The Road to Raw

**Be sure to scroll down to see the pictures**

As I write this I am nine days in to my forty-day juice feast and I feel unbelievably happy! Based on my extensive research into raw feasting (i.e. watching hours of Youtube videos) this is normal but it takes seven-to-ten days to get there. That's why I will tell you now that three-day fasts or cleanses just wouldn't work for me. Things were just reaching the bottom on day three. But I'm getting ahead of myself.  Let me start from the beginning.

I am a recovering cheese addict. Everybody has his or her thing, mine is cheese. I do not say this lightly. I imagine that there are recovering alcoholics who might take issue with my declaration. Believe me, I get their skepticism and I can only ask for an open mind. I am so addicted that I dream about it from time to time. I can eat an eight ounce block of sharp cheddar cheese in one sitting. I like it best cut up into cubes and dipped it in honey. I stalk the cheese aisle at Whole Foods like a crack addict. Oh, fromage!

Once I dreamt that I had to eat my way out of a room of Cheetos(tm). It was the best dream ever. I still remember what the dream looked like. On the morning before I started my fast, I awoke at four am with the taste of pizza on my tongue and my first thought was, "cheese".

Even in California where my mother and father were whipping out these extraordinary vegan feasts I snuck over to the local Bakers a few times for a quesadilla and small french fries (another addiction - though not as acute). I made sure to drive with the windows down to hide the odors from my mother.

When I returned to New York I hit my bottom. Craving cheese, I first considered getting a whole pizza from Little Caesars(tm).  Then I thought, if I'm going to do this, let me at least do it the healthiest way possible. I went to the grocery store and bought two whole wheat hoagie buns (sub sandwiches or grinders to you Californians), a packet of alfalfa sprouts, a tomato, onion, and a half pound of cheese. That's right. A half pound. Because the store won't sell deli cheese in smaller than quarter pound increments and I wanted both cheddar and munster cheese.

I went home with my haul and made the first sandwich, first slathering on a thick layer of mayonnaise on both sides of the bread then filling it with the sprouts, tomatoes, onion and the cheese. Oh the cheese. I sat down on the couch and filled my mouth with that first delicious bite. I paused for a moment to let the flavors fully seep into my mouth before chewing slowly and swallowing deeply. The first sandwich was gone too quickly and I went to the kitchen. The second sandwich was supposed to be for dinner. No matter, I still felt hungry. So I made that second sandwich and it was good.

I did the same thing the next day.  And the next. And the next.  My rational was, alfalfa is expensive. I had to finish the carton.

I am allergic to cheese. Did I fail to mention that? It isn't an allergy, really, and I don't think that I am actually lactose intolerant. The lactose pills do nothing for me. Also, I don't just get gas and bloating when I eat cheese. There is more. It seems that I do not metabolize lactic acid at all. So it comes out as acid. Yeah. Uh huh. That's what happens. And yet I eat it anyway.

This time was different. I happened to be trying out probiotics for a different reason. It seems that the probiotics neutralized the impact of the cheese on my gut or blocked it or something because by the fourth day, I started to experience an entirely different and quite bizarre reaction to the cheese. I started to weep. Specifically, my right eye had fluid pouring out from it at regular intervals. It's like when you are out side in the wind and that causes your eyes to tear up. The sinus pain started and I figured, ah hah. I am totally clogged up in the head.

After three days of this I got worried and went to the optometrist to ask whether I was going to lose my eye. At first he suspected that I had dry eye but then I told him about the cheese. "Ah, yes," he said, shaking his head. Your body is trying to get rid of the toxins." I actually felt a little relieved. I wasn't going blind. "Why do you eat the cheese?" the pert young clerk asked from behind the counter. I just looked at her from over the top of my glasses (I couldn't wear my contacts). "Because," I said. What, really, is an addict supposed to say? I eat the cheese because.

Eventually I banned myself from the cheese counter but I knew that this would be only temporary unless I took drastic action. Every year, sometimes several times a year, I went through binges like this. And when I wasn't binging it was the cheese puffs and the sour cream-and-onion potato chips from the corner deli. I had to do something revolutionary, something I hadn't tried before, something that would completely re-start my digestive system and my brain.

Being at my parents' place was like being at a spa - or in rehab. Being away from familiar people and surroundings is really helpful to an addict's recovery process. The moment I returned to my own neighborhood, my old cravings came back with a vengeance and I tumbled headlong (and with a smile) into the cheesy abyss. I had to stop this cycle.

I couldn't do cheat days or portion control, I couldn't allow myself the possibility of ever touching a morsel of the foods that made me ill. They triggered my cravings and I had to stop seeing them as food in the first place. From now on, food would consist of the following things: Vegetables, fruit, nuts and seeds, legumes, and wild rice. To re-program my body I had to strip everything down to the barest of basics, let all memory of the other substances leave me. They would be like meat has been for all of my life: Non-existent to my palate. For forty days I would consume nothing but raw, unprocessed, whole vegetables and fruit with some nuts and seeds thrown in. Nothing cooked, everything pureed.

I couldn't leave my neighborhood. But I could change how I navigated it. I started to prepare for my juice feast by re-defining what places in my neighborhood were visible to me, rendering the others invisible. Here's what I mean. I already had certain places designated as invisible. McDonald's is invisible to me as is Burger King and Applebee's. These are places into which I simply do not enter.

I prefer to think affirmatively, though, so rather than decide where I could not go, I developed a very special list of places that I would go. These were designated clean spaces, not quite sacred spaces, but safe spaces. There is the Uptown Juice Bar on 125th Street and Serendipity on Frederick Douglass Boulevard and Island Salad around the corner, the farmer's market and the produce section of any grocery store. I made note of juice bars around the city - and bathrooms. Yes, bathrooms. You juice, you pee. It kinda comes with the territory.

I also cleaned up my diet for the week before my juice feast started. I stopped eating wheat and cheese. In fact, I had a ceremonial last pizza, a deep dish from Little Caesars. I ate it over a two day period. I keep the receipt from that one in my bag to commemorate my last pizza. I did eat cooked food - including brown rice and oatmeal. I portioned out my groceries so that I would run out of my non-vegetable groceries on the day before my juice feast began. I worked out five days a week for the two weeks before the feast began and increased my water intake.

Then came the day before my Juice Feast began. Thursday, October 17, 2013. I planned that day out with precision: When and where to buy my juicer, when and where to eat my last cooked meal.  I chose Uptown Juice Bar for my last cooked meal. It was truly delicious.

Breakfast Day One

On Friday morning, October 18, 2013, I walked into my kitchen and began my feast. I deliberately chose to make a high calorie smoothie - bananas and frozen mango. That's my first meal in the picture. I knew that three bananas and two cups of mango would get me through to my next meal without a problem.

