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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.
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.
At the beginning of this year, the leasing agent emailed my roommate and I a notice about what our rent would be if we renewed our lease. They’d unwittingly crossed into the “ya’ll niggahs must be crazy” realm. As if we’d pay nearly $500 more.
When one of my nephews was a little kid, he’d race to the brightly colored shiny bubble gum machines and ask one of us adults for some “buh guh money.” He wasn’t much of a gum chewer. It was more about the entertainment of watching the colorful piece of gum travel through its dispenser.
I don’t know at what age the magic waned from watching bubble gum dispensers or when he started referring to “buh guh money” as “quarters,” but I thought of my nephew when I saw my pay raise. Buh Guh Money.
I couldn’t muster my nephew’s young childhood enthusiasm for twenty-five cents, especially when the cost of practically everything had increased way beyond my raise.
Even the cost of gas, which I don’t often have to buy, thanks to working from home, shot up as soon as Putin invaded Ukraine. These assholes couldn’t wait for any excuse to jack up the prices, which caused some people to jack up their fellow citizens for gas. As soon as I’d paid Putin prices for my gas, the cost started to lower. Much better to stretch my buh guh money.
The irony of my π Day observation is that I never observed it when I was a Math teacher. As a matter of fact, if it hadn’t landed on a Monday this year, my current grocery shopping day, I may not have bothered with it at all.
Yet since we’ve passed the 2-year mark for this roller coaster pandemic, I bought a celebratory, individual-sized spinach and cheese quiche. My quiches taste better, but this was pretty good in a pinch.
In my younger days, I would’ve opted for a sweet pie, but now that I’m convinced that too much sugar makes my left knee hurt, I opted for a pain-free celebration. (Hey, some people can tell the weather with their knee. Mine lets me know when I’ve consumed too much sugar!)
Another reason I like this observation is that π is the most famous irrational number. “Irrational” being the M.O. of the US dominant narrative for the past couple of years. In a way, being sequestered has been nice because I don’t have to surround myself by irrational people in real life. We are comfortably separated by distance and social media.
As a matter of fact, I messaged people as a reminder to eat a sweet or savory pie in observance. Not a soul complained about how much they hated math because everyone found a type of pie that they liked without too much grief.
As a counterpoint to my belief that my country currently runs on irrationality, the US Senate UNANIMOUSLY voted to end Daylight Savings on March 15th. Could that have been the result of too much π the day before? I’m mostly sure that had nothing to do with it.
More than likely, they were all blurry-eyed from springing forward an hour on the 13th. Either way, it’s refreshing Congress can actually get some shit done. One Republican even made a big deal about how “the science” backs up the decision to end Daylight Savings.
I just thought, “Oh, you son of bitch, a vast universe of logical decisions await when you choose to embrace “the science.”
Nonetheless, I’m not going to be teased into a false sense of optimism that this occurrence has ushered in a new era of logical reasoning and innovative science. At least I enjoyed my pie.
At first blush, the title of this post may have led one to the false conclusion that I’m going to talk about the cost of something. In an obtuse way, I guess, I am. Yet after paying the rent, a credit card bill, which included my 6-month car insurance payment and a smaller bill, $1.60 was all that remained until the next payday.
Most would see that low balance and cringe in horror. Not me. As a matter of fact, having some money north of zero was an outright accomplishment, all things considered.
The bank’s email the first morning of that balance got me going. Note: I said “the bank” and not “my bank.” I still don’t claim the bastards that took over my bank.
RIP BBVA Compass
At some point, I’m going to research a better banking solution, but bank shopping is a low priority.
Since I don’t fully trust banks, I thought they were going to charge me a fee for being poor. I’m sure as the economy gets worse, that bullshit will start–charging people money for not having enough money.
The email stated that its existence was triggered because my balance was below $50. I calmed down and waited until they were open. They kept me on hold for about 20 minutes. To my relief, being poor, at least this time, wouldn’t cost me more money I didn’t have.
I received those automated emails daily, reminding me of the low balance. As if I could possibly forget. As if I don’t know when payday is. As if I don’t know that check will evaporate as quickly as its predecessors.
