After preregistering with two different agencies and waiting in a digital line for nearly an hour to make an appointment, I finally got my first Moderna shot at a wellness center.
Despite having a QR code in my confirmation email, the facility was “so small,” according to one of the employees, they didn’t have the equipment to scan the code. I was so tempted to point out that most smart phones had the capability to read a QR code with the camera function. Instead, I complied with their request to fill out paperwork on the germy clipboard with one of their germy pens. So much for contactless interactions.
I followed the taped blue arrows up the stairs, down the hall, around the corner and into a workout room, where four desk stations faced the wall-length mirror. Once seated beside one of the desks, I told the health care worker that since my mother had received her vaccination shot at a sports bar, I’d originally wanted my shot at a strip club. He suggested I set that up for my second shot. Then he mentioned that perhaps one of the other male health care workers would strip if I gave them a dollar. As if I had any money on me. Not even a dollar for a male stripper.
We laughed, but I offered to help him with a stripper name, using the tried and true formulation: childhood pet’s name and the street where he grew up. He had two choices for childhood pet names: Ashley or Freckles. “Of course, it has to be “Freckles,” I assured him. Since he grew up on Alabama Street, I got my first jab from “Freckles Alabama.”
Following another set of blue taped arrows to the observation room, which was a more convoluted path than getting to the vaccination room, I entered a space with subdued light. As the medic had instructed, I set my phone timer to 15 minutes. I read articles on my phone until the timer sounded. When I stood up to leave, my hands tingled. Maybe I had a slight fever, but I was definitely thirsty. I usually drink water throughout the day, but this sensation made me feel as if I hadn’t had any all day.
After all that, I walked down two flights of stairs, which seemed dangerous after receiving a vaccine that could potentially make someone dizzy. Unnecessarily, an employee bid me a “be careful,” as I pushed the glass door open to descend. Fortunately, I made it downstairs and to my car without incident, where my roommate waited to whisk me away. Ever since one of my cousins fainted at the wheel after getting her vaccine and awoke after hitting a utility pole, the rest of the family has made sure someone else drives us home.
I felt a little loopy, but not bad enough to avoid work. I drank far more water than usual while working my customer service job from home. I lasted about two hours before logging off for the day to eat dinner. Just to switch things up, I had a glass of coconut water instead of wine because of that slight fever. The vaccine worked its magic and got my immune system as COVID-resistant as possible.
As luck would have it, one of the latest streaming movies dropped on the same day I was vaccinated. “Godzilla vs. Kong”? Sure, why not? That was just what the situation called for in my loopy state: a non cerebral, CGI, action-filled movie where I could just strap in and enjoy the ride. It didn’t disappoint.
The vaccination discomfort didn’t prevent me from falling asleep. I partially woke up when I rolled onto the injection site. Other than that, I woke up feeling pretty good.
Originally, I was going to wait 48 hours before drinking wine, but I no longer felt feverish the next day. Except for soreness in my jabbed arm, everything felt back to normal. Even holding planks and doing other arm workouts during my virtual Inferno Hot Pilates class were no problem. So, I did my usual detox-retox routine, which consists of exercising in the middle of the day followed by lunch with a glass of wine.
After getting my second jab at the end of April, I’ll see how adventurous I can be while still braving this new world.
There was never a doubt in my mind that I’d get the vaccine. I had no hesitation like my mother who feared it would make her sick like the time she got the flu shot. Different virus, different vaccine. Or my sister who feared the historical systemic racism within the medical community against Black people. Times have changed. Now they’re being racist by making it harder for Black people to get the vaccine, not fucking with the vaccine itself. Or the conspiracy theory that Bill Gates put microchips in the vaccines. Billionaires don’t need to chip us to track us. They do that through our phones and as a back up, our social media accounts.
With the first vaccination provider I pre-registered with, they warned me several times that I wasn’t actually making an appointment because they needed to check out my “status” to see if I qualified to make an appointment. My only qualification was being 50. Next, I got an email, which I forgot about, stating that I could make an appointment. By the time I got around to clicking on it around 6 PM, I discovered that I was number 1100 and something in the digital line. When my “number” came up, I’d have ten minutes to make an appointment. I said, fuck this, logged out and tried again the next morning.
That was the wrong move. There weren’t anymore appointments available for the week. I tried again the following Monday. No appointments. Try again next Monday, the message read. Then I learned that I somehow missed out on a batch of appointments because I was waiting for Monday.
In the course of a textchain with my creativity group about COVID vaccinations, I shared my experience with them. One took pity on me and texted a link for yet another place where I could preregister. I preregistered at the second place. Days passed and no word. Perhaps on some magical Monday, which never seems to come.
