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I love serendipity! I’d just picked up Robin DiAngelo’s book White Fragility from the library and out of nowhere, I got behind this truck for a couple of miles en route to yoga.
It’s always shocking to see a display of conservative Americana in Austin although I know this city is a liberal island within a vast conservative ocean. Just reading his bumper stickers, I hypothesized that he considered himself a patriotic American, a gun rights advocate, a Trump-supporting Republican, and that he’d served in the Armed Forces. I figured he was a White guy since that demographic roars the loudest about guns, patriotism and Trump.
Unfortunately, I didn’t have the opportunity to speak with this guy–and I confirmed he was White because at one point, I changed lanes in order to make a right turn from the leftmost lane as my usual route to yoga. If I had been able to speak with him, I’m not exactly sure how that conversation would have started in order to be productive.
Generally speaking, a conversation goes better to start out with something positive such as asking him if he’d served in the military and then thanking him for his service to our country. Then I would have disclosed that I grew up as a military brat since my father had served in the Air Force.
The next part would be tricky. How to ask about Trump without getting into an argument? Given the fact that our paths had crossed in the middle of the longest U.S. government shutdown, thanks to Trump’s desire to have the American people pay for a wall that he repeatedly said Mexico would pay for, I really wanted to know he’s opinion on that.
Of course, I’ll never know. There are White people who’ve stopped talking to their own relatives because of a protracted argument over Trump. Trump supporters want to believe that he’s their champion. Realistically, I wouldn’t have won him over that there’s a better way to strengthen our country. After all, I’m not the same demographic.
I cannot believe that it’s taken me this long to come up with this crowd-pleasing dish. The “crowd” being only myself at this point.
I’d first had chips na mayai (fries and eggs) in Tanzania as a Peace Corps Volunteer. In that case, the thick-cut potatoes were fried in a deep skillet of grease and when they were just about done, whipped eggs were poured on top, then one topped it off with a condiment or two. Nothing too fancy or elaborate.
Many years later, I got into the habit of buying frozen precut fries, baking them in the oven and either putting them on top of a salad or, covering them with some “loaded” toppings.
Then, out of nowhere, I got the bright idea to line a pie tin with parchment paper, bake the fries until they were golden brown, top with chopped spinach, parsley, tomatoes, cheddar cheese and red onions, then pour an egg batter on top of that, return it to the oven and bake until the egg was cooked. Once I took the dish out of the oven, I easily slid it onto a plate, and topped it with my favorite hot sauce, followed by avocado slices.
Talk about a culinary delight delight! I love how I took the same ingredients, changed the cooking method, and achieved a much better dish. Reminds me of the dark times when I didn’t know how to cook in my 20s when I’d buy fresh food and “cook” it, resulting in edible poison.
On a surprisingly cold December Thursday night here in Austin, a friend and I searched with our smartphones where we could find a decent nearby restaurant that actually served food and wine at 10 PM. After striking out both online and in person at one restaurant, which claimed to be open until 11 PM, but had closed the kitchen early due to the sudden cold front, we ended up at a jewel of a Vietnamese place that I pass at least once a week, but have neglected in all the years I’ve lived here.
I’d only dined there once, on a date, and had never returned because I usually cook at home. Yet, after all the years, I remembered the orange beef. It was just as delicious as when I’d had it years before. Since it was so late at night, I only ate a third of it and boxed up the rest.
Then the urban magic arrived: two fortune cookies in one packet. Disregarding the fact that those “Chinese” fortune cookies were served at an Vietnamese restaurant (but were really an American dessert phenomenon), I reacted far too excited. My friend, sensing my over-the-top happiness, told me to take all of them, the twin packet as well as all the rest.
Granted, it’s human nature to see patterns and construct stories, but I loved that both wise sayings implied “earth.” Whether you call it “ground” or “dirt,” it’s earth. As an earth sign, I appreciated the reminder of being true to my nature. If the old broom is my past experiences, then I must remember the thorns and not just the roses. The second “fortune” is the way I’ve approached my life, striving for the best, but at the same time, being logical.
