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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.
For our 83rd reunion, the Strange family incorporated Juneteenth, AKA “Emancipation Day,” decor and history as part of our agenda. Conveniently enough, our reunion fell on the weekend following the United States’ newest federal holiday.
Our reunion spanned Friday through Sunday, starting with Fish Fry Friday. For most of us, it was the first time we’d seen one another since last year.
No matter how much catching up we did, the food, as usual, was the star of the show. This year, Mom led the food line.
While members of the 80s (year-old) Club went through the buffet, I raced around to take pictures of the latecomers and family members patiently waiting their turn at the buffet.
Finally, all the generations ate together. Very delicious food, thanks to the dedicated kitchen staff. In the past, Strange family reunions were a hodgepodge of potluck style covered dishes. There were multiples of the same dish, like five different potato salads.
For many years now, I’ve evolved into a very fast eater, which served me well in this instance. I used more manners than usual since I was in the public of extended family and family friends. Yet, I sped around the shelter to capture as much of the moment as possible.
My sister, who’s a member of both the Strange Family Historical Society and the Strange Marketing team, never missed an opportunity to advertise our family history book and both family calendars–all chock full of information.
A few months prior to last Christmas, I bought an outdated digital camera. Partially because it was inexpensive, but also because there were so many gadgets that came along with the camera, which were all conveniently stored in a cute little backpack.
Originally, I’d bought it to record the Christmas show that I’d written and produced for my family. Yet, for every special occasion, I’ve taken the camera out of its cute backpack and learned how to use a new feature. This time around, I took far more pictures, using the portrait mode.
For several past reunions, members have taken a hayride around some of the Strange property, but I’d never rode. I was determined to go on the practice run on Friday.
I hopped off that practice hayride and continued my quest to capture portraits. At some point, I’ll learn the other settings besides portrait and video, especially to adjust for the amount of background light. But kudos to the patience of my extended family. Added bonus, I managed to jump into a few pictures myself.
For the first time in our family reunion history, we had a s’mores and movie night. Some little ones mistook the inflatable screen as a bouncy house. Originally, we wanted to stream “Miss Juneteenth,” but that location still had unreliable connectivity. Instead, we played a DVD of a movie that was a few years old.
On Saturday morning, the Strange Family shelter transformed from a fish fry venue to a festive Juneteenth celebration.
In addition to the Juneteenth theme, all family members were invited to participate in a pop-up museum, honoring the twelve first freeborn generation of my great grandfather, Jesse Strange.
During the most sweltering part of the day, we gathered under the shelter again for our main reunion program, which consisted of the event call to order, introduction of the emcee, reading of the scripture, prayer, followed by the blessing of the food.
For the second year in a row, vegan family members had their own buffet. For the most part, the rest of us omnivores respectfully stayed away, except I demanded a dollop of Mom’s potato salad. That woman has a superpower when comes to making vegan food taste like the omnivore’s delight.
After eating, we had the lighting of the candle in remembrance of those who had transcended. Then, we listened to some family history that genealogy had uncovered.
My contribution to the program was a Juneteenth powerpoint. Once again, technology nearly stopped the showing of the presentation. Yet, with the help of three cousins and trial and error, we made it work.
Prior to showing the video, my sister and I played the “Miss Mary Mack” hand jive, which most people had heard of, but then I surprised everyone by telling them that its origin was Emancipation. I then explained the symbolism throughout the song that supports the claim.
One of our reunion traditions is recognizing graduates from high school and college along with a monetary gift.
One cousin dreamed that the family should have a flag. So, the Strange Family Association sponsored a flag design contest. To enter the contest, one had to be a dues-paying member, include the 12 colors that represented each branch of the first freeborn generation along with their names, and the SFA logo. Only members who were current with their dues could vote for design one through eight. I was lucky number seven.
The Strange Family Historical Society set up a table to sell our family book and calendars as well as update family member contact information.
Meanwhile some of the younger generations played in the kiddie pool, the playground, volleyball court and basketball court.
For Saturday’s hayride, I recorded the conversation with the oldest living member while another cousin led the group on a short hike to the spring.
Finally, at the very end of the event, they announced the results of the flag design contest. Let’s just say that my design may eventually become a Tshirt.
After sweating throughout the day, I posed with my sisters. Of course, one of our cousins had to jump into the scene.
On Sunday, another cousin gave a sermon under the shelter.
Sunday dinner consisted of leftovers from the past two days along with cold cuts and goodbyes.
