Austin Revisited

Receiving an airline travel voucher was one of the bright spots during my protracted, miserable return from a fabulous two-week Ghana vacation. I cashed that bad boy in before its expiration date, locking in a relatively low rate prior to the Iran “War,” which surged fuel costs and subsequent higher ticket prices.

The night before my flight, the government miraculously avoided another partial shutdown and paid TSA workers.

Appropriately, my journey began on the first of May AKA “May Day,” as many factors in my life clamored for a much-deserved vacation.

I drove nearly 90 minutes to a hotel close to the airport, parked my car, then caught their airport shuttle. After breezing through the security line, my biggest challenge was finding a working outlet to charge my phone.

Due to my second flight being delayed because of storms in Austin, I leisurely ate lunch while streaming “Queer Eye.” Throughout my visit, people thanked me for bringing the warmth and sunshine to the Lone Star State. Took it back with me when I left a few days later.

I’d wisely selected window seats for both flights. For the first flight, there was an empty middle seat. Wasn’t so lucky on the second flight. A man with his two-year old son held down that middle seat. In order to place luggage in the overhead bin, that dad placed his son in the middle seat. The toddler took one look at me and burst out crying.

Good to know that I hadn’t lost my touch!

The toddler eventually stopped crying, but never took a nap. The plane had no screens on seat in front of us to select entertainment. That poor dad had to entertain his son the entire time.

Just like the first flight, the second flight landed with a thud. I looked at the toddler and asked him why wasn’t he crying over that hard landing. He just looked at me with those big brown eyes with a hint of a smile.

Throughout the flight, the toddler had randomly pointed at a woman and asked, “Doni?” Then, his father would answer, “Yes.”

Once I had internet access again, I discovered that the toddler had been speaking Italian.

Like a dream, I picked up my checked luggage, then headed out to get my rental car. The only hitch was that one out of three elevators worked. After waiting far longer for an elevator than my luggage, I went to the car rental place on the third floor only to wait even longer although I was next in line.

The couple in front of me set out to prove that two heads weren’t better than one. During my interaction with the employee, I zipped through his upgrade questions. He then told me that I had to go to the third floor.

“I thought I was ALREADY on the third floor!” He just smiled and directed me out the door to go three floors higher.

Fortunately, the rental car wasn’t too technologically advanced. I made it to my friend’s house in 23 minutes. I always joke that she’s my third mother, after Mom and my older sister who thinks she’s my mom.

She had the Malbec ready. Followed my first glass of wine by a humanizing shower.

After a good night’s rest, I had breakfast tacos with the freshly made tortillas third mom had picked up that Saturday morning. Then, I took my first capoeira class in several years.

I’ve told people that pole dancing was just as strenuous as capoeira, but several minutes into the class, I remembered why I’d stopped training: I’d slowed down. In that class, which was supposed to include kids, I was both slow and out of practice. I’d counted on the presence of kids to slow down the pace. Instead we went full speed ahead.

During the warm up, I thought I was going to have a heart attack. The feeling passed after a few minutes. Despite avoiding a medical emergency, I didn’t spar at the end of class.

I used to train with half the capoeiristas who were there. Got to reconnect with some after class when we ate at a Mexican restaurant. From the moment I tasted that spicy, flavorful salsa, I laughed that many people in Fayetteville would choke. Whenever I visit Austin again, I’ll skip the class and meet them for lunch instead.

That evening, I regrouped and attended “Austin Is a Poem,” featuring Ebony Stewart. As usual, she brought the house down with her mixture of humor and poignant messages embedded in clever wordplay, and periodic staccato delivery.

She never appeared on my monthly, theme-inspired spoken word and storytelling show, “The Austin Writers Roulette,” but I’d send her notifications every month and handed her a business card-sized calendar of themes every year. As soon as she turned around, she immediately recognized me, giving me a big hug.

On Sunday morning, I met with a friend who I’ve known for a few years from a biweekly virtual meeting we both attend to discuss race-based issues.

Her comments usually resonated with me during the meetings. Hanging out at one of her favorite watering holes was even more entertaining.

Since third mom had driven us to the restaurant and we were going bra shopping afterwards, her spouse caught an autonomous vehicle. I’d seen many of those cars last night while driving to and from the poetry event, but this was the only one I had the opportunity to take a picture of since I wasn’t driving.

As I figured, when I got behind the wheel again to drive us to our soul food dinner date, I spotted another fleet of autonomous vehicles now that I wasn’t in the position to take a picture.

We had a lively, engaging dinner, starting out with a beet-a-rita, a sweet, powerfully tequila-laden drink. All except one person had participated in The Roulette.

Before leaving, one friend gifted a Seven Sisters rose branch to anyone who wanted it. Not only do I have brown thumb, but there was no way I would take any vegetation on an airplane. Flying was already a precarious endeavor. No need to