In the meantime, when I did the weekly check-in with Mom, she told me about getting her second vaccine shot. No bad side effects at all, just like the first shot. I learned a gem of fact when I asked her at which facility she’d received her shots. She described the place as where people watch sports and then they serve some drinks and food…
“Wait, you were vaccinated at a sports bar?!”
“Well, they’re not open for business. Just for vaccinations right now.”
I didn’t care. Previously, I’d wanted to get my shot at a veterinarian place, but now that seems too tame. If my 80 year old mother was vaccinated at a sports bar, then I want to be vaccinated at a strip club. Most people waste their time longing to choose which vaccine they’re going to get. Not me. I want to choose the place. I want such a racy place that my COVID vaccine story tops everyone else’s.
I’m not taking unnecessary risks, so the only thing that’ll spice up my COVID quarantine war story is where I get my shot. I’m not even in the mood to dress in costume when I receive it. So unlike me. About half my closet is costumes yet I’m not even planning a vaccination costume for this occasion. Perhaps once I confirm an appointment and location, I’ll be inspired.
I learned at least one valuable lesson when I had no running water nor electricity during a series of five snowstorms within a yearlong pandemic: I don’t need a fucking alarm clock. I’d been holding out for a long time. I had my telecommuting routine years before the pandemic, so there wasn’t a need to adjust it.
Even when the job became less lucrative, I still maintained my Monday-Friday routine. My precious weekends were sacred.
That all changed when I no longer had the infrastructure to work. I was in more of a survival mode than just being quarantined. I arose from bed with the sunrise and prepared for bed at sunset. Even when I shifted to a friend’s house, I started the day at sunrise, but only worked a few hours at a time.
Fortunately, my family and some friends donated money to the unofficial Teresa Survival Fund. I was moved to tears, but in that moment, I knew I had to work every day. For once, that idea did not repulse my sensibilities. I slipped behind during the pandemic. The infrastructure crisis sealed the deal.
The second thought that concerned my new daily work schedule was no longer setting an alarm clock. Normally, the alarm sounded at 6:30 AM. As the week progressed, I had less energy. If I’d partially wake up during the night, I’d wonder if it was worth going back to sleep only for the alarm to sound a few minutes later. My mind churned with that bullshit until the alarm sounded.
Working daily, I couldn’t afford to lose rest as the week progressed. Once I shifted back home, I didn’t set my clock alarm–not since the morning of February 15th when the electricity went out. (Did I mention I’ve always had a battery-operated alarm clock since I used to be Peace Corps Volunteer and wanted to tell time regardless of electricity? That habit has served me well!)
Without a rigid wake up time, I’m resting better. I discovered back when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in the early 90s that time-saving devices didn’t actually save time. Now, I’ve taught myself that shit gets done even if I don’t wake up at bleary-eyed o’clock.
February 15th through the 21st will forever live among my select memories as “The Lost Week of 2021.” Karma also kicked my ass. I no longer enjoy most time travel movies, so the sudden loss of all the amenities that contribute to life in the 21st century, fetched my daily survival back to the 19th century with remnants of contemporary life there merely to mock me.
In addition to the burdens of staying warm, clean, hydrated and relatively sane, I worried about not working. No matter how much civilization had collapsed, bill collectors would still collect the bills.
First up, the rent. Once I took refuge a friend’s house because I no longer had running water nor electricity at my place, I used her WiFi to email the leasing office. I didn’t outright beg, but I explained that without an ethernet connection, I couldn’t work, which put rent in jeopardy. Since the leasing office also didn’t have electricity, one of the agents didn’t respond until a few days later when the situation had been already resolved.
Turned out, my roommate handled March’s rent. On top of that, my parents and one of my sisters sent monetary relief. An act that reduced me to tears. Never had I ever asked my family for money, but the confluence of bad circumstances motivated them to offer assistance.
The next worrisome bill, health insurance. I hadn’t seen a doctor in years. Nonetheless, since I’m a half century old, I won’t dare be without it. I overlooked the glitchiness of their payment portal, which manifested as messing up my date of birth until I found a work around the issue. From there, I paid my premium.
A few days later, I checked my bank account online and nearly pissed my pants. The health insurer had charged the monthly premium three times. Fortunately, my bank account hadn’t been overdrawn, but still.
I immediately logged out of work to call the carrier. Either the customer service representative was new to her job or she was borderline incompetent. Either way, when I explained the situation to her, she suggested that I’d mistaken an invoice for a bill. I corrected her. “I’m looking at the deductions from my bank account online.” Throughout our conversation, she repeatedly suggested that I hadn’t been charged three times, just invoiced.