Proving once again that you’re never too old to do something new, my parents, the “octogenarian teenagers,” attended their first Juneteenth celebration. Added bonus: none of us had ever visited the park where the event took place.
The event didn’t start until 1. Since Dad’s caregiver was due to arrive at our house around 5, we visited during the hottest part of the day. Not ideal, but at least we found a shady spot. Unfortunately, we couldn’t set up near the stage to see the performances, but we still heard everything.
As I walked around the vendors to get a cold drink, someone gifted my parents “church” fans. I made a second trip around the food vendors for one of Mom’s favorite edible treat: a hot dog. I compromised and got all of us sausage dogs. As a surprise, I also bought an order of fried pickles.
A few days later, I attended another Juneteenth related event with my sister. I thought I was going to hear about The Underground Railroad along with a long table full of visual aids, but the “talk” turned out to be part storytelling, acting/singing and audience participation.
The storyteller herself had long ago recruited her husband to participate, but my sister was the first audience member of the evening who was voluntold to help with a presentation. Her job was to hold a basket of sunflowers, which have large brown “eyes” in the center, symbolizing “lots of people were watching;” therefore, it wasn’t safe for enslaved people to sneak on a ship.
This ploy was used a few times as a signal by abolishionists. The abolishionist stood selling flowers. As long as they stood in a particular spot, the enslaved people knew that it wasn’t safe. As soon as the coast was clear, then they could advance.
When I was voluntold, I joined two other people. We sang the first verse of “Ring Around the Rosies.” Apparently, singing about the plague wouldn’t have been too unusual back in the day. However, when the storyteller told us to sing the second verse, all of us volunteers looked at one another. A common reaction.
So, the storyteller and her husband sang the second verse: The cows are in the meadow, eating buttercups. Thunder, lightning, we all stand up!
If enslaved people heard the second verse of this children’s song, they knew it wasn’t safe. The cows symbolized the slave patrol and the buttercups symbolized the enslaved. “Stand up” meant for them to go away.
While I volunteered, I noticed my 5th grade teacher in the audience. As soon as the event was over, I made a beeline to her. Of all the people from my past, I never thought I’d run into a former teacher. She’d had a prolific career of inspiring young minds; so, I reminded her of some of the things that happened in my class to distinguish it from all the other classes.
My fondest memory: one of my classmates wrote a poem, where she described every classmate in a couplet. “‘Dag-nab-it’ is Teresa’s favorite word of three; that’s what makes her so funny.” Yes, I have never forgotten my couplet. My 5th grade teacher STILL has a copy of that poem.
My most infamous memory: For Inventor’s Day, I removed the hard paper roll from the center of a wire coat hanger, bent the two sides into a rough V shape. Using my “invention,” I tapped different objects and stated that based on how much that object caused my invention to vibrate, one could identify what the object was made of. Of course, I named my invention “The Vibrator.” How my teacher had kept a straight face, I can only guess. Even when I reminded her of my invention that evening, she stated how precocious I was, inventing a device that people who have a significant visual impairment currently use to guide them when they walk. Sure, let’s go with that conclusion.
History is full of brave people who fought against injustice, especially when dealing with crimes against humanity. Benjamin Lundy, a Quaker abolishionist, established several anti-slavery papers.
The Underground Railroad was a network of people, consisting of whites, free Blacks and the enslaved. Some of the intel about where ships were sailing and when was communicated by Black Jacks, African seamen who performed various duties.
Another symbolic flower used for coded communication was the Blackeyed Susan. Since they have a smaller eye than sunflowers, Blackeyed Susans conveyed that fewer slave patrollers were in the area.
For comparison, check out the bigger eyes on these sunflowers:
In addition to songs and flowers, children’s rhymes also communicated hidden messages. The various things that Old Mother Hubbard found in her cupboard meant something to those who deciphered the message.
As if I needed yet another reason to buck the fashion industry:
This was perhaps my favorite part of the entire presentation–teaching enslaved children how to spell, using a narrative/song. Since teaching enslaved people literacy skills was illegal, it had to be done in secret. Children gathered in slave quarters to learn a skill such as sewing, but when no patrolling eyes were around, a qualified adult passed out small slates along with an edible substance that they wrote with. If someone outside the quarters spotted danger approaching, they’d make a verbal signal, so the children could secret their slates and swallow their edible writing “implement.”
