Category: Special Events

Calcium Dust

When I needed a follow up to my standard mammogram, first thing that crossed my mind was, “Yay! I get to to take some more time off.” Up until that point, I hadn’t taken any time off unless I had a doctor’s appointment. A strong contrast to the days when I was a classroom teacher, which was the most stressful job I’ve ever had and needed the time off for survival, mental/physical health and the such.

With my current full-time job, which I work from home, it’s not that stressful, so my paid time off just accrues without me paying much attention to it. Celebrating time off was more at the forefront of my mind than worrying that something was wrong.

After all, many years ago, I’d had a follow up mammogram because my breasts were “fibrous,” or something like that. It’s apparently common in Black women. I figured the doctor was being cautious since I’d not had a mammogram in a long time. So long in fact, that they couldn’t even use my last one as a baseline. I had no idea that I needed one every year.

After the second mammogram, I became worried when they called me into a consultation room, asking if someone else had accompanied me to the clinic. No health care professional had ever asked me that question before.

The doctor and technician who’d conducted the mammogram explained to me that the results showed calcifications in my right breast. Showing my sheer ignorance about breast cancer, I questioned why I had any calcifications if I’d never breastfed. As a matter of fact, I’d never been pregnant.

The technician answered as if I had not just asked a stupid question, telling me that breastfeeding had nothing to do with it.

She and the doctor led me to another room where we looked at the mammogram images. Even though the images enlarged the 5mm area of my right breast where the calcifications were, they still looked like specks of dust.

As they explained the next step to me, I stared at that suspicious calcium dust with dread. If we hadn’t been in a pandemic caused by something even smaller than the specks that I saw, I would have marveled that something that couldn’t even be detected by a regular breast exam could curtail my life.

We returned to the consultation room where they explained what a stereoscopic biopsy was. I’d lie facedown on a table that had a hole in it where my breast would hang from. They’d apply a local anesthetic, followed by a series of injections of the anesthetic before the removal of the suspicious calcifications. At the end of the procedure, the doctor would leave a metallic maker just so in the future, depending on the results, they can return to the spot and retrieve the rest of the calcifications if they turned out to be cancerous.

Before sending me on my way, they assured me there was only a 20% chance that the calcifications were cancerous. Even with those odds, I don’t gamble because I see myself as having bad luck.

At that point, I moved through a fog of worry. I only told two people about my upcoming procedure: one of my sisters and a good friend. From there on out, the rest of life’s worries washed over me.

One thing that I needed after the biopsy was a tight-fitting bra, so my right breast wouldn’t move around much. Coincidentally, I’d already planned to go bra shopping with that same friend.

A lot of back and forth occurred to get the biopsy scheduled because my primary doctor’s office either left a vital part of the faxed form blank, or what was written couldn’t be clearly read, or there was a missing signature. That was cleared up after nearly a week and three attempts.

The day of my biopsy, I drove there by myself, thinking that I’d get the result before I left. That didn’t happen.

Before I talking to a technician, I checked in with the front desk. Part of the process was to pay for the procedure upfront. I’m not sure what would have happened if I couldn’t have put the charge on my credit card. Would I have been as good as dead at that moment? One thing I noticed was the increasing cost with every procedure.

The initial mammogram was 100% covered by my insurance. The follow up procedure cost $160, which was covered by my HSA card. This latest procedure cost nearly $1000. Since I’d recently used my HSA card, I barely had over $100 on it. At that point, I was still grateful that it lowered the amount going on my credit card.

As the EMT previewed the procedure, I kept thinking I couldn’t literally afford to have breast cancer. No one wants cancer, but to have it and not be able to afford the treatment…would I be yet another sick American with a gofund me page for treatment?

I tried to temper my anxiety. After all, going with the odds, I’d be in the 80% who didn’t have breast cancer. Another cheerful statistic was emblazoned on the side of the bag the tech had given me to put my clothes in: 98% survival rate for women diagnosed with early stage breast cancer by a mammogram.

There should have been an asterisk with that statistic, stating if one could afford the treatment.

