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These days, I don’t need elaborate plans to enjoy my vacation. As a matter of fact, thanks to a surplus of paid time off, I can pick and choose when I want to accommodate some elaborate plan to have fun.
So, when coworkers asked how I planned to send our latest three-day weekend, I proudly said eat barbecue (my sister is a grill master), drink (red wine and tequila, but not together), and juggle various creative projects while binge-watching TV. One coworker recommended a tequila brand to me. That was a timely recommendation since my sister, the grill master, had used all but a corner of my tequila in her quest to make “Smoky Peach” margaritas.
As if grilling on Saturday wasn’t enough of a cooking task, my sister also made a Banana Split Cake on Sunday. Mom used to make this dessert on a regular rotation when we were growing up.
My sole cooking contribution to the long weekend was making breakfast on Labor Day morning, consisting of waffles with a mixed berry garnish; scrambled eggs with cheese, cayenne and garlic powder; and bacon.
In between all the eating, drinking and TV-watching, I worked on several projects: typing up my past journals, illustrating, and I finally managed to complete the digital film of my family reunion, which had taken place this past June.
Not only had I shot and edited the video, but I sound mixed it as well. That left the podcast and my aunt’s surprise birthday post-production to do. After I finish those two things, I’m not taking on any other new projects until I get my pharmacy technician license…I’ll just see now that I tempted fate.
For months, my sister took deacon classes on Saturdays. She read more for that class than I’d seen her do in years.
Finally, the moment arrived for the ordination ceremony. I’d never been to this church before, but I spent more time than I’d expected to spend.
Mom rushed us out of the house 90 minutes prior to the start of the event since she had no idea how long transporting Dad to and from the wheelchair accessible van would take. He’d recently received his wheelchair “cadillac” and none of us had mastered maneuvering it.
The only upside to arriving at the venue far too early was we had a premium choice of handicap parking and once inside the church, we had convenient seats in the back to park Dad.
I’d grown restless prior to the start of the event, which started out with some brief words once the choir sat.
Then the would-be ministers and deacon candidates entered.
Once the candidates sat, the choir sang a moving selection.
Afterwards, I thought the ceremony would begin. Yet, what I thought of as the “ceremony” did not include an actual SERMON by a guest pastor, who was introduced after his wife had an opportunity to say a few words.
Admittedly, I tuned out during the sermon as I usually do in a regular church service. The only part I remember him saying was, “At every level, there’s a new devil.” I don’t think that comes from scripture, but I know from personal experience the truth behind those words.
After the sermon, the presiding minister asked all the candidates to stand together to pray for them. Then, he asked my sister to stand since she was the lone deacon candidate. She confirmed that she was ready to take on her duties. Despite the simple exchange, Dad had wanted to hear her say more.
Once all the candidates were asked to sit in front of the congregation, Mom took that as an opportune time for us to exit. As I attempted to take a final picture of the ordained group, Dad assumed that I wanted his picture as well since he’s never met a camera he didn’t like.
When I asked my sister what she was going to do now that she was an ordained deacon, she flashed her gap-toothed smile and said, “Raise hell.”
At the reversal of Roe vs. Wade, I feared that my country was rapidly returning to primitive times. Then, last month, the most energizing thing happened, the Democratic presidential candidate made the ultimate, patriotic, political sacrifice and withdrew his name from the race and endorsed his Vice President, who was already the first woman of color to hold that position, now poised to become the first woman of color to have a realistic opportunity of becoming POTUS.
Political endorsements, donations, and sheer excited energy poured in. The optimistic momentum continued when the Democratic VP was picked. Some sheepishly stated in a hushed tone that the candidate had to be a white man. Why be shy at being realistic? When lies from political opponents are confidently shouted, pragmatic statements should be asserted with the same boldness.
