An emotional weight I didn’t realize existed, lifted on April 20th. Despite the date being infamous for marijuana, that had nothing to do with it. On this day, a Black man who was murdered on Memorial Day 2020, had finally received a just verdict. For once, a White man, a former cop at that, was held accountable for murdering a Black man whose life mattered.
George Floyd’s murder sparked international outrage and protest against police brutality. Yet the mainstream media didn’t report how the world protested Floyd’s death. In contrast, mainstream media always report how Super Bowl winners are “World Champions” although no other country participates in the competition. So, football is king except for when it kneels during the national anthem to protest police brutality.
I didn’t watch any of the trial. Nonetheless, it was impossible not to read or hear the highlights. TV clips and soundbites. Snippets in tweets. The thoroughness of the prosecutor reminded me of what my relatives have always told me: “You have to work twice as hard to get half as far.”
The standard is to prove someone is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. The prosecutor had to do far more than that. He had to overcome centuries of conflicting racist dogma, starting with the big Black man trope where he’s a subhuman beast with superhuman strength to justify, using excessive force. Yet when the big Black man is murdered, which disproves the superhuman strength racist theory, then they use the big Black man’s pre-existing conditions and bad habits for not being able to endure excessive force; therefore, the big Black man’s responsible for his own death.
Scatologists identify animals by their shit. I do the same thing with racism. The dominant narrative has recycled the same racist shit for centuries. The defense attorney didn’t stray from the old playbook. Emphasized how a big Black man posed a threat that only excessive force could neutralize, then focused on how the big Black man’s past drug habit, health status, the crowd, the vehicle exhaust and the fact that he had enough breath to still speak when he stated he couldn’t breathe and called for his mother. Did all he could to convince the jury not to believe their own eyes: a handcuffed man, lying on his stomach on the pavement while a cop knelt on his neck for nearly 10 minutes.
Even one of the defense experts fumbled. He suggested that under the conditions, Floyd should have “rested comfortably.” The prosecutor went pie eyed. I wasn’t surprised though. Unfortunately, there are doctors who believe that Black people don’t experience pain like White people do. So, why shouldn’t this so-called use of force expert?
And yet, for once, none of that racist shit worked. At the end of the day, the jurors unanimously believed that the former cop’s actions led to Floyd’s death.
Very few times do things make me cry, especially tears of joy. That verdict did it. On that day, I celebrated. Just for one luxurious moment. Of course, much more will have to be done to eliminate systemic racism and hate crimes against Blacks. After all, the most dangerous place for a Black person to be is still in the mind of a racist.
Usually, no one ever asks me to babysit their kids, fur babies, or even to stop by to water their plants.
For good reason. Although I generally like all three, I don’t have any of my own. I’ve tried with plants. Even those plants that other people with green thumbs say can’t be killed. They haven’t seen my best effort to keep plants alive, which eventually leaves them dead.
Fortunately for me, my friend’s usual dog sitter wasn’t available. There’s very little to break up my weekly routine, even though I live in TX, where the governor has declared us “fully open.” That’s such warm welcome for an emerging superspreader event. At least this opportunity allowed me to safely leave my apartment and normal routine in what felt like a mini spring break.
I spent nearly 48 hours dog sitting. For most of the waking hours, I binged watched Amazon Prime while writing or illustrating along with my two corgi companions, who had very different personalities as I quickly learned now that their humans were temporarily gone.
Introducing, Mr. Sensitive.
Those piercing brown eyes stared me down until I gave the signal (two quick pats on the sofa) for him to hop up and join me.
With a total disregard for whichever device I had at the time–a laptop for writing; an iPad for illustrating–Mr. Sensitive edged those things out of my lap to cuddle. To be clear, he’s NOT a lap dog. Dogs that are so heavy that they put one’s leg asleep cannot pull that off. After rubbing his fur while simultaneously protecting my device, I gently guided Mr. Sensitive beside me where he curled up.
Next up, Little Bad Butt.
She’s not really bad bad. She’s that kid who knows when the substitute human doesn’t know all the rules.
And that foxlike coloration is so appropriate. Notice that over-the-shoulder glance. The look to see if I’m paying attention because she’s got an idea. She took my visit as an “I’m-gonna-get-away-with-some-shit” field day.
Since Mr. Sensitive was usually too upset to eat more than a few nibbles of food, Little Bad But had this coy way of casually strolling over to his food bowl. Then, she’d look back at me, then back to her brother’s bowl as if to say, “Oh my. Look what I found here. Why, we can’t let this food go to waste. I’m going to take a few bites and…it’s gone. Happy Bowl!” That same scenario played out a few more times, except for once when Mr. Sensitive actually finished his food.
