Prior to many Americans taking the impending pandemic seriously, but just in time to be racist, the mob-mentality overcame some people, who in turn blamed Chinese people for the coronavirus. In practice, racists targeted any nearby Asians. To the point of shunning them on social media, in public and committing acts of violence against them.
Whenever I feel angry about something, I try to respond in a positive manner that is within my reach. No matter how small. So after my Saturday Ashtanga class, I hopped in my car, and ordered Vietnamese takeout, Het Say. If some were being hostile to Asians, then I’d do the opposite. Besides, I genuinely enjoyed that mom and pop restaurant, which was so near to my apartment, my roommate and I would occasionally walk there to eat.
By the following week, no restaurants allowed a dine-in option. Yet, I’d set a precedent the previous Saturday. I easily convinced my roommate to hop aboard to support another local restaurant. Besides, this gave us a reason to leave the apartment. We ordered from Hank’s, a restaurant that had such a welcoming ambience that the consolation was ordering from them to keep them in business. As the employee handed us our to-go orders through the drive-thru window, I joked that it was too bad that we couldn’t order a cocktail as well. He corrected me. Yet, I pointed out that I hadn’t seen cocktails on the online take-out menu. Nonetheless, we got two cocktails to go.
The next Saturday, my roommate chose the restaurant, Salvation Pizza. They allowed us to walk in the restaurant to pick up our orders, but we were very aware to stay 6 ft away from the other customers. I enjoyed talking to everyone more than usual when speaking to total strangers.
Neither my roommate nor I had ever eaten at TenTen’s Nova Kitchen, but since all the proceeds would go to the employees, we supported them that Saturday. My roommate hopped out of the car to get our orders. They politely asked her to return to the car and text them our names for curbside service. Apparently the unlocked front door was only for their use: drivers and curbside food runners.
As more businesses shuttered and a shelter in place order was issued, people weren’t merely losing their jobs, but for some, their health care since it had been a job benefit. There were businesses that were still open, but had not provided health care prior to the pandemic. Now those businesses were in the spotlight. Essentially any business that would put their employees in harm’s way, but not provide at least sick leave, were incentivizing their employees to come to work sick for as long as they could.
Since moving to Austin 11 years ago, I hardly ever ate at a national chain restaurant, but I made an exception for Olive Garden, which was one of the first to announce they were offering sick leave to their employees. They had the most user-friendly websites for to-go orders, offered buy one get one free entrees and when we drove to pick up our orders, they had trays in every other parking space so that no two customers were close to one another. Several employees approached the cars and ran orders to customers. Things looked very well orchestrated.
We put another local favorite in the rotation, Colleen’s Kitchen.
I was so happy that they still operated. By good fortune, this restaurant already had a pickup window prior to the pandemic. I’d been going to Colleen’s ever since they opened. Given their southern cuisine and down home decorations, I’d asked them why they didn’t offer chicken and waffles, which seemed like the only thing missing from their menu. Well, not any more!
Of course I had to order that along with an individually wrapped roll of toilet paper. Like many restaurants, Colleen’s had a supply of toilet paper for its own business use, but without any dine-in customers, they did the next best thing and offered TP on their to-go menu.
Not only that, but I also ordered one of their cocktail kits, which came with chopped fruit,
fresh fruit juice and bottle of sparking wine as well as 4 promotional plastic stemless wine glasses. I’m saving those glasses for an after-the-pandemic celebration out in a park somewhere.
The following Saturday, we ordered from a restaurant that we’d discovered on one of our prepandemic walks. 1618 Asian Fusion, which I’ve blogged about before due to my roommate’s and my long-winded, but hilarious conversation about the origins of the number “1618”. Turned out to be the address. (forehead slap)
By the time we ordered from the black-owned soul food restaurant, Hoover’s Cooking,
the Texas governor had officially opened up some businesses, including dine-in options for restaurants. Hoover’s was still in curbside and delivery mode, which suited us just fine since we were very willing to allow others to test the waters with dining in.
Earlier in the week, a major meat-packing place had closed due to coronavirus infection among the employees. There was a mild panic that we’d go meatless. I normally cook poultry at home, which was why I made a point to order sausage and ribs from Hoover’s. I am an omnivore after all, even though I rarely eat red meat these days. I made an exception this weekend.
And if my lunch plate looked a little light, it’s because I saved room for a slice of heavy cherry cobbler that I’d ordered.
There was a time when I could’ve eaten the entire thing in one setting. Nowadays, I have to limit my sugar intake to a couple of tastes. At least I get to have cherry cobbler for a few desserts.
For the next Saturday, we went to another part of the world: Argentina.
I’d spent my 46th birthday and some other special meals at the Buenos Aires Cafe. Of course, I ordered empanadas, but I still had some other options that I hadn’t tried before such as the grilled chicken and polenta. This restaurant had two sets of doors. As soon as we opened the second set, a small table blocked anyone from entering. Yet, our orders were already bagged up and waiting for us. Now THAT’s service!
Not sure when I’ll feel comfortable with dining in again, but I’ll continue to support one local restaurant every Saturday through my to-go orders.
My yoga studio was one of the last nonessential businesses to shut down. As a matter of fact, they made several accommodations prior to the city’s demand that nonessential businesses shut down.
They sanitized surfaces such as door handles and counters more often. We stopped exhaling through our mouths. They marked the floor so we could place our mats 6ft away from one another. We no longer signed our names on the clipboard, but only swiped our cards, which a few days later became making a reservation online for classes to make the whole process completely contactless.
Despite all of those efforts, they still had to comply with the city of Austin’s declared shelter in place order. They devised a virtual workaround after a week. All I have to do is register for the classes I want to attend, then click on the link they send 15 minutes prior to class.
Every day at noon, I take either a 60-minute Bikram class, a 60-minute Inferno Hot Pilates class, a 90-minute Ashtanga class, or a 90-minute Intermediate Bikram class. This has been the easiest yoga challenge ever. Absolutely amazing how easily one can attend a daily yoga class in one own’s living room when there’s next to no social life–only prolonged social distancing.