If my mind was preoccupied with not being able to afford cancer treatment that vanished once the procedure began. I lay on my stomach with my exposed right breast hanging from a hole in the examination table that had been raised a few feet.

The time between the local anesthetic being applied to my breast and being pierced with a sharp object seemed like a few seconds. As a matter of fact, I’d started quietly crying before being pierced. The position I was lying in, along with my breast being held in place with vise grips was so uncomfortable, I knew the whole contraption had been designed by men.

Yet, I hadn’t screamed in pain until the piercing. From the beginning, the doctor assured me that more anesthetic was being injected. All I could feel was my breast being pinched very hard. At one point, the doctor sounded impatient, stating that noting was being done. I could have slapped him. Despite nothing being done on his part, I still felt a pinching sensation.

Once the procedure was done, I lay on my back, traumatized as the EMT applied pressure to the incision. I took deep breaths to calm myself down, while the EMT and tech talked over me about attending some event. They never specifically stated what they were talking about, but it sounded like some shopping/networking event. Whatever they were talking about, it was completely disconnected from the physical trauma I’d just experienced.

I’d planned in advance to have a mani/pedi afterwards. Fortunately, one of my favorite woman-owned nail shops was still in business. The place looked a little rundown, but considering that she was still in business, that was a miracle. She had only one woman whose nails she was putting the final touches on as I soaked my feet in the whirlpool. Soothing relief I needed after a biopsy.

A few days later, I received an email stating that my results were in. I nervously clicked on the link. Initially, I thought my phone couldn’t handle the amount of data to download the results. I raced to my laptop. Same result.

I called the clinic that performed the biopsy for the results. They informed me that I had to call my primary care physician (PCP) for the results. I called my PCP’s office. The receptionist confirmed that the test results were in, but only the PCP could go over them with me. The best I could do was leave a message. Unfortunately, I was frustrated. My parting words to the PCP front desk was, “You mean I have to wait even longer to find out whether I have breast cancer?”

I spent the weekend, trying to put breast cancer and the impending cost of breast cancer treatment out of my mind.

The following Tuesday, my sister texted me about whether I knew the results. This gave me new motivation to pick up the task again. I did the same dance I’d started on Friday. This time, I knew the name of the employee at the biopsy clinic. I left her a message, then called the PCP office. As luck would have it, I was on hold for the PCP receptionist when the biopsy clinic employee beeped in. I put the receptionist on hold.

The clinic employee apologized for the phone tag over the past couple of days. Just when I thought she was going to give me another runaround, she informed me that my results were benign.

A lightness washed over me. I thanked her, then clicked over to the PCP receptionist, telling her that I’d received my results. I thanked her and hung up.

Next call was to my sister. As we talked, I texted my friend the results. My sister and I talked for over 30 minutes as I continued to work. I was impressed how long I was able to work without having to make an outbound call. Fate was on my side. In more ways than one.

With that burden off my plate, I moved forward with my life as I’d planned to do, regardless of the results. At least this way, I didn’t have to strategize how to pay for cancer treatment.

Photoshoot Happy Hour

You can tell by the lipstick that I made an effort.

Of course right after work, I wasn’t in the mood to make a wardrobe change, but I’m glad I did. Not merely because there were two rooms staged to take pictures, but also, I loved putting lipstick on for the occasion. I also had my favorite accessory: a glass of red wine. The necklace/earring set was a nice touch too.

I actually spent most of my time sitting and talking.

So, my “poses” were a creative extension of what I spend most of the evening doing–minus putting my feet up on the table. I befriended a budding podcaster and her brother. As I answered her questions, trying not to go too far off the rails with tangential detalis, she remarked that I just go for it.

That’s the only way to live.

Waiting for everything to align themselves is about the same as sitting back and watching the world pass you by. I’ve always been a firm believer in doing things a little at a time, over a long period of time. At least I’ll wind up somewhere different than where I began. Hopefully in a better place even if it doesn’t seem like it at the time.