A few days later, I received yet another karmic message. This time it was on a page near the beginning of a book I’d just checked out of the library about the Burundi genocide in the early to mid 90s, which overlapped with my time as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Tanzania. I’ve no idea if the author of the note meant it for a particular person or whether the author just wrote it out for the next reader of the book, but it’s now found a home on my wall. When I’m having a rough time at work, I inevitably glance at this note and smile at the simplistic, encouragement of it all.
Throughout your lifetime, you’ve got to stop doing some things in order to have new beginnings. It’s a sign of maturity. At the very least, it’ll keep life fresh and interesting. On a serious note, the ability to adapt to the changing environment keeps you on the right side of natural selection. Nowadays, instead of worrying about things ending, I focus on how I can reinvent myself.
Imagine if a fully-grown butterfly could return to a cocoon and reemerge a different butterfly. One capable of occupying a different niche within the overall ecosystem. Wouldn’t that be grand? At least for that butterfly?
That’s what we humans, if we’re not so stubborn, can do. Granted, the older I get, the better I get at being stubborn. Yet, that doesn’t mean I won’t change my ways in order to preserve my life and forge a new way of life.
All around me, people are being priced out of their apartments and homes because the cost of living has exceeded income. A wise woman once told me, back when I thought I’d retire as a science teacher, that the only way to make money was to be an entrepreneur. I politely nodded and smiled respectfully, thinking I’d never have to heed those sage words. After all, I had a Masters in Education and lots of teaching experience. I could get a teaching job anywhere in the world.
After several professional reinventions, where I’ve enclosed myself within a new cocoon of knowledge to learn different skill sets, I’ve come closer to being an entrepreneur. Suddenly, my favorite number is 1099 and I’ve discovered that one path to happiness is setting my own schedule. I’m not merely talking about which days of the week I’ll work nor how many hours during the day, but even down to the micromanagement of my time such as no middle management asshole dictating when, how long and how often I use the bathroom.
I can eat when I want. Run errands when I need to. Go to yoga in the middle of the day. And since I work from home, pajamas are my work clothes. Commuting consists of walking from one part of my apartment to the other. And if I ever think, in the middle of the work day, “I could use a drink….” (heeeeeey), I pour myself a drink.
See how I’ve embraced this new reinvention of my life? I cannot believe I dwelled in employee-dom for so long. Granted, I may not ever be able to retire, but the whole retirement thing was really a contemporary social experiment to ease older employees out of the workforce, so younger ones could enter.
In the past versions of civilization, people worked until they died. They may have slowed down along the way, but there was no such thing as a retirement package other than the expectation that the younger generation of relatives, usually adult children, would take care of them. So, instead of dwelling on the fact that we’re living through the last vestige of retirement as we know it, I’ve embraced a far less stressful working lifestyle and no longer worry about work/life balance.
Of course, there are some limitations to this path I’ve forged. Our alleged developed country does not have universal healthcare, so I have to pay for that myself. I no longer get paid sick nor vacation leave. Honestly, there was only one time in my life I actually needed my sick leave and all the other times I used it to do other things because I was well. My habit is to live below my means and save money, so when I do take some days off, I’ll still be able to pay for everything.
At the same time, I know there’s a work lifestyle where I don’t have to trade hours of my time for money. I can still get paid even when I’m not technically at work. It’s called residual income. As far as I’m concerned, that’s a part of heaven on earth that I need to incorporate into my work life.
Everything we’d planned to do for Christmas was delayed by a day. My sister and her family had vacationed out of the country and were supposed to fly back into Reagan International Airport around midnight; so I purposely flew in late to rendezvous with them at the airport. As soon as I landed, not only were no red-wine-serving restaurants open, but my family was stranded and I had to get a room at hotel for the night.