Having a midday mediative activity has truly helped me stay focused and not drown in time. My days are divided into “before yoga class” and “after yoga class.” And thanks to working from home Monday through Friday, I still have a sense of the weekends.
Nonetheless, walking outside, even if it’s merely taking the long route to and from checking the mail, has become far more precious than it’s ever been. I know the air is cleaner these days, but seeing new things in 3D, rather than on a 2D screen has been wonderful.
For Earth 2.0, or however one’s keeping track, daily meditation will continue long after the shelter in place. As a matter of fact, all the fanciful illusion that smokescreens reality will be confined in fictional works. Let’s see if the rest of my fellow Americans will follow suit.
The League of Women Voters’ latest sponsored documentary was “Backpack Full of Cash.” Even though I no longer teach, I still support public schools. This particular documentary essentially showed how big business has made an enormous effort to privatize education through charters and kill public schools.
After the documentary, there was a panelist discussion,
where a moderator rifled through the collection of audience questions and three experts responded: a charter school administrator, a researcher who knew local Texas public school statistics and another expert who knew Texas statewide statistics.
Although the charter school panelist (CSP) was brave to appear, she seemed physically uncomfortable and always allowed the other two panelists to answer the questions first, ensuring that she’d be set up to give a defensive response. Not only did the documentary make charter schools look horrible, but so did two out of three panelists.
Since the movie theatre we were in served food and drink, where moviegoers could write down orders on conveniently located pieces of paper with the provided pens, I took notes (in bold) on some points that stood out to me during the movie and the panel discussion.
One part of the documentary showed a charter school where they teach creationism as the truth, evolution as a myth and that dinosaurs coexisted with humans. They also believed in corporal punishment, but the only one who should have been paddled was the white principal and not any of his black students who’re learning about fucking creationism as if they don’t have enough challenges being poor and black. As I reflect on this note, the only one I took during the documentary, I recall how neatly dressed and well behaved the all-black student body were as they were being intellectually set back. I can only hope that being literate will lead them to read the truth at some point. I also wondered where were the poor white students. Would creationism be taught as the truth if they were present?
I knew my question, which wasn’t really a question, wouldn’t be read since it was too heavy a topic, but glaringly obvious: “Please respond to the following comment: Equitable funding in education will never occur until we get rid of the concept of ‘race,’ which is a social construction that severely limits resources for people of color.” Yet I shared that with the one panelist whose answers resonated with me the most. She totally agreed and said she’d talk about race all day long. Too bad the moderator merely stuck with the topic of lack of funding without asking a single question about race. Throughout the documentary, people of color were shown reacting to and protesting against public school funding being reduced while the most enthusiastic people about establishing more charter schools were wealthy white people, including Jeb Bush. Yet not one mention of race during the panelist discussion.
One local charter school used to expel students if they didn’t come to school “prepared and ready to learn.” Imagine how many “undesirable” students could be eliminated with such a nebulous policy. Those would be the students who consumed many resources, either through the need for specialists or more contact time due to behavior. Those are the students who may lower the prestige of the charter since they may not score as well on the almighty standardized tests. Those are the students most in need of innovative teaching.
Charters are not locally accountable since their boards are private. Essentially, charters can do whatever they want without consulting with the public even though they are funded by public money.
SPEDs (Special Education students) cost districts twice as much, which is part of the reason charter schools get rid of them. It’s amazing how the public still hasn’t made the connection between underserving a special needs population through education, then incarcerating them later on. The community should protest with outrage every time special education funding is reduced.
Charter schools don’t have to admit students with discipline problems. This is also known as “cherry picking.” One would think that charter schools produced spectacular results as much as they cherry pick. Only about a third of them perform better than regular public schools, which accepts all students.
Charter schools don’t “backfill,” so if students want to join in the upper grades, they cannot. Lower grades have far more students and the senior class is very small. Charter schools only want students who have a proven track record at their school. Once a charter school weeds out the undesirables, they don’t want to spend additional resources on unknowns.
CSP looked physically ill throughout the entire conversation and wanted everyone to stop pitting charters against traditional public schools. How ironic that she wanted us to stop saying negative things about charter schools when the presence of charter schools drains money from public schools, and concentrates students who need the most resources in public schools.
CSP wanted to throw magnet schools under the bus as well if charter schools won’t be allowed to turn students away. Classic misery enjoys company.
Charter schools can simply fill out a short amendment form, which allows them to open a charter anywhere without any local notice or input although local tax payers fund them 100% and have no say in the matter.
CSP stated that in DC, when charter schools opened, both the traditional and charters thrived academically, but she couldn’t give a local example of such a phenomenon and the other two panelists looked dubious when they heard the claim.
A Yale study looked at how charter school graduates had a harder time adapting to open-ended situations more than graduates of traditional schools.
A more productive use of charter schools would be to teach the hardest student population. I could’ve leapt out of my seat when my favorite panelist said this. Yet, unfortunately, I believe the probability of charter schools going in this direction is as likely as the United States resigning its concept of “race.”
Charters should have a 10-yr wind down where the lab shuts down and the experimental charter school shares their best practices with traditional schools as the founders of charter schools originally intended. Again, my favorite panelist suggested another dream that has yet to come true–charter schools functioning as they were originally intended, as centers of educational innovation.
As part of my MLK weekend celebration, I visited the Neill-Cochran House Museum.
Here’s how I know I’m not a journalist: of all the pictures I took on the inside of this house museum, I took nary a picture of the outside of the museum.
Throughout the museum, there were porcelain art pieces.
Had I actually read the signs that I took pictures of throughout the house, I would’ve made sure to take more than a mental picture of all the objects mentioned.
Hiding a gun in a Bible? How Texan.
Of course, this was my favorite room.
I figured I could’ve used the materials to add to the word wall installation.
Yet I felt more in the mood to take pictures than anything else.
Without really saying, “Build a wall,” this decorative wall of words repurposed that chant.
The following was my favorite construction:
How serendipitous that two girls entered this room when I did.
Throughout my tour, I made sure not to include other people in my shots. I felt these young ladies were appropriate to the photo composition.
