Bad But had this coy way of casually strolling over to his food bowl. Then, she’d look back at me, then back to her brother’s bowl as if to say, “Oh my. Look what I found here. Why, we can’t let this food go to waste. I’m going to take a few bites and…it’s gone. Happy Bowl!” That same scenario played out a few more times, except for once when Mr. Sensitive actually finished his food.
The first day, I binged-watched TV until past midnight. Wanting to sleep in the next morning, I left the doggie door open, so the dogs wouldn’t have to wake me up to go outside. I moved their doggie beds from the master bedroom into the guest bedroom, thinking the dogs would just see that since I was going to bed, they’d go to bed.
Ha!
Mr. Sensitive paced and whimpered until I gave the signal, granting him permission to hop onto the bed and curl up beside me. Little Bad Butt had some trouble jumping onto the bed, but once she joined us, I thought she’d curl up and go to sleep.
Oh, what a fool I was.
She romped around on the bed never once settling down, making tinkling noises due to her two tags clapping together as she moved. After the thrill of being on the bed wore off, she hopped off to indulge in her favorite hobby: barking at nothing in particular. Thanks to me leaving the doggie door open, she frisked around outside barking, in what I’m sure translated to: “Mom and Dad left me with this new sitter who has no idea what she’s doing. Anyone else up? It’s party time!”
Mr. Sensitive, ever the follower, soon jumped off the bed to join his sister outside. Then, I lumbered out of bed. I officially became a Friday night party pooper. I shut the doggie door before opening the patio door. Mr. Sensitive knew the party was over, but Little Bad Butt just stopped barking and looked at me. I called to her and motioned that she come inside. I can’t tell for sure if she was weighing her options. Eventually, she came in. I returned to bed. Next thing I knew, the sun came up.
This was a new day. The new twist in the schedule was my live-streamed noontime yoga class. I set up in my friend’s office, closed the door and had an uninterrupted yoga class. I heard some sounds on the other side of the door, but nothing distressful.
From there, the day flowed to a similar repeat of yesterday with the notable exception that the doggie door was closed after midnight before I went to bed. Both dogs slept in their own beds without any fuss. Of course, I heard the early morning wakeup whimper to let them out.
Now that the dogs have trained me to take care of them, I’m looking forward to another extended visit. If only plants could be so cuddly and interactive.
As soon as I learned that “Coming 2 America” would be released on a platform that I didn’t have, I promptly invited myself to a friend’s house to watch it. My nickname for her is “Third Mother.” She’s after my real mother and an older sister who’s always thought of herself as my mother. So, yes, I was not at all ashamed about my invitation.
I remember 30 years ago when “Coming to America,” came out. My favorite scene then, remains my favorite scene now: Prince Akeem mopping the floor. During the course of my international math and science teaching career, I’d taught students who were also very removed from such plebeian chores cleaning. Quite different from my own upbringing.
Once Third Mother extended the official movie-watching invitation, I researched where to pick up African food.
The beauty of Prince Akeem being from the fictional land of Zamunda, meant I could choose any African restaurant; so, I looked for one that was open on a Saturday and en route to my friend’s house. An Ethiopian place fit the criteria. Bonus: They sold honey wine. Since Third Mother and I usually bring over a bottle wine to each other’s place, along with food, we could try something special for the occasion. Plus, I wondered if this Ethiopian honey wine tasted similar to a Tanzanian honey mead I used to drink called wanzuki.
I joined Peace Corps after my college graduation. One of the funniest questions I was asked was if I’d come to Tanzania because of “Coming to America.” As if! No movie’s ever had that much influence upon my life.
Third Mother prepared her delicious charcuterie board: green olives, three types of cheeses, mixed nuts and sliced pepperoni.
Although I could’ve requested a platter and arranged the Ethiopian appetizers as attractively as her board, we kept everything in its to go packaging and dug in.
The beauty of a simple tomato salad tossed with a spicy dressing and feta cheese perfectly contrasted with the warm appetizers.