I’m pleasantly surprised at other opportunities that present themselves once I say yes to something else. Like my favorite book, The Alchemist, states, the universe conspires with you when you make an effort to pursue your dreams. The key is to keep pursuing them even when you’re temporarily dealt a bad hand.

Creative Action Performance

Four months ago, most of us dancers auditioned for a nonprofit West African dance troupe. This rendition of the group’s debut occurred during Creative Action’s first Creative Sunday since the pandemic.

We’d rehearsed for several months.

This was our first dress rehearsal. The choreographer fussed over our costumes like a mom getting her daughters ready for prom. We wore several layers over our sports bras and dance pants/shorts: a gele (head wrap), shirt, lapa (wraparound skirt), belted “grass” skirt, cowrie shell belt and arm bands, cloth anklets, necklace and earrings.

So of course we had to test everything.

One unwritten rule: never dance in a performance wearing something you haven’t practiced in. I made a point of sharing that little pearl of wisdom with everyone. Then on the day of the performance, I did the very thing I’d warned everyone about. Instead of using one of the masks that I’d practiced with many times before,

I switched out the white mask for a black one.

That bad boy flew off dramatically into the wind the moment I started my interpretative dance for “Why Anansi Has Eight Skinny Legs.”

Our opening dance was called Sinte:

https://vimeo.com/705085322

Here’s the interpretative dance to an African tale, “Why Anansi Has Eight Thin Legs,” where I had my wardrobe malfunction:

https://vimeo.com/704692105

Here’s a video summary of our performance on that hot, humid day!

https://vimeo.com/703442906

Easter Eve 2022

I didn’t intend to have an Easter Eve celebration.

After all, I’m a very secular, nonchurch-going Christian. Nonetheless, by a confluence of events, I ended up scheduling a fabulous, life-affirming day before the celebrated Resurrection Day.

In passing, I mentioned my plan to a friend to order bras online. She immediately pounced on the idea, sharing that her bras had also become very shabby during the plague. Not due to ‘Rona directly, but bra-shopping had been a low priority during the pandemic.

She knew the brick and mortar places where we needed to go. Fortunately, our schedules were free the upcoming Saturday morning.

Normally, I have an early afternoon dance rehearsal, but I’d already cancelled that in order to work a paid volunteer gig with a local festival. That gig paid more than my work compensation rate. l also wanted to network. I got more than I bargained for because of that schedule change.

My friend and I had a luxurious amount of time to catch up with one another as she drove us southward to an outlet strip mall. Again, we got lucky. The first underwear place where we shopped fulfilled our needs, so we crossed off all the other places on her list except the shoe store. Even then, she knew exactly what she wanted.

Just in time for civilized people to have an afternoon margarita, we hit a TexMex restaurant and ordered the special. As far as I could tell, it was a standard marg with the addition of a basil leaf, cut strawberries and garnished with a peep. My friend’s peep, fell into the glass, faced down. I laughed, telling her that she was drinking a crime scene. At least when my peep fell in, it was floating on its back as if enjoying the day.

After my shopping and brunch excursion, all I wanted to do was take a nap. I’d awaken a little earlier than usual to bake, do laundry and clean up before going out. It had caught up with me. Once I came home, I saw that my CPA had messaged me several times. I played phone tag with her for a bit before connecting and answering her questions.

My eyes were closed for about 15 minutes when I heard my phone buzz with incoming texts. Thinking my CPA had more questions, I checked. Turns out, the festival volunteer coordinator had inquired whether I could arrive about four hours earlier.

As soon as I walked into the office, the volunteer coordinator asked if I was security.

Of all the questions, I’d never been asked that one when volunteering for a festival. Apparently some groupies had been entering the building, trying to see the band. What she needed me to do was stand outside on the corner and make sure that groupies couldn’t enter the green room from the street.

Inwardly, I laughed. Of all things…getting paid to stand on the corner! Not nearly as much for people in that profession, but far more than someone just hanging out. One of the best things about standing outside on a beautiful day was seeing random people.

Such as the Easter Bunny.