This porcelain piece, which represented the doll Topsy Turvey, stimulated so many thoughts:
the black doll following a European standard of beauty with blue eyes; the capitalist’s pursuit of money covering their bases with a black and a white doll; how black and white people fates are invariably intertwined; how these dolls represented the enslaver’s half daughters.
Too bad every trip to a museum doesn’t conclude with a live performance like this one.
The contemporary griot entertained us with a humorous and lively narrative, detailing the history of the house. Mainly how the whites who owned it and the architect who designed it are known, but the nameless faceless slave labor will only be known by creating such a long-lasting work of beauty.
This is how I know I’m fostering my circle of friends well:
one of them planned a Mad Hatter party for her 40th birthday. Not only did I dash into my closet, which is half costumes, to retrieve my Mad Hatter attire, but I rummaged through my boxes of creative fodder to Mad Hatterly wrap a gift for her.
Although she’d messaged me pictures of her costume and wig,
seeing the whole thing all put together in the flesh was fabulous. Look how that wrapped gift looks at home in her hands!
I didn’t think I’d have an opportunity to dress up so soon at the start of 2020.
I’m so happy I’m not the only middle aged adult who still nourishes her inner child.
Even the birthday cake, made of moist dark chocolate, set the scene.
Yet I avoided the cupcake tree.
Although my inner child would have loved it, my outer middle ager acknowledged she could no longer consume vast amounts of sugar in one setting.
The funniest thing about the tea party was we sipped a variety of beverages, and not one of them were actually tea!
The teapot was full of adult punch and the ceramic teacups were full of drink snacks.
These two were truly belles of the ball: the birthday girl’s aunt and mother.
These ladies had so much fun, they changed outfits and hats several times throughout the evening.
Technically, this wasn’t part of the Mad Hatter decor, but I have a soft spot for bathroom poetry.
By far the most intriguing drink snack was the lemon shots.
Not only were they delicious, they were environmentally sound.
Everyone dug out all their fun clothes for the evening.
The youngest partygoer definitely brought the cuteness.
As other decked out partygoers arrived, party aunt did her brand of photobombing.
Notice how cleverly this couple’s costume concept was brought together with adult punch.
The inner princess came out while playing a drinking game.
Since we were mostly experienced adults,
no one objected to the rule of sipping one’s beverage instead of taking a full shot.
Periodically, hats changed since there was a large bag of them to parade around in.
I managed to get one picture of the princess by herself.
Followed by her aunt and mother, who never seemed to wear the same outfit or hat in any given picture.
At my direction, all the men were rounded up for their group picture.
Here was the first attempt at the all women’s picture.
Then again.
And another because I wanted to make sure my leggings were in the shot.
The two birthday women assumed the position to blow out the candles.
Superstitious or not, I hope their wishes come true.
So many hats. I placed a nearby hat on the decorative skull.
Only when I reviewed the pictures later on did I actually see the cigarettes and lighter. What an intriguing story this picture tells.
Again, at my direction,
the music changed to reflect something the birthday girl would actually dance to despite the fact she doesn’t really like to dance. But of course, the true dancing queen was the aunt.
After 7 years of producing my monthly spoken word and storytelling show, The Austin Writers Roulette, I was ready to call it quits. Yet, Austin’s unofficial mayor of poetry sweet talked and flattered me into producing it for an 8th year. I split the difference and made this year bimonthly, thinking I may continue for a couple of years with that schedule.
What a difference a few months make! I started selling CBD in July with the hope of building up the business enough to generate residual income. One thing the company encouraged us to do was share our personal experiences with taking the products. Watching the training videos motivated me to provide a platform to share other people’s CBD narratives via podcasting.
When I announced my intention to end the Roulette to my family, one of my sisters flipped out. “But that’s your baby!” All healthy babies grow up. Besides, it’s better to end an event on a high note than to let it fizzle out to an embarrassing end.
Instead of stating any of the above, I said, “Shut up. You’ve never even watched an episode!” One of the most wonderful aspects of The Roulette’s fourth and longest venue, Malvern Books, was that they videotaped all events. So, no matter the size of the audience, the performances live on the internet until society collapses.
Next thing I know, my sister informed me that she was coming out for a long weekend in order to attend the grand finale. Just like her to invite herself–something I reminded her of nearly every day during her brief visit.
As soon as I picked her up from the airport, we went to my favorite costume shop to get contrasting outfits. My favorite staff member decked us out to resemble Louisianan conjure women, complete with binding us so tightly in corsets, they could have doubled as back braces.
Afterwards, we visited a few other stores down the street en route to the car,
including a tiny home remodeled as a store to showcase Louisianan jewelry, followed by a boot store my sister hadn’t shopped the first time she visited me. One of the saleswomen shared a story from her life about Louisiana. (That state again!) She’d become a huge fan of the New Orleans Saints after Hurricane Katrina.
Prior to her visit, I’d asked my sister which vegetarian recipe she wanted me to prepare. She requested that I surprise her. I knew that raw onions gave her gas. When I asked her if she could eat cooked onions, she told me that onions in general gave her gas, but she could still eat them. (Uh, no you can’t.)
So, after shopping, we returned home where I made a scrumptious linguini dish with roasted cauliflower, walnuts, garlic, and capers. I grated pecorino over my pasta, which completed the flavor bouquet, but she went without the cheese.
I’d also bought my favorite specialty red wine infused with habanero peppers since I’d wanted her to try it the last time I’d visited, but we couldn’t find it at any liquor store in her neck of the woods. Yet, my sister, who’d actually graduated from college, somehow didn’t understand how cocktails worked.
On her flight, she had not one, but TWO rum cranberries. Even the guy who sat beside her told her that she should have a vodka cranberry, but she ignored his advice and ordered the second one. Now, her stomach felt funny. At least she liked the pasta and managed a sip of the specialty wine, which she thought tasted better than my usual wine choice: Malbec.
Friday morning, we dined at a trendy breakfast/lunch place. A Meetup group I belong to had eaten there, but I refused to wait in a long line on the weekend. We walked right in and the host sat us in a cozy little booth. I ordered off the holiday menu. (Yes, that IS a giant marshmallow.)