I’d expected to have injera with this spicy lentil dip, rather bread that had the taste and texture of pita. Still delicious.
Rounding out the African flavors, spinach sambusas. My palate doesn’t know the difference between sambusas and samosas.
My palate doesn’t know the difference between sambusas and samosas. I just know delicious when I taste it.
I paired my first plate of Ethiopian food with my first glass of tej. Heaven!
Thank God the tej was better than “drinkable.”
Thank God the tej was better than “drinkable.” Even though I’m a red wine wino, I had to finish off that Ethiopian wine since it cost more than double my usual boxed wine. Yes, I’m cheap and don’t believe in wasting money, but it does help tremendously when I like what I’m consuming.
And yes, “Coming 2 America” was entertaining with spectacular costuming.
In a sick way, scammers and con artists are pretty good psychologists. If only they’d use their skills for the forces of good….
For my second novel, The Adventures of Infinity & Negativa, I painted 24 oil canvases to illustrate the story. Perhaps, in retrospect, it was a cumbersome way to illustrate a book, but I loved every minute of going out onto my balcony and painting them.
Years after my book came out, I listed the paintings on Etsy. A few weeks afterwards, the world shut down due to the coronavirus AKA COVID-19. Not a great time to sell art as everyone clutched their pearls and their wallets to hunker down for the unknown.
Nearly a year after being quarantined, Mother Nature conspired with ‘Rona. Five back-to-back snowstorms hit Texas, which overwhelmed the electrical grid. After two days of no electricity, I then had no running water; so, I took refuge at a friend’s house.
When I woke up on the first morning of my new refugee status, an email brightened my day.
Out of nowhere, a buyer was interested in the Chapter 10 painting. My spirits soared. Selling one painting would help make up for a week’s worth of pay I’d missed due to not being able to work.
The buyer messaged me via the Etsy platform, asking for my email address. Under normal circumstances, this should have been a red flag. Not that my personal email address was sensitive information, but logically, if a buyer messaged me through the Etsy, why the need for my personal email address? Nonetheless, I was too excited not to accommodate the request.
The second red flag came in the email. The interested buyer, whose first name was the same as mine (nice touch, scammers!), spun this story that her uncle wanted to buy my painting as a surprise gift for his wife, but didn’t want to go through the Etsy platform. Instead, he’d send a check, which the niece would send via certified mail. She verified the cost of the painting at least twice, which included shipping, and informed me where to mail the painting. She then requested my mailing address. Then, in what seemed to be an after thought, she also requested my phone number in another email just to clarify the price again, so she could text me when to expect the check.
Again, I wasn’t thinking straight. I found nothing wrong with sharing things I would’ve readily put on a business card. And yet, the entire transaction could have taken place via Etsy without all the back and forth.
In the meantime, I googled the West Virginian address that she’d given me. When Google couldn’t find the exact location, I asked her to double check the address and send me her phone number, so I’d know it when she’d text.
When I excitedly told a friend about my impending sale, he wrote me a reality check: in the 12 years he’d sold things online, he’d never been offered a check that wasn’t fraudulent.
The next day, I returned to my apartment. As I picked up my life from where I’d left off, I braced myself for the fact that I was being scammed.
A few days later, the other shoe dropped. The buyer informed me that, despite her confirmation of the price several times, her uncle’s financier had made the check out for more than the agreed upon price. So, she urged me to deposit the check, and mail the painting along with a refund of the difference.
Whoomp, there it was! I’d already known that it was bullshit, but hell, I’d been quarantined for nearly a year and needed some entertainment. I responded that as soon as I received the check, we’d move forward from there.
Days later, “she” texted me that I’d receive the certified envelope with the check that day. Again, “she” encouraged me to quickly deposit the check, send her the difference and mail the painting.
For shit and giggles, I checked my mailbox.
Sure enough, the envelope was there. I had no idea who “Thomas House” was. It could have been the uncle. Even so, the return address was in Pennsylvania yet the painting was to be mailed to some West Virginian place that Google couldn’t find, but there was more.