The head of security had also responded to the text to arrive earlier. He was character: a rancher who broke in horses by day, working security at various festivals around the state at night. For this particular event, since he was caught off guard with the early call, he showered in the horse stable.

We swapped stories as we worked our part of the perimeter. After a few hours, he allowed me to eat first. The festival had sprung for pita sandwiches. I ate outside in the courtyard by myself on one side of the building. Normally, I eat while watching TV. People watching was just as entertaining as I imagined what each cluster of people did for the festival.

As the sun went down, the event came to life. I reposted to the exit to make sure that no one left with an alcoholic drink once they finished looking at the 8 or 10 different artist installations. I also directed incoming people to the entrance to have their bags checked by the real security folks. Confusing enough, the exit was all lit up as if it were the entrance.

Within an hour of showtime, one of festival guys asked if I was security. Throughout the day, various people had asked me that. By this time, I was ready. “No,” I said, “I’m just a bossy Black woman who volunteered for this festival.” The guy flashed a nervous grin like, oh no, you just mentioned race. In the meantime, the head of security exclaimed, “I didn’t know you were Black!” He said to me. “Did you know?” He looked at the festival guy, who remained speechless.

Teresa the incog-negro strikes again!

The real security team got into position for the band.

I’d never heard of “Princess Goes to the Butterfly Museum,” but I knew of the front man, who also plays the title character in the Netflix series, “Dexter.”

The crowd was just as entertaining as the band.

At one point, the band played a song similar to a U2 song and some drunk guys started singing the chorus to “All I Want Is You.” Another drunk guy screamed, “Kill someone!”

I’m happy to report that, as far as I know, no one died as a result of that event.

Benign Invader

I put on my big girl britches on moving day.

Embracing my nervousness, I hopped into my Honda Fit and drove over to pick up the moving truck. I’d planned nearly everything except the route to get the truck to the apartment complex. I took the scenic route to the complex since that behemoth couldn’t make a U-turn.

My biggest reward was backing that monstrosity into a parking space.

Added bonus: the adjacent parking spaces were empty as well. Not that I needed the extra room. Made me feel better though.

No moving job’s complete without at least one friend.

Technically, I hired him months prior to the move. I’ve always been an organized person, but this particular move, partly because it was during a pandemic and partly because I was being priced out, seemed extra stressful. I’d started packing a little every day, beginning on March 1st just to keep the anxiety at bay. When the official day arrived, I’d already taken four Honda Fit loads of stuff over to the new place. The rest conveniently packed away in the truck.

One of the benefits of the new place was a wonderful fur baby, Buddy.

“Baby” was more a term of endearment since this little ol’ man is 13. Still energetic and curious, but without all the extra puppy energy. We met months prior to me moving in. He immediately took to me.

Moving day was a flurry of activity.

As the day progressed, I knew the next time I moved, I’d hire at least two friends to do all the heavy lifting. I’d done that years ago when I’d first moved back to the States and had more money saved under my belt. As a matter of fact, the move itself isn’t what cost the most. The overlap in rent between the old place and the new place turned out to be the biggest expense.

I was dog tired at the end of the day.

Down to the bone. Even before sunset, all I wanted to do was unpack enough to take a shower then eat. In that order because once I sat down to eat and drink, there was no getting up to do much else.

Everything took much longer, so it seemed.

I went to a recommended location of my usual grocery store. That place was so “sexy,” I felt like Pigpen walking around there. Nonetheless, all the employees greeted me as if my deodorant hadn’t expired. At one point, I chose a checkout line since, with my usual luck, any line I entered would turn into the slowest one. Yet, one employee spoke into a walkie-talkie to another to find me a shorter line and then directed me to that line. As if I didn’t stink.

I was so excited to shower, eat then sleep.

I had everything except the decorations unpacked by the time I logged onto work on Monday. Somehow, unpacking all the dizzying array of accumulated emails in my absence would take much longer.

Just Chilling

Talk about timing. I’d just put the last item into my shopping cart when an urgent announcement came over the PA system. A tornado watch. The grocery store asked us to leave our carts, and report to the back.