If a human being had sent those emails, I’d accuse them of being passive-aggressive. The disembodied automated reminders still deserved a special place in hell for the humans who set that function up. Again, I’m not dividing what little waking and off work hours to finding out if I can turn that “control” off. The real control I’d like to have is over my financial situation.
Given my recent “raise,” which was so breathtakingly small that it mathematically satisfied the definition of an increase, but economically seemed to be the same as before the raise along with an insult, I’ll have many more paydays ahead of me where I’ll celebrate any positive amount that remains after the bills are paid.
One bright spot: on the next payday, that same alarmist bank emailed me that the low-balance crisis was over. Assholes. Now I have this shit to look forward to about every other month since from here on out until who knows when things will stabilize financially.
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.
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.
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.
For a change of pace, just to break up the consequences from natural disasters, Austinites underwent a water boil restriction because someone did something wrong. If I hadn’t been under a pandemic quarantine for nearly two years, then I would have immediately entered Peace Corps mode and boiled water as soon as my roommate had told me about the boil restriction.
The bottled waters one of my sisters had bought back in December 2019 when she had visited were a saving grace. She was in the middle of some crazy water cleanse and had bought several liters of distilled water. So many that I still had two of those huge containers. Still, they only lasted two days. I hadn’t noticed how much water I drank throughout the course of my 8-hour shift since I kept refilling my water glass with tap water. Until I couldn’t.
Me being my typical Virgo self, I wasn’t about to go to grocery shopping for bottled water before my usual grocery-shopping day. By that time, the large containers were gone. I bought two 1-liter bottles because I want to have stored water on hand. Yet, I boiled a large pot of water, which sufficed until the boil restriction was lifted.
Now the potable tap water has returned, the ice storm has passed and the temperature has warmed. In those moments of bliss where there aren’t any disasters, natural or humanmade, I’m going to celebrate the circumstances as a win.
If one natural disaster doesn’t get me, there’s always another around the corner. On Monday, the sustained heavy rains created miracle lakes everywhere. Miracles because after all this time, money and enthusiastic construction, it is truly a miracle that no one can build things in a way that doesn’t collect water in all the wrong places rather than spread it throughout nature, where it could do its best work.
That wonderful feeling I usually get when landing a parking space was fleeting. I pulled into spot that was part of the parking lot lake. Stepping out of the car, I patted myself on the back for wearing hiking boots. As I stepped through the gently rolling waves, I worried about how drenched the cuffs of my pants were while the pelting rain wetted the rest. Then I discovered my boots weren’t waterproof.
The travel adventure ended once I entered the grocery store. After two years of living with a taxed supply chain, I strolled up and down the aisles foraging for the closest approximation of the items on my digital grocery list.
On the return trip to my car, the sky was darker and the lake had swelled. Despite the latter condition, all I could think of was pushing my basket as quickly as possible through the rain and flood. Then I made another discovery.
Some safety mechanism on the cart’s wheel locked in place. I reached down to unlock the one wheel that prevented me from pushing the cart with ease. Finally, I settled for half pushing, half carrying the cart onto the sidewalk.
Even though I only had three reusable bags full of groceries, they were heavy. Daily planks had strengthened my core so I wasn’t stranded, needing someone else’s help. I made several appeals to the Higher Power for my bags not to rupture. At the same time, my mind churned with the thought, “I will kill a motherfucker if a bag breaks and someone gives me a hard time.” Once I waddled to my car, stowed the groceries and sat in the driver’s seat, I took a moment for some deep breaths.
As I’d agonized my way over to my car, I noticed that the best bet was to back out and turn around, despite how the parking space was angled. That would require me to make a 3-point turn. I waited for a lull in traffic. Definitely didn’t want the car version of something getting locked or stalled like the grocery cart did. Fortunately, none of my fellow drivers were assholes. They were in the lake and respected that my small car was attempting to head in the opposite direction.
After that, I didn’t mind the slow progression home. No need to rush through 6 PM traffic in the pouring rain. All that awaited was the pandemic and fretting about whether the electrical grid would hold up during the ice storm later in the week.