Lunch Day One

Meal two was not so bad. I wouldn't put apples and beets together anymore. In fact, I now understand that I am not the biggest fan of beet juice as a general matter. Beets are really strong and I find them best used in contemplated moderation.

Dinner Day One

Dinner was the best. This is actually dinner from day two. I'm not sure what has happened to the photo from day one. Tomatoes and carrots and celery, cabbage and kale with fresh basil and lemon. I didn't even miss the cheese. Mostly.

On the second day I went to the farmer's market to stock up. I had to plan my trip strategically since the great water purge had begun. I was in the bathroom every fifteen minutes or so. I managed to scurry out to the market, very efficiently make my purchases, then race back to my apartment building and the refuge of the bathroom.

I remember feeling hungry that day - and dizzy and weak. I could hear my cells cursing at me, pacing up and down, arms flailing, outraged. This was normal, I knew that. I didn't like it but I knew it. Dinner's rich, sweet tomato sauce helped to ease my suffering.


By day three, I could hear my cells sobbing and begging for mercy. For breakfast I had bananas and blueberries. The sugar rush (uncomfortable until it eased back) helped sooth my body's wailing
somewhat. By lunch, however, the pretense was over. The gloves were of. I was pissed. I finished that noon-time juice and went t
o my room to lay down. After about an hour, my stomach pangs became so acute that I could again hear my belly pleading, now bewildered and unhinged. Then it came to me: I was hungry. And I could eat! I had all that produce there in the kitchen. Nothing said I could only have three juices a day.

The whole point of the raw vegan lifestyle is abundance, FullyRawKristina, said again and again. I could have as much as I wanted, dammit! And so I literally stomped into the kitchen, flung open the refrigerator, hauled out the veggies and threw them into the juicer. After a whirl in the Vita-Mix to add pulp, I poured the juice, dutifully photographed it, then pounded it back like a sailor winning the drinking game of drinking games. It normally took me about two hours to finish a thirty-ounce juice. I swallowed that one in five minutes. I literally felt it hit the back of my throat than drop straight down into my stomach. Thud. I was breathless at the end of it. After another five minutes, I began to feel better. Not good, but better.

I had other side effects. I developed a post nasal drip (also expected) and my skin became very dry. I didn't expect that but then I remembered seeing something about dry skin on a juice feast. And the East Coast suddenly experienced a cold snap. I always had really dry skin in the winter. I slathered on more lotion. I huddled on my bed and watched video after video of various people preparing raw meals. Oddly, watching other people prepare food and eat it (especially watching them eat it) helped me to feel better.

Breakfast

On Monday, day four, I woke up feeling a little woozy but much better than the day before. The worst, it seemed, had passed. I had decided to continue exercising five days a week during my fast. I planned to modify my workout by slowing down and choosing an easier route. I did not, however, remember to reduce my time. In fact, I ended up going fifteen minutes over my normal workout time. I felt invincible! For about four hours.

I teach an evening class on Mondays so I decided to do my laundry during the day when things are quiet. I got a late start and found myself desperately rushing to get the job done. I was tossing dirty clothes into the washer when I became aware that I couldn't move very well. I felt as though I were immersed in a jug of molasses or walking through tar. I tried to grip a bottle of detergent to open it and found that I could not quite grasp it and then I could not open my hand. As I walked, my legs would bend and then I had to focus on straightening them again. Every movement was in slow motion. I wasn't sore - I just couldn't move.

Breakfast

This was bad. Really, really bad. I had to teach that night and I had no idea how long this would go on or whether it would get worse. Eventually I called my mother (she's a nurse practitioner) and confessed to her what I was doing. I told her about my symptoms. Was it a lack of potassium? I doubted it because I had eaten four bananas that morning. She told me to take a hot shower and at the end, turn the water all the way cold. That would shock my muscles and keep me from getting too much stiffer. "I don't have time for a shower," I wailed to her. "Well then, you're just going to have to tough it out."My mom is all warrior like that.

Tough it out is what I did. I told my students about my juice feast (as I slogged through my lunch smoothie). I warned them that I just might clench up and fall over. After they stopped rolling around with laughter they promised to call 911 and take care of me.

There is a great big table and a podium in each classroom. I used both of them to stay upright for most of class. I made sure to have my hand on something solid at all times. Somehow I made it through class and waded my way back home. And found my way to my bed. And wanted to cry because I was going to have to do it all again in the morning.

Tuesday morning, day five, came with a pleasant surprise: I wasn't sore, and I could move! I got up and did my workout (the truly modified version, this time) and felt great! Mostly. I didn't feel as sick, the post-nasal drip had stopped, and my cells had stopped hollering at me and I was getting the hang of the juices.

Dinner to Go

I continued to spend a lot of time on Youtube watching videos about health and nutrition and raw food. It was my way of brainwashing myself, so to speak, so that I came out with a different mentality about what constitutes food. I would walk past pizza shops chanting to myself, "That is not food. That is not food. That is not food." If someone passed me on the street carrying a pizza or eating french fries, I chanted the mantra, "That is not food. That is not food. That is not food."  Before I sat down to drink my juice I chanted, "This is food. This is food. This is food." It works for cults. Why not for healthy reasons?


It took another two days for me to feel completely well and satisfied when I drank the juices. My problem now was getting enough! I chose the raw food method because I love to eat which is perfect because one must eat a lot of raw food to get enough calories. I discovered that I simply was not getting enough. Juicing can be frightfully expensive and time consuming what with the regular shopping and the prep time involved. I developed techniques to significantly reduce the time (I'll be sharing those in later blogs) and I aimed to solve the problem of volume by adding pulp back into my juices. So, really, these we
re smoothies.

It is important to get the juice-to-pulp ratio just right and to slowly increase the amount of pulp in the juice and train the body to handle that much fiber. I remember the moment I discovered I'd gone to far. That was a rather uncomfortable afternoon.

Finally got the breakfast recipe right:
Loads of Collard Greens, only two apples,
1/2 large cucumber, 1/2 lemon, fresh ginger,
5 stalks of celery and a date.

I started writing this blog post on day nine.  It is now day fifteen. By day ten I felt that I had achieved my goal. My plan was for forty days. It turns out that I didn't need forty days. Even though I could still sort of remember what mac-and-cheese tasted like and had a pang of longing when I saw a woman eating french fries on the subway, I felt that I wouldn't be so tempted to go back to eating like that at this point. I truly had developed a self-discipline that I could rely on and, raw solid food really wasn't all that different from juicing taste wise.

I decided to push on for another four days to make it an even fourteen. Then I'd try raw food for another fourteen days before considering whether to bring in cooked food again. That would be just in time for Thanksgiving.

Finally got the juice to pulp ratio right!

I haven't talked about my weight because that really isn't the focus for me. Lifestyle is my focus. Still, I am keeping track and I am taking pictures for before and after. I do find those validating and inspiring. I think I might do a reveal at the six-week mark.