The burden/worry that I had not realized I’d been carrying had been lifted. With waves of renewed optimism and positive developments, I attended my usual Sunday morning hot yoga class. As a fluke of fate, we were a crowded room of women. When our yoga instructor realized the all-women’s attendance, she knew exactly which playlist to use: all-female artists.
When Beyonce’s “Run the World (Girls)” came on, I knew that was the theme song of the class. I couldn’t help but believe that the song should feature in the upcoming Democratic National Convention as well.
I normally don’t watch the DNC because at this point in the election season, I already know who I’m voting for. I didn’t bother to watch the first day, but of course, I saw clips. The second day, however, I tuned in to watch the Obamas. Those political rockstars never fail to inspire and entertain. Michelle Obama brought the house down in such a way that even President Obama admitted that he was the only fool who’d dare follow her.
In reality, they had helped one another with their speeches, so he knew full well that he was setting up Michelle with a speech full of zingers. My favorite one dealt with who was going to tell the Republican presidential candidate that the job he’s working so hard to get, is a Black job. My sister and I screamed and threw our hands in the air.
I’m so proud of the fact that high-profile, successful Black people are turning that racist suggestion that undocumented immigrants are taking Black jobs on its ear. Black people define what jobs are for us. Not someone who had never been Black a day in his life and who consistently demonstrates the “soft bigotry of low expectations.”
As much as the opposition have derided the newly chosen Democratic presidential candidate being a mere diversity hire, as I looked at the enormous crowd that gathered to cheer her on, I saw a reflection of the richness of America. EVERYONE was there. Even lifelong Republicans who believed that their party had been hijacked by a(n) (insert your own label) .
Both the Democratic presidential and vice presidential candidates came from hard-working families and had not inherited political and economic power from their family. In other words, they are both relatable to the masses and living proof that the American dream can be attained.
Many were pressing the new Democratic presidential candidate for policy details. For now, I’m inspired that her campaign is bringing the joy. I’m not just ready for a generational change, but also a change from hatred and fear mongering. Bring on the joy!
As if I needed ONE more thing added to my already bountiful, jam-packed schedule, I started another professional pursuit: obtaining my pharmacy technician license. Part of the appeal, besides career advancement, is that my company will pay for it. That got my attention.
Also, I’m a lifelong nerd. I absolutely love reading, especially in pursuit of learning a new trick. First, a coworker emailed many study materials. Then, my supervisor emailed more study materials along with information about company compensation for employees who get their pharmacy tech license.
One favor I did myself was to delay registering for the exam. I’ve been juggling several creative projects for a few years. I don’t want to take away too much time from them since they truly make life worth living.
Instead, I plan to do work around my creative schedule. By not having a firm deadline, I feel relaxed as I read through 10 pages of the study guide during the week and 20 pages on the weekends and holidays.
Since I’m not doing a serious drill of the material, I read through the material rather quickly, with the exception of the calculations section. That part was more challenging than I originally thought it would be, but I figured it out for the most part.
Once I finish the read-through of the study guide, I’ll check out the other study materials, then take a few practice tests online. I’m not even sure if such a thing exists, but I’ll research that when the time comes.
Hopefully, the testing site will be in town. Regardless, I’m already looking forward to the day off. PTO is it’s own reward.
As I type up slew of journals I’d written, starting around 1992 when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer and ending roughly around 2011 when I started blogging, I mark the growth that I’ve made as a person, regardless of my inherent flaws, but driven through my passions.
I knew when I was a teenager, that most guys I briefly dated, bored me. I wanted nothing more than to combine the attractiveness I found in a guy with the intellectual creativity that I also craved. After many decades, I’m not ready to conclude that such a guy doesn’t exist, but he’s a unicorn.
Another long-running theme: the utter lack of money no matter what job I have. I learned long ago that “residual income” was the way to go, but that seems as unattainable as world peace and the end of all violence. Speaking of violence, at least I no longer want to slap or cuss out people who dare say in my presence that “money can’t buy happiness.”