I laughed my ass off when I saw the check amount, but doesn’t the check itself look legit, sight on seen? I mean, despite the fact that “she” now spelled “Teresa” with an H and had a different surname.
The “bank” that issued the check was located in Montana.
I looked up the bank address. Again, Google couldn’t find an exact location, but I called the nearest branch to the printed address. I spoke with their customer service representative who verified that the listed routing number, which is unique for each bank, wasn’t theirs.
As I spoke with the customer service rep, she assured me that scammers were really good at making their checks look official, complete with hologram stickers and watermarks. She also said that when she bought things on Etsy, she paid through the platform without any backstory. At that point, I told her the name of my Etsy shop, TYRCreations, which she later checked out and liked.
(For the record, when I later googled the routing number, 103100551, the first thing that popped up was a counterfeit check scam from a Pennsylvanian bank, Hatboro Federal Savings, back in 2018.)
As I talked with the customer service rep through my hands-free headset, I drove to my bank.
I dreamed about the bank stamping the check with a big red “VOID” or “FRAUD” or some equally menacing thing.
I explained the situation to the teller. She also confirmed that the routing number didn’t match the listed bank. Then she pointed out that the two addresses on the check should match.
Even though my bank had no fun stamp because they usually throw fake checks away or shred them, I borrowed her red pen to write “VOID” on it myself. Then I took a picture of the check.
I texted the picture to the scammer buyer, stating that when I attempted to deposit it, the routing number didn’t match the bank, but if they were still interested in the painting, then make a payment through the Etsy platform.
I’m one of the few people who turns off her cell before going to bed. When I turned it on the next morning, the scammer had texted, “Hello, Teresa.” Really? So cool to the fact that the alleged uncle’s financier had sent me a hot check? I deleted the text without answering.
The next day, I got an email about whether I’d received the text. I deleted that too. I’m sure they wanted to maintain the ruse by telling me that they could get the money to me sooner if I’d give them my account information. I didn’t give them the opportunity.
Those scammers had probably watched the news, saw how the snowstorms rocked the vulnerable Texas electrical grid, cruised Etsy to find some Texas sellers, figuring that we’d be too stressed to think straight, and cast a net.
The morals of the story: never accept checks from strangers and use the Etsy payment platform since that’s what it’s there for.
February 15th through the 21st will forever live among my select memories as “The Lost Week of 2021.” Karma also kicked my ass. I no longer enjoy most time travel movies, so the sudden loss of all the amenities that contribute to life in the 21st century, fetched my daily survival back to the 19th century with remnants of contemporary life there merely to mock me.
In addition to the burdens of staying warm, clean, hydrated and relatively sane, I worried about not working. No matter how much civilization had collapsed, bill collectors would still collect the bills.
First up, the rent. Once I took refuge a friend’s house because I no longer had running water nor electricity at my place, I used her WiFi to email the leasing office. I didn’t outright beg, but I explained that without an ethernet connection, I couldn’t work, which put rent in jeopardy. Since the leasing office also didn’t have electricity, one of the agents didn’t respond until a few days later when the situation had been already resolved.
Turned out, my roommate handled March’s rent. On top of that, my parents and one of my sisters sent monetary relief. An act that reduced me to tears. Never had I ever asked my family for money, but the confluence of bad circumstances motivated them to offer assistance.
The next worrisome bill, health insurance. I hadn’t seen a doctor in years. Nonetheless, since I’m a half century old, I won’t dare be without it. I overlooked the glitchiness of their payment portal, which manifested as messing up my date of birth until I found a work around the issue. From there, I paid my premium.
A few days later, I checked my bank account online and nearly pissed my pants. The health insurer had charged the monthly premium three times. Fortunately, my bank account hadn’t been overdrawn, but still.
I immediately logged out of work to call the carrier. Either the customer service representative was new to her job or she was borderline incompetent. Either way, when I explained the situation to her, she suggested that I’d mistaken an invoice for a bill. I corrected her. “I’m looking at the deductions from my bank account online.” Throughout our conversation, she repeatedly suggested that I hadn’t been charged three times, just invoiced.
