After 7 years of producing my monthly spoken word and storytelling show, The Austin Writers Roulette, I was ready to call it quits. Yet, Austin’s unofficial mayor of poetry sweet talked and flattered me into producing it for an 8th year. I split the difference and made this year bimonthly, thinking I may continue for a couple of years with that schedule.
What a difference a few months make! I started selling CBD in July with the hope of building up the business enough to generate residual income. One thing the company encouraged us to do was share our personal experiences with taking the products. Watching the training videos motivated me to provide a platform to share other people’s CBD narratives via podcasting.
When I announced my intention to end the Roulette to my family, one of my sisters flipped out. “But that’s your baby!” All healthy babies grow up. Besides, it’s better to end an event on a high note than to let it fizzle out to an embarrassing end.
Instead of stating any of the above, I said, “Shut up. You’ve never even watched an episode!” One of the most wonderful aspects of The Roulette’s fourth and longest venue, Malvern Books, was that they videotaped all events. So, no matter the size of the audience, the performances live on the internet until society collapses.
Next thing I know, my sister informed me that she was coming out for a long weekend in order to attend the grand finale. Just like her to invite herself–something I reminded her of nearly every day during her brief visit.
As soon as I picked her up from the airport, we went to my favorite costume shop to get contrasting outfits. My favorite staff member decked us out to resemble Louisianan conjure women, complete with binding us so tightly in corsets, they could have doubled as back braces.
Afterwards, we visited a few other stores down the street en route to the car,
including a tiny home remodeled as a store to showcase Louisianan jewelry, followed by a boot store my sister hadn’t shopped the first time she visited me. One of the saleswomen shared a story from her life about Louisiana. (That state again!) She’d become a huge fan of the New Orleans Saints after Hurricane Katrina.
Prior to her visit, I’d asked my sister which vegetarian recipe she wanted me to prepare. She requested that I surprise her. I knew that raw onions gave her gas. When I asked her if she could eat cooked onions, she told me that onions in general gave her gas, but she could still eat them. (Uh, no you can’t.)
So, after shopping, we returned home where I made a scrumptious linguini dish with roasted cauliflower, walnuts, garlic, and capers. I grated pecorino over my pasta, which completed the flavor bouquet, but she went without the cheese.
I’d also bought my favorite specialty red wine infused with habanero peppers since I’d wanted her to try it the last time I’d visited, but we couldn’t find it at any liquor store in her neck of the woods. Yet, my sister, who’d actually graduated from college, somehow didn’t understand how cocktails worked.
On her flight, she had not one, but TWO rum cranberries. Even the guy who sat beside her told her that she should have a vodka cranberry, but she ignored his advice and ordered the second one. Now, her stomach felt funny. At least she liked the pasta and managed a sip of the specialty wine, which she thought tasted better than my usual wine choice: Malbec.
Friday morning, we dined at a trendy breakfast/lunch place. A Meetup group I belong to had eaten there, but I refused to wait in a long line on the weekend. We walked right in and the host sat us in a cozy little booth. I ordered off the holiday menu. (Yes, that IS a giant marshmallow.)
My only regret was not trying a breakfast cocktail since I never consume alcohol before a Bikram yoga class.
Afterwards, we took a long walk along Lady Bird lake. I thought the trail was mostly paved, but as we soon discovered, most of the trail west of I-35 to the Stevie Ray Vaughn statue was dirt. My sister wanted to walk back through the city on the sidewalk because she was wearing “the wrong shoes.” They were comfortable flats, but made of cloth. That latter part made them wrong in her mind since they would be more challenging to clean. After living in Austin a decade, I’d forgotten that some part of the world cared how clean their casual shoes were.
Since we were an hour too early to go to yoga, we ended up parking at an upscale grocery store to use the bathroom. To kill time, we browsed in stores so posh that I felt I was on an anthropological outing, seeing how the other people, including my sister, live.
My sister’s first yoga challenge turned out being her desire to wear jewelry and lipstick to class. She removed most of the jewelry except earrings and her wedding band, but I couldn’t convince her to wipe off the lipstick. Our little spat amused the other yogis in the women’s locker room.
During the 60-minute class, she lasted for all of the standing series and half of the floor series, becoming so hot that she couldn’t catch her breath. After class, she sat outside the room to cool off. I added an electrolyte to her water. For all that heat, she hadn’t broken a sweat, which amazed me. She then shared that when she ran track in high school, the coaches always made sure she drank a lot of water because she never sweated.