I still find that saying to be bullshit, given the fact that, with the correct set of priorities, money is a powerful happiness tool. Case in point: for the past 20 or so birthdays, I’ve either planned an itinerary of birthday events that I’ve invited friends to participate in or, more recently, made a list of things that I’d buy myself.
The COVID shutdown nearly ruined my milestone 50th birthday, except that my sister and I were determined to not let happen. As a matter of fact, by the time September rolled around, one of my nephews had turned 20 and Mom had turned 80. Yes, we’re all 30 years apart. We had a combined Zoom birthday party with mostly extended family and some friends.
For the following birthday, I made my first birthday gift list and bought myself several life-enriching things: a portable standing desk, a vibration plate and two TYR tankinis. (Note: I love that swimwear line because its name is my initials!)
In June of 2021, I’d landed my first bona fide desk job, where I was expected to sit for eight hours a day. That job inspired me to dream up of ways to make my work life far more liveable. Three years later, I STILL use the standing desk and vibration plate, but I’ve recently replaced those two tankinis with two more since I’d worn them out over time with active use.
Plus, I’ve continued to make a combination itinerary/gift list for myself for every subsequent birthday. The thoughtfulness behind my list reflect solutions to challenges to enhance my life.
Another running theme is my creative project juggle. Never have I ever had enough time nor money to fund these projects to the extent I would have love to, but I’ve always done the most with what I have.
I’ve written novels and poetry; produced a long-running monthly theme-inspired spoken word and storytelling show; produced two podcasts; produced/directed/edited short films; edited different written works for hire; painted; illustrated.
Two years ago, I abruptly uprooted my life. I’d seen the writing on the wall, which read: my income hadn’t revived since the pandemic. At least I was already working from home and could take my job with me.
Too bad my social life wasn’t portable as well. I rebuilt it from the ground up. A little more challenging since I worked from home. The first thing I looked into was African dance classes. Not only were the vast majority of classes geared toward students and children, but absolutely no African dance classes were offered. The only adult dance classes I found were for pole fitness.
I’d taken many different styles of dance class and this style had been on my bucket list for several years. Yet, the genre has been so sexualized that I couldn’t find a friend to try it out with me. Now, I had no friends to persuade.
For the first few months, I wore a mask. Didn’t bother me one bit that I was the only one. I was already going outside my comfort zone as the oldest student at 52.9. Plus, I was extra cautious since my parents were in their 80s and had just recovered from a mild to asymptomatic bout of COVID when I’d moved back home.
I’d taken four months of classes when I attended a pole dancing competition as an audience member. That experience helped to tame my inner critic.
Not only did I witness a range of body types, but also a range of ages. So, although I wouldn’t magically age backwards, strenuous exercise would help keep me strong, flexible and energetic. Three qualities normally associated with youth.
Moreover, I didn’t need to lose weight to invert on the pole. That was a limitation I put upon myself because I “needed” to lose 20 pounds. Yet, once I saw women much larger than me effortlessly inverting among all the other acrobatic moves, I knew that all I really needed to do was practice.
Although new skills take me longer than the average student to acquire, with regular practice, I eventually accomplish my goals. No matter how “bad” my performance may seem in any particular class, every effort provides a really good workout. That’s truly the bottom line.
As soon as I walked into the restaurant where my nephew, a hamburger enthusiast, chose, I knew I’d drink tequila, and no matter the entree, I’d be generous with a red hot sauce. The dirty floor tipped me off.
I learned from living and travelling in many developing countries that one surefire way to kill the pathogens in dodgy food is to consume strong alcohol. My favorite is tequila. Definitely something magical in that agave-derived drink. As soon as one sips that intoxicating elixir, the digestive track starts to settle down.
During a safety meeting I’d attended, the speaker recommended generously covering one’s food in red hot sauce if it looked questionable. Turns out that capsaicin, which is found in red chilies, helps kill most food-borne bacteria. Although garlic, onions and black pepper have similar properties, it’s far easier to carry and apply hot sauce than fresh garlic, onions and black pepper.