My only regret was not trying a breakfast cocktail since I never consume alcohol before a Bikram yoga class.
Afterwards, we took a long walk along Lady Bird lake. I thought the trail was mostly paved, but as we soon discovered, most of the trail west of I-35 to the Stevie Ray Vaughn statue was dirt. My sister wanted to walk back through the city on the sidewalk because she was wearing “the wrong shoes.” They were comfortable flats, but made of cloth. That latter part made them wrong in her mind since they would be more challenging to clean. After living in Austin a decade, I’d forgotten that some part of the world cared how clean their casual shoes were.
Since we were an hour too early to go to yoga, we ended up parking at an upscale grocery store to use the bathroom. To kill time, we browsed in stores so posh that I felt I was on an anthropological outing, seeing how the other people, including my sister, live.
My sister’s first yoga challenge turned out being her desire to wear jewelry and lipstick to class. She removed most of the jewelry except earrings and her wedding band, but I couldn’t convince her to wipe off the lipstick. Our little spat amused the other yogis in the women’s locker room.
During the 60-minute class, she lasted for all of the standing series and half of the floor series, becoming so hot that she couldn’t catch her breath. After class, she sat outside the room to cool off. I added an electrolyte to her water. For all that heat, she hadn’t broken a sweat, which amazed me. She then shared that when she ran track in high school, the coaches always made sure she drank a lot of water because she never sweated.
She took so long showering that I waited for her outside only to discover she’d spent a lot of time looking for one of her earrings. Again, why the hell would anyone wear jewelry to exercise? Not to mention lipstick. The 90-min Bikram class on Sunday was out of the question.
For years, I’ve ordered two dozen tamales from a nonprofit’s fundraiser. For some inexplicable reason, they only allow individuals a two-hour window on a Friday to pick them up. So with my sister still freaking out with Bikram after effects and earring loss, I convinced her to get into the car to pick up the tamales. Just as I pulled out of the parking space, she had an epiphany: she’d snagged one of her ears with the shower cap. (Yes, a woman with cornrows STILL wore a shower cap!) She wanted to hop out and check her gym bag. Since I’d already recovered from my “yoga brain” fog, I reasoned that if the earring was in her gym bag, it would still be there when we reached the nonprofit.
The clock was ticking to get the tamales. I knew we’d waste time in traffic. As soon as we arrived, she found the earring in the shower cap. Once we got home, we snacked on almonds and I did two loads of laundry before leaving for my favorite Mexican restaurant to meet a friend and her husband.
Light traffic allowed us some time to stop by a store where I bought envelops for my handmade Christmas cards. My sister bought her husband a Christmas card, but the store across the street intrigued her. When I told her what it was, her eyes lit up. Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to visit before dinner, which was why we shopped at the adult toy store after dinner.
She was like a kid in a candy store. And why not? She’d been married for 30 years. They deserved adult toys. Even though I pointed out the portable sex swing to facilitate anal sex, attachable to any doorjamb, my sister stuck with the more conservative edible underwear, lube and sexy outfit.
Saturday morning, we returned to my usual yoga studio to take Inferno Hot Pilates although I’d kept referring to it as only “pilates.” The heat surprised her as soon as we walked it. At least she’d left most of her jewelry at home and wore no lipstick. Progress. Once again, toward the end, the heat started making her dizzy. Although Bikram hadn’t made her sweat, pilates did.
We ate lunch while watching back episodes of “Watchmen,” which brought her up-to-date for its regular Sunday night airing. After finishing the laundry, we travelled quite a distance, which was still considered Austin, to a hemp-tasting. We arrived early since traffic wasn’t bad, but ended up being the only two there out of 18 RSVPs.
Nonetheless, my ulterior motive had been to line up an interview with the owner of the company for an upcoming podcast. From what I learned about her during that tasting, she had an amazing story. Also, now my sister and I had the same shared experience of trying CBD for the first time with their chocolate. Her workout pain disappeared minutes after the tasting.
We transversed the city again to a shopping village, which she and her husband had visited nearly 10 years ago. It had been a few stores on a strip back then. We didn’t find what she wanted, but I bought an inexpensive wrap since the sun had set, plunging the temperature rapidly. Out of sheer hunger, we ate at the nearest restaurant, which turned out to be a hit.
Since there was no way in hell my sister would take the 90-minute Bikram class with me, I came straight home after yoga on Sunday and forgot to pick up costumes. She accompanied me to the costume shop. Along the way, a monk, who had a bunch of books, accosted me on the sidewalk. I firmly said no thanks, but once we headed back to the car with our costumes, he approached me again.
This time, I chose a book, whipped out my change purse to dump its contents into his hand and out plopped two cents. My sister augmented the donation with her pocket change.
After lunch, we fought with those damn corsets and didn’t go too crazy with the makeup.
Instead, I draped a necklace across my forehead, which looked interesting, but I fought with it off and on until the very end–it was the first casualty after the show.
Once at the venue but prior to showtime, my sister acted as if she was a wedding photographer, taking pictures with me and of me, and other rouletters, even wonderful candid shots.
I dealt myself quite a hand for the grand finale: announcing one-line introductions for the artists and timing them; handing out the heartfelt cards I’d decorated and written for them; and taking pictures of them for the blog. Once the show ended, I knew I’d done the best I could.
Some of us parked at a fancy restaurant across the street from the venue. My sister and I graced the place with our costumes, but still couldn’t get an inside table nor a discount. Some other rouletters joined us at an outdoor table. Fortunately, the weather cooperated.
After a breakfast of leftovers and tamales on Monday, I conducted a 10-min interview with my sister. I was pleasantly surprised that the settings I’d stumbled across the week before still worked, along with the aggregate device I’d set up. This reduced preproduction time down considerably.
I then whisked her off to the airport, returned the costumes, went to the bank and dragged myself to my desk to log on and work. As I cycled through the queued up calls, I knew The Roulette wouldn’t be the only thing I’d end.