En route to the hotel suggested by my sister, the cab driver double checked the address with me, which I thought was strange, but when I looked it up on my phone, the words
PERMANENTLY CLOSED
appeared on the screen. To cross check, I input the street address and discovered the name of the hotel had changed because a new chain bought them out. Yet, once we arrived in the dark parking lot with construction material in the driveway, I requested the cab driver to take me to the next nearest hotel. Although he offered to drive me to 3-4 other hotels, I’m sure with the meter running, I said I’d check the availability at the next hotel and stay there.
Not only did the next hotel have a room, but I had 30 minutes to order room service. I was so tired and hungry, I kept apologizing to the front desk guy in between food- and sleep-deprived giggles. I ordered a lump crab cake burger with sweet potato fries and a glass of Malbec as part of my check in.
When the food arrived, I propped it on the bed and devoured it before I knew what was what. On my first flight, I’d only had a cup of apple juice and on my second flight a cup of water with a sad bag of pretzels.
I slept like a baby, worked out in the morning like a rockstar and then had a fabulous breakfast. Later on, I reunited with my family, who had a similar starvation story to mine the night before.
When we got to their house, there was a flurry of activity needed to be done, first of which was clearing junk from some areas of the house to other areas. It was quite a feat of physics. Afterwards, all the guest beds had to be made since my parents, my other sister and her son would be arriving later on in the day. Plus my nephew and brother-in-law had to go out and get a tree. This had been the latest they’d ever bought a tree–two days before Christmas.
Magically, among all the cleaning and rearranging, my nephew still found a creative moment to put together this ensemble as if he were a weary traveler when in fact, he was merely taking all of the items he was wearing and the bottle of rum to another location of the house. Since he’s never met a camera he didn’t like, he willingly posed for this picture.
By Christmas Eve, the tree was finally decorated and all the gifts were around it. My sister, who hadn’t slept a wink from Christmas Eve until mid Christmas Day last year, managed to catch a few hours of sleep before breakfast was served.
A few years ago, my nieces and nephews were too old to excitedly wake up on Christmas morning and open their gifts. Thus, starting the wonderful tradition of eating breakfast before our gift exchange. As usual, we adults ate first and slowly the kids woke up and ate.
At that time, my sister was on her Christmas morning nap and I did some editing work.
By late Christmas morning, the “kids” were in position for the gift exchange.
They just had to wait patiently for the rest of us.
I think the best gift was spending lots of laughs with family.
I can’t say what prompted this pose other than general Christmas Day silliness, but I know that family time has become more precious now that both of my nieces are in college.
Of course once my brother-in-law saw the incomplete family portrait, he joined in.
The second best gift was the digestive medicinals I gave Mom. She is the Queen of Home Remedies, so I knew she’d get a kick out of the digestive bitters. After trying a few drops of all three, she claimed that she felt tipsy. I just laughed at her, read the ingredients and discovered they all contained vodka. One of my nieces and I had multiple drops to no effect.
We all tore into an edible arrangement basket–our midday snack. None of us felt we could partake of it until my sister stopped frisking around to enjoy it as well.
How blessed we were to have OG Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus celebrating with us.
Funniest thing about this picture was that Mom and probably just finished nagging my niece about something, but paused to make this pose look warm and fuzzy.
On Boxing Day, my niece was supposed to get her applications together for graduate school, but was preoccupied with selfies and texting to concentrate. (As if I’m the one to talk. I like writing with the TV on!) She airdropped this picture “just to see if it would work,” while I edited. Despite what she said, I think she just wanted to see how tech savvy I was.
I confirmed that I received it, but encouraged her to complete her application since I wanted her to get into either Houston or Denver, and then I offered to help her drive cross country if either of those things happened.
On our final night together, we ate at a restaurant that was inspired by Langston Hughes. At one point, I saw a Black woman walk toward our table, stop in her tracks, double over looking at me, then put her hands on her cheeks as she advanced toward me saying my name. At that point, I went from bracing myself for a confrontation to leaping from my seat to embrace a friend I hadn’t seen since we’d both moved away from Honduras nine years ago.
As we embraced one another, one of my sisters took a picture of us. My long-lost friend then introduced me to her brother, cousin, fiancé and a friend. Then she excitedly told them that I was going to the wedding. I just smiled because in actuality my attendance at her wedding depends on whether or not I have to help my niece drive cross country.