I joined other customers and employees in the walk-in dairy freezer, behind the milk case.

Normally cold-natured, I credited my irritation for keeping me warm. For the first time, being pissed off worked in my favor since I didn’t have a coat or jacket. Another thing that kept me warm was fuming about whether anyone was taking things out of my basket.

Even though we sheltered in the diary freezer for over an hour, I remained standing rather than sit on an empty milk crate.

Milk crates are better suited for holding milk and other inanimate objects.

Contrary to popular belief, a well-rounded butt like mine doesn’t render uncomfortable things more comfortable to sit on.

By the time I exited the freezer, paid for my groceries (which were still all there!) and went outside, the sky was a vibrant, crisp blue. Unbelievable.

We don’t normally get tornadoes in Austin, so I thought my sheltering among the milks (which can be from a mammal, a nut or legume) would be my only interesting story for the week.

Three days later, my usual African dance practice, due to a scheduling conflict, had to be held outside rather than in our usual trapezoidal-shaped dance studio. After surveying the surroundings, our choreographer asked if we could dance in the drained swimming pool.

Unlike synchronized swimming, we danced in the pool without water. Normally, African dance is performed barefoot, but only a few dancers chose to do that inside the pool. No space is perfect, but despite the intentional incline, the cracks and rocks, I loved dancing maskless in the fresh air. Here’s the thing: I danced with my mouth wide open as if I were trying to breath through a mask while dancing. Once I realized what I was doing, I copped a more attractive “dance smile.”

See if you can spot the change in this “summarized” version of our practice below.

Blood Fresh book launch

A soulful dancer graced the stage, opening the first in- real-life poetry reading I’d attended since the pandemic had begun.

I had invited a friend, who had been a dedicated member of the Austin Writers Roulette, to join me. We used to attend such events individually with writing material in hand and laugh when we’d see each other from across the way. Now we check in with one another to see if we’re attending the same event.

Years ago, attending such an event didn’t warrant clearing so many extraordinary hurdles other than having the time and energy to go. And yet, for this event, I wouldn’t have attended had I not been double vaxxed, and boosted. Not to mention the night was clear and beautiful, so I didn’t have to cancel due to icy or flooded roads.

Next arrived the Slam Poetry Queen herself.

She filled us with her limitless energy as she emoted each poem, which punctuated her narratives with seamless integration.

The poem that resonated with me the most was about pockets. All the angst I’d felt toward the fashion industry for neglecting to make the vast majority of women’s clothing with pockets versus men’s clothing bubbled to the surface. Men’s nightwear has pockets. Even their underwear has pockets for their dicks.

As a matter of fact, the fancy secondhand jacket that I’d worn to the event had an inside pocket that I’d sewn because fuck them for not having one there in the first place.

That was part of a phase I’d gone through where a few jackets gained inside pockets and several pants had their pitiful shallow pockets deepened.

A few of the deepened pockets need to be reinforced because frequent wearing and washing have worn holes at the seams. I don’t attach superstition to the fact that money can slip through those holey pockets because I know that’s not where my money went.

Nothing as simple as that. This pandemic ripped away the economic illusion of my gig survival. I’ve landed a straight up full-time job with several production metrics, an hourly wage, benefits and praising the lord that progressive liberals before me negotiated a 40-hour work week along with the concept of the weekend.

Those pockets still have holes in them. My money’s all digital now.

Now Hear This

As soon as I wished out loud to be part of a real film set, versus the spur-of-the-moment set where I shot my first short film, the universe granted my wish. Originally, I applied for the “Sound Mixer” position not really knowing what all it entailed. The only other open position was DP (Director of Photography). I learned back in undergrad that I didn’t have the “eye” to be DP. Besides, I’d edited several podcast episodes. All I knew was that the filmmakers, who shared director/producer titles, stated they would rent the equipment if the Sound Mixer didn’t have their own equipment–something I learned while on set to not be the usual case.