When one of my friends confessed to having a gun phobia, other friends and I rallied to support her. Only one of us had actually grown up around guns since her stepfather had taught her how to hunt since age 8. The rest of us just believed, since we were all very cerebral academics, that nothing should be feared when clearly becoming more educated about a fear was more productive.
Hence, “Chicks with Clicks.”
The Hunter asked her gun enthusiast/instructor friend, who owned property outside of Austin, if he’d show us the basics of gun safety. Through email, we pinpointed a date, the firearms we wanted to practice with, potluck items for lunch afterwards, and confirmed that The Chicks with Clicks would buy and split the cost of the ammo.
A few weeks later, The Hunter arranged a time when The Chicks with Clicks would meet and shop for ammo.
Of course, nothing happens with us without food; so we first met for brunch prior to ammo shopping, which I referred to as “Brunch and Bullets.” (Yes, there was a corny theme that ran throughout the soul of this endeavor, but I’ve not captured all the “gun puns.”)
So, our bullet brunch discussion included the fact that .22 ammo fit in both handguns and rifles. The Hunter stated we were much better off starting with a rifle. That last part was counterintuitive for my novice self only because I thought the kickback from a rifle would be more challenging to deal with than a handgun. The Hunter air demonstrated how one’s wrist allowed a lot of flexibility, which meant that the barrel of a gun could theoretically point anywhere. A rifle, when properly positioned against the user’s shoulder of the dominant hand, had a more predictable direction for the barrel.
As a matter of fact, the most common direction of a rifle barrel once a novice user pulled the trigger was involuntarily raising it up. Plus, the wrist flexibility was greatly controlled, making it at least safer in terms of knowing where the bullet would go after the trigger was pulled.
After brunch, we drove a mere 5 minutes down the road to shop for ammo.
The Hunter led us to the aisle. Since we planned to practice with a handgun, a rifle and a shotgun, we needed 3 different types of ammo. As The Hunter looked on her phone for the size of ammo needed, I dashed off to the firearm counter to ask one of the two employees to help us.
The younger of the two men followed me to where my friends stood. Although I already knew that shotguns used shells, and handguns and rifles used bullets, that was the extent of my ammo knowledge. He advised us to look for bullets that had brass casings since steel casings dirtied guns more. Besides, if there was a faulty bullet, steel casings would cause more damage to the gun due to pressure buildup than brass. For shotgun shells, one didn’t have to worry so much since there was more room within the shell to dissipate pressure.
Another consideration he brought to our attention was our environment. For example, since we were shooting targets on private land, we didn’t have to worry so much about which type of bullets we were using, but he normally steered people away from AR-15s for home protection. The justification was this: if you shot an intruder with an AR-15, the bullet would most likely go through the person and could potentially hit a loved one. A shotgun shell, on the other hand, would hit the intruder and its momentum would be greatly reduced by the impact.
He then added that hollow-tipped bullets were more likely to lodge into the intruder, but would be far more deadly. I’m sure we must have all pulled a face when he said that since he quickly added that it was far better for the intruder to get the brunt of the bullet than any loved one we were protecting. Nonetheless, we had no use for hollow-tipped bullets for this activity.
The Hunter told us about a “survival” shotgun she’d gifted for her husband on Father’s Day.
The user could breakdown the shotgun and store its parts in the buttstock. Intrigued, we walked over to the firearm counter and asked to see one. The employee wasn’t allowed to break it down for us, but he let us to hold it.
The Hunter took the opportunity to show us the proper way to hold a shotgun, especially where the non-dominant should go. At this point, an older man peeked around the corner with a big smile on his face. Initially, we all thought he was going to be an asshole, seeing four women gathered around the firearm counter. Blessedly, we were wrong.
First of all, this guy was a veteran who’d trained soldiers on how to properly handle and fire weapons. Not only that, he’d taught his own daughter the same thing. He informed us that the number one consideration we should look for in any firearm was comfort. If the weapon didn’t fit comfortably in our hands or rest comfortably against our shoulder, then we had the wrong one.
We doubled up on the ammo that we’d selected, then made our way to the checkout counter.
The Hunter made the actual purchase while the rest of us used a cash app to reimburse her for our quarter.
During this outing, we learned that The Hunter had invited her husband along. Then, Phobia asked if she could invite her boyfriend. After all, he’d taught his kids how to use guns and knives, and trained them in martial arts. We agreed that Phobia’s boyfriend could join us. Yet, we shot down the idea of changing our name to “Chicks with Clicks and Dicks.”
The day before the blessed event, I gassed up my car and picked up some libations.
The other Chicks with Clicks were texting and emailing what they would bring. I saved time by texting a picture of my basket at checkout.
We all met up at The Hunter’s house and caravanned to The Instructor’s property.
After a round of introductions, including two of The Instructor’s friends who’d brought their shotgun for us to try, The Chicks with Clicks took a group picture: Phobia, The Hunter, Alpha Tits (her own spontaneously minted nom de guerre), and me.
The lesson began with ear protection since everyone was already wearing shades or safety glasses.
We either wore disposable earplugs or hi-end durable ear protection, which was a bit overkill, given the firearms The Instructor had chosen for us to practice with weren’t too loud. Only Phobia’s boyfriend’s AR-15 seemed surprisingly loud since it lacked a suppressor.
Next, The Instructor went over safety pointers such as all weapons pointing down range;
all weapons being open with no magazines attached until loaded; loaded weapons with the safety on until aimed and ready to fire; having a proper, stable stance such that one could do a “booty dance” without moving the weapon; having proper hand placement.
Alpha Tits enthusiastically volunteered to be first to fire every weapon after The Instructor demo.
By some strange sense of pecking order, I was always second, usually followed by Phobia and graciously The Hunter went last.
While watching The Instructor demo our first rifle, a Ruger 10/22 with an AAC Suppressor .22lr, I noticed Phobia’s cringing posture: slouched back, curled fingers pressed against her mouth and lower jaw. I couldn’t visualize anyone with that posture handling a loaded weapon. I immediately stopped her by saying she had to adopt the Wonder Woman posture: back straight, shoulders squared, hands on hips.