I was about to lose it. Say “invoice” one more ‘gain. See what happens. Instead, I changed tactics. Adult temper tantrum averted.
I told her that when I paid January’s premium, I had only been charged once. She checked the date, which was the day after the money had left my account.
I asked her to make a note of my complaint, so when I called back the following day, I wouldn’t have to start from scratch with the next customer service rep.
Then, I worked off my angst in my Inferno Hot Pilates class.
Afterwards, I called my bank. That customer service rep sounded far more competent. She explained that the fastest way to deal with the duplicate charges would be a refund from the vendor. In the meantime, she instructed me on how to dispute the charges online.
I encountered another glitch. First I changed browsers from Safari to Chrome. Then, I switched laptops to use a hardwired connection on Chrome instead of WiFi. Bingo! At that point, I disputed the two duplicate charges, which could take up to 90 days to resolve.
The following day, a Friday, I started my weekly ritual of cleaning my apartment. In actuality, I merely killed time until I felt the health insurance company’s customer service had opened. I put on my handsfree headset and started the waiting game on hold while cleaning my apartment. As I listened to hold music, I pulled up my bank account. Lo and behold! the money had been restored. I hung up.
Then I read messages on my phone. My coworkers were discussing work platform malfunctions. Of course. 2021 won’t allow me a few moments of inner peace between crises. At least these problems were from the 21st century and not the 19th.
Presidents’ Day: Monday, February 15th, 2021 My battery-operated alarm clock sounded at 6:30 AM.
Presidents’ Day: Monday, February 15th, 2021 My battery-operated alarm clock sounded at 6:30 AM. I blindly slept walk to my bathroom, flipping on the light. Except there wasn’t any light. Just the empty gesture of moving the light switch. Even in my morning brain fog, I didn’t bother going through the useless motions of flipping the light switch from one position to another. It was finally our turn to be in the dark.
The prolonged Artic blast of air, which plunged the temperature, motivated everyone to turn up the heat at home. Since everything’s bigger in Texas, our collective energy consumption was no exception. Having lived in developing countries in my younger days, I’d learned the wisdom of having a battery-operated alarm clock for random power outages. One of the habits I’ve not broken even though I relocated to the States over a decade ago.
Unlike power outages in the past, there was no clear end in sight. Whatever vulnerabilities to the power grid, the electric company wasn’t actually scheduling rolling black outs. They turned off what they could to conserve energy for the places that were the top priority such as hospitals.
As a Peace Corps Volunteer, my life hadn’t come to a screeching halt just because the electricity or water would stop running. I had stored water in buckets, flashlights, candles and a kerosene stove. Since I lived on campus along with the students, school never stopped just because there wasn’t running water or electricity.
Unlike now. I couldn’t work since, without electricity, I didn’t have neither Wi-Fi nor ethernet. Even if I could’ve connected, I wouldn’t have worked as long as I usually did since there was only so much charge to a laptop battery. I did the next best thing: used the bathroom and returned to bed until the sun arose.
My mind churned. Whose house could I work at? Wait, the snowed over, icy roads. That 133-vehicle pile-up last week. What would I eat? Can’t open the refrigerator. Crackers, mixed nuts, peanut butter, liquid veggie broth concentrate, pumpkin seeds, peanuts. And the most luxurious item, spicy red wine…I saved for lunch.
I put on more clothes once the sun came up. Opened all the blinds to preserve my flashlight battery. Residual warm water to wash my face. Made my bed and moved to the living room, snacking on mixed nuts and water while reading, which sustained me for hours.
My mind drifted to those three Cubans who had been stranded on a deserted island for 35 days. They survived off minimal food, water and shelter. My apartment was far more comfortable.
Throughout the day, emails via my phone data plan suggested ways to conserve energy. “Fuck you, I have no electricity to conserve!” My phone remained in my bedroom turned off for most of the day. People in other parts of Texas had been without electricity anywhere from 12 hours to 36 hours. Apparently, we were in for a longer haul.
For a fancy late lunch, I opened the fridge.
I planned out what I wanted before opening the door. I quickly grabbed some Gouda and a tomato. Garnished my cheese and tomato crackers with fresh cracked pepper. Today would have been the day I would’ve broken down to have hot food delivered—except for the obvious reason of no one should have been driving. After eating, I continued what turned out to be the majority of my day: reading and napping intermittingly. Previously, I had the illusion of how long a day was because of all the activity I’d do within the day. I hardly did anything. I went to bed at sunset. Now I understand how Rip Van Winkle managed to sleep so much time away. He lived in Texas during a snowstorm.
Mardi Gras: Tuesday, February 16th, 2021 If I thought Presidents’ Day sucked, I had no idea that was merely the appetizer. The following day we had a brief reprieve from the snow and slightly warmer weather. I wished people “Happy Mardi Gras!” en route to the library, which was the extent of my celebration.