I can eat solid raw food now but I'm slugging back a green smoothie for breakfast. I plan to make that my regular breakfast even when I can eat cooked food. I can't wait for lunch! My adventure in the raw continues.

Going Raw

I haven't posted for a while mainly because life became chaotic yet nothing was happening for a while. Now I see that the chaos was really more like a bunch of puzzle pieces coming together for the next part of this lovely adventure. The camper is safely parked on a farm in Upstate New York, the title arrived on October 2nd (yaaay!) and Farmer Ben helped me to find a mechanic and a carpenter to help me with the transmission overhaul and the interior renovation. Whew! Then things came to a screeching halt. No money.

Having no money is not really a tragedy for me. There was a time, a couple of years ago, when I would have been sweating through the nights, awakening with heart palpitations and angst. Now, I just see it as another problem that will take some time and imagination to solve. My basic needs are being met (rent, food, transportation). The renovation will have to wait as I save up the money to finish it. Meanwhile, I am turning my attention to other parts of my happiness lifestyle re-design.

My lifestyle re-design has three parts: How I care for and nourish my embodied soul, how I give and receive value in the world, and how I shelter myself. My camper belongs in the third category and so I am parking that one for a while to focus on the other two.

Sometime around four months ago, I suddenly found myself becoming obsessed with the idea of raw veganism. I cannot remember when exactly I first saw a Youtube video about the 80/10/10 diet. I'm actually pretty sure that it was last year, actually. The channel is RawRadientHealth.

One channel lead to other channels. I watched a few videos and figured the whole think was some kind of scam. There was just too much similarity between channels, some people were eating nothing but bananas, and the production values were just too good (See FullyRawKristina and MeganElizabeth). It seemed like one big coordinated effort to sell Doug Graham's 80/10/10 book. Then I saw this video from RawRadientHealth explaining why Natasha St. Michael, the host, found it necessary to start eating animal products.  With that, I let the raw thing go.



In June of this year I began looking more earnestly at how I care for and nourish my body. The videos I'd seen before began to pop up again as I searched for information on the internet.  Soon I was watching every video I could - especially from the FullyRawKristina channel. Gradually my skepticism began to fade. While I had reservations about very long term raw diets I decided to do a hard reboot of my entire way of thinking about food. I decided to go on a raw juice feast.  For forty days.

I am currently on day eight. I decided to wait for at least seven days before blogging about it (although I have been posting pictures on Facebook - but for friends only). I really didn't want to have another project of mine start up only to die an ignoble public death. I'm all for experimenting (obviously) and I embrace the wisdom in quickly letting things go when I find that they do not serve me. Still, I do feel a responsibility to follow through on what I start - especially when I publicly commit to it. I wanted some certainty that this would be a journey to celebrate.

I started on Friday morning, October 18, 2013. I don't teach on Fridays and I knew it would be important for me to have as long as possible to adjust to raw juices before even trying to return to civil society. My next class was on Monday night. I figured that nearly four days would get me past the worst of it. We all have plans.

I'll write about what happened in my next blog. For now, I'm going to overcome the second reason I haven't posted anything in a while.

I've dodged posting for the last month because I want to transition to doing more videos but I keep coming up with reasons why things aren't just perfect for that! I've decided to finally stop it and just do it! So here is a little video about my trip to the farmer's market for local organic produce.

Happy Lifestyle Purge: The Prequal

(Be sure to scroll down to my video at the end)

I spent the first three weeks of August visiting with my family in California. That visit was the first in a long time when I can remember actually, truly, genuinely relaxing. During the first week I woke up every morning and took a leisurely stroll down the stairs to find my parents in the kitchen preparing a scrumptious, nutritious, meat free, gluten free and dairy free breakfast.

Dad makes his famous nutty blueberry muffins

After breakfast, we took a nap.  Then we woke up and mom prepared a sumptuous lunch bursting with flavor, color, and nutrition.

Tofu in fresh tomato sauce with sauteed green beans, steamed black rice with lentils and a sweet squash mash

Creamed pumpkin and asparagus with black rice and lentils and soy mutton

My sister had her husband gave their two daughters puppies for their birthdays.  I had the profound pleasure of babysitting them. They usually came over after lunch. I did consider dognapping them.

Caramel and Bambi

I also got to visit with friends whom I had not seen in about twenty years. Amazingly, we seemed to pick up right where we had left off.

Early on Monday morning of the second week my dad woke me up to join him for a hike. This is a tradition between us; we always go hiking together when we are in California. We went hiking several times that week and I lost another five pounds. Here is a video I made of us hiking a couple of years ago. Altitude is an issue (I live at sea level and our California hometown is 1,160 feet above sea level). Also, I'm in much better shape now.

With nothing to do but sleep, eat nutritious food, drink plenty of water, exercise, visit with friends and pet puppies, I truly rested for the first time in ages.  

Now I had the mental space to spend lots of time thinking about how I wanted to organize the next steps of my Intentional Happiness Lifestyle design process. Paring down to 400 things is my most immediate and truly daunting goal. For months I have been mulling over how to begin.

I have a large storage room full of stuff to get rid of. That task hangs like a millstone around my neck. Happily, I found help and inspiration. I have become obsessed with Alejandra Costello's home organizing videos. Here is my favorite. It has revolutionized the way I organize my clothes. I shouldn't admit this but I watch this video whenever I feel stressed out or overwhelmed. Alejandra has this cheerful and calming manner about her that helps me relax.

I had been watching Alejandra's videos for a couple of months and all the tips I had picked up from her over that time suddenly came together; I knew what I needed to do! While I couldn't complete the storage job right away, I could take care of my room.

Oh, my room. My deep and shameful secret. Nothing felt more depressing than coming home each day to that disaster. I literally had to clear a path from my bed to the closet and on my bed I kept a space clear for me to sleep on. Otherwise I was totally surrounded by a mess. I would watch the television show Hoarders just to scare myself, imagining a pathetic future in which I would make the news after the firefighters had to dig me out.

It isn't a hoarding problem as much as it is a messy problem. My breakthrough came when I realized that the main issue was my desk and a storage bench I had placed in front of it. I had intended to use the bench as a seat that doubled as storage. Unfortunately, it was too low so actually sitting at the desk was truly uncomfortable. Additionally, the desk had no drawers and since I couldn't reach it very well (because the bench was in the way), I tended to just throw stuff on top if it. And so it piled up.

It is a pile up no more. Watch this video to see the improvement. I'm not quit finished. In a video about organizing closets Alejandra mentions how she switched from hanging her jeans to putting them in drawers and demonstrates how much more room that gave her (tons). So I still have to get drawers and those under the bed containers for the vacuum bags I store my off-season clothes in.  Still, there is much progress and I am very happy. Enjoy!