As if the lack of cleanliness wasn’t enough, the restaurant also had overpriced, watered-down margaritas. Fortunately, I had tequila at home to ensure no digestive wars.
My nephew informed me after the fact that he had a gift card for the restaurant, which was given as a Christmas present. As luck would have it, he didn’t have the card with him, so he’ll have to return to use it.
My ever-youthful aunt turns 70 at the end of July, which was why her surprise birthday party took place at the beginning of July. She thought she was going to a fundraiser. Instead, we raised the roof.
The evening’s lineup was deceptively simple, but like all surprises, involved months of planning and stress from keeping the details away from the notoriously nosey birthday girl, especially when she’d called up random people to guilt trip them about not making any plans for her upcoming milestone birthday.
Since the theme was “Mardi Gras,” the party planner encouraged us to wear purple and masks. My sister and I thought, “No problem!”
She’d just go to the local party store, pick up some masks and that’d be the end of it.
Not so.
The party store was closed due to an older woman driving her car through it. So, our plan B was to make our own masks. Here’s mine:
At least the place setting wasn’t hideous.
Unlike Mom’s side of the family, Dad’s side of the family hardly ever hosts a reunion. We normally get together only for funerals, weddings and birthdays. I only know my first cousins’ children because they resemble them. I managed to catch a few names in passing.
Although my aunt was initially ticked that no one had spilled the beans, she rallied to the cause. Not only did she warm up the dance floor, but kept it hot the whole time with whatever combination of partygoers who happened to join her.
Before retirement, my aunt was a top-of-the-line cake decorator. Her former coworkers/supervisees baked her a superrich yellow birthday cake.
During one of the most sentimental moments of the evening, my cousin told his mother how much she meant to him, his wife and children.
At least he’s known for being a talkative person.
Unlike my aunt’s husband. His tribute to her was not only the most I’d ever heard him speak in one setting, but it nearly brought many of us to tears.
After all was said, danced, and eaten, the group picture-taking began.
Here’s the male cousins’ pose.
Followed by the female cousins’ pose.
More female cousins joined the group and for some reason, my nephew as well.
The last time this side of the family got together was for Dad’s 86th birthday, but we didn’t dare surprise him.
My sister and her husband, had spent a few hours at the beach prior to going to the hotel to get cleaned up to attend the party AFTER the surprise.
I enjoyed a delicious, freshly made chocolate chip waffle during a hotel stay for our family reunion a few weeks ago. That inspired me to make waffles for breakfast on the Fourth of July. I had the day off, so I didn’t have to rush.
Instead of using a chocolate chip and syrup garnish, I chopped up fresh strawberries and bananas, then thawed out blueberries. Although that fruity mix was delicious, I should have cut up the fruit before making the waffles.
Both Mom and my sister had told me that our waffle maker worked just like the one at the hotel. I took that too literally, thinking that each waffle would take about 2 1/2 minutes and at the end, the machine would beep.
So, as I decapped and quartered strawberries, I smelled a burning waffle. Bad enough that I’d overpoured the batter, which self-corrected by dripping out of the apparatus within seconds. Although it was a little overcooked, I slathered it with butter as if it was perfect. Fortunately, the smell of bacon masked any overdone waffle smell.
Some people read tea leaves, but here are some plate readings. First up, Dad’s plate:
I’m the only one who doesn’t use paper plates. I used to when I first moved back, but then we were told that those plates weren’t recyclable. Since I make breakfast for dad most mornings, we had our red, white and blueberry waffles on real plates. Dad gets a smaller portion than I do. For someone who sleeps most of the day, either in bed or in a chair, he doesn’t eat a lot. Breakfast tends to be his biggest meal of the day and his bird appetite kicks in throughout the day.
