The Little Things

Today I'm taking my own cream cheese to the bagel store to put on the one bagel that I’ll buy. My austerity program has given me a new appreciation for ... everything. One problem is coffee. I drink instant coffee at home, but my limit is one cup. St. Mary's (Community Center, where I work) has coffee but the pot is shared by about six people. I have a scheme for obtaining free coffee, of course, but the store is not on my way to work. They're spared – during the week at least. 

I’m lucky that austerity is temporary until a paycheck from my part-time teaching job and tax refund arrive. It's part of an employment choice that I made. But my lifestyle has changed. Internet (and cable) at home are no longer in the budget, for now at least. Thankfully, a haircut soon will be. I'm savoring every little thing that I can slowly re-afford. Recent highlights were frozen waffles and a dish rack. My sister sent me a Starbucks card for Valentine’s Day, and the non-instant coffee this morning was amazing.

The situation has made me less judgmental and more open-minded; I hope it stays with me. I teach a GED class in a low-income area, and most of my students are smart, hardworking and in need in some way. My classroom is down the hall from the public benefits office. People wander in mistakenly and, before I can redirect them, tell me that their food stamps have been cut.

Over the weekend I texted the aunt of one of my better students who hasn't been to class lately. She tells me that she's had to keep her nephew home because she hasn’t been able to pay the car insurance. I tell her that I understand. 

I await my tax refund (like many) and get by far easier than most who live day-to-day.

St. Mary's Community Center 

Low sleep

I didn't sleep very much last night, but I told myself that I would write every day, so here it is.

The thing about sleep is that it enables you to do things and think clearly. Lack of sleep turns me into a slug. I gaze at a pile of things or a list of bills to pay but can't bring myself to begin on any of it. I might meditate for a minute on its importance, standing, swaying slightly, considering a possible action. That's what low sleep will do.

The low-sleep state is deceptive, too. With coffee, first thing in the morning, I'm on a kind of no-sleep high. I think of myself as tough; it might even be fun. I start off on errands to beat the traffic (especially important this morning, four days before Christmas). Driving is good. It doesn't take much energy; you can float along without being a danger to others. You can accomplish things. You can go to stores where you're unlikely to see people you know, and your awful appearance will still be a secret.

But when I return to my maze at home the no-sleep state returns. I get mesmerized by news websites and can't move easily between projects. One project becomes the whole day.

Ah, well. The good thing about low sleep is tonight's good sleep.

Interior Life

Yesterday was the birthday of my college friend, DB Dowd. He is a great blogger and writer in general, not to mention an accomplished artist. In fact he is a prolific artist and author. I saw recently on Facebook that he, Lori Dowd, and Alyssa Schier were nominated for a mid-America Emmy for their work on StoryTrack, a documentary film initiative.


DB lives in St. Louis. A few years ago we met for coffee over the holidays (my sister is in St. Louis as well) and after talking for a few minutes, he said, "I see you still have your interior life." That's a compliment! If we lose reflection, humor, and creativity, whatever that may be, we've lost a lot. It must be cultivated (which I guess is what I'm trying to do now).

In early January I start a job as an instructor for Savannah Technical College in their Adult Education program; I'm teaching a GED prep course. What, exactly, do I remember about fractions? The point is, that I'll be helping people pass their GED, obviously, and maybe, though this might be too lofty a thought, I'll be helping them attain the chance to support their creativity, their interior life, whatever that may be, whether through employment or something developed on the side.

There is, in fact, an organization in Savannah dedicated to directly helping minority youth 

 express and achieve through the written and spoken word and artistic forms. DEEP was started by Dare Dukes, a local musician. Maybe I could help them out once in a while after the GED class. After all, when you read other people's writing, you're at the same time helping your own.

Ah, Tony

I'm living in a high rise in Belo Horizonte now ("Flat Horizonte") for a few weeks. Apparently it has reminded me of apartment living in Louisville because I've been thinking about Tony ... with great satisfaction.

The complex was very nice from the outside -- townhouses with outside stairs and walkways, the exterior all wood with landscaped walkways. There was a pool next to the club house office and it was in a nice suburb of the city.

What could go wrong? I was in my first job after graduate school and finishing my dissertation.

Soon after moving in I noticed that the complex wasn't very sound proof (a.k.a. poorly built) and odd noises coming from the apartment below. Admittedly, I'm sensitive to sound (must have my noise machine at night). But these were "thumps" and crashes against walls or furniture, and once even muffled cries of the wife saying, "Tony, don't! (crash!)." I called the police that night.

The situation became alarming. I complained, making note of every visit to the manager's office. I asked if they'd pay for a hotel until the issue was resolved. They wouldn't. I tried sleeping in my car after work one day (it was a nice office park nearby, don't worry.) I even tried sleeping in the bathtub.

On a holiday weekend, I remember being at a coffee shop in the nearby shopping center trying to work on my dissertation. I was delirious with lack of sleep and kept repeating Tony's name, like a chant.