One of the benefits of marathon reading yesterday, I finished my library book. Didn’t take much to convince my roommate to walk with me to the library to return it. That trek convinced me of the direness of the situation. I had no contact with the outside world via TV. Granted, I had my phone, but I only turned it on to periodically check email for updates.
But on the street, I saw a line circling around the nearest corner store because it was the only one open. Even the neighborhood grocery store was closed. I made my way to the library with careful footing to avoid ice by mostly crunching on the snow beside the sidewalk. I actually felt warmer outside since I was moving. Plus, I had on several layers.
From the inside out, pajama top and pants. Then sweat pants and two hoodies. I wiggled on a pair of jeans on top of the other two pairs of pants. And finally, a winter rainproof jacket. I changed my indoor gloves for outdoor gloves and put on one of my pandemic masks to help my lips from freezing. Oh yeah, and to prevent catching the plague.
A few steps from the book depository, I slipped, but didn’t fall. A feat I attributed to daily yoga routines…up until this shit happened.
Didn’t find any hot food while we were out. Once again, had to make due with a cold meal. Tortilla chips and a glass of red wine with peanut brittle for dessert. Once again, bedded down around 6:30 PM when night fell.
Ash Wednesday: February 17th, 2021 Before getting out of bed, I psyched myself up to take an icy shower. The hot water was either turned off because once again, the apartment complex had to fix the pipes or it was a consequence of the snow storms. Either way, as I remained in bed, I brainstormed how to lessen the impact before jumping into a cold shower.
As soon as I threw back the warm layers of covers, I’d take off the many layers of clothing. That burst of cold would just be the start. I removed two pairs of pants at the same time. When I peeled them away from one another, the most spectacular display of static electricity sparkled and popped. Too bad I didn’t have enough cell phone battery to capture the moment. Nor the available technology to capture its energy to charge up my cell phone.
Then, I used the bathroom. The plan was to wash my hands in cold water afterwards to further prepare myself for an impending cold shower. When I flushed the toilet, I knew my plan was fucked. There are certain sounds that are supposed to happen like when you flush your toilet. That’s how I discovered I no longer had running water. I’d waited too late for the icy shower plan, but not the icy washup.
It’s remarkable how one can have a sense of being clean only after brushing one’s teeth and washing one’s face, armpits, and nether regions.
The most important body parts no longer had three days of stank on them. I texted a friend, who’s more like a sister or even another mother when she nags me out of concern. She invited me to stay with her.
After eating a salad made of spinach, red bell pepper and Italian dressing, I packed my electronics backpack and clothing suitcase for three days at her house. For some optimistic reason, I figured that even Texas could get its corrupt ass togetherin that amount of time to literally bring power to the people.
Although I’m childfree by choice, I knew how to drive granny speed. Once out of my apartment complex, the streets were impressively clear and the highway was even better. The trip had taken the same amount of time had there been traffic. The most dangerous street turned out to be my friend’s. I parked my car in an accumulation of snow, hoping that when I’d leave to return home in a few days, it would have melted.
Before getting out of the car, I texted my friend that I’d arrived. Her warm welcome followed by her two Corgi fur babies and husband made the trip all the more worth it. Yet, apparently, I’d brought my bad luck with me. Their water pressure lessened after my arrival and by nighttime, there was no running water.
Most people have common sense, but it’s the fools who ruin it for everyone. When advised to leave the faucets dripping overnight, most people knew that didn’t mean to leave the faucets running. Due to that practice along with freezing/bursting pipes, the water pressure tanked. Those who still had water were then told NOT to drip their faucets in order to build up the water pressure. Some hospitals and prisons didn’t have water. If there’s a God, then She will see fit that good things happen to those who had to hand remove waste from the toilets in those facilities.
Since my friend and I were both Returned Peace Corps Volunteers (RPCVs), we knew the drill. I’d use one bathroom and she and her husband would use the other. We followed the “if it’s yellow let it mellow; if it’s brown flush it down rule.” Thanks to my anal retentiveness when under severe stress, I knew I wouldn’t have to flush until the day I planned to leave.
What I hadn’t counted on was the dull ache behind my left eye, which at times, pulsated all the way to the back of my head. At first, I worried it was due to dehydration or undereating. However, I’d only experienced that pain twice before.Both times, prolonged stress had triggered it. The Snow Apocalypse and my temporary refugee status were the culprits this time.
My friend kept the TV on, which was helpful for accessing the news, especially the everchanging timeline of when Austinites would receive power and water. Using my friend’s laptop, I logged on to work a little over two hours. I didn’t make great money, but in the long run, some money’s better than none.