The first day, I binged-watched TV until past midnight. Wanting to sleep in the next morning, I left the doggie door open, so the dogs wouldn’t have to wake me up to go outside. I moved their doggie beds from the master bedroom into the guest bedroom, thinking the dogs would just see that since I was going to bed, they’d go to bed.
Ha!
Mr. Sensitive paced and whimpered until I gave the signal, granting him permission to hop onto the bed and curl up beside me. Little Bad Butt had some trouble jumping onto the bed, but once she joined us, I thought she’d curl up and go to sleep.
Oh, what a fool I was.
She romped around on the bed never once settling down, making tinkling noises due to her two tags clapping together as she moved. After the thrill of being on the bed wore off, she hopped off to indulge in her favorite hobby: barking at nothing in particular. Thanks to me leaving the doggie door open, she frisked around outside barking, in what I’m sure translated to: “Mom and Dad left me with this new sitter who has no idea what she’s doing. Anyone else up? It’s party time!”
Mr. Sensitive, ever the follower, soon jumped off the bed to join his sister outside. Then, I lumbered out of bed. I officially became a Friday night party pooper. I shut the doggie door before opening the patio door. Mr. Sensitive knew the party was over, but Little Bad Butt just stopped barking and looked at me. I called to her and motioned that she come inside. I can’t tell for sure if she was weighing her options. Eventually, she came in. I returned to bed. Next thing I knew, the sun came up.
This was a new day. The new twist in the schedule was my live-streamed noontime yoga class. I set up in my friend’s office, closed the door and had an uninterrupted yoga class. I heard some sounds on the other side of the door, but nothing distressful.
From there, the day flowed to a similar repeat of yesterday with the notable exception that the doggie door was closed after midnight before I went to bed. Both dogs slept in their own beds without any fuss. Of course, I heard the early morning wakeup whimper to let them out.
Now that the dogs have trained me to take care of them, I’m looking forward to another extended visit. If only plants could be so cuddly and interactive.
I’ve changed. More positive and sexy to say, “I’ve evolved.” Either way, I’m not quite ready to leave home, get out there, press palms, laugh out loud in a crowd of other people laughing out loud and swap germs like I used to do. Just seems more reckless than necessary. Especially when I’ve been underemployed for over a year. The best things in life may be free, but mingling still costs money.
I believe that as the world reopens fully, economic opportunities will as well. First I spoke that to the universe. Then I sent an email. To a tutoring entrepreneur, not the universe. In less than a week, I mad scrambled to onboard, filling out electronic documents and updating my technology to facilitate virtual tutoring.
As long as the TX electrical grid holds up, this will be a solid temporary full-time gig. By the time that gig ends, hopefully the other one I’ve been working on will be fully funded. In the meantime, I’ll work my long-time gig on the weekends. It’s been dying a slow death, but as long as I can make some money, it’s better than no money. Besides, I’m still able to read, write, and juggle creative projects while working customer service. Everything all from the convenience of home.
Who needs the outside world anyway? Far too many people who don’t believe in science or think this pandemic is a political hoax, which means they’re not taking basic precautions to protect themselves and others.
Better to remain sequestered while the world rages on. Even after getting my second shot, it won’t have the magical effect of remedying everything else that ails society.
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.
As soon as I learned that “Coming 2 America” would be released on a platform that I didn’t have, I promptly invited myself to a friend’s house to watch it. My nickname for her is “Third Mother.” She’s after my real mother and an older sister who’s always thought of herself as my mother. So, yes, I was not at all ashamed about my invitation.
I remember 30 years ago when “Coming to America,” came out. My favorite scene then, remains my favorite scene now: Prince Akeem mopping the floor. During the course of my international math and science teaching career, I’d taught students who were also very removed from such plebeian chores cleaning. Quite different from my own upbringing.
Once Third Mother extended the official movie-watching invitation, I researched where to pick up African food.
The beauty of Prince Akeem being from the fictional land of Zamunda, meant I could choose any African restaurant; so, I looked for one that was open on a Saturday and en route to my friend’s house. An Ethiopian place fit the criteria. Bonus: They sold honey wine. Since Third Mother and I usually bring over a bottle wine to each other’s place, along with food, we could try something special for the occasion. Plus, I wondered if this Ethiopian honey wine tasted similar to a Tanzanian honey mead I used to drink called wanzuki.
I joined Peace Corps after my college graduation. One of the funniest questions I was asked was if I’d come to Tanzania because of “Coming to America.” As if! No movie’s ever had that much influence upon my life.