I was about to lose it. Say “invoice” one more ‘gain. See what happens. Instead, I changed tactics. Adult temper tantrum averted.
I told her that when I paid January’s premium, I had only been charged once. She checked the date, which was the day after the money had left my account.
I asked her to make a note of my complaint, so when I called back the following day, I wouldn’t have to start from scratch with the next customer service rep.
Then, I worked off my angst in my Inferno Hot Pilates class.
Afterwards, I called my bank. That customer service rep sounded far more competent. She explained that the fastest way to deal with the duplicate charges would be a refund from the vendor. In the meantime, she instructed me on how to dispute the charges online.
I encountered another glitch. First I changed browsers from Safari to Chrome. Then, I switched laptops to use a hardwired connection on Chrome instead of WiFi. Bingo! At that point, I disputed the two duplicate charges, which could take up to 90 days to resolve.
The following day, a Friday, I started my weekly ritual of cleaning my apartment. In actuality, I merely killed time until I felt the health insurance company’s customer service had opened. I put on my handsfree headset and started the waiting game on hold while cleaning my apartment. As I listened to hold music, I pulled up my bank account. Lo and behold! the money had been restored. I hung up.
Then I read messages on my phone. My coworkers were discussing work platform malfunctions. Of course. 2021 won’t allow me a few moments of inner peace between crises. At least these problems were from the 21st century and not the 19th.
Presidents’ Day: Monday, February 15th, 2021 My battery-operated alarm clock sounded at 6:30 AM.
Presidents’ Day: Monday, February 15th, 2021 My battery-operated alarm clock sounded at 6:30 AM. I blindly slept walk to my bathroom, flipping on the light. Except there wasn’t any light. Just the empty gesture of moving the light switch. Even in my morning brain fog, I didn’t bother going through the useless motions of flipping the light switch from one position to another. It was finally our turn to be in the dark.
The prolonged Artic blast of air, which plunged the temperature, motivated everyone to turn up the heat at home. Since everything’s bigger in Texas, our collective energy consumption was no exception. Having lived in developing countries in my younger days, I’d learned the wisdom of having a battery-operated alarm clock for random power outages. One of the habits I’ve not broken even though I relocated to the States over a decade ago.
Unlike power outages in the past, there was no clear end in sight. Whatever vulnerabilities to the power grid, the electric company wasn’t actually scheduling rolling black outs. They turned off what they could to conserve energy for the places that were the top priority such as hospitals.
As a Peace Corps Volunteer, my life hadn’t come to a screeching halt just because the electricity or water would stop running. I had stored water in buckets, flashlights, candles and a kerosene stove. Since I lived on campus along with the students, school never stopped just because there wasn’t running water or electricity.
Unlike now. I couldn’t work since, without electricity, I didn’t have neither Wi-Fi nor ethernet. Even if I could’ve connected, I wouldn’t have worked as long as I usually did since there was only so much charge to a laptop battery. I did the next best thing: used the bathroom and returned to bed until the sun arose.
My mind churned. Whose house could I work at? Wait, the snowed over, icy roads. That 133-vehicle pile-up last week. What would I eat? Can’t open the refrigerator. Crackers, mixed nuts, peanut butter, liquid veggie broth concentrate, pumpkin seeds, peanuts. And the most luxurious item, spicy red wine…I saved for lunch.
I put on more clothes once the sun came up. Opened all the blinds to preserve my flashlight battery. Residual warm water to wash my face. Made my bed and moved to the living room, snacking on mixed nuts and water while reading, which sustained me for hours.
My mind drifted to those three Cubans who had been stranded on a deserted island for 35 days. They survived off minimal food, water and shelter. My apartment was far more comfortable.