For the first time since Valentine’s Day, I slept very well and warmly inside a sleeping bag on an elevated air mattress.
Funny though, the only clean warm pajamas I had was my Santa and Rudolf pants. My friend wore her Christmas-themed pajama pants in solidarity. We actually looked as if we were having a seasonal slumber party.
Thursday, February 19th, 2021 More proof that I was a water curse: my roommate texted me that we had running water again. My friend told me I couldn’t go home until the power as well. I reminded her that I believed I could return on Friday.
In the meantime, I logged on again to make some money. Enjoyed a wonderful meal of chicken flautas since her husband found an open restaurant. And one of their friends dropped off a five-gallon container of water, to which my friend and I screamed, “Drinking water!” as if Santa himself had gifted it. Yes, we STILL wore our seasonal pajamas.
Friday, February 20th, 2021 I microwaved a plastic bowl of melted snow. After enjoying a warm washup, I put on clean clothes in anticipation of going home. An hour later, my roommate texted me pictures of the lights on.
Since I’d kept my things more or less packed, I said my round of good byes, including the fur babies and drove home. The plan was to boil drinking water as I unpacked, warm up some food, then log on to work.
When will I learn?
Of course, there was no internet or cable. Although 96% of Austinities had electricity, half of our apartment complex still had no electricity, including the leasing office, which housed the internet/cable hub. Until they were up and running again, none of us would have connectivity.
On the bright side, the leasing office invited all residents to stop by the “lounge,” (turned out to be the former volleyball court) with our masks to pick up tacos and a box of pizza. Free with rent, as my roommate and I think of it. We picked up our dinner.
Saturday, February 20th, 2021 Another piece of civilization fell into place: the internet.
Just to tease us, I could only access it if my laptop was hard-wired. So, I could make money again since my work laptop was hard-wired, but not access Wi-Fi on my phone or personal laptop. I know, first-world problems.
Yet, I received some old-world compassion. In addition to staying with a friend for a few days, a fellow poet sent me money and for the first time in life, my parents offered to send me money. I’d never asked anyone for money, and I still haven’t, but I graciously accepted their help. Plus, I psyched myself up to working every single day from now until…
With the help from one of my sisters, my 80-year-old mother signed up with Venmo to send me money. That process took about 40 minutes, in part because my phone kept dropping the call. We emailed and texted. The tech gods finally tired of messing with us and allowed the process to complete. At the end of which, Mom actually thanked me for my patience and was excited that she’d learned a new trick. I told her that I was the one who grateful.
Never has an inauguration been so riveting since when Obama was first elected.
Back then, I lived and taught at an American school in Tegucigalpa, Honduras. In order not to miss the historic moment, I got permission from the high school principal to organize an assembly just so I could watch it.
This time around, I was my own boss. I graciously gave myself the day off. After four years of the most unbelievable presidency, I wanted to watch the blessed ending of that one and the auspicious beginning of the next one. All from the comfort of my red sofa. I considered it to be Christmas come early, so I wore my Santa and Rudolph pajama pants.
Thanks to the pandemic, there was no crowd. Given the tumultuous way election certification went down, I was totally on board with far fewer people in attendance.
Yet, the rockstars showed up!
Even one of the newest rockstars:
DC Capitol police officer, Eugene Goodman, who led insurrectionists away from the open Senate door, which allowed the politicians more time to seek safety, including the ones whose rhetoric helped set the stage for a coup attempt.
Then the Vice President history maker and glass ceiling breaker,
Kamala Harris and the soon-to-be first second gentleman, Doug Emhof, emerged on the scene.
Of course she didn’t wear her chucks, but those pearls graced the occasion.
Behold the changing times…
the first Black VP greeting the first Black President.
Adding to the superstition that third time’s a charm…
newly elected Joe Biden and Dr. Jill Biden.
When Lady Gaga burst through the door in her fabulous red skirt, I briefly forgot that I was watching history in real time and felt as if I were watching a movie.
I credited quarantining for 10 months for that reality blur.
Lady Gaga sang one of the most enjoyable renditions of our national anthem that I’d ever heard.
The moment I’ve been waiting for my entire life…
It’s official now.
Plus, Harris was sworn in by the first Latina Supreme Court Justice, Sonia Sotomayor.
I love Obama witnessing the process.
And for a third view in case anyone thinks it was all smoke and mirrors.
Once again, the line between history and entertainment blurred.
A few years ago, the previous administration all but abandoned Puerto Rico after Hurricane Maria.
(I’m typing this up weeks after the fact when Biden recently cleared the way for Puerto Rico to FINALLY receive funding to rebuild.)