The Instructor purposely started us off with the most user-friendly rifle, mounted on a table with a wonderfully powerful scope with crosshairs that visually lessened the 100 yards between us and the targets. With all that help from the setup, my biggest challenge was being too close to the scope. What I learned about a rifle scope was it differed from a microscope eyepiece. I started off too close to it. Minute movements on my part made the entire visual field dramatically move around. After commenting on that phenomenon, I received the advice to move my head farther back from the scope.
Then I overthought, pulled the trigger and nothing happened.
The rifle was a little dirty, so The Instructor cleared out the loaded bullet, I overthought some more, pulled the trigger and hit the target. I tried again only to discover that the magazine was empty, which gave me the opportunity to reload it. Once I put the magazine onto the rifle, The Instructor told me to smack it into place. So, I smacked it and heard rifle fire.
Perfectly timed to my smacking the magazine, Phobia’s boyfriend had fired his AR-15. I let him know in a not-so-gentle tone of voice that he had to warn us before he did his own thing. I took a few deep breaths, overthought, and managed to hit the target a few more times.
By the time Phobia took her turn, she seemed far more relaxed.
For The Hunter, this was just another outing of many outings she’d had in her lifetime with her family and now with us.
Not only did she shoot the beginner’s mounted rifle, but also tested out the .22 caliber survival rifle she’d gifted her husband.
And while the rest of us were practicing with rifles,
here was Phobia’s boyfriend set up on the same firing line to our left. At least he followed my sage advice and got our attention before he pulled the trigger.
Neither The Hunter nor her husband needed a gun safety course,
but they both agreed that it was a good skill to have and congratulated us on being proactive non-gun owners. After all, if the first time you’re around a gun is when there’s an active shooter, that’s too late.
Given the fact that I overthought my aim prior to pulling the trigger just to hit a stationary target,
I felt peer pressured to practice with this shotgun, a CZ Quail 20 gauge, to hit a moving target. Everyone kept telling me that since the shotgun’s owner was about to leave, I needed to try it before it was too late. I knew before I even said “pull” that that clay pigeon was in no danger. I loaded one shell, said “pull,” swung the shotgun in the direction of the moving target, and missed just as I knew I would. As a matter of fact, the only thing I hit was my right shade lens when ejecting the shell.
“Fuck this,” I grunted and handed the shotgun to its owner. I assured him it wasn’t his weapon; it was me. Definitely me.
At least I took an impressive picture with the shotgun. I texted it to my family. Mom commented, “You look like Granny (from the Beverly Hillbillies), looking for an opossum!” In real life, my maternal grandmother was a markswoman–a skill lost by my generation of suburbanites. By the time I came along, she only hunted with a fishing pole.
Once we got around to the custom AR-15 with an AAC 556 Suppressor,
no amount of comfortability or persuasion would bring Phobia to try it out. When asked why, she said that she had no reason to because it was a weapon of war. Not that I disagreed with her rationale, but I had to try it at least once since, for the past decade that I’d been living in Texas, this weapon, more so that any other, had been the symbol of Second Amendment rights.
I did my usual overthinking before pulling the trigger. Although I hit the target, the stench of ammonia from the rifle startled me.
To practice with the handguns (Rough Rider 22lr revolver,
Ruger Mark 23 in 22lr, Glock 34 in 9mm with a SilencerCo Osprey Suppressor), we moved closer to the targets, so we were only 15 yds away. At this point, I was starting to become hungry, and not for more gun practice. I’d snacked a little in between practice, but nothing takes the place of actually sitting down and eating.
I can’t remember if we practiced with the Glock first or second, but I definitely remember trying the revolver last. It turned out to be my favorite. None of the handguns felt particularly “right” in my hands, even with The Instructor correcting my hand placement. Yet, I liked the revolver since the weapon’s action meant that the user couldn’t just pull the trigger and many bullets fired away. Even loading it with 6 rounds took longer than loading more bullets into a magazine.
Despite Alpha Tits’ sheer enthusiasm, she kept aiming too high. Round after round, The Instructor told her to lower her aim. I couldn’t resist. “She can’t aim lower because she went to Yale!” She laughed and confirmed that all her life, she’d been told to aim high.
I was next and hit the target nearly every time. Of course I attributed that to going to a state school–Carolina, to be exact. Every other person who hit the target, then identified that he or she either attended a state school or community college.
My favorite part of the entire outing came at the end: lunch.
After wiping off the front porch table twice, we all dressed the table with pre-prepared foods from our local grocery stores along with adult beverages. All of us sat around the large community table and ate and drank, firing off lively conversation.
Libations never tasted so good. We’d truly worked up an appetite.
The combination of giddiness and concentration had taken a toll on my energy. I’m so happy I hadn’t planned to do anything afterwards since I didn’t know how long we’d practice.
I’m still not convinced that I need to be a gun owner, but I’m far more interested in learning more about both the culture and the legislation of guns. I know there’s a happier medium between the two extremes being bandied.
I recycled my Princess Leia costume for the company White Out party that many people kept referring to as the “White Only” party.
I didn’t bother correcting anyone or pointing out the double entendre since I’d driven nearly 4 hours and had a hot second to check into my room, shower and change into costume. Yet my newly purchased off-white platform shoes didn’t fit as well as I’d thought when I’d tried them on in the store. I could only shuffle in them since they were tethered together. I knew they were about a size too big, but better than being a size too small, right?
I made the best out of my mullet to make the Princess Leia buns,
but they were lower than normal and didn’t quite convey what I wanted.
Even though there was a sea of people wearing white, I found the Austin tribe.
I’d only seen most of them twice before. I joined their standing table after making a Mac n cheese with coleslaw plate since the buffet had run out of the cooked vegetables and meat. I’d waited in line for a drink first, then waited after I’d made my plate, but in the end, I had to make a second trip to get the rest of my meal.
In the meantime, I smiled through it all and talked with the Zilis Austin crew. Once I finished eating and replenished my lipstick, I joined them on the deck for our group picture. I left soon after the group picture with all the Zilis White Out participants and as much dancing as I dared. I walked as gingerly as I could in those platforms.