Throughout the day, emails via my phone data plan suggested ways to conserve energy. “Fuck you, I have no electricity to conserve!” My phone remained in my bedroom turned off for most of the day. People in other parts of Texas had been without electricity anywhere from 12 hours to 36 hours. Apparently, we were in for a longer haul.
For a fancy late lunch, I opened the fridge.
I planned out what I wanted before opening the door. I quickly grabbed some Gouda and a tomato. Garnished my cheese and tomato crackers with fresh cracked pepper. Today would have been the day I would’ve broken down to have hot food delivered—except for the obvious reason of no one should have been driving. After eating, I continued what turned out to be the majority of my day: reading and napping intermittingly. Previously, I had the illusion of how long a day was because of all the activity I’d do within the day. I hardly did anything. I went to bed at sunset. Now I understand how Rip Van Winkle managed to sleep so much time away. He lived in Texas during a snowstorm.
Mardi Gras: Tuesday, February 16th, 2021 If I thought Presidents’ Day sucked, I had no idea that was merely the appetizer. The following day we had a brief reprieve from the snow and slightly warmer weather. I wished people “Happy Mardi Gras!” en route to the library, which was the extent of my celebration.
One of the benefits of marathon reading yesterday, I finished my library book. Didn’t take much to convince my roommate to walk with me to the library to return it. That trek convinced me of the direness of the situation. I had no contact with the outside world via TV. Granted, I had my phone, but I only turned it on to periodically check email for updates.
But on the street, I saw a line circling around the nearest corner store because it was the only one open. Even the neighborhood grocery store was closed. I made my way to the library with careful footing to avoid ice by mostly crunching on the snow beside the sidewalk. I actually felt warmer outside since I was moving. Plus, I had on several layers.
From the inside out, pajama top and pants. Then sweat pants and two hoodies. I wiggled on a pair of jeans on top of the other two pairs of pants. And finally, a winter rainproof jacket. I changed my indoor gloves for outdoor gloves and put on one of my pandemic masks to help my lips from freezing. Oh yeah, and to prevent catching the plague.
A few steps from the book depository, I slipped, but didn’t fall. A feat I attributed to daily yoga routines…up until this shit happened.
Didn’t find any hot food while we were out. Once again, had to make due with a cold meal. Tortilla chips and a glass of red wine with peanut brittle for dessert. Once again, bedded down around 6:30 PM when night fell.
Ash Wednesday: February 17th, 2021 Before getting out of bed, I psyched myself up to take an icy shower. The hot water was either turned off because once again, the apartment complex had to fix the pipes or it was a consequence of the snow storms. Either way, as I remained in bed, I brainstormed how to lessen the impact before jumping into a cold shower.
As soon as I threw back the warm layers of covers, I’d take off the many layers of clothing. That burst of cold would just be the start. I removed two pairs of pants at the same time. When I peeled them away from one another, the most spectacular display of static electricity sparkled and popped. Too bad I didn’t have enough cell phone battery to capture the moment. Nor the available technology to capture its energy to charge up my cell phone.
Then, I used the bathroom. The plan was to wash my hands in cold water afterwards to further prepare myself for an impending cold shower. When I flushed the toilet, I knew my plan was fucked. There are certain sounds that are supposed to happen like when you flush your toilet. That’s how I discovered I no longer had running water. I’d waited too late for the icy shower plan, but not the icy washup.
It’s remarkable how one can have a sense of being clean only after brushing one’s teeth and washing one’s face, armpits, and nether regions.
The most important body parts no longer had three days of stank on them. I texted a friend, who’s more like a sister or even another mother when she nags me out of concern. She invited me to stay with her.
After eating a salad made of spinach, red bell pepper and Italian dressing, I packed my electronics backpack and clothing suitcase for three days at her house. For some optimistic reason, I figured that even Texas could get its corrupt ass togetherin that amount of time to literally bring power to the people.
Although I’m childfree by choice, I knew how to drive granny speed. Once out of my apartment complex, the streets were impressively clear and the highway was even better. The trip had taken the same amount of time had there been traffic. The most dangerous street turned out to be my friend’s. I parked my car in an accumulation of snow, hoping that when I’d leave to return home in a few days, it would have melted.
