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.
Usually when I advise someone to “take a picture, it’ll last longer,” I’m being sarcastic. This time though, I was being practical. Austin normally gets ice storms and flooding rains. So, when I prepared the living room for my daily virtual yoga class and witnessed a light dusting of snow, I figured it would melt away by the time the class ended.
I readied the camera on my phone, so I could snap two quick pictures.
A dusting of snow may be delightful, but not the cold weather.
I barely stepped outside.
My parents have two fabulously descriptive phrases to communicate “it’s cold outside:” “The hawk is out” and, my personal favorite, “It’s colder than a witch’s tit.”
Now for once, I was wrong.
Not only had the snow lasted by the time yoga ended, it was still snowing. If I were a child, I would have bundled up and gone outside to make snow angels. Adult me enjoyed the phenomenon from the cozy warm comfort of my apartment.
Some joked about how the kids were missing out on the true joy of a snow day, which is the cancellation of school and getting to stay home. The world has truly turned upside down and to prove it, it snowed in Austin.
On January 6th, some Christians celebrated Three Kings Day, to commemorate when the three wise men brought gifts to baby Jesus. I’ve never observed this celebration, but I thought it was fitting that the two democratic Georgian senators, Warnock and Ossoff, officially won their elections on this day. There were many factors that led to their success, but I give much credit to that Black Girl Magic Powerhouse, Stacey Abrams. They were my secular three kings–or more precisely one queen and two kings–delivering the control of The Senate to the Democrats.
But that fabulous news was washed out by a lame duck presidential-inspired coup attempt at The Capitol. An angry mob of mostly white people broke windows, doors, smeared feces, fought with capitol police and all other manner of violence, which did not reflect any respect for law and order, nor did they appear to believe that blue lives mattered. They only cared about disenfranchising millions of Americans who voted for Biden and Harris.
Thanks to the mostly maskless insurrectionists, the FBI, along with the help of people on social media, have been identifying many of those criminals. Even though many of the insurrectionists were placed on the “no-fly list,” some made their way back to their home, only to be arrested by local law enforcement.
In the meantime, Democrats and some Republicans began talking about impeaching the president-reject for a historic second time despite him having only two weeks left in office. He still could run for office again and would be entitled to a pension. The second impeachment sought to prevent that–among other things. Once the Democratic-controlled House impeached him for a second time, I began thinking of how to craft a cocktail worthy of observing the occasion.
I didn’t think that peach and mint would actually go well together, but I had to experiment with it anyway.
Or be drunk to drink it. Either way, there was only one way to find out.
I cut up a few mint leaves, followed by a double shot of schnapps.
The minty taste was subtle, which was why I didn’t muddle the leaves. An alternative method was violently and pleasurably ripping up those mint leaves, which hurts no one and helps make a cocktail. Then, I tossed in a few ice cubes.
The next evening, I took my niece’s advice and added fresh lime juice.
The next evening, I took my niece’s advice and added fresh lime juice. That was definitely the right call. Now once the Senate starts impeachment proceedings, I’ll already have my cocktail ready. I don’t usually celebrate anything Congress does, but life’s unusual during a pandemic.
Last year, I volunteered for the CCBFF for the first time because I had never heard of this festival before. This year my very first short film, There’s Always Something, had been selected to participate.
With giddy excitement, I experienced the behind the scenes activities of being selected, starting with participating in a prerecorded panel discussion moderated by one of last year’s winning filmmakers, and five other selected filmmakers. All of us were in the same screening block. Among the six of us, about half of us had not attended film school, but were motivated to document something significant in our lives.
Another wonderful benefit to being selected was my free VIP pass to watch as many films during the 72-hour period as my schedule allowed. I saw back-to-back examples of different approaches to storytelling through film. One short film viewed like a stage play, but was completely accomplished via Zoom.
Most film blocks ended with the filmmakers’ panel discussion. Not all filmmakers had participated, but for the ones who did, they provided the background information on the choices that were made, many were funding based.
On the first evening, the festival provided a virtual happy hour, where participating filmmakers met the founder and CEO, Winston G. Williams. Not only did he welcome us, but he told us that we were forever a part of the CCBFF. Anything we needed from here on out, we shouldn’t hesitate to reach out during and after the festival, we should reach out.
Then, we had the opportunity to talk with other filmmakers in 3 different breakout rooms. My biggest takeaway the next time I participate in a networking happy hour will be to type out a brief paragraph with hyperlinks, so I can copy and paste it into the chat. I composed one on the fly, but that’s something I could have had already prepared had I thought of it.
I copied and pasted the contact information and credentials of the other filmmakers into a Word Doc. At some point, I’m going to organize the information. For real.
In the meantime, I’ve been watching videos from another filmmaker’s YouTube channel. So far, the episodes are reviews of movie trailers and movies. I started with the very first episode and progressed through the collection chronologically. I’m not at the point where I want to have my own YouTube, but I can never say never. Besides, watching videos always give me the opportunity to be productive in between calls as I illustrate.