Finally, the manager with some sympathy told me that the apartment next door to mine was currently vacant; I could try it out for a night. She gave me the key (amazing, given their strict rules). 

That night I ate dinner at my kitchen island listening to the sounds below (they started early evening and increased until about one or two AM), now with some detachment instead of the usual trepidation about the night ahead. I had certainly fueled his anger by telling the manager (who required a meeting with him), not to mention the call to police. But why did this start in the first place?

I did the dishes and began getting my things together. I remember that I had an inflatable mattress. It may have been for the bathtub experiment.

Sneaking out, while he was on the usual rampage, was incredibly satisfying.

I quietly opened the door and tiptoed along the outside walkway, staying close to the wall in case he would come out of his apartment and see me from below. I arranged my alarm clock, book, and blanket with huge relief.

Tony eventually found out that I moved next door. I heard thumps in my dining room coming from the direction of this apartment. He was just saying good bye, I'm sure. I think that he also called me from what sounded like a bar. There was no one on the other end, just bar sounds.

I guess I was Tony's captive audience and my escape frustrated him. There are sounds all around me at night here at Flat Horizonte, but I have my ear buds -- not that they would have helped much at the time. Tchau, Tony. 

Bom Dia!

BIUB -- Broward International University Brazil

I'm in Brazil now, but will be between jobs soon when I return to the U.S.

Carole said to savor every moment. Right now I'm savoring a torta de fringe c / requeijao, which is like a mini chicken pot pie, but with this amazing crust and chicken filling. It seems like I haven't had chicken in a long time -- since Douglas and I made it for Savannah's annual Picnic in the Park, which actually wasn't that long ago, but in a different country.

My short-term job is also amazing. It's at BIUB, Broward International University Brazil, which is on floors 5 - 10 of a building on Rua Desembargador Jorge Fontana. Thankfully, it's an English speaking school because in Portuguese I can pretty much only say that Pedro orders beef and I don't eat carrots. I know a few other words, but not enough to carry on a conversation with my uber drivers who take me back and forth to BIUB.

Also amazing: The school is across from Belo Horizonte's major shopping mall, actually two: BH Shopping and BH2 Mall. When I started writing this I was at a chocolate / coffee shop in a string of stores across from the malls. Pure bliss. I spent the next couple hours walking in and out of the places that my uber has sped by for the last two weeks. I happily explain, "Falo Inglais" (I speak English) and try not to knock things over with my back pack and shopping bag.

A major rainstrom came ("tempestade," pronounced tempe-stad'jey, with a little lilt in your tone at the "tempe"; this language is no joke) and, watching everyone else, tried not to let it bother me.

Learn more Portuguese, savor every moment, and fill out job applications for January.

Rats

I was talking to my potential property manager yesterday afternoon (I'm planning to rent my house for a year) when a rat strolled outside (thankfully) of my sliding glass door.

I told him I had to go (it seemed unproductive to blurt out a rat siting). The rat had stopped in front of me and put its front paws up on the window.  It was a Ratatouille moment, pear-shaped little rat body and all.

Thankfully, my exterminator answered his phone for some counseling. He had been here just a couple days earlier when there was rampant rat activity, or at least three. They strolled around as James and I surveyed my small courtyard. I know that adding the second bird feeder in downtown, rodent-attractive Savannah is a bad idea. But you should see the cardinals!

James left four large-ish black boxes where rats go in and feed off of a block of food that makes them  die, hopefully elsewhere. I was relieved that I didn't have to go picking up rat traps. And James said I could call him if I find any dead ones.

In recounting my saga I found out that boyfriend Douglas had not seen Ratatouille -- finally, a movie that I've seen and he hasn't. Movie night is coming up and the rats might be in the past, with any luck and one less birdfeeder.

Gems from the Road

I think I like road trips more in theory than in actuality. I plan and plot, do laundry and get maps from AAA (I'm pretty old school when it comes to directions), but then there's the anxiety of knowing that a long drive alone is ahead of me. I'm fine once I'm on the road, and sometimes find a few gems on the radio.

The best are from local radio stations, as in small-town local. One of my favorites was probably in Illinois on a drive between Columbia, MO and Louisville. A newspaper box had been stolen. Any information?  Please call ...

A couple Saturdays ago, when I started out in the morning from Knoxville up to Kentucky, I heard "Trade-io."

"I've still got that screen door for sale. I'll sell it for $98. And I'll throw in two closet doors." Apparently Trade-io has a following that could reference the screen door.

After that, one of the regular callers read a verse of scripture.

"That's a short one, this morning, isn't it Bill?" the host responded. The caller read with admirable emphasis and pacing.

When Trade-io got scratchy, I found another station, advertising an event that evening. Cocktails would begin at 6 PM, dinner at 6:45, and there would be a guest chef. It was probably a successful charity fundraiser -- I didn't catch those details -- but the announcer's matter-of-fact tone and the 6:45 Saturday night dinner time gave it that timeless, small town feel and kind of lonely, too, somewhere beyond the exits of I-75.