For our 2nd Annual Christmas lunch, we met at Kobe. Not only did we celebrate our second year as independent agents, but one of my good friends had recently joined us because we’d switched from insurance agents to call center agents or “guides” as our present company referred to the position.
Last year, when we’d all made our great escape from employee-dom, we women had taken our group picture sans the husbands when one of the men shouted, “Fuck A**,” the company where we’d all left. This time around, everyone was in the picture when the same guy yelled the same outburst, soliciting the biggest group photo laugh.
Despite the fact that only one of us remained an insurance agent, all of us absolutely loved no longer being an employee and took full advantage of our flexible schedules. When it was my turn to offer inspirational words for the new year, I advised everyone to stay on the right side of natural selection. After the laughter died down, I explained that if we ever found ourselves in a losing proposition because what we’re currently doing is no longer working, then we have to at least tweak what we’re doing.
After we finished up our Christmas pictures around the tree, the grill show began. The funniest part was the chef putting out the fire with a boy-shaped bottle, pissing out water, followed by a fake bottle that he pointed at one of my friends who had been constantly on her phone.
He startled her, causing her to touch her face and look at her clothes, then she asked, “Is there something on my face?” We all laughed at her. I asked her, “How could there be something on your face if you don’t feel it?”
From there, the food and cocktails flowed as wonderfully as the conversation. The courses of fried rice, scallops, and steak, built upon themselves, followed by my dessert drink: a Godiva chocolate martini!
Par for the course, we were the loudest, happiest table in the restaurant. Truly the best intersection of good libations and conversation. That good feeling fueled me all the way home through damn near gridlock.
The following Tuesday, my apartment complex hosted its “Jingle & Mingle” social. I attend these events with the lowest of expectations since I’m only going to eat and drink my yearly increase of rent’s worth. For this event, though, I actually had fun dressing up and meeting new people.
Plus, other people dressed up. My Santa hat with the tiara didn’t escape notice, but this look wasn’t too hard to throw together since a third of my closet is costumes and accessories. I had a very interesting series of conversations with one couple, who I’m sure I wouldn’t have met outside of this event, so I got a little more than I bargained for.
One thing I knew was waiting for me was a bottle of Malbec. After the resolution of the last miscommunication between the leasing office and me, the leasing agent asked if I preferred red or white wine. I told her red, especially Malbec.
I’ve stored it in the cabinet for 2019. I’m still not drinking alcohol at home during the holidays. I’m going to modify that once the holidays are over. I like the routine I have now of making a carafe of fruit flavored water with only three tablespoons of sugar. Along with seven cups of water, it’s not a sugary beverage, but it’s different than just plain water.
One of the best things my carafe of flavored water mocktail does for me is give me an elegant solution to my routine of having a glass of wine with lunch. Just plain water seems too blah, but I’m committed to reducing my alcohol consumption to just with dinner, which that gifted bottle of Malbec will be on Jan. 1st!
This was one of the best interactive exhibits at EAST (East Austin Studio Tour). Since I produce a show that highlights personal narratives, I felt I’d entered a kindred space.
We had the option of taking a picture while holding one of their prepared signs that resonated with us, or making one of our own. I knew exactly which statement I wanted to get off my chest–or rather my back. Unlike all the other participants, I didn’t hold my sign in front of my chest. Most assholes who copped a feel of my locks did it from behind.
I taped my picture on the cleavage of a pair of pendulous breasts. If indeed the future is female, then we have to promote stories that aren’t covered by the dominant narrative.
Although I exercise every day, I’d not ridden a bike in over ten years. My sister planned a beautiful bike ride around Mt. Vernon during the perfect time of the year when the fall leaves were brilliant. I hardly got two pedals in when I realized the seat was far too high. Even people who were biking in the opposite direction paused to share a laugh at my ass high in the air. I called to my sister and nephew to stop and wait as I lowered the seat.