I seriously thought I’d be on time for the Saturday morning session, but I’d slept so well that I arrived late for breakfast. It was a shame to eat such a delicious meal in a hurry, but at least I spoke with Mom and one of my sisters who thinks she’s my mother.
The greatest part of going to a conference by myself was when I showed up to a session late, I eventually found a singleton seat. After all my seat hunting, I still ended up just a row behind the Zilis Austin group.
I’d focused so much energy on finding shoes to go with my Princess Leia costume, I’d forgotten to pack anything nice for the awards gala. I got lucky with finding a dress at the hotel on sale and my size. That sales rack was full of size 6s and XLs. There were only 3 dresses that were around my size. By a sheer stroke of luck, the best choice turned out to be Zilis blue, but I didn’t notice that at the time.
I changed into my workout clothes, took 5 minutes worth of steps on a stairmaster and then rode 20 minutes on a reclining bike. Later, I took a shower and enjoyed a much deserved nap prior to the Booze and Schmooze.
I didn’t mean to cut in line.
I’d just approached the photo display from the other side. At least I played it off by talking to some women from Kansas and Arkansas as I chose which sign I wanted to pose with. Then, the line slowed down for some reason and I made my move with one of my new found friends as the photographer.
As soon as I finished my solo photoshoot, the other part of the Zilis Austin group showed up.
We reunited with the others in the drink line, of course.
We enjoyed a delicious meal during the marathon awards ceremony. I enthusiastically clapped during the first 2 hours, especially when members of my table were recognized for moving up in rank. By the time dessert came, I was ready to dance. Yet, the awards continued. I’m not saying that people shouldn’t have been recognized, I just think the high school diploma style of passing out awards needed to be reworked.
I enjoyed watching the video clips of the Diamond-ranked ambassadors. If the awards ceremony had ended there, I would have been a happy camper. Yet, I had to contain myself to chair dancing to the music between awards.
The real saving grace was talking with my Zilis Austin crew. All the plans we made–I hope it wasn’t all the wine! I thought how funny it was we had to go hours out of town just to strategize our next steps.
Once the awards ceremony finally concluded, a few tables had already cleared out and a slow herd made their way to the door. I refused to leave. I hadn’t waited that long to dance out of the room to Sister Sledge’s “We Are Family,” which was then followed up by Michael Jackson’s “Annie Are You OK.”
I made my way onto the main stage where the DJ was and told him the deal. “Dude, I just sat through a 10-hour awards ceremony. I wanna dance outta here to a real dance song.” He said he was just playing what had been requested, but he understood. I blew him some air kisses, which he returned.
My posse of ladies, who stayed behind with me, danced a few steps on our nearest dance floor to Missy Elliot.
Although it was tempting, I restrained trying to straddle the saddle, especially in my new dress.
I planned to get my money’s worth with that dress; so no wild and crazy stuff for the first wearing.
I drove back to Austin just dreaming of how I’d take my CBD business to the next level: one-on-one practice presentations with friends. One valuable lesson I’d learned was that a bad presentation was better than no presentation!
I only send a group email itinerary to celebrate my birthday when my new age ends in a “0” or “5,”
so turning 49 was a low-key celebration, where I texted a few friends for fish and chips at an English-styled restaurant.
We enjoyed dinner so much, that we took no pictures.
We managed to take a picture of dessert, Guiness Chocolate Cake, since our feeding frenzy had slowed down to “normal.”
A third friend showed up just for drinks and presented me with gift.
All I really wanted was the pleasure of her company, but I’m always happy read a friend-recommended book.
The restaurant gifted me with another dessert, which I saved for a few days later.
My older, wiser self knew better than to load up on desserts all on one day.
On the day of my actual birth, I woke up early–
or a Saturday–for my usual Inferno Hot Pilates class and took a birthday picture with the teacher before hand. She had the nerve to ask if I would wear my tiara during class. Uh, no. Not trying to worry about looking cute during a grueling session. Plus, her idea of celebrating my birthday was to mention it several times with a smile while turning up the challenge level. Hopefully, surviving her class was foreshadowing for being up to the challenge of a new trip around the sun.
After regrouping at home, I went to a massage appointment. I’d met the masseuse while getting dressed in the yoga locker room the day before. We hit it off because she used to work for the first CBD company whose products I’d tried. I told her briefly about the CBD that I sell. When we walked out together, a yoga instructor wished me happy birthday. The masseuse immediately offered me a birthday massage for 50% off. We compared schedules in the parking and found a compatible time on my actual blessed day.
Rounding out my special day, I attended a baby shower.
My friend was well aware that it was my birthday and told me to stop by for cake. Dessert #2 the second day in a row! We message one another Monday through Friday since we both work for the same company, but from our respective homes; so it’s wonderful when we see one another in person. Plus, another coworker came up from San Antonio, which was quite a haul since she lived farther away than I and it had taken me nearly an hour.
But check out the mermaid chocolate cake!
I’m so happy the woman who cut it only gave people either a top or bottom half.
And no baby shower would be complete without the happy parents to be for the second time around.
Months ago, a friend of mine invited me to participate in a literary event, which included submitting several pieces to a juried magazine. As usual, I’d been juggling a lot of other things at the time and looked for several reasons to decline since participation involved an overnight trip. After he sent me a copy of last year’s magazine, however, I was convinced.
At least I didn’t have to write any new pieces, thanks to past essays I’d written for the Austin Writers Roulette. As a matter of fact, I submitted pictures of myself in the costume that accompanied those essays. I sent more than what was needed just to give them a selection to choose from and, of course, because my writing, in some circles, may be considered a little controversial.
Fast forward to the first Wednesday in September. Allegedly, GPS doesn’t navigate well to my friend’s house. Plus, he had to send me a picture of his house since he’d planted large shrubs in front for privacy. Oh, and the name on his mailbox isn’t his.
So, he emailed me his best recollection of the driving directions,
but following them was more like a scavenger hunt. I had to call him twice for clarification because the terrain didn’t match the instructions. I wasn’t going to stop and ask anyone.
My general philosophy about living in Texas has been that I live in Austin, which happened to be in Texas like a liberal island, surrounded by a sea of conservatism. I drive around the greater Austin area and occasionally Houston, and fly in and out of Austin, but never in the 10 years of being an Austinite have I driven to a Texan podunk town.