Not only do I get a serving slightly more than Dad, but with the addition of hotsauce.
Mom, who often boasts of not eating breakfast because she drinks a blender full of smoothie along with ginger tea, was easily convinced to make a plate. She scrambled two eggs, then warmed up a waffle. Since she saw that I’d microwaved the fruit with syrup and a pat of butter for 30 seconds, she did the same, with comparatively less syrup. Mom was so excited to dig in, she initially forgot the bacon. Granted, she’d had a piece while I was frying it up.
Then, my sister came over much earlier than normal. The magical draw of waffles. Despite all the better waffles stacked on top of my disastrous first waffle, that’s precisely the one my sister chose. She put a few pats of extra butter on one half, folded it over, and warmed it up while she scrambled some eggs. Although she claimed to not want any blueberries, some snuck in. Then, she topped her plate off with a smile pile of bacon. (I’d meant to type “small pile,” but I LOVE this typo!)
This was the greatest celebration start to the Fourth of July. The best part: didn’t see a single firework!
As many projects as I juggle, I don’t have much bandwidth to take on much else outside work and exercise. Yet, I know I can do better when it comes to aligning my life more sustainably. It’s so easy to sit back and watch images on TV, shake my head and think what a shame when I know that I’m not doing everything in my power to lower my carbon and plastic footprint.
It’s even more challenging now that I’m living with my parents, the octogenarian teenagers. Not to put too fine a point on it, but it’s very challenging to raise their concern for the health of the planet, even for the sake of their four grandkids. Mom is so enthusiastic about single-use plastic bags and is quite annoyed by my insistence to wash and reuse Ziplock storage bags.
I attended a virtual talk by author and environmental activist, Erica Cirino, who talked about the research behind her book, Thicker Than Water. I was so impressed by her experiences, especially her efforts to build a sustainable house by minimizing the amount of plastic it contained. Eventually, I ordered her book.
Was it the Devil, the Universe or Amazon fucking with me when that book about seeking solutions to the plastic crisis came bound in plastic?
Another effort I made was to eliminate single-use dryer sheets. Even though one can clean the dryer’s lint tray with a used dryer sheet, it still winds up in a landfill. A sustainable alternative? A pack of three woollen balls. The kit even came with a small container of frankincense and myrrh to spray on the balls, which provides a light scent of those wholesome oils. Even so, the small container is made of plastic. Once I find a recyclable container of essential oils, there’s always Mom.
One Saturday, I was in the middle of doing laundry when I left to attend a yoga class. Mom figured she’d help me out by taking out the bedspread from the dryer and placing the load from the washing machine into the dryer. According to her, there were only two balls in the dryer when she removed the bedspread.
Since my bedroom is across the hall from the laundry room, the third ball couldn’t have rolled too far. Nonetheless, I couldn’t find it. Mom’s solution: “Two work fine.”
After literally sleeping on it, I woke up, knowing what I had to do. I lifted the mattress to see the challenge from another perspective. The third ball was entangled in the dust ruffle.
Normally we eat leftovers, either warmed up in the microwave or the airfryer. We’d been using disposable airfryer liners. When we ran low on the liners, instead of buying a new pack of disposables, I found an alternative.
So far, everyone has used, washed and reused this silicone airfryer liner. At this point, I don’t even want to know the bad effects, if any. I’m taking the win until I can’t.
Unlike the the reusable straws.
Once Dad came home from rehab after his hip surgery, I bought a pack of metal straws to replace the disposable plastic straws. You would’ve thought I’d invited Satan to live with us. Mom hated them.
Now that Dad has caregiving services for 48 hours a week, I no longer bring him liquids on a regular basis. On the rare occasions that I bring him a drink, especially if I make him a mocktail, I use the metal straws. They’ve been relegated to special occasion straws rather than daily straws AKA drawer clutter.
I’ve been decluttering for decades. Don’t want to take a step back and fill my personal space with good intentions.