Opts Out/Opts In (The Movie): Chapter One

Update Update Update! Here is what has happened with the camper so far.  This update is in the form of a little movie.  I'm thinking to do more of these little movies. It means fewer entries each month but I'm thinking that these are more fun than just text.  It's an experiment!  Enjoy.

Full Speed Ahead!

Things are happening so fast now that I actually don't have time to blog about one thing before the next thing happens. It's funny. All that work in the beginning - the slow, slogging pace of it - and now, all of a sudden, all at once the dreams behind that work are coming true.

I have my New York State Driver license, the camper is insured, I have my Social Security card in my own name (a full two weeks early), and, yesterday, I got the camper registered.  I have plates!!!  It is a temporary registration; I have ten days to get the camper inspected.

Experience has taught me not to wait for anything and so I spent some time this afternoon dialing one number after the other, looking for an auto shop authorized to inspect vehicles for the DMV that also dealt with campers. I finally found someone on Long Island.

Now, to the average Californian, a two hour drive is nothing. The New Yorkers I've talked to all recoil in horror when I say that I'm taking my camper that far for service. I'm just exceedingly grateful to have found a place.

The plan is for me to get the camper from New Jersey in the morning and drive it to Long Island for this inspection. HA! Ok, now that I've gotten that off my chest, I am claiming power and success and calm for this trip. I will drive my 24' pookums over some bridge into New York and then find the Long Island Expressway without getting stuck under some low laying bridge, scalping my baby in the process. I will find the autobody shop and the inspection will go well.  No one will be harmed in the making of this production for Bach Rescue Pastilles are with me. This is a special occasion. Pray for everybody.

Goal Candy

The month of June ends on a high note, I am so very happy to say.  I found a source for tires for my hand-made shoes, the tooth that has bothered me for two years is gone, my driver license and social security cards are on the way, and (the very latest) the camper has been insured. The next step is to get it registered and repaired.

There were a few days this month when I thought that I would have to sell the camper and start over again. Things seemed pretty bleak and I often felt disoriented in the complex maze of overlapping and intersecting government offices and forms and requirements. The constant trot from obstacle to hurdle consumed my energies and I felt disconnected from the passion that fuels what I do.

Thankfully, a friend posted this video on my Facebook page and my passion came flooding back. This family is simply amazing and they have inspired a few long-term goals for me. It can be done! So, here is some goal candy:

The Odyssey (Homer, eat your heart out)

On Tuesday, June 25, I left the DMV without a driver license yet again.  That disappointment balanced out Monday, a day of joy. The check I’d been waiting for to cover my summer expenses finally came and my driver license abstract arrived from California about three weeks early. GO CALI!!! I also developed an abscess near that tooth that had needed to come out for so long but that was fine.  Now I had the money to fix it.  That was Monday.  On Tuesday I decided to start with the DMV then go to the dentist. 

At the DMV I waited in a longish line before finally arriving at Window 5 and gleefully whipping out my driver abstract along with the other sixty million forms of identification I had gathered.  The clerk started to look through my documents: “Certificate of Naturalization, check, license abstract, check, social security card, che . . . hey, wait a minute, your names don’t match,” she said. My social security card still had my married name on it.

“I know,” I replied. “I’m also doing a name change.  See?” I pointed to my certificate of naturalization, my actual proof of birth as a citizen in this country, the document that should trump all documents, and it had my maiden name on it.  Then I whipped out a copy of the divorce decree that gave me back my maiden name.  She flipped through the pages. “This isn’t an original.” 

“I know . . . I can’t find the original,” I sighed, but I do have the original property settlement document and, see, they’re filed on the same day, by the same judge . . .” She was shaking her head.

"We can’t use this.”  My shoulders slumped.  “If your social security card matched your certificate of naturalization we could do it.”

Aha! I thought.  I had seen a sign for the Social Security Administration Office right next door.  This could be done. 

“So, I go next door?” I asked the clerk hopefully. 
“No,” she answered, “they’ve moved down town,” and she pulled out a map. My shoulders slumped further.  But, wait, the address was not difficult to get to. Fine.  I would go to the Social Security Office and get a card in my own name.  I gathered up the sixty million pieces of identification I had lain out on the counter and marched resolutely out the door. 

I am Zulu (well, Ndebele, really, but . . . details) and we are a tenacious people.  We did let the Brits and the Afrikaners walk all over us for a while (mainly because we are also an essentially polite people) but eventually they all discovered just how tenacious we are (Amandla!).  I would not be deterred.  

I slapped on my sunhat (did I mention that it was noontime and sizzling?) and walked the half block to the subway station.  I took the 4 train going down town.  I got off at Fulton Street and three blocks later I found William Street and the Social Security Administration office.  Inside the building, the sweetest man ever told me which floor to go to and I got on the elevator.  I couldn’t believe this.  I still had to go to the dentist. 

A security guard at the doorway to the waiting room handed me a number and a form to fill out.  They wanted my mother’s full name and both of my parents’ social security numbers. I called my mom who enjoyed a hearty laugh at my ridiculous tale of woe.  She was still chortling when my number was called over the intercom. I approached window 25 and went through the now ritualistic process of laying my identity out on the counter.

The young woman at the window looked at my documents.

“Your social doesn’t match your certificate of naturalization,” she said.  I let the crickets chirp for a moment and then said, “Yes.  I’m here to fix that,” and whipped out the divorce papers.  “This isn’t an original,” she said.” That again.  But I had a certificate of naturalization in my name issued by the USCIS – another federal agency. How could that not mean anything? 

She looked at the documents again.  “Do you have a passport?”  I’ll admit it.  I started to cry.  That question is pretty much guaranteed to reduce me to tears.  I am still very, very angry about how my passport got disappeared and I think I will be angry about it until I get it replaced.  I explained to the clerk what happened.  She nodded and then started typing something.  I wiped away tears and apologized and explained some more.  Soon she handed me a printout.  “Please verify the information here,” she said. She was going to do the change!

I started to read through the document.  My name was spelled correctly, my date of birth was fine, but for sex it said: “M”.  “Oh!” I giggled to the clerk, not wanting her to feel bad about her mistake, “I’m actually a girl!” I grinned broadly. She looked at the paper and then said, “Well, that’s how your record comes up in the system.” The crickets chirped again. 

“What?!”

“It must be a typo,” she said nonchalantly and I thought, "I am a man?"

The last time I had made any changes to my Social Security card was when I made that regretful decision about twelve years ago to go ahead and hyphenate my last name.  That meant that I had been a man for at least 12 years if not more.  With nothing to show for it! That’s what made me mad. Where were my privileges?! And my penis?! The clerk was speaking.

“Normally,” she said, it would take us two weeks to issue you a new card but now it is going to take us four weeks to verify your information.”  Oh, I couldn’t. Seriously. Another four weeks? Was I really going to wait another four weeks to get a driver license? I had been trying to get one for about a month-and –a-half and now I was being told that it would take another month? And I still had to go to the dentist. 