She took so long showering that I waited for her outside only to discover she’d spent a lot of time looking for one of her earrings. Again, why the hell would anyone wear jewelry to exercise? Not to mention lipstick. The 90-min Bikram class on Sunday was out of the question.
For years, I’ve ordered two dozen tamales from a nonprofit’s fundraiser. For some inexplicable reason, they only allow individuals a two-hour window on a Friday to pick them up. So with my sister still freaking out with Bikram after effects and earring loss, I convinced her to get into the car to pick up the tamales. Just as I pulled out of the parking space, she had an epiphany: she’d snagged one of her ears with the shower cap. (Yes, a woman with cornrows STILL wore a shower cap!) She wanted to hop out and check her gym bag. Since I’d already recovered from my “yoga brain” fog, I reasoned that if the earring was in her gym bag, it would still be there when we reached the nonprofit.
The clock was ticking to get the tamales. I knew we’d waste time in traffic. As soon as we arrived, she found the earring in the shower cap. Once we got home, we snacked on almonds and I did two loads of laundry before leaving for my favorite Mexican restaurant to meet a friend and her husband.
Light traffic allowed us some time to stop by a store where I bought envelops for my handmade Christmas cards. My sister bought her husband a Christmas card, but the store across the street intrigued her. When I told her what it was, her eyes lit up. Unfortunately, we didn’t have time to visit before dinner, which was why we shopped at the adult toy store after dinner.
She was like a kid in a candy store. And why not? She’d been married for 30 years. They deserved adult toys. Even though I pointed out the portable sex swing to facilitate anal sex, attachable to any doorjamb, my sister stuck with the more conservative edible underwear, lube and sexy outfit.
Saturday morning, we returned to my usual yoga studio to take Inferno Hot Pilates although I’d kept referring to it as only “pilates.” The heat surprised her as soon as we walked it. At least she’d left most of her jewelry at home and wore no lipstick. Progress. Once again, toward the end, the heat started making her dizzy. Although Bikram hadn’t made her sweat, pilates did.
We ate lunch while watching back episodes of “Watchmen,” which brought her up-to-date for its regular Sunday night airing. After finishing the laundry, we travelled quite a distance, which was still considered Austin, to a hemp-tasting. We arrived early since traffic wasn’t bad, but ended up being the only two there out of 18 RSVPs.
Nonetheless, my ulterior motive had been to line up an interview with the owner of the company for an upcoming podcast. From what I learned about her during that tasting, she had an amazing story. Also, now my sister and I had the same shared experience of trying CBD for the first time with their chocolate. Her workout pain disappeared minutes after the tasting.
We transversed the city again to a shopping village, which she and her husband had visited nearly 10 years ago. It had been a few stores on a strip back then. We didn’t find what she wanted, but I bought an inexpensive wrap since the sun had set, plunging the temperature rapidly. Out of sheer hunger, we ate at the nearest restaurant, which turned out to be a hit.
Since there was no way in hell my sister would take the 90-minute Bikram class with me, I came straight home after yoga on Sunday and forgot to pick up costumes. She accompanied me to the costume shop. Along the way, a monk, who had a bunch of books, accosted me on the sidewalk. I firmly said no thanks, but once we headed back to the car with our costumes, he approached me again.
This time, I chose a book, whipped out my change purse to dump its contents into his hand and out plopped two cents. My sister augmented the donation with her pocket change.
After lunch, we fought with those damn corsets and didn’t go too crazy with the makeup.
Instead, I draped a necklace across my forehead, which looked interesting, but I fought with it off and on until the very end–it was the first casualty after the show.
Once at the venue but prior to showtime, my sister acted as if she was a wedding photographer, taking pictures with me and of me, and other rouletters, even wonderful candid shots.
I dealt myself quite a hand for the grand finale: announcing one-line introductions for the artists and timing them; handing out the heartfelt cards I’d decorated and written for them; and taking pictures of them for the blog. Once the show ended, I knew I’d done the best I could.
Some of us parked at a fancy restaurant across the street from the venue. My sister and I graced the place with our costumes, but still couldn’t get an inside table nor a discount. Some other rouletters joined us at an outdoor table. Fortunately, the weather cooperated.
After a breakfast of leftovers and tamales on Monday, I conducted a 10-min interview with my sister. I was pleasantly surprised that the settings I’d stumbled across the week before still worked, along with the aggregate device I’d set up. This reduced preproduction time down considerably.
I then whisked her off to the airport, returned the costumes, went to the bank and dragged myself to my desk to log on and work. As I cycled through the queued up calls, I knew The Roulette wouldn’t be the only thing I’d end.