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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.
So yet another wonderful benefit of my current full-time employment popped up in my professional email inbox. The company I work for has what I guess is a partnership with another company that specializes in back health. After filing out a questionnaire, I qualified to participate in the program to help with my chronic problem child of a left hip.
A few weeks later, I received my kit, which consisted of a mini tablet, two sensors, one for my mid-thigh and the other for my mid-calf, a few exercise bands, a tablet stand and lots of pamphlets of how to set everything up.
Like everything technological, there was a glitch. Confusing the situation, the error message read, “Network error.” At the time, I took it at face value. So, I checked that the tablet was connected to wifi. I had other things connected to wifi and was running well. I turned off the firestick just in case. I restarted the tablet. Same error message.
Instead of wasting more time on it, I repacked everything in the case, then emailed their customer service to report the malfunction. Since it was still a perfectly wonderful Sunday afternoon, I moved on to another leisure activity.
I heard back from them on Tuesday, given that Monday was a holiday. They needlessly reminded me of my login email. I just laughed. Once again, I’d have to run IT myself. Of course, that would have to wait until the following weekend. I had no mental bandwidth to screw around with it. Plus, I didn’t have any pressing reason to get it up and running.
By Friday after work, I figured why the hell not? Funny thing, technology. Despite the fact that the tablet was connected to wifi, I had to take the extra step and add the device’s IP information to a list. In layperson’s terms, I introduced the wifi to the device before they would dance. Just to make sure the connection was good, I put in my blog address.
Next thing, I was doing some Level 1 hip exercises. As corny as it sounds, I enjoyed the layout of the program. It displayed an woman avatar who had the sensors on her right leg to mirror what I did with the sensors on my left leg. Since the whole set of exercise takes less than 10 minutes, I easily incorporated them into my daily routine.
I sped read through the short articles, which follow the exercises, and have never once written any feedback. Quite odd for someone who claims to be a writer, but I’m saving myself for that moment, when the cumulative daily routine adds up to a pain-free existence.
Even after two vaccinations and a booster, I still won’t eat indoors at restaurants. Thanks to global warming, this mild winter means that I can occasionally meet a friend or two at a restaurant for outdoor dining. Of course, there are heating lamps for when it actually feels like winter.
Nonetheless, the African dance troupe that I’m recently a probationary member of still attempts to meet as safely as possible to rehearse. Once, we met originally to dance outside, yet the combination of uneven ground, a strong wind and no drummers brought us all inside to dance to a digital recording, linked to the studio sound system. Let me back up: we did have a drummer show up, but he expected to borrow a drum. Just like one of the dancers had expected to dance outside and left when majority of the group voted to go inside instead.
I continue to be grateful for having a stay-at-home job. It’s part of the job description. Not only that, but the company has fully leaned into retaining the virtual positions, given our proven success. Recently, I switched teams. As much as I liked my former team, some of the coworkers who I was closest to have moved with me, so the change wasn’t too bad. Plus, it’s good to switch things up periodically, especially when there’s an opportunity to be promoted.
One thing looming over every Texan’s head is the electrical grid. Will it or won’t it go down when we need it the most? If I were to believe my roommate, the grid will be just fine because she’s now prepared for it to go down. At this point, that’s one superstitious belief I’m willing to subscribe to.
I read that one symptom that we all exhibit after two years of being in a pandemic is having a narrower bandwidth for accomplishing things that used to be much simpler in the before times. The way this manifests itself in my life is that I’ll read about something, say an event or activating a credit card. Days will tick by before I do anything about it. Despite this self-awareness, I rationalize the feeling away by thinking, “Why do I have to rush through anything anymore?” Since this pandemic, my social calendar has been quite clear. Not that I want to fill it with a lot of work.
The world has changed. The supply chain cannot even keep up with the pace of where it used to be. Apparently, that was all an illusion anyway. Simply enjoying one day at a time as it comes is the best way to go.
Starting every day with a glass of water Walking at least 10 minutes daily
Adding a vegetable to a meal Journaling daily for five minutes
Taking one meeting a day standing up Reading one chapter of a book daily
Long ago, I gave not one damn about making resolutions, but when I opened my work email and saw a suggested list where I’m already doing every single thing they suggest everyone to do, I felt weirdly proud of myself. Hey, it’s the start of year three of the pandemic, so every little celebration counts. At least I recognize that if any middle-aged person isn’t already doing the six suggestions above, then there’s far more pressing problems that some measly resolutions.
The only things that I resolve to do for this year are to continue doing what best serves me and to stop, or at least minimize the things that don’t. That mindset has served me very well over the years, which explains why those six suggestions aren’t new to me.
It would be tempting to say that my sudden willingness to work overtime is part of a New Year’s Resolution to make more money. Truth be told, I’m obliged to work at least four hours of overtime during the first two weeks of January since this is the time of year where all those new insurance policies are entered and activated.
Thank goodness, I’d already figured out how to increase the pleasantness of my work environment, including listening to podcasts, music, audiobooks and streaming standup comedians. All of that truly helped after the second 3-day weekend in a row, the interactive platform cut up as if it had partied too hard over the weekend. Nonetheless, one of the benefits of being an employee meant I still got paid for doing as much work as I could.
A few weeks ago, I’d wished that a full-time day was only 6.5 hours. Although I’d still love that, three days out of five, that extra hour felt like a breeze. Those other two days…seemed like no matter whether I stood up, the pain on my left side (of course it’s always the left side!), just wouldn’t calm down.
On those days, I reminded myself that I was an hour of overtime closer to financial freedom. If that didn’t work, I thought of a restaurant I’d ordered from on Friday. Food, the ol’ standby incentive.
The downside of working an extra hour meant that I had an hour less of creative time. Once again, I had to work on editing my podcast on the weekends. At least that doesn’t have a deadline.
I had been looking forward to another 3-day weekend in honor of MLK Day. Yet, we were notified that we’d receive holiday pay (double) plus OT (time and a half) pay if we worked. Now by my algebraic calculations, that would be 3.5 times my regular pay, but my supervisor stated it was 2.5. Either way, that would put me closer to financial freedom. Certainly that has to be a part of MLK’s dream.