At one point, my sister wanted her bike, so I switched with her and rode my nephew’s old bike. How to explain? Riding my nephew’s old bike was like willingly riding a two-wheeled medieval torture device where my arms were stretched out at an unnatural angle. During the ride, I listened to Daughter of a Daughter to a Queen about the only Black woman who was one of the Buffalo Soldiers after the Civil War, which helped ease my discomfort. Something about hearing another person’s worse situation makes one feel better.
After a while, I couldn’t take it anymore and I had to switch with my sister again. We’d planned to bike to town to have ice cream or a smoothie or some such thing, but we turned around after my sister realized that the restaurant destination was farther away than she’d anticipated. She even stated that next time, she’d have to park closer. Hmm, next time I’m going to ride one of her daughter’s bikes.
Nonetheless, it was beautiful scenery, weather and one of the best ways to listen to an audio book.
I first visited the African American Museum last Christmas. Although I’d spent most of my visit in the basement, which goes back in time as one rides the elevator down, I didn’t have enough time nor mental bandwidth to see the upstairs.
As much as I enjoyed and absorbed the information from the theme-inspired floors, I took very few pictures as a result. I loved that the Funkadelic spaceship had an honored position. This was probably my favorite artifact in the music section although the music room itself, where we could order up a song through an interactive screen embedded into a table, was my favorite interactive.
This album cover spoke to me since I’d begun writing an essay for Veterans Day about how the phrase “We the American People” should be inclusive, yet in common practice, it exclusively means White people. What struck me most about this album cover was as much progress Black people have made, we’re still fighting some of the same battles.
This interactive, geared mostly toward kids, taught some Black Greek step moves. I’d wanted my nephew to do more than watch his own outline move, but at least he tried it out.
And like my first visit, I was starving by the time we ate. My feeding was delayed because my sister wanted to see the special exhibit before eating: Oprah Winfrey. As if that exhibit was going somewhere! For some reason, she was too anxious to wait. I sucked it up and walked around with a growling stomach, too hungry to take any pictures. Even so, I enjoyed watching some of her earlier clips when she was a mere beat reporter who’d eventually become a self-made billionaire.
As soon as I hit the cafe, I made a beeline to get the gumbo. That was memorably the best dish I’d tasted the last time. I did my foraging quickly around that a la carte style cafeteria, so I could get a table and put the feedbag on. My sister split a brick of cornbread with me after she and my nephew finally arrived at the table.
At the time, my sister wanted me to tell her my favorite part of the visit. I know it sounds too vague to say “all of it” or “the fact that it exists.” Honestly, I enjoyed seeing myself reflected in history and that the torch has been passed on to my generation to continue the challenge of making positive contributions to society and passing the torch of progress to the next generation.
After nearly two months upon discovering that my set of 84 watercolor crayons didn’t match the picture on the front, I returned to the art store to purchase several browns, nearly black, nearly white and two shades of red. The same woman who’d helped me before, helped me again. She remembered me. When she asked about how far off the picture on the box was from what was in the box, I replied, “If I only wanted to paint White people, then it would have been fine.” She nodded and said, “I know exactly what you mean.”
Once she finished checking me out at at the register, she then showed me where the watercolor paper was as well as the tracing paper. I told her that I wanted to get an idea of the prices, so I could budget for it. In the meantime, I’m going to have a ball with my new colors, not just to paint people of color, but also expand hair and eye colors without having to obsess about mixing shades. I’m especially eager to render a dark-skinned Black without them looking unrealistically blue.
I loved how the contouring turned out on her backside and back of her knees. The water didn’t turn out how I planned–like most of my painting dreams.
Again, I have to be careful not to elongate features. For some inexplicable reason, she looks armless. There’s some detail that I missed in the tracing and even with the picture printed out, I overlooked her arms, which were subtly shown in the original.
I watched a YouTube video on painting with watercolor crayons that stated these paintings will dry and, almost by magic, look so much better. That was certainly true for her face. His face, on the other hand…not enough magic in the world to salvage his face.
For my next challenge, I’m going to have blonds and gingers!