Fortunately, my mentor guided me in the right direction by providing a few videos and a blog. Until she did that, I truly thought I’d stroll up on set, dressed in all black, wearing hiking boots and a camelback without having done any research. Thank God I killed the camelback idea and brought a water bottle like a normal person.

The first thing I learned and immediately internalized was: early = on time; on time = late; and late = fired. Since my official title for this set was “Sound Shadow,” which, if I hadn’t known any better, I would have assumed was the latest comic book superhero, essentially meant I was an unpaid intern.

At least I didn’t have to pay for a class to gain this experience. As an undergrad, I’d worked on three student film sets. In that blind-leading-the-blind situation, none of them were at any level of professionalism as this movie set was. Regardless of my volunteer status, I still respected our mutual time and made the most of the opportunity.

The second lesson was an explanation of what “collaboration” means on set. As collaborative as both codirectors/coproducers, who I’ll refer to as A and C, announced they’d be on set, I’m happy I didn’t go with my original plan. Instead, I quietly approached the codirectors to ask a question or suggest something. That way, none of the actors overheard, which might have been confusing.

Plus, if one talks when things aren’t rolling, then they should do so quietly. I witnessed first hand how side conversations get out of hand. I found myself pulling a Ms. Roberson and gesturing two people on set to talk quietly. Given the lag time between takes, there was no way we’d all remain silent, but talking normally was too loud.

On the first day, I parked on the edge of the lawn among the other cars with a minute to spare from my call time (ie, late) and texted one of the codirectors/coproducers, C, about my arrival. I entered the house through a side door, nearest the line of carefully coiled cables–another thing the videos had reminded me: the over-under method to wrap most cables that would minimize damage and entanglement. C met me at the door with a big smile on her face and gave me a hug. (At least her eyes communicated “big smile” since her face was actually covered with a mask. Everyone on set had to show a negative COVID test that had been administered within 48 hours).

As I walked in, I met the Boom Operator, T.

For weeks I’d sung the phrase “boom operator” to the tune of Sade’s “Smooth Operator.” Took me mere seconds after our introduction to sing it to T. It had been my ear worm for a while, but I didn’t quite plant it in T.

Moments later, the Sound Mixer, J, arrived with an impressive amount of equipment, 12 years of filmmaking experience and a remarkably positive attitude for someone who wasn’t a morning person. The most golden nuggets of information I learned from him was that sound mixers were expected to own their equipment, and that he sometimes makes more money renting his equipment verses his labor rate. Although I’ve been a lifelong an emerging entrepreneur, my ears perked up when he talked about “rental.” There’s a standard package of sound equipment that filmmakers pay for. On top of that standard package, any additional needed sound equipment will be rented at a daily rate.

One of our producers/directors, A, bravely chose to shoot in and around her home.

I could have made a documentary just from the furniture alone. The piece that spoke to me the most was the Singer sewing machine that had been repurposed into a table. My maternal grandmother had a Singer. When I visited her, I’d sit down in front of the Singer and peddle. Not sewing, mind you, just idly peddling. Bonus: the set dog is in the picture. He was super chill for that many strangers doing strange things around his house.

I notoriously have cold fingers and toes even in warm weather.

For once, masking due to a pandemic worked in my favor because it kept my face warm. We purposely had open doors to keep fresh air flowing–fresh COLD air. Except for when I was eating or using the bathroom, I had gloves on whether I was inside or outside. The combination of post lunch, a comfortable beanbag and comfy coat and KA-BOOM! immediately transported T into a power nap. The headphones were such a nice touch for someone who confidently stated that she wouldn’t fall asleep.

At one point on the first day, T and I talked about me handling the boom when we were outside.

Yet, I didn’t want to be part of the reason why the shooting schedule got further behind. So, even though I never worked the boom for a scene, I miked the actors. Plus J told both T and I that whenever we were operating a boom, we should either fully extend our arms or have them bent and close to our ribcage in order to use our bones rather than our muscles. He summarized in this sound adage: “Muscles wear out; bones don’t.”