Before getting out of the car, I texted my friend that I’d arrived. Her warm welcome followed by her two Corgi fur babies and husband made the trip all the more worth it. Yet, apparently, I’d brought my bad luck with me. Their water pressure lessened after my arrival and by nighttime, there was no running water.
Most people have common sense, but it’s the fools who ruin it for everyone. When advised to leave the faucets dripping overnight, most people knew that didn’t mean to leave the faucets running. Due to that practice along with freezing/bursting pipes, the water pressure tanked. Those who still had water were then told NOT to drip their faucets in order to build up the water pressure. Some hospitals and prisons didn’t have water. If there’s a God, then She will see fit that good things happen to those who had to hand remove waste from the toilets in those facilities.
Since my friend and I were both Returned Peace Corps Volunteers (RPCVs), we knew the drill. I’d use one bathroom and she and her husband would use the other. We followed the “if it’s yellow let it mellow; if it’s brown flush it down rule.” Thanks to my anal retentiveness when under severe stress, I knew I wouldn’t have to flush until the day I planned to leave.
What I hadn’t counted on was the dull ache behind my left eye, which at times, pulsated all the way to the back of my head. At first, I worried it was due to dehydration or undereating. However, I’d only experienced that pain twice before.Both times, prolonged stress had triggered it. The Snow Apocalypse and my temporary refugee status were the culprits this time.
My friend kept the TV on, which was helpful for accessing the news, especially the everchanging timeline of when Austinites would receive power and water. Using my friend’s laptop, I logged on to work a little over two hours. I didn’t make great money, but in the long run, some money’s better than none.
For the first time since Valentine’s Day, I slept very well and warmly inside a sleeping bag on an elevated air mattress.
Funny though, the only clean warm pajamas I had was my Santa and Rudolf pants. My friend wore her Christmas-themed pajama pants in solidarity. We actually looked as if we were having a seasonal slumber party.
Thursday, February 19th, 2021 More proof that I was a water curse: my roommate texted me that we had running water again. My friend told me I couldn’t go home until the power as well. I reminded her that I believed I could return on Friday.
In the meantime, I logged on again to make some money. Enjoyed a wonderful meal of chicken flautas since her husband found an open restaurant. And one of their friends dropped off a five-gallon container of water, to which my friend and I screamed, “Drinking water!” as if Santa himself had gifted it. Yes, we STILL wore our seasonal pajamas.
Friday, February 20th, 2021 I microwaved a plastic bowl of melted snow. After enjoying a warm washup, I put on clean clothes in anticipation of going home. An hour later, my roommate texted me pictures of the lights on.
Since I’d kept my things more or less packed, I said my round of good byes, including the fur babies and drove home. The plan was to boil drinking water as I unpacked, warm up some food, then log on to work.
When will I learn?
Of course, there was no internet or cable. Although 96% of Austinities had electricity, half of our apartment complex still had no electricity, including the leasing office, which housed the internet/cable hub. Until they were up and running again, none of us would have connectivity.
On the bright side, the leasing office invited all residents to stop by the “lounge,” (turned out to be the former volleyball court) with our masks to pick up tacos and a box of pizza. Free with rent, as my roommate and I think of it. We picked up our dinner.
Saturday, February 20th, 2021 Another piece of civilization fell into place: the internet.
Just to tease us, I could only access it if my laptop was hard-wired. So, I could make money again since my work laptop was hard-wired, but not access Wi-Fi on my phone or personal laptop. I know, first-world problems.
Yet, I received some old-world compassion. In addition to staying with a friend for a few days, a fellow poet sent me money and for the first time in life, my parents offered to send me money. I’d never asked anyone for money, and I still haven’t, but I graciously accepted their help. Plus, I psyched myself up to working every single day from now until…
With the help from one of my sisters, my 80-year-old mother signed up with Venmo to send me money. That process took about 40 minutes, in part because my phone kept dropping the call. We emailed and texted. The tech gods finally tired of messing with us and allowed the process to complete. At the end of which, Mom actually thanked me for my patience and was excited that she’d learned a new trick. I told her that I was the one who grateful.