For our demonstration, we were given small slates and a piece of chalk. The storyteller started by saying how we started walking on a trip. She drew a line, which we copied on our slates. Then, she drew a circle, telling us about how we ate a hoecake, but the hoecake had a tail on it. After we ate, we crossed a river, so we drew some waves on top of the initial line that we’d drawn. Once on the other side, we saw a snake, which we drew. Then, we saw a horse, “I” then saw a smaller horse. Caught a fish with a hook. Saw a church with a cross. Ate another hoecake. Finally, saw another small horse. The name of the city that we’d spell would be our destination.
The storyteller told us that quilt patterns conveyed messages and enslaved people read the patterns even if they couldn’t read words. When I conducted an online search to find out what specific patterns meant, I wasn’t surprised to see that there was a strong pushback that suggested that quilt coding was a myth. The crux of the pushback rested on the disbelief of the enslaved learning those codes, who to trust and other dots that weren’t cleanly connected.
Saturday mornings are dedicated to cleaning, doing laundry, and running errands. Preferably all before lunch. Afterwards, that is when the real weekend begins.
This particular Saturday, I made a liquor run before returning home. After buying alcohol, I saw this:
I’ve stopped watching horror movies for the most part although “thrillers” seem just as bad, but I definitely recognized Chucky and his bride. Not sure if they were just for decoration or a clever security ploy, but the windows were rolled down and no one was in the car. I didn’t go closer to investigate since that would have been suspicious even if the horror dolls weren’t there.
The following Saturday, Mom had me go on a wild goose chase. She takes a vision supplement that is usually out of stock. I’d been to more than one pharmacy and hadn’t found the exact formulation she used. She didn’t want the same name brand with a different formula. I told her that it would be easier to find unicorn milk.
A few days later, ask if speaking it into existence, this woman parked behind me:
When I joked about her not having unicorns, she told me that she hadn’t added them yet. I didn’t think that ductaping things onto one’s car was legal, but it’s certainly entertaining.
On Da Edge Cowgirl definitely seemed like my kind of person or certainly a character worthy of loosely basing a fictional character on. I scarcely remember anything she said about herself since most of our conversation was about the event. Yet, perhaps the fewer facts the better for fictional purposes.
So often, people use cars as status symbols. Happy to see some people make other statements. Even if I’m not sure what it said.
In my haste to complete a mundane household chore, recycling an empty tissue box, I inadvertently read something that Dad had written on top of the box: falsify, 34, hush money, all counts, July 11, sentence, Trump.
My 86-year old father, who experiences the effects of early dementia and uses a wheelchair, took a few notes while listening to the news, which blared from the TV in the kitchen as he sat in the dining room.
Sixteen years ago, Dad’s only 70th birthday wish was to live long enough to see a Black President of the United States. Currently, Dad has lived to witness not only that, but also an infamous first in the history of the United States: a convicted felon POTUS. How far we’ve come.
The founding fathers, nor anyone else, could not have predicted that a former POTUS would be convicted of a felony, much less 34 felonies, and would still be the most popular candidate for a major political party.
I still think now, as I thought back in 2015, that most of his supporters project their desires onto Felony POTUS, regardless of whatever he actually says or does. I’ve always marveled at how he said illogical, contradictory things and his supporters didn’t care. They still don’t.
I’ve often heard that things get worse before they get better. Like my father, I hope I live long enough to witness the pendulum swing back the other way. I’d hate to see what comes next if desperate people destroy democracy. Nothing in the past, as far as “Western” civilizations are concerned, have been ideal.
I don’t suspect that the end of democracy would be to usher in a non Western, indigenous form of civilization although I suspect THAT would have society living more in line with nature. Best part: the billionaires could still jettison themselves into space.
In typical Virgo mode, I researched proper adult entertainment club etiquette. The most amusing comments/advice were convincing men that a dancer’s attention was on getting paid, not finding a man. On the other hand, all I wanted to know was a ballpark figure for the least amount of cash I needed on hand. I settled on 40 in $1s, which I raced to the bank after work to obtain. I even bought an inexpensive black fanny pack, expressly to keep all my singles separate from everything else.
Although I no longer pine for vacations as I did when I was a classroom teacher, making an overnight girls’ trip made me giddy. I hadn’t initially realized that this event took place over Memorial Day weekend. The built-in extra day to my weekend was just a cherry on top.