On Halloween 2021, I’d requested to read A’s script after she announced that she wanted to make a movie. Just get the dang thing done. Although I didn’t know her, I loved her confidence. Since it was a short film, I offered to read it and made three suggestions.

Fast forward to mid-February 2022, I was part of the crew. The first scene we shot implemented my first suggestion. To my joy, as the two-day shoot unfolded, I witnessed my other ideas implemented as well. That was my preproduction contribution. Being on set was a whole different animal, just seeing those words come to life through the interplay of crew and actors.

In the one screenwriting class I’ve taken, the instructor said that a film gets made three times: once when you write it, then when you shoot it, and finally when you edit it. Throughout the shoot, A kept thinking out loud about how to edit the story altogether. I didn’t envy her that, having to switch back and forth from director and editor.

On the second day of shooting while we were finishing up lunch, I looked at A and asked if filming in her house was everything she thought it be. Her nonverbal reaction, which ran from exasperation to optimistic smile, was something I wish I’d captured on film. Her practical answer saw the value of saving location fees. Another thing I wished I could have captured on audio: the other producer/director, C, commanding “Quiet on set!” Up until then, I’d never experienced her voice hitting the back walls.

The second day of shooting began outside, adding to the challenge.

Our location was near traffic and in the flight path of several planes/jets. I helped solve one challenge that day.

I’d noticed on the first day that a tablet, which was linked to the DP’s camera via an app, had to either be held or lie on some inconvenient surface. My solution? I removed all the painting paraphernalia from my music stand, which has not hardly had sheet music on it since a friend had gifted it to me years ago. Now I can add another nonmusical item to the list of things that have rested on that music stand.

Ever since I was offered the position of “Sound Shadow,” I wanted to illustrate it as a superhero. The moment I can use as inspiration occurred on the second day shooting while we were outside.

Our lead actress lost an earring. At one point, a handful of people were looking for it. Then, just the lead actress and another actress who had been in a scene with her were on their hands and knees still looking for the earring. My attention was on the shoot nearby, but from my peripheral vision, I saw them searching for the lost earring in the same patch of ground as if conducting an archeological dig. I carefully walked over, not wanting to accidentally step on it. Once the lead actress showed me what the earring looked like, I looked at the patch of ground in front of the chair where she’d sat, and squatted to examine the ground closer.

“Don’t hate me, but…” I held up the earring and handed it to the lead actress.

That’s precisely the types of wrongs that The Sound Shadow rights–small scale, huge sentimental value. Like a mysterious superhero, regardless of magnitude, I drove back to my lair once the shoot was over.

Valentine’s Day Voting

Never have I been able to combine a pseudo-holiday like Valentine’s Day with something far more serious and precious such as voting.

As a matter of fact, I’m not worried about whether I’d ever fall in love again. At the rate this country is going, I’m increasingly concerned if the last time I vote will be the last time I’m able. Actually, voting early elevated the holiday for me. I thought the only thing I would do was my usual grocery shopping on a Monday.

The second best thing I did was to text this picture and a message to friends, reminding them that early voting had begun. I even sent that text to various family for whom early voting on Valentine’s Day wasn’t a thing. It’s the spirit of the situation. I have the greatest love of exercising my voting rights and doing my civic duty.

Xmas Networking

Half the reason I attended this event was to dress up for it.

Given the lack of motivation I had to put a costume together for Halloween, I redoubled my costume effort for this holiday party. At least I had a theme, a place to go, and I already knew enough people to feel comfortable if I didn’t really want to be sociable.

I didn’t have to worry about that, though.

The crowd was small enough not to overwhelm, but big enough to be interesting. Since we were all creatives at varying points in our career, there was no shortage of wonderful conversations. I circulated around the room, even striking up a conversation with two other women after I asked them to pose with me because I liked their attire.

One Christmas miracle: I won a raffle prize!

I’d laughed at myself while writing my name on the slip of paper. After all, I infamously didn’t win one of the 14 raffle prizes when there were 15 of us at a workshop years ago. The joke was on me at this event. As soon as they handed me the prize, I started thinking of which costume my golden purse would accompany.