I handed the forms back to the clerk and was resigning myself to another long wait when I remembered: The divorce papers. I could still get an original copy of my divorce judgment. So resolved, I took a quick trip to the bathroom before heading to the dentist.  I was on the six train heading up to 23^rd street when I realized that I had left my sunhat in the bathroom.

In my state of relative penury my best choice for a dentist was a student.  I opted for NYU Dental School because I figured that, being close-ish to the Village, they would be less likely to be judgmental and arrogant. I had lived through a rather unpleasant experience at another dental school way uptown (which was an underlying reason for why it had taken me so long to get this tooth taken care of). I was right. Student Doctor Sharma was amazing. A quick x-ray confirmed that the tooth had to be extracted immediately.  He gave me an appointment for 9am the next day.  I went home.

The next morning, I arrived on time, and, soon after signing in, I met Student Doctor Manny.  He would be performing the extraction. He, too, was super friendly and stayed with me through the administrative process. After filling out the forms telling me that I could be maimed for life, he sat me in the chair and got to work.

First he numbed me really, really well. Then he picked up a medieval-looking instrument and grasped my tooth with it. Or something. I really couldn’t tell. All I knew was that it felt as though he might pull my entire maxilla apart. But I liked Student Doctor Manny and trusted him, so I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. Ujjayi! 

After a while of tugging, Dr. Manny said, “I think I should get some help.”

“Ooohhhayy” I mumbled, praising him for his wisdom and wishing that I had wimped out and gotten the gas after all.

Student Doctor Manny brought reinforcements. I can’t lie. I felt relieved to see the shock of white hair and the crinkly bespectacled face of the supervising dental surgeon. He looked (and behaved) like he had been at this for quite a while. It took forty-five minutes of very determined tugging before the tooth finally gave up its perch. Dr. Spectacles put in two stitches and stuck some gauze between my teeth to help stop the bleeding. Student Doctor Manny stayed with me as I recovered and we chatted a bit (I figured out the mumble around the gauze thing and he somehow deciphered my muttering). Despite everything, it was the best trip to the dentist that I can remember, quite frankly. I didn’t want to leave. But I had to. I was determined: I would be a licensed New York State driver by the end of the day.

I took a swing by the Social Security Administration office where I retrieved my hat, hoping I wasn’t drooling while I got the sweetest greeting from the desk guard in the lobby. Then I headed for Newark via New Jersey Transit at Penn Station. At the Essex County Family Court building I entered what surely is a maze designed to experiment on the people who go there.

First I was directed to room 111 but I noticed a sign there saying that documents could be obtained on the 10^th floor. So I got up to the 10^th floor where I was given a form to fill out. After that I was sent back down to room 111 to pay for the documents. Then, with the receipt in hand, I was sent back up to the 10^th floor to retrieve the documents. Really. The clerk handed me the new originals and I flipped to the back page with the seal and stamp on it. 

On the day I got divorced, my attorney stood before the judge and read my social security number out to everyone in the court room and onto the record. The judge was as exasperated as I was. He admonished my attorney and ordered my social to be redacted. My original copy of the judgment indeed had my social quite blacked out.

Unfortunately, the judge’s copy, which the clerks in room 1068 used to create another original, only had my social scribbled out. Anyone could still read it. I asked the clerk at the window whether I could get it properly redacted.  “You’ll have to file a motion,” she said. 

Crickets.  This was now much too familiar.

 “What?” I asked, allowing the full measure of my incredulity to show as much as it could, considering that half of my face was still quite numb.

“Yes,” she said, “You’ll have to file a motion to amend the document.”

“But I’m not amending the document.”

“You’re making a change to the document.  You’re amending it.” Kafka, I thought, would be proud.

And then I thought, fine. This Zulu is ready. “How do I file a motion?” I asked.  The clerk handed me a packet. I glanced at the top page. $30.00. I looked at the clerk. I was starting not to care anymore, which isn’t good.

“Seriously,” I said, “I’m going to have to pay $30.00 so someone can use a marker to black out  . . . you can see that the judge intended . . . where’s the judge?” He had retired.  Whatever. I would find another judge. I stood there, contemplating how to storm this Bastille, when the clerk said, 

 “Ok.  I’ll ask my supervisor.” Some murmuring behind the door ensued and soon the clerk was back. Then another woman appeared at the door with the documents. “We blacked it out.”  She said. I called her an angel and meant it. Did everything have to be so hard?

Documents in hand, I got back on the train to New York City then took the subway uptown then switched to the bus to get to the DMV. At the DMV I waited in an hour-long line before arriving (again!) at window 5. I whipped out documents. I (in my mind) dared the clerk to tell me something was wrong.

“Your social and your diver license abstract don’t match,” she said.  “AHAAAA!” I crowed in my head as I pulled the original divorce document from the pile. “See!” I said and turned to the last page.  There was the seal and there were the judge’s words giving me back my name.  “Hmmm,” she said.  What HMMM!!!  HMMM???? There is no HMMMM! She started counting. 

Each document counts for a certain number of points.  The certificate of naturalization counts both for points and for proof of birth (since me standing there in front of the window isn’t sufficient . . . but, hey). After a few minutes of counting and recounting she finally said, “Ok.  I think this will work.” I refrained from weeping and shouting glory hallelujah – but just barely.  She told me to stand in front of the camera.  Thankfully the lidocaine from the extraction had worn off by this time. Still, I know I must look like hell in the picture but I don’t mind.  It is an accurate depiction of what I endured to get my license.

After I signed the signature card, the clerk put all my paperwork together and gave me a number.  I sat down to wait.  Another twenty minutes and I was called up to window 15 where I met Ms. Hung. “Your documents don’t match,” she said. If I didn’t like her droll manner (which I just knew hid a wicked sense of humor) I might have considered climbing over the counter and snatching her bald. Again I went through the dance of explaining. “Well, we have to issue you the driver license in this name,” and she pointed to the name on my California driver license abstract.  “But I’m trying to get rid of that name!” I wailed.  She looked at me as though I were a petulant child. “And then,” she said, peering at me over her glasses, “we will do the name change and issue you another license in the other name.”

You know what? I’m happy with the result.  Never mind the utter silliness of it all.  In two weeks, I will, once again, have a state-issued photo ID with my very own name on it. And, two weeks after that, I will be a woman again. Now I have to register the camper. Have mercy.

Old Soles

[Updated] My paperwork from California has arrived! I became concerned when the five dollar fee for the record had not been withdrawn from my account, so I called. The very sweet man at the Sacramento office told me that they had received my paperwork.  It took about twenty minutes to locate the record.  The nice man had to use my date of birth (about which I swore him to secrecy) because something was wrong with the way my data had been entered.