Third Mother prepared her delicious charcuterie board: green olives, three types of cheeses, mixed nuts and sliced pepperoni.
Although I could’ve requested a platter and arranged the Ethiopian appetizers as attractively as her board, we kept everything in its to go packaging and dug in.
The beauty of a simple tomato salad tossed with a spicy dressing and feta cheese perfectly contrasted with the warm appetizers.
I’d expected to have injera with this spicy lentil dip, rather bread that had the taste and texture of pita. Still delicious.
Rounding out the African flavors, spinach sambusas. My palate doesn’t know the difference between sambusas and samosas.
My palate doesn’t know the difference between sambusas and samosas. I just know delicious when I taste it.
I paired my first plate of Ethiopian food with my first glass of tej. Heaven!
Thank God the tej was better than “drinkable.”
Thank God the tej was better than “drinkable.” Even though I’m a red wine wino, I had to finish off that Ethiopian wine since it cost more than double my usual boxed wine. Yes, I’m cheap and don’t believe in wasting money, but it does help tremendously when I like what I’m consuming.
And yes, “Coming 2 America” was entertaining with spectacular costuming.
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.
No, I didn’t watch Oprah’s interview with the Duke and Duchess of Sussex. As one comedian pointed out, the racism Meghan experienced in England was so bad, she relocated back to the States. Cue: laughter. And the backlash, especially in England. Some angrily accused her of lying. Others angrily “how dared her” for bringing this up when Prince Philip was still hospitalized after having surgery. Majority felt tremendous empathy, for the queen, that is.
As every black person already knows, there’s never a good time to talk about racism. Surely, Meghan knew this. After all, she is an African American.
The dominant narrative didn’t want to talk about systemic racism last summer when George Floyd was murdered. Nor when Dr. King marched. Nor during Reconstruction when the klan first arose. Over four centuries of “too busy” and “not a good time” to bring up the artificial construction of a racial hierarchy that marginalizes and brutalizes People of Color.
Meghan had dealt with this all her life as a mixed race woman. Too black in some circles, too white in others. Just like any new or expectant parent, Meghan dreamed of all these wonderful things for her unborn child. And yet, before she could even birth her son, the ol’ racist troupe of “the one drop rule” raised its ugly head. Asking about “how dark” a newborn will be isn’t a neutral question. Not as long as the racial hierarchy exists.
Some years ago, a black friend of mine remarried. Her new husband happened to be white. A few days after their first child together was born, she was talking to one of her in-laws on the phone. During the course of the conversation, the in-law asked about what the newborn’s hair looked like. My friend shrieked, “What?!” Fortunately, her husband was near by and swept the phone out of her hand.
Again, there’s no neutral way of asking how coarse a mixed race child’s hair is. Questions like these never happen in a vacuum. Historically, the more people of color look like the dominant narrative’s ideal standard of beauty, the better. And God help you if your so called ethnic looks are considered “exotic” and are fetishized.
Since the start of the coronavirus quarantine, hate crimes have increased around 150% against Asian Americans. Although the dominant narrative denies it, the former president helped create an environment that stoked racial hatred. Then, the pandemic hit. Instead of fostering the sentiment of how we could work together to save one another’s lives, he drove home the idea that Asians were to blame.
As of this week’s blog post, the latest crime against Asians, which the dominant narrative has attempted to trivialize, was a white guy who mass murdered several Asian women at three different massage spas in Atlanta. According to the dominant narrative’s reasoning, if this murderer has a sex addiction, then he couldn’t possibly be racist. The sheriff went as far as saying that the mass murderer was “having a bad day.” He later clarified that he didn’t mean any disrespect to the victims when he trivialized that egregious crime. Additionally, the dominant narrative loves playing the old trope that if anything else can explain what happened, then a crime can’t possibly be due to racism.
This incident brought out several racist factors: 1) denial of racism-in this case since the criminal was an admitted sex addict, then he couldn’t ALSO be racist as if the two things were mutually exclusive; 2) empathize more with the criminal than the victims-when white people commit crimes against people of color (POC), the dominant narrative humanizes the criminal, trivializes his/her crime and in the case of black victims, will do their best to dig up as many negative choices the victim committed as if justifying why they caused their own victimization; 3) turn a blind eye to obvious facts-in this case, if this guy was purely operating under a need to destroy places that tempt his sex addictions, why did he drive past several strip clubs and only stop to shoot up places known to have a significant population of Asian women rather than practically any other place, which had very few women of color.