Never has an inauguration been so riveting since when Obama was first elected.
Back then, I lived and taught at an American school in Tegucigalpa, Honduras. In order not to miss the historic moment, I got permission from the high school principal to organize an assembly just so I could watch it.
This time around, I was my own boss. I graciously gave myself the day off. After four years of the most unbelievable presidency, I wanted to watch the blessed ending of that one and the auspicious beginning of the next one. All from the comfort of my red sofa. I considered it to be Christmas come early, so I wore my Santa and Rudolph pajama pants.
Thanks to the pandemic, there was no crowd. Given the tumultuous way election certification went down, I was totally on board with far fewer people in attendance.
Yet, the rockstars showed up!
Even one of the newest rockstars:
DC Capitol police officer, Eugene Goodman, who led insurrectionists away from the open Senate door, which allowed the politicians more time to seek safety, including the ones whose rhetoric helped set the stage for a coup attempt.
Then the Vice President history maker and glass ceiling breaker,
Kamala Harris and the soon-to-be first second gentleman, Doug Emhof, emerged on the scene.
Of course she didn’t wear her chucks, but those pearls graced the occasion.
Behold the changing times…
the first Black VP greeting the first Black President.
Adding to the superstition that third time’s a charm…
newly elected Joe Biden and Dr. Jill Biden.
When Lady Gaga burst through the door in her fabulous red skirt, I briefly forgot that I was watching history in real time and felt as if I were watching a movie.
I credited quarantining for 10 months for that reality blur.
Lady Gaga sang one of the most enjoyable renditions of our national anthem that I’d ever heard.
The moment I’ve been waiting for my entire life…
It’s official now.
Plus, Harris was sworn in by the first Latina Supreme Court Justice, Sonia Sotomayor.
I love Obama witnessing the process.
And for a third view in case anyone thinks it was all smoke and mirrors.
Once again, the line between history and entertainment blurred.
A few years ago, the previous administration all but abandoned Puerto Rico after Hurricane Maria.
(I’m typing this up weeks after the fact when Biden recently cleared the way for Puerto Rico to FINALLY receive funding to rebuild.)
Last year, along with Shakira, Jennifer Lopez performed during the Super Bowl half-time show.
That was the first year so much Spanish was sung during the event. And she didn’t disappoint this time around as well.
Lord have mercy, after so much drama, including an unsuccessful coup attempt, Biden took the oath.
In this moment, Dr. Biden hugged the newly sworn in president for the 81 million of us who voted for him–
the most votes any American president has ever received in the history of our country.
I honestly don’t remember anything President Biden said, but the gist was “unity.”
On this point, I was cautiously optimistic while I viewed the inauguration. After all, this was a joyous day and I didn’t want to dream up ways the Democrats could fuck up having the House, the Senate and the White House, searching for unity with Republicans.
Afterwards, Garth Brooks sang “Amazing Grace.”
He never did sing with his eyes open. Nonetheless, I appreciated hearing a musician more known for having more conservative fans, performing a song written by a repentant slave ship captain.
What I didn’t take a picture of, because it would have actually required video, was afterward, when Garth’s happy ass couldn’t wait to shake hands and hug all of those VIPs. I was screaming at the TV for him to keep his hands to himself. I know he was caught up in the emotion of the moment, but damn, remember the plague?!
Breakout star and youngest poet to perform at an American inauguration, Youth Poet Laureate Amanda Gorman emoted her original poem,
“The Hill We Climb,” which included the recent insurrection. In another historical first, Gorman will perform an original poem for the 55th Super Bowl.
After the ceremony, Biden got to work, signing executive orders,
which he did not feel the need to hold up and show the cameras. I loved his attitude about not writing new laws, but rather undoing bad policy. Amen to that and God Bless the United States of America.