The nice gentleman told me that it would take another four weeks or so to get the abstract back. I am happy to say that the California DMV came through for me much more quickly than that. My camper remains parked but not for much longer. I am staying busy in the meanwhile.

One of the best parts of launching this adventure is meeting wonderful people.  I got to meet a few wonderful people this past Tuesday when I met Frank and his awesome crew at Frank's Tire Service.

I found Frank through a random Google Search.  I had no idea where to source the tires I want to use from my Dress Shoes so I simply typed "Used Tires" into the search box.  Frank's was the first non-ad based business that came up and his Bronx address seemed familiar so I called. I could only imagine the look on his face when I asked him, "Do you have any tires that you can't sell?"  He had about a hundred, he told me. I couldn't believe my luck (which is kinda dumb because tons of tires are just thrown out every year, right?)

About one week after I called, I took the journey to the Bronx and found my way to Frank's shop.  He and his colleagues at the shop were just wonderful. Frank remembered my call (why wouldn't he, it was nuts, right). We talked through my project for a bit.  As we did, a new set of dilemmas came to light. How would I cut the tires? What kind of adhesive would I use?  Frank offered to give me a sample to take home with me.  He got some of his guys together and here is what happened.

Dress Shoes

New York City's first real heatwave of the year coincided with my heroic (and ultimately futile)  effort to get a New York State driver license so that I can register my new camper (which I still have not met).  Three trips to the DMV in one afternoon (on foot) and I still don't have a New York driver license. It turns out that the document California sent me is not the right one. I have ordered the necessary document - which will come in another seven-to-ten days [Update: Just found out that it is really 4-6 weeks.  I weep].

In the meanwhile, I discovered that I would not be getting any classes to teach for the summer and that final paycheck for the semester that I was counting on?  Well, I had counted wrong.  There went my main source of income and rent for the month of June. And July.  And August.  This was an unexpected but totally affirming example of why I am doing this life-style re-design. I do not want to be up a certain very smelly creek without a paddle (or even a canoe, really) ever again.

Part of my happy lifestyle design thing is creating streams of income that allow me to be independent and to travel. I didn't expect to dive into being my own income making factory quite this quickly but, who says life has to be convenient.  I've taken stock of my stuff and my skills and this is what I've come up with.

First.  I have a computer, video camera and shooting/editing skills.  I'm currently working on a sizzle (best of reel/EPK* type thing) for a band.  If you are in a band, have a small budget, and need a simple video, hit me up. My terms are very reasonable.

Second. I have a guitar and an amp, a mic and a chair.  This is all one needs to go out and literally sing for one's supper.  If you're in NYC and happen by the uptown side of the one train at 59th Street/Columbus Circle, check out the music.  You might just find me there.  Please be generous!

Third.  I have a sewing machine and a few self-taught skills.  Here is where some serendipity happened.

My mom happened to send my sister and me an email with the subject heading "Shoes"!  I'm still not sure what that had to do with the email she sent because she didn't say anything about shoes in the message.

My sister thought my mom was asking us to help collect shoes for the 120 or so kids she and my dad provide food and clothing for in South Africa (more on that in another post - they need your help and by that I mean go there and actually help).

Being a consummate entrepreneur, I wrote to my sister suggesting that, instead of sending shoes to South Africa, we collect money and buy the shoes there.

My sister pointed out that finding a place to get the shoes might be an issue so I fired right back, suggesting that we make the shoes.  I thought we could teach the older kids and so that they could learn entrepreneurship and earn some income. A quick Google search turned up easy patterns for making shoes.

I loved the patterns I found and I thought, I'd like to have those shoes! My mind went wild with the different designs I could create and the materials I could use. My aim is to make and sell 100% vegan, 90% recycled hand-crafted flat shoes.

I had spied my sewing machine buried behind some boxes when I had sold my chair to Jasmine. One long subway ride and a snug fit into my grocery cart later, I had my sewing machine at home. Check out my shoe video. For this shoe I have recycled an old dress that I can no longer wear.

Neat, huh? A quick call to a used tire business and I have access to all the discarded tires I can use for the soles. I'm trying to get over there next week. And I'm taking orders!

In the meanwhile, a big mediation came my way and I will likely be teaching a class in July after all.  It constantly amazes me how these things find a way of working themselves out. Life is good.

*EPK stands for Electronic Press Kit

Snagged (again)

I'm waiting for my phone to finish charging before heading to the DMV. Again.  As I wait, I'm facing the very real possibility that my dreams of the RV life might be over! (For now).  To recap (do this slowly, I find it helps):

I need to register the camper.  To register the camper I must have 1) A New York State driver license and 2) Insurance on the camper.  Fine.  I'm heading out to get the driver license now.  Fingers crossed.

Part two . . . well now, therein lays the rub.  You see, there is front end damage on the camper.  Fine.  I am now learning that 1) Only certain insurance companies insure campers. And, 2) Nobody wants to insure a camper with damage on it.  Even for one day.  Without insurance, I can't register the camper.  Without registration I can't move the camper.  Without moving the camper, I can't get it fixed. Without registration and insurance I can't store it at the RV park with very reasonable rates (Did you read all that slowly?)

But I could get it towed!  (Never mind that the thing drives on its own, ok.) The first quote was  $250.00 (steep but do-able) plus $100.00/day storage.  Get out!  And the gentleman at the company I called couldn't think of anyone who could fix it. That freaked me out until a good friend pointed out that the Cruisemaster is really a van; I just needed someone who worked on vans. That calmed me down a little.

Unless I can find a way to get a one day permit to drive the camper to a location where I can store it for a reasonable price, I am facing the very difficult reality of having to junk my baby! This calls for ice cream. Except I'm lactose intolerant so I'm just going to think about ice cream.

DMV Blues of the Under Documented

All ambitious projects have snags in them; mine is no exception. I purchased the RV, fine. Now I need to move it perhaps 60 miles down the road from where it currently sits and store it while I decide how and when to do the repairs. Simple, right?

Most people are aware of how challenging it can be to live as an undocumented person in the United States. Most are unaware, however, of how difficult it can be to be under-documented, even if one is actually legally residing here. Just lose more than one piece of ID and see what happens, especially if you were not born in the U.S.

So, here's what had happened was.  First, I lost my certificate of naturalization (my citizenship papers, for the uninitiated). I actually don't believe I lost them. The most likely scenario is that I sent them to the Immigration people (they were called the INS back then) when I petitioned for my ex-husband's green card. They, in turn, never sent it back. If that is not the case, I have other suspicions but I am not at liberty to share them here. Ahem.

Then my passport got disappeared. I know how that happened. After the divorce, I asked my ex-husband to kindly return my passport to me. At the time that I, ah, removed myself from our shared residence, I could not remember the infamous "safe place" where I had put it. My ex-husband told the judge that he had found my passport and that he was riding on a bus in North Carolina when someone stole it from the outer pocket of his book bag. Whatever is making you scratch you head right now, believe me, the judge thought the same things.