If I dare pronounce anything good coming from these racially motivated microaggressions and crimes is this: any time these incidents happen, time is created to talk about racism. Even the fiercest deniers of racism find their denial bubbles pierced as they must inconveniently find another way to recreate their alternate reality. At the same time, each racist incident calls for more people to understand the causes and seek preventions. Doing this work, the dominant narrative evolves. One day, the racial hierarchy will be extinct.
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.
In a sick way, scammers and con artists are pretty good psychologists. If only they’d use their skills for the forces of good….
For my second novel, The Adventures of Infinity & Negativa, I painted 24 oil canvases to illustrate the story. Perhaps, in retrospect, it was a cumbersome way to illustrate a book, but I loved every minute of going out onto my balcony and painting them.
Years after my book came out, I listed the paintings on Etsy. A few weeks afterwards, the world shut down due to the coronavirus AKA COVID-19. Not a great time to sell art as everyone clutched their pearls and their wallets to hunker down for the unknown.
Nearly a year after being quarantined, Mother Nature conspired with ‘Rona. Five back-to-back snowstorms hit Texas, which overwhelmed the electrical grid. After two days of no electricity, I then had no running water; so, I took refuge at a friend’s house.
When I woke up on the first morning of my new refugee status, an email brightened my day.
Out of nowhere, a buyer was interested in the Chapter 10 painting. My spirits soared. Selling one painting would help make up for a week’s worth of pay I’d missed due to not being able to work.
The buyer messaged me via the Etsy platform, asking for my email address. Under normal circumstances, this should have been a red flag. Not that my personal email address was sensitive information, but logically, if a buyer messaged me through the Etsy, why the need for my personal email address? Nonetheless, I was too excited not to accommodate the request.
The second red flag came in the email. The interested buyer, whose first name was the same as mine (nice touch, scammers!), spun this story that her uncle wanted to buy my painting as a surprise gift for his wife, but didn’t want to go through the Etsy platform. Instead, he’d send a check, which the niece would send via certified mail. She verified the cost of the painting at least twice, which included shipping, and informed me where to mail the painting. She then requested my mailing address. Then, in what seemed to be an after thought, she also requested my phone number in another email just to clarify the price again, so she could text me when to expect the check.
Again, I wasn’t thinking straight. I found nothing wrong with sharing things I would’ve readily put on a business card. And yet, the entire transaction could have taken place via Etsy without all the back and forth.
In the meantime, I googled the West Virginian address that she’d given me. When Google couldn’t find the exact location, I asked her to double check the address and send me her phone number, so I’d know it when she’d text.
When I excitedly told a friend about my impending sale, he wrote me a reality check: in the 12 years he’d sold things online, he’d never been offered a check that wasn’t fraudulent.
The next day, I returned to my apartment. As I picked up my life from where I’d left off, I braced myself for the fact that I was being scammed.
A few days later, the other shoe dropped. The buyer informed me that, despite her confirmation of the price several times, her uncle’s financier had made the check out for more than the agreed upon price. So, she urged me to deposit the check, and mail the painting along with a refund of the difference.
Whoomp, there it was! I’d already known that it was bullshit, but hell, I’d been quarantined for nearly a year and needed some entertainment. I responded that as soon as I received the check, we’d move forward from there.
Days later, “she” texted me that I’d receive the certified envelope with the check that day. Again, “she” encouraged me to quickly deposit the check, send her the difference and mail the painting.
For shit and giggles, I checked my mailbox.
Sure enough, the envelope was there. I had no idea who “Thomas House” was. It could have been the uncle. Even so, the return address was in Pennsylvania yet the painting was to be mailed to some West Virginian place that Google couldn’t find, but there was more.
I laughed my ass off when I saw the check amount, but doesn’t the check itself look legit, sight on seen? I mean, despite the fact that “she” now spelled “Teresa” with an H and had a different surname.
The “bank” that issued the check was located in Montana.
I looked up the bank address. Again, Google couldn’t find an exact location, but I called the nearest branch to the printed address. I spoke with their customer service representative who verified that the listed routing number, which is unique for each bank, wasn’t theirs.
As I spoke with the customer service rep, she assured me that scammers were really good at making their checks look official, complete with hologram stickers and watermarks. She also said that when she bought things on Etsy, she paid through the platform without any backstory. At that point, I told her the name of my Etsy shop, TYRCreations, which she later checked out and liked.
(For the record, when I later googled the routing number, 103100551, the first thing that popped up was a counterfeit check scam from a Pennsylvanian bank, Hatboro Federal Savings, back in 2018.)