As my friend drove us nearly three hours to the hotel, we discussed dinner plans. She didn’t care for sushi and I didn’t want any national chain restaurants. During that discussion, we passed by a restaurant that reminded me of another dining prohibition: no restaurants with “family” in its name.
Once at the hotel, I showered and changed into an overdressed outfit. Why not? I’d been extra about everything else, concerning this trip.
Besides, we had time to kill since our friend would perform around 11 PM. Plans came together on our way for a pre-dinner drink when we unexpectedly rendezvoused in the hotel bar with our friend.
This was one of the reasons we’d wanted to stay at the same hotel as her. We firmed up plans. She said she’d leave our names at the door, saving us $25 apiece.
I relaxed my rule about going to a national chain since we were merely getting drinks. After all, who can resist a spicy margarita? Turns out, the drink wasn’t nearly spicy enough. Instead of the bartender informing our server that the spicy, sweet and sour mix had run out, they just made the margarita by sprinkling the spice mix into the drink. My friend was NOT fooled.
We finished our drinks, then had dinner at an unofficial family restaurant. That Indian/Nepali restaurant didn’t have “family” as part of its name, but the presence of families whose ethnic background could have been Indian or Nepali was a good sign.
We returned to the hotel to stow our leftovers and freshen up. Although we didn’t want to be too early for the event, we still managed to beat our friend there. Yet, it’s never a dull moment when alcohol and men are in abundance.
As we sat outside the venue, we witnessed a guy who was about to enter the club give the bouncer, a younger man with a larger-than-life, unruly, curly afro, some advice. “If you want other dudes to respect you, cut your hair or cornrow it.”
Upon hearing that, a woman, who spoke like a manager, berated the customer for his advice. The guy explained to her that his advice wasn’t unsolicited, but rather a continuation of a previous conversation where the bouncer had asked him about how to garner more respect.
As I listened to the conversation while pretending to look at things on my phone, I marveled at, no matter the job setting, younger employees need guidance from older employees about how to be professional. AND how out-of-touch management will catch a whiff of something and blow it all out of proportion.
Once our friend showed up, along with her assisting friend, we entered the venue. Our friend and her assistant reported to the dressing room while we approached the cashier. I proudly announced that we were guests of the featured dancer and gave our names.
I’m always in a good mood to be on such a list and wriggled my hips while slowly twirling when the security guy checked me with a metal detector. Still being extra, why stop then?
I didn’t enter like a deer in the headlights, but I gave off newbie vibes. Definitely “not from around here” energy. Even the guy at a nearby table, who only told me that he was from New York, but didn’t tell me his name (and granted, I didn’t ask), knew we were out-of-towners. At one point, our server asked if we were from California. I just smiled, thinking that even she was attempting to flatter us out of our money.
At the top of every hour, “Are You Ready for This” by Jock Jams played, signaling the show special. All the dancers formed a line to parade across the stage in a single file with a shot in their hand while the recording advertised the show special of a private dance and shot for $40.
For the first show special, one dancer approached our table. Perhaps word circulated among the dancers that we weren’t interested and no one else besides our server ever approached our table throughout the night.
By contrast, “New York” paid for innumerable (because I stopped keeping a mental count) lapdances. Initially, I minded my own business, giving “New York” and other lapdance customers privacy, but then, I thought, “What the hell, we’re all still in public.” I reasoned that I was helping them get their money’s worth by watching.
Perhaps my curiosity invited “New York” to ask where we were from and then to ridiculously ask if my friend and I were sisters. Certainly not in the genetic sense, although we shared common interests: former teachers, ethnic food, live cultural events and pole dancing class.
As a matter of fact, all of us who eventually sat at the table were all part of my chair dancing class, including the chair dance instructor, who arrived nearly two hours after we had.
Speaking of that instructor, she was absolutely hilarious as she squirmed while watching some of the pole dancers. I witnessed her inner turmoil as some dancers performed on the pole with flexed feet, knowing that she wanted to scream, “Point your fucking toes!”
Despite Hollywood depictions, the most popular dancers for whom men made it rain money, weren’t the skinny minis, but the voluptuous, had “meat on their bones” women.
Close to midnight, our friend graced the stage in a tricked out Mandalorian costume. She’d persuaded our chair instructor to don a Grogu costume, which I didn’t get a shot of because the DJ had announced late that we were permitted to take pictures.
Once she performed a choreography, she gradually removed the costume and continued performing pole, floor and chair choreography as her assistant discreetly gathered the discarded costuming and props from the stage.