Last year, along with Shakira, Jennifer Lopez performed during the Super Bowl half-time show.
That was the first year so much Spanish was sung during the event. And she didn’t disappoint this time around as well.
Lord have mercy, after so much drama, including an unsuccessful coup attempt, Biden took the oath.
In this moment, Dr. Biden hugged the newly sworn in president for the 81 million of us who voted for him–
the most votes any American president has ever received in the history of our country.
I honestly don’t remember anything President Biden said, but the gist was “unity.”
On this point, I was cautiously optimistic while I viewed the inauguration. After all, this was a joyous day and I didn’t want to dream up ways the Democrats could fuck up having the House, the Senate and the White House, searching for unity with Republicans.
Afterwards, Garth Brooks sang “Amazing Grace.”
He never did sing with his eyes open. Nonetheless, I appreciated hearing a musician more known for having more conservative fans, performing a song written by a repentant slave ship captain.
What I didn’t take a picture of, because it would have actually required video, was afterward, when Garth’s happy ass couldn’t wait to shake hands and hug all of those VIPs. I was screaming at the TV for him to keep his hands to himself. I know he was caught up in the emotion of the moment, but damn, remember the plague?!
Breakout star and youngest poet to perform at an American inauguration, Youth Poet Laureate Amanda Gorman emoted her original poem,
“The Hill We Climb,” which included the recent insurrection. In another historical first, Gorman will perform an original poem for the 55th Super Bowl.
After the ceremony, Biden got to work, signing executive orders,
which he did not feel the need to hold up and show the cameras. I loved his attitude about not writing new laws, but rather undoing bad policy. Amen to that and God Bless the United States of America.
On the first Monday of 2021, I received two things that I’d been expecting for a while, which I hope doesn’t mean my good fortune has peaked too soon. After being in a pandemic along with all its accoutrements, January 4th felt like a holiday grande finale. The government stimulus had been deposited, then later on, I got my Christmas box from one of my sisters. I blamed both delays on the same entity: The federal government. Specifically, the White House-inspired federal government.
USPS had been backed up for months, thanks to the outgoing lame duck president’s beef with Jeff Bezos, which then affected every other thing that depended on the postal service, including mail-in ballots and Christmas presents.
Although I hardly ever ask for anything I want for Christmas since I buy my own gifts, I told one of my nieces she could compensate me for editing all her graduate school essays by sending me Obama’s latest book. Yet, since I was the last one to receive a Christmas box from her family, I’d learned that my niece had given my other sister Obama’s book. I was beside myself. My sister hadn’t done anything that earn that book. Granted, that’s not how gifts work. When I tore off the penguin gift wrapping, I beheld my copy of A Promised Land. Whew…family feud averted.
Since being in quarantine for ten months, that second stimulus payment,
which was half of the first payment, could have arrived a week earlier, but at the last moment, the lame duck wanted to flex a little muscle and demanded more than double the first payment. As par for that reality TV president, it was all for political drama and his personal business gain.
Topping off my fabulous Monday, I had one of the best days at work in weeks. If I were a superstitious person, I’d conclude that my good luck New Year’s Day dinner came through for me. Or those 12 grapes I ate at the stroke of midnight. Just every now and again, it’s my turn to have an exceptional day.
If I’d been absolutely oblivious to the fact that I lived in a capitalist country, I would know it without a doubt with all these offers to buy New Year’s Eve tickets. As if I need to pay money to sit at home, drink my own alcohol while looking at a screen. And for those fatalistic entrepreneurs who actually think that I’d pay the few pennies I’ve managed to scrape up during the pandemic only to spend them on an in-person social event to contract the very virus that’s turned the world upside down, well they can go fuck themselves.
I started planning my NYE celebration a week ahead of time, starting with the menu. This was before I ever bothered to read any of those emails, which advertised NYE dinners for two that ran anywhere from $175 and up. There was no way I’d even pay for half of that tab. Instead, I researched recipes for the auspicious meal I’d have on the first day of January 2021.
For the gold representation, symbolic of wealth, I baked cornbread on Wednesday with my favorite embellishments: creamed corn, two types of cheeses (sharp cheddar and Monterey Jack), green chilies and brown sugar. For the green representation, symbolic of American money, I made a spicy tomato-based collard greens dish on Thursday. Then on Friday, New Year’s Day, I made salmon croquettes. In some traditions, they bake a whole fish. Since this was all edible superstition, I improvised.
As a matter of fact, I even bought green grapes, soaked 12 of them in honey-flavored Jim Beam since some South American cultures eat 12 grapes to make 12 wishes, one for each month, at the stroke of midnight for good luck. The addition of whiskey was my own twist because why not?