Then I lost my driver license. Meaning, it literally fell out of my pocket on my way home from the grocery store. Ironically, as I had left for the store I had thought to myself, wouldn't it be just horrible if I lost this last remaining piece of government issued ID that I have?

Since then I've been skulking about town feeling very much under-documented, using my faculty ID at the grocery store, avoiding friends' gigs at bars, and praying that I never have to drive. Now you catch how hilarious that is, right? I'm going to live in an RV. Hahahaha. Right.

I comfort myself by believing that I am being allowed to experience these things so that I can better empathize with people who suffer silly yet mountingly significant misfortunes, one right after the other. Truly speaking, I cannot judge.

So why haven't I simply gotten a replacement driver license? Well, you see, in order to get a New York State driver license, I must have six points of identification, including one that proves my date of birth. Without citizenship papers or a US birth certificate I have been sort of stuck. Never mind, I thought, I'll just go back to California and get a replacement driver license. Except that, without a driver license or passport or other form of government-issued picture ID, I could neither fly nor drive.

I called the New Jersey Motor Vehicle Commission to find out what I needed to do to register the RV in New Jersey (where I preferred it be registered). It turned out that without a 1) New Jersey 2) driver license, I couldn't register the vehicle in New Jersey. WHO KNEW?! Just because I own a car doesn't mean I'm going to drive the car and why do I have to live in . . . that was not a battle I was going to win so I dropped it. Then I realized that I also could not register the RV in New York since I didn't have a New York license, either. My only option was to register the camper in CALIFORNIA!!! I could get a 20 day temporary registration in New Jersey but I'd have to have a driver license with a picture on it to get it. And, I wasn't going to drive the camper across the country to California quite yet. Especially since I wouldn't be able to produce a driver license in Texas along the way. It's all in the details.

So I called California.

California told me that they could send me a document (an abstract) giving me permission to drive (heeeyyy!) but it would not have a picture on it (ohhhh). I can't use the abstract to register the RV (in any state) or to fly to California. I'd also have to wait 7-10 days to receive it.

I decided to go the the New York State DMV to see if I could get a New York State driver license without presenting one from California. Thankfully, I did recently (finally) replace my citizenship papers. It took four  months and cost me $345.00!!! But, with proof of my date of birth, I could finally begin the process of changing my driver license.

With my citizenship certificate, faculty ID, social security card, divorce decree (for name change purposes) a blood sample and a picture of my California driver license in hand I headed for the DMV. I'm kidding about the blood sample but, at the rate things were going, that was about all I going to have left for ID.

Mercifully, the DMV is not far from where I live. The office opens at 8:30am.  I arrived at 8:45am and it already felt crowded. Being there brought back memories of the bad old days when going to the DMV meant an all day venture into officious hell and the even badder old days of lining up outside the INS at four a.m. in the dead of winter like cows waiting to be milked. Except the cows got a barn!

Things have really changed, though. The line moved quickly and the clerk was very courteous. I discovered that all I need is the abstract of my California driver license (yaaaayyy) and the documents that I already have to get the New York State license.  Then, with proof of insurance, I can register the  RV. See? Simple. I was on the bus and on my way back home at 9:15.  I'll be back at the DMV in 7-10 days.

Unshackling

Nightmare at U-haul

Now that I have my rig, I have to consider moving into it.  There is a fair amount of renovating to do but it is never too early to start planning the actual move.  In the past five years I've moved from a two bedroomed two bathroom house with a fully furnished basement to a one bedroom apartment to sharing an already furnished apartment. Somehow, the amount of stuff I have has not diminished a fast as my living space has. Instead, I am shackled to mountains of stuff in storage.

Storage is expensive. If I am to really embrace being happy, I need to get rid of all this stuff. It is a burden on my mind and on my wallet.

I actually got an encouraging start to paring down on the Friday before I bought my rig. I was about to blog about that when the big purchase happened so my story about selling my first item was delayed. Well, here it is.

When I first moved into my one-bedroom apartment, I had practically nothing. No bed, no chair, no table, not even a shower curtain. I bought the bed first. I splurged a little, bought a full-sized Serta from Sleepy's. I loved that bed. The second thing I bought was a plush and cushy comfy chair. Having a nice place to curl up with a good book and a glass of Martinelli was a priority for me. Sadly, I can't take either of those items on the rig; time has come for them to go.

I placed an ad on Craigslist - which can literally be like taking one's life into one's hands. I have put stuff on Craigslist before - with absolutely no luck - so I really didn't expect much. And then, about three days after I placed the ad, I received an email. Someone was interested in the chair. The person included a phone number so I called.

The voice on the other end was high energy but low pitched. The background was very noisy so what I heard was that Tony wanted to buy my chair, could he come by and see it that afternoon if his friend's van was available? Well, sure he could, I thought. And then I thought, it's Craigslist. What if Tony is a serial killer?

I reached out to my Facebook family, begging for someone to come with me and at least witness my demise. One friend wrote back saying, "I wish I could go with you . . . God has your back". What?  "No!" I replied. "God said 'Bring back-up!"

Tony called again to get directions and I gave him the address. I like to be sure that I am calling people by their correct names so I double-checked as we were about to end the call. "This is Tony, right?" I screamed into the phone. The background was still deafening. "Jasmine!" I heard in reply.  Jasmine?!  Lord have mercy, this was a woman on the line! My anxiety level immediately dropped but I chided myself for that. Women also kill, I thought. I still wanted someone to come with me.

Ultimately no one could go with me. I made sure that my phone was fully charged, told the people of Facebook where to find my body, and I figured that since I had to check in to reach my storage unit, someone would eventually figure out that I was missing and come looking for me. With that, I took off for U-haul.

Jasmine had not arrived when I got there. I decided to go to the storage unit to poke around while I waited.  I called Jasmine and asked her to call me when she arrived.  After about twenty minutes the call came through and I hurried down stairs and out to the gate. Jasmine said that she and her friend  (I'm calling her Ana) would be waiting in a green van.  Sure enough, I saw the van parked outside the gates in front of a lovely Econoline E450.

Rrrrowrrr!

This is when things got weird. As I reached the gate, three boys approached me. They must have been around eleven years old. They each had bits of yarn hanging from their heads (I have no idea). One of them said,

"Um, hey, I like your hair".
"Thank you", I replied.
The second boy said, "I'm Jamaican, too".

I chuckled to myself.  Apparently wearing dreadlocs was synonymous with Jamaican to them.

Then the third boy said, "Take me home with you." Huh? Now I was concerned. What was wrong here? Were these boys orphans? Did they need foster care? By this time I had reached Jasmine and Ana. The three boys trailed behind me repeating their request. Jasmine took one look and started yelling at them. Only then did I catch on to what was going on. These eleven-year-old boys were hitting on me! I was horrified! Jasmine chased them off, muttering about what happens when idiot boys see a fine booty, so I never got to ask the boys the question that still burns in my mind: What, precisely, did they expect to happen?