I trust that while illustrating and watching videos during work, my creative course will flow into my next greatest thing. And at some point, my third book will be completed and perhaps I can fully throw myself into a bigger film project.
Exactly eight months ago on Friday, March the 13th, 2020, the president finally stopped denying the truth: we were indeed in the midst of a pandemic rather than a hoax. So, I hoped that he’d once again, lift his veil of denial to concede that he’d lost the election. After all, it was Friday, November the 13th.
Sometimes I flirt with being superstitious, but it’s more a result of anxiousness than anything else. I know there’s no reasonable expectation that the president would come to his senses–he’s seldom demonstrated that he experiences such a condition.
Instead, my wishful thinking lie in everyone else’s response. Lawsuit after frivolous lawsuit strengthened my belief that democracy wouldn’t be another casualty during this traumatic year where so many people have died, businesses have gone under, and things in general have gone awry. As a matter of fact, if democracy were to fail, this would’ve been the year to do so. Yet, thank goodness our courts demanded evidence and none of the lawsuits thus far have gone to trial. My favorite flimsy lawsuit motivated a lawyer to state that there was a “nonzero number” of GOP poll watchers. The former math teacher in me just rejoiced as I reflected upon how three different cultures (Sumerians, Mayans, and Southeast Asian Indians) invented the concept of “zero.”
Ten days later, my wish somewhat came true. The president still hadn’t conceded, but at least the president-elect received his transition money and other resources. The stock market increased. Big businesses, those corporate whores, stopped coddling the orange lame duck and embraced the president-elect and his environmental-friendly agenda.
The skies turned a healthy blue. The birds began to sing, the bees started to buzz. Democrats became giddy as the president-elect picked highly qualified, rather than ironic, candidates for his pandemic taskforce and cabinet. I had to temper my overreaction to hearing politicians and appointees speak in full, competent sentences on subjects where they were experts. After all, this was how the office of POTUS had become internationally respected in the first place.
Nonetheless, if I had any lingering superstitious feelings about Friday the 13th, the transformative year of 2020 has obliterated that. Many of the illusions have been necessarily torn down, thanks to Rona.
Given the fact that half of my closet is costumes, I could have easily recycled a past character. Yet, the past four years, culminating in the existential crisis time period known as “2020,” inspired me to pull together my art and costuming supplies to devise a new character: Ms. Information the Pseudoscientist.
I decorated my tie dyed lab coat with colorful pieces of sticky foam on which I’d written misinformation.
I had a plethora of bullshit to choose from. I approached the task like a quick write exercise, jotting down the first 12 things that came to mind. They consisted of political and pseudoscientific “alternative facts.”
In the meantime, my roommate, who had no intention of dressing up, instead made a gluten-free version of Depression Era Chocolate cake.
Something in the concoction animated. Cake batter bubbled and spewed over its tins like the oven version of the volcano experiment.
[Turns out, it WAS a chocolate cake volcano! I discovered nearly a week later that the recipe for Depression Era Chocolate cake includes vinegar. I guess spewing cake batter was something that lifted spirits back then.]
Yet, this being Halloween, I reminded her that this holiday was the perfect time to celebrate with a hot mess dessert. She spooned out the delicious baked chocolate confection, topped it haphazardly with whip cream and called it the “State of Black/White Relations in 2020.” A nightmare indeed.
Earlier in the week, I’d tacked up a black flat bed sheet on the wall to cover up my art and provide a background for a Zoom event.
I kept it up, so we could use it as a photo wall.
Our first guest arrived in time for lunch. She brought us brisket that her husband had prepared. We provided the sides, wine, and of course that chocolaty dessert.
I’m not sure if Jello shots are classified as a dessert or an edible cocktail, but I was so excited to make this batch.
I’d bought the largest oranges I could find and cut them in half. Then I used a knife to cut out most of the pulp and finally a spoon to scrape out the rest. Finally, I mixed strawberry-flavored jello with peach flavored vodka and poured it into orange peel cups.
Fortunately, the cups were in a plastic tray since that liquid jello oozed out of one of the cups. I discovered much after the fact that I should have used a handheld juicer instead of a knife, then scraped out the pulp with a spoon. All this meant was that I’d have to make shots again in the near future. Again, a less than attractive dessert on Halloween only adds to the celebration.
In the evening, another friend and her husband arrived with wine and vegan curry.
I knew her dietary restrictions and had made Thai jungle curry the night before. What a difference overnight marination makes! So, we had two vegan curries, wine, art and whatever movie HBO played in the background.
Just so happen that my friend and I were part of the same writing group, but neither one of us had been writing much.
I lifted the black sheet, so they could see the best 25 rough draft watercolors I’d done for my upcoming book.
She expressed an interest in seeing the other 131 rough draft paintings.
I handed her the vinyl envelope with the other paintings and gave her husband my iPad, so he could see the final illustrations.
Adding to the ambiance of the Halloween night, we went outside to view the Blue Moon,
which everyone took great pains to explain that the color itself hadn’t changed. Just meant that it was the second full moon within a month, which occurs about once every two and a half years, hence the expression, “once in a blue moon.”