For New Year’s Eve, I woke up a bit earlier than the previous work days during the two-week Christmas-Kwanzaa-NYE stretch.
I planned to work half a day only because I hadn’t hit my bonus the day before. There was no way I wanted to ruin my 3-day weekend by logging on just to hit a bonus. Technically, I had until Monday, but I’d worked more than five hours on some days and not made progress toward the bonus. I definitely didn’t want to risk waiting until the last day.
After hitting bonus, I took my regularly scheduled midday Inferno Hot Pilates class, cooked lunch and then popped open my favorite bottle of special occasion red wine, which I planned to polish off within a few hours of slow sipping.
Just before I tuned into the NYE TV show that took me into 2021, I changed into a party dress and put on lipstick and earrings.
At least I can say that I wore my favorite salsa dress once in 2020.
Soon afterwards, I changed into my PJs.
By this time, I sipped the whiskey to liberate my grapes when the time came. At the stroke of midnight, I ate each grape, thinking of a wish. I probably said the same ones more than once because I didn’t write them down first. Nonetheless, we’ll see how 2021 turns out.
2021 began like a normal Friday except I had the day off.
I read, wrote and watched TV until my midday yoga class, then enjoyed my New Year’s Day meal altogether. The only thing I hadn’t cooked were the bacon-flavored black eyed peas. Good enough was good enough, especially when surrounded by homemade deliciousness.
I followed up my early dinner with dessert:
fresh blueberries and honey-flavored Jim Beam salted caramel sauce. May the rest of the year taste as sweet and luscious.
If anyone’s irresponsible enough to tell their kids that Santa’s coming to town in 2020, I just hope they update that creative lie by incorporating how Santa’s visiting everyone’s homes safely during the plague. Of course, the beauty of lies is that they aren’t confined to the truth, so there’s a lot of room for invention.
Unfortunately, there was a superspreading Santa who infected about 50 people at a mall. Just in time for the holidays! Even people who attempted to evoke the spirit of Christmas by mailing off packages early were thwarted. The combination of “monster snow storms,” as nearly every news station called it and the “mission of the century,” another media-spun appellation, which actually referred to the coronavirus vaccine distribution, slowed down the delivery of Christmas packages.
At least I still got my Christmas cooking on.
This was the first time in decades that I was not home for the holidays, so I actually looked up some Christmasy recipes for a change of pace. First up: Butternut Brussels Cranberries and Pecans. Seriously. The main ingredients were all in the recipe name. The worst part was cutting up my hand to dice up that squash. The sacrifice was worth it, though. I baked all the veggies, toasted the pecans in a skillet and put it all together when the veggies were ready.
Next up: Roasted Beet Salad.
The star of this dish had to be washed, rubbed in olive oil, sprinkled with kosher salt then roasted in the oven for nearly an hour. Beets are unattractive vegetables that are absolutely beautiful when cut up. Since I’d worked with them before, I knew to cut them up in the metal baking pan rather than on my plastic cutting board. I mixed fresh squeezed lemon juice with fresh cracked black pepper and toasted sesame seed oil. Then tossed in the baby spinach, carrots, added the beets, and sprinkled feta on top. I loved the beautiful colors. Everything slowly turned purple as I ate this salad.
Technically, I could have logged on to work on Christmas Eve, but why should I tempt Christians to cuss me out? Instead, I got in on some of the cursing myself during my attempt to make figgy pudding, which turned out to be a cake, not pudding–damn Brits! The misnaming of the dessert was the tip of the annoyance iceberg. The aggravation continued as I hand chopped the figs, which stuck to the knife. If I ever make this recipe again, I’ll complete this step the day before and follow Mom’s advice to use scissors instead of a knife.
Grinding the cinnamon and nutmeg, followed by grating the orange peel were comparative walks in the park, but chopping up two mini croissants taxed my hand since it was already pre-fatigued from the figs. The rest of the batter came together easily.
Until I poured it into the bundt pan, which sat in a deep baking pan. Since I had to create a hot water bath, I transferred six cups of hot tap water, two cups at a time, into the pan. Then, lucky me had to lift that entire weighty apparatus and place it into the oven–for 2 hours!
I sipped honey-flavored Jim Beam as I waited for it to slowly cook.
Originally, I needed any ol’ whiskey in order to make the hard sauce. I bought canned salted caramel frosting and mixed in the Jim Beam. Pure perfection. Of course I added a wee too much alcohol for a frosting texture, but certain not too much for the taste nor a “saucy” texture.
By the time the cake was done, I was too anxious to try it.
I waited the requisite 10 minutes before removing it from the bundt pan, but I didn’t bother to let it cool before adding the drunken sauce. Rarely do I encounter a visual hot mess. Again, the two together were delicious. I transferred the cake to another plate, poured the sauce back into a container and placed both into the refrigerator.