Jasmine turned out to be a delight. She curses like a sailor and her heart is as big as the universe. Ana played a ruefully amused straight-woman to Jasmine's antics.

Jasmine

Jasmine loved the chair! Her chair. No way would her husband and son get this chair, she declared. I actually felt a little choked up. I was so happy to know that my chair, my little island of refuge, was going to someone who would truly love and appreciate what it offered. If she couldn't have a room of her own, at least she could have her own comfy chair.

While I still have a long way to go before I have cleared out my stuff, I am really happy about how this part of my process has begun. I told Jasmine about my plan to live in a van. At first she looked at me as though I had newts growing out of my head. Then she got another look in her eye. An enterprising look. "You don't got kids?" She asked. "No," I answered and she nodded.  "Yeah, you can do this. This is a great idea.  Let me tell you whatchu gonna do." And then she gave me all the inside tips for how to get a van for free. She is quite the source of information and inspiration and good luck, apparently.  Just two days later I got my rig - not quite for free but almost.

I've Found My Thrill!

Home Sweet Home

I am so excited, I don't know where to start. At the beginning, perhaps? Sometime in March of this year I got this crazy notion to move into a bus and live a simplified life. After stumbling upon my first Skoolie conversion I went back and forth between buses, vans and campers.  I had settled on getting a van so that parking would be less of an issue.  I plan to stay in the New York area so that I can keep teaching.  I spent many, many hours late into the night searching eBay and Craigslist, dreaming and drooling over YouTube videos. I became obsessed with Econoline e450s. I learned to spot the difference between a Sprinter and a Transit (Mercedes and Ford respectively). I just knew that it would take me at least a year to be able to save up the five to seven thousand dollars I would need to purchase a van.

Then, about two weeks ago, another crazy notion popped into my head: Somebody is going to give me a van.

In the grand scheme of my crazy notions, this one was no crazier than the others.  I accepted it and kept on looking.  Then a camper, a class C listed at 23', caught my eye on eBay.  The starting bid was $100.00 and there was no reserve price. I could handle that. I decided what my top price would be (based on how much money I had managed to save by then) and started bidding in five dollar increments. I placed my first bid and immediately got notice that I had been outbid. Someone had set a higher maximum price.  I placed a few more bids then stopped. It was still more than a day before the auction's end and I didn't want to set off a bidding war.

The auction was set to end in the afternoon on May 12. That morning I checked the auction. The price had gone up to over $200.00. I put in a bid and (gasp!) got notice that mine was currently the winning bid!  I checked back an hour later and found that I had been outbid. Curses!

I was excited about the possibility of winning something that I could afford - even though it was the wrong thing!  I had been looking for a van, a Class B camper. This was a significantly bigger Class C RV. Where would I park?  Still, the chances of coming across a deal this good again . . . I couldn't rationally pass it up.  I placed another bid and won again. A few minutes later another bid came in. Now I knew that my counterpart was also bidding in very small increments and that those amounts ended in zero. I waited.

Fifteen minutes before the auction ended I decided to set my maximum price at $300.00.  No!  $305.00.   I sat and I waited, my eyes glued to the screen, watching the minutes tick by. At seven minutes before the deadline I placed my next bid and won. Again I waited, my heart pounding as though I were running a marathon. Nothing happened.  My counterpart was waiting, too.  At about three minutes before the auction ended I put in my maximum bid.  $305.00.  And I waited.  The eBay clock counted down the seconds and I watched, my heart thundering, my eyes riveted to the numbers ticking by.

Suddenly I saw the number of bids change. Twenty-six bids, twenty-seven bids. The clock ticked down to 60 seconds and more bids came in: Twenty-eight bids, then twenty-nine.  Bid thirty came in at 5 seconds before the deadline. Then the clock hit zero and a green bar appeared on my screen.  "You are the winner!" it said. I sat stunned and bug-eyed and paralyzed for a moment. My ploy worked!  I won! I had done it! What had I done? The price: $300.00.  Not free, exactly, but, considering my purchase, it was pretty darn close.

After about a full minute of stunned gaping, I dashed off a note to the seller:

Hi Rick*, my name is Bathabile and it looks like I've just purchased your RV! I'm really excited. May I send the payment tomorrow? Also, I live in NYC and will need to arrange for a place to keep the RV - especially while I renovate it. How long can it stay with you?

"It looks like I've just purchased your RV".  That was shock talking. I still wasn't entirely convinced. And what about the details? Would Rick expect me to take the van right away?  I decided to put worry aside. I wouldn't have won the van if it wasn't meant to happen and if it was meant to happen, then the parking situation would also get solved.

I was ready to pay for my purchase but discovered that the Rick had not provided an electronic option.  I had no idea how to pay for the van.  The instructions said to contact the seller. I had done that so I waited.  And waited.  And waited.

By the next morning I started to fear that, perhaps, Rick couldn't believe the price either. Maybe he was suffering seller's remorse. I had felt a little doubtful about this purchase the day before but now I was fully committed. I started having fantasies about decorating it and all the places we would go. He was going to sell me the camper, dammit!  So I called eBay.

It turns out that sales agreements on eBay are non-binding! Even though the auction was over and I was the winner, the seller was still free to back out of the deal (as was I). Who knew?! "But it's a contract," I wailed to the customer service representative on the phone.  I was ready, willing and able to make good on the deal. "How would you feel," the representative asked, "if your camper only sold for $300.00?" I was stunned.  Seriously?  "That's easy, set a reserve price!" I replied.  Thankfully, eBay has an option for sharing contact information with other members and so I sent a message to Rick with my phone number.  And I waited. I felt my initial excitement begin to seep from my heart and I started preparing myself to start the van search all over again.

Later that evening I finally got the email I was waiting for. It was Rick congratulating me on my purchase! He was going to sell me the camper! I literally jumped up and down. We arranged to meet the next day (Tuesday) so that I could give him the money and he could give me the title. I still couldn't believe it! Neither could a dear friend of mine who insisted on driving out to see the camper for himself.  Rick sounded a little amused but he agreed to meet my friend who ultimately confirmed that, yes, the camper did really exist, looked like the pictures, and yes it really did start.

Rick met me as we agreed. We ducked into a Starbucks where he wrote out a bill of sale and we both filled out the title document. I have ten days to register my new home. I'm looking for a place to park it.  I would appreciate any suggestions for a location that is in New Jersey but close to New York City without being outrageously expensive.

I don't have pictures quite yet. Look for another breathless update all about meeting my camper for the first time.  Would it be wrong to name her "Down by the River"?

*Rick isn't his real name. I don't (yet) have permission to reveal it.