As I talked with the customer service rep through my hands-free headset, I drove to my bank.
I dreamed about the bank stamping the check with a big red “VOID” or “FRAUD” or some equally menacing thing.
I explained the situation to the teller. She also confirmed that the routing number didn’t match the listed bank. Then she pointed out that the two addresses on the check should match.
Even though my bank had no fun stamp because they usually throw fake checks away or shred them, I borrowed her red pen to write “VOID” on it myself. Then I took a picture of the check.
I texted the picture to the scammer buyer, stating that when I attempted to deposit it, the routing number didn’t match the bank, but if they were still interested in the painting, then make a payment through the Etsy platform.
I’m one of the few people who turns off her cell before going to bed. When I turned it on the next morning, the scammer had texted, “Hello, Teresa.” Really? So cool to the fact that the alleged uncle’s financier had sent me a hot check? I deleted the text without answering.
The next day, I got an email about whether I’d received the text. I deleted that too. I’m sure they wanted to maintain the ruse by telling me that they could get the money to me sooner if I’d give them my account information. I didn’t give them the opportunity.
Those scammers had probably watched the news, saw how the snowstorms rocked the vulnerable Texas electrical grid, cruised Etsy to find some Texas sellers, figuring that we’d be too stressed to think straight, and cast a net.
The morals of the story: never accept checks from strangers and use the Etsy payment platform since that’s what it’s there for.
February 15th through the 21st will forever live among my select memories as “The Lost Week of 2021.” Karma also kicked my ass. I no longer enjoy most time travel movies, so the sudden loss of all the amenities that contribute to life in the 21st century, fetched my daily survival back to the 19th century with remnants of contemporary life there merely to mock me.
In addition to the burdens of staying warm, clean, hydrated and relatively sane, I worried about not working. No matter how much civilization had collapsed, bill collectors would still collect the bills.
First up, the rent. Once I took refuge a friend’s house because I no longer had running water nor electricity at my place, I used her WiFi to email the leasing office. I didn’t outright beg, but I explained that without an ethernet connection, I couldn’t work, which put rent in jeopardy. Since the leasing office also didn’t have electricity, one of the agents didn’t respond until a few days later when the situation had been already resolved.
Turned out, my roommate handled March’s rent. On top of that, my parents and one of my sisters sent monetary relief. An act that reduced me to tears. Never had I ever asked my family for money, but the confluence of bad circumstances motivated them to offer assistance.
The next worrisome bill, health insurance. I hadn’t seen a doctor in years. Nonetheless, since I’m a half century old, I won’t dare be without it. I overlooked the glitchiness of their payment portal, which manifested as messing up my date of birth until I found a work around the issue. From there, I paid my premium.
A few days later, I checked my bank account online and nearly pissed my pants. The health insurer had charged the monthly premium three times. Fortunately, my bank account hadn’t been overdrawn, but still.
I immediately logged out of work to call the carrier. Either the customer service representative was new to her job or she was borderline incompetent. Either way, when I explained the situation to her, she suggested that I’d mistaken an invoice for a bill. I corrected her. “I’m looking at the deductions from my bank account online.” Throughout our conversation, she repeatedly suggested that I hadn’t been charged three times, just invoiced.
I was about to lose it. Say “invoice” one more ‘gain. See what happens. Instead, I changed tactics. Adult temper tantrum averted.
I told her that when I paid January’s premium, I had only been charged once. She checked the date, which was the day after the money had left my account.
I asked her to make a note of my complaint, so when I called back the following day, I wouldn’t have to start from scratch with the next customer service rep.
Then, I worked off my angst in my Inferno Hot Pilates class.
Afterwards, I called my bank. That customer service rep sounded far more competent. She explained that the fastest way to deal with the duplicate charges would be a refund from the vendor. In the meantime, she instructed me on how to dispute the charges online.
I encountered another glitch. First I changed browsers from Safari to Chrome. Then, I switched laptops to use a hardwired connection on Chrome instead of WiFi. Bingo! At that point, I disputed the two duplicate charges, which could take up to 90 days to resolve.
The following day, a Friday, I started my weekly ritual of cleaning my apartment. In actuality, I merely killed time until I felt the health insurance company’s customer service had opened. I put on my handsfree headset and started the waiting game on hold while cleaning my apartment. As I listened to hold music, I pulled up my bank account. Lo and behold! the money had been restored. I hung up.
Then I read messages on my phone. My coworkers were discussing work platform malfunctions. Of course. 2021 won’t allow me a few moments of inner peace between crises. At least these problems were from the 21st century and not the 19th.