In the meantime, the poinsettia chocolate cake I ordered for my parents, my sister and her son, arrived safely on Christmas Eve.
They reported that it smelled and tasted as delicious as it looks, which was a good thing given how much that edible beauty cost!
I had my Christmas morning all planned out, which is why it went sideways straight out of the gates. What was supposed to happen was a virtual 8 AM yoga class, hop in the shower, start my breakfast hash brown casserole, then jump on a Zoom call with my family. What actually happened was 15 minutes into my yoga class, the electricity went out, taking my internet connection with it. Since I’ve been doing Bikram for about 20 years, I knew the routine by heart, but human interaction was gone.
I’d just started to put away my yoga things and gear myself up for a potential cold shower.
Like a Christmas miracle, the electricity returned. I postponed my shower in order to make the casserole. Fortunately, this recipe merely consisted of stirring the ingredients together and grating cheese. Very low prep stuff. I popped the casserole into the oven, then hopped into the shower.
I joined the family Christmas Zoom call a few minutes late, but I didn’t turn on my camera. I don’t like eating over Zoom and I dislike when people, ie Mom, questions about what she sees in the background, which was why I normally sit in my massage chair that has a wall behind it. I ignored requests to turn on my camera before I was ready. As a matter of fact, I had sent a warning text that I’d join the call 30 late since the electricity had cut. Not a soul seemed concerned about that. Nor the fact that I’d managed to join the call sooner than I’d originally anticipated given the electricity hiccup.
I mostly listened in to the call, muting myself while I was eating, washing the dishes and brushing my teeth. By the time I finally turned my camera on, one of my sisters kept trying to wrap the call up. One of my previous complaints during our Thanksgiving family Zoom call was how early it took place. Since they’re all on the East Coast and I’m in Central time, they get an extra hour to get their acts together. Nonetheless, we still started the call at the same damn time. Then, all the sports fans bid their good byes and caught whichever game enticed them off the family call.
On Boxing Day, I packed up a magazine, my favorite specialty wine and leftover breakfast casserole and had lunch with a friend, her husband and fur babies.
This beautiful display was the only time during this whole holiday season I was in the same room with a Christmas tree. All the others I’d only seen on TV.
Ten months under quarantine, but at least I survived long enough to see another Christmas. Perhaps “Santa” will eventually bring my presents, which were sent mid-December. Either way, Rona nor The Grinch has not stolen my Christmas–the spirit of Christmas as been inside me this whole time. At least that’s what all the seasonal movies have told me.
Last year, I volunteered for the CCBFF for the first time because I had never heard of this festival before. This year my very first short film, There’s Always Something, had been selected to participate.
With giddy excitement, I experienced the behind the scenes activities of being selected, starting with participating in a prerecorded panel discussion moderated by one of last year’s winning filmmakers, and five other selected filmmakers. All of us were in the same screening block. Among the six of us, about half of us had not attended film school, but were motivated to document something significant in our lives.
Another wonderful benefit to being selected was my free VIP pass to watch as many films during the 72-hour period as my schedule allowed. I saw back-to-back examples of different approaches to storytelling through film. One short film viewed like a stage play, but was completely accomplished via Zoom.
Most film blocks ended with the filmmakers’ panel discussion. Not all filmmakers had participated, but for the ones who did, they provided the background information on the choices that were made, many were funding based.
On the first evening, the festival provided a virtual happy hour, where participating filmmakers met the founder and CEO, Winston G. Williams. Not only did he welcome us, but he told us that we were forever a part of the CCBFF. Anything we needed from here on out, we shouldn’t hesitate to reach out during and after the festival, we should reach out.
Then, we had the opportunity to talk with other filmmakers in 3 different breakout rooms. My biggest takeaway the next time I participate in a networking happy hour will be to type out a brief paragraph with hyperlinks, so I can copy and paste it into the chat. I composed one on the fly, but that’s something I could have had already prepared had I thought of it.
I copied and pasted the contact information and credentials of the other filmmakers into a Word Doc. At some point, I’m going to organize the information. For real.
In the meantime, I’ve been watching videos from another filmmaker’s YouTube channel. So far, the episodes are reviews of movie trailers and movies. I started with the very first episode and progressed through the collection chronologically. I’m not at the point where I want to have my own YouTube, but I can never say never. Besides, watching videos always give me the opportunity to be productive in between calls as I illustrate.
I trust that while illustrating and watching videos during work, my creative course will flow into my next greatest thing. And at some point, my third book will be completed and perhaps I can fully throw myself into a bigger film project.