I’ve done some bold things in my life, but couldn’t muster the courage to approach the stage and make it rain money. Neither could my friend. Our solution: shove our money to our chair instructor once she returned to the table.
Since our instructor had tended bar at a similar club, she knew the most practical thing to do was slide the money on the side of the stage so the performer could see it, but not provide an obstacle/hazard on the performance space. I’m sure in the history of club dancing, someone must have slipped on money before.
Besides, as other dancers twerked doggie style for tips and men rained money on their backs, the whole action seemed like a proxy for ejaculation.
I thought that the shoulder stand in the chair would have been the most impressive move my friend executed (since I’d been practicing that move for a month in chair dance class). I was mistaken. She whipped off her top and did a move I didn’t even know women could do.
Call me sexist, but had only seen men make their pecs bounce. Now, imagine a pair of attractively enhanced breasts bouncing up and down not due to “shaking her money makers,” but rather under sheer muscle control. That was the most mind-blowing thing. (Yes, I tried it once I got home. No, I STILL haven’t mastered the way of the Jedi or Mandalorian to make my breasts jump, but long term goals help motivate one out of bed in the mornings.)
Her second performance occurred nearly an hour later. Her assistant spread a tarp on the stage and laid four lit candles in the foreground. Again, she performed a choreography, this time in a flowy costume, complete with fans. Once she’d stripped down to a thong, she blew out a candle and poured the hot wax onto herself. I winced each time she did that, but the move was a clever ruse since men could imagine that was ejaculate. The stage rained money each time she did it.
The Virgo in me appreciated how the tarp made wax/costume/ props/money clean up very efficient.
We returned to the hotel after 3 AM. My friend set her alarm for 10:30 AM. I’d be up once the sun peeked through the curtains.
In the morning, we researched a family-owned breakfast place that was less than five minutes away. As we waited in a short line to be sat, I smiled at the in-house promotion of a dental clinic. In a certain light, one would think that the food was so bad that you needed a trip to the dentist rather than a family member advertising for a relative.
Although I normally have scrambled eggs Monday through Friday, I couldn’t completely escape them, but I tried my best when I ordered the Hobo Breakfast.
Yet, the best breakfast topper was finding a $20 when we were standing in line to pay for our meal. I did the civil thing and asked nearby people if they’d dropped it. Everyone, including the cashier, denied dropping the bill; so, I happily put it in my purse guilt free.
As if spending time with friends out of town and eating at good local restaurants weren’t good enough, when I returned home, I still had another day off. One thing experience has taught me is the importance of having a full day to recover from vacation fun. (And we never once turned on the hotel TV!)
The electricity cut off on a beautiful Friday about a half hour before lunch. When Mom left the house to run errands, she called, telling me that she’d just passed by three utility trucks. At that point, I knew the electricity wouldn’t return for a while.
I’d moved from my home office to a recliner in the den to work on a writing project during the power outage. Once I came to a stopping point, I visited one of my favorite sushi restaurants. Although I was dressed like someone who worked from home and would later work out, I entered like I owned the place.
I ordered one of the lunch specials along with unagi (eel) sashimi. Usually, I’m a very fast eater, not really tasting my food, no matter how delicious it is. I’m tempted to say that I developed this habit when I was a teacher, but I’ve long since exited the classroom. I tried to savor my food, but I probably finished faster than the average person. Afterall, I had a good follow up activity.
About five minutes away, my mani-pedi salon awaited. I’d planned to drop by on Sunday, but when the opportunity presented itself, I took advantage. Although I usually like a nail color that contrasts more with my skin tone, I was in the mood for sparkling gold. Realizing that not all that glitters is gold, I jokingly told the nail tech that I wanted the color to bring me good luck.
At lunch and the nail salon, I could have imbibed an adult beverage. Yet, I saved my drinking for the evening Sip N Stretch class. This was my second time attending the event, but unlike the first time, I’d polished my silver chalice to sip from.
A poet friend had gifted me that chalice years ago. Since then, it had accompanied me to dinner parties, my birthday celebrations and as a practical, fancy way to limit my wine consumption during the COVID shutdown.
I couldn’t have planned the day better. The cherry on top was a short visit from my sister and her family who live out of town. Even though I missed the family dinner since I already had plans, I spent as much time with them as our schedules allowed.
The amount of time, in most cases, is less important than the quality of time. This beautiful day confirmed that notion since I enjoyed nine wonderful hours that involved selfcare and spending time with family and friends.