My nervousness about driving out of the liberal oasis manifested in thinking that one of my tires seemed a little wonky. I kept praying that I wouldn’t have a blowout since I didn’t want to suddenly have to discover just how racist people were if my car broke down.
Once I pulled into my friend’s driveway, instead of getting out of the car, as I would have normally done, I called him to verify that I was in the right place. I described his truck and his grown son’s car because, as I joked with him, “I sure in the hell don’t want to knock on the wrong white person’s front door!”
He gifted me a bottle of red wine, not merely because I’m a red wine drinker,
but he thought it was funny to give a former math teacher wine that had “Trig” in its name. I was more than ready to have a glass of wine once I arrived although I had a glass of merlot that was already opened along with a grandma’s slice of homemade chicken pot pie.
Then, I brushed my teeth, washed my face and changed into a dress that accompanied one of the things I’d planned to read at the literary event. My friend and one of his NY poet friends were also reading during our shared 45-min segment. I teased my friend about importing two black women for this thing. He told me that black people only made up about 1% of the population; however, he needn’t have added the Klan rally stories he “entertained” us with on the drive over to the event.
Even the poet shared how her grown children had advised her to call them periodically because they feared her being in the middle of Klan country. We were all banking on the fact that since this literary event was sponsored by a university, we’d have a liberal audience.
Once we arrived, we set up our books in the reception area. Fortunately, the walls were pillow padded since they regularly displayed art. I’d bought push pins to hang up my poster.
We walked across the yard to the conservatory building where we’d perform.
Although we arrived a few minutes “late,” the organizers were still putting the final touches on the tech equipment. I’d only seen the computer and projector, but the last performer actually used a microphone, which would have been a good option for all of us had we’d known about it.
Together, we represented a variety of creative forms:
poetry, music, clothing, essays and paintings.
My friend started off by explaining how his two books were published by a small press,
in which his NY poet friend appeared in both and I appeared in the second.
She read some beat style poetry to my friend’s flute improvisations.
Then, it was my turn. Normally, I’m not too nervous to perform, but I worried that this audience may have been far too conservative to appreciate my liberal bent. So, I eased into it.
First, I explained that the 12-doll pattern cutouts of curly Afro’d women represented the 12 generations of mothers in my lineage. Then I read the accompanying piece, “All-Knowing Mother,” a Mother’s Day tribute to the generations of black women’s mother wit. Toward the end of the piece, it laments about how much of their knowledge had been lost during the time blacks were not legally allowed to be literate. If any conservative member of the audience winced at my references to slavery, I didn’t detect it.
Instead, I segued to my next reading selection by saying, “If nothing in that first piece shocked you, then surely this will.” I explained that my first novel was a racy story about a woman looking for Mr. Right and still being smart about it. I tested the waters by reading the first sentence in the book. I paused after nervous laughter broke out when I said, “vibrator.” I eyed the crowd and asked, “Shall I continue?” They laughed again, so I continued.
After a few short paragraphs, I read one sentence with so much gusto that I merely had to dramatically pause and look at the audience again for them to fill in the blank of the male body part that I hadn’t said. More laughter. By the time I got to the phrase “cock block,” the audience was prepared to hear a vulgar action verb.
I’d only read the first page and a half from my book, but I’d worked it for every glorious, scandalized word and thought it conveyed. The audience greatly rewarded my performance with their clapping. At that point, I had completely forgotten my paranoia of reading in a conservative part of Texas.
During intermission, a woman beat a path to me. Not only did she buy the copy of the book that I’d read from, but we had a very touching conversation about how she strongly identified with the whole pursuit of love and still have a sense of integrity. We also talked about the writing process. I only gave her two pieces of advice: consider self-publishing to minimize the gate keepers and definitely pay to have professional editors tear her manuscript apart. I admitted to paying 2 different editors before I published Tribe.
Once the event was over, the host’s father approached me, saying that he loved my dress, but unfortunately couldn’t hear what I was reading. I reached into my purse, and gifted him the print out of “All-Knowing Mother.”
In the reception area, one of the servers confessed that many of them had thumbed through my book and had thoroughly enjoyed my writing. After so many years of not reading from Tribe to an audience, I was as entertained by their discovery of this story as they were to the story itself.
I paired a glass of red wine with a chocolate and coconut dessert, magic bars, that Mom used to make when I was growing up and sat down beside a woman who turned out to be the writer in residence for the university that sponsored the literary event.
Throughout our conversation, newly won fans of Tribe paid me for a copy of the book and handed it to me to sign. Experience definitely pays off. Instead of asking them their name, I personalized it by writing everyone a unique message, signing my name, and dating it. No more worrying about if I spelled their name correctly.
Once we returned to my friend’s house, we ate more savory food since the reception was more of a dessert and drink event. I didn’t mind starting with dessert first, but that didn’t do much for actual hunger. Afterwards, I showered and went to bed. I was happy that they were also ready to go to bed. Normally, I wouldn’t have gone to bed quite that early, but after worrying while driving and worrying before reading, I was more than ready to rest for the drive back the following morning.
I’d repeatedly said that I wasn’t getting up early and I didn’t. At least for me. I got up my normal time, ate breakfast, packed up and had brushed my teeth before my friend woke and asked if he should make me breakfast. Ha! At that point, all I needed to do was put my things in the car and drive home.
Since I’d just driven there in less than 24 hours ago,
the route was still fresh in my mind and I had no problem reversing the trip–except for when I came upon a slow procession. At first I couldn’t make out what I was seeing because I couldn’t readily process a fishing trawler traveling by land. With police escorts in the front and wing cars on either side. That entourage delayed me by at least an hour.
Even so, I didn’t stop off to gas up my car until I got to Georgetown. I figured that was close enough to Austin that my presence wouldn’t trigger a “gassing up while black” interaction.
I’m well aware that just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean that nothing would have happened had the general population known of my presence. I’m just happy nothing bad happened and I got to share my work with people who had not previously heard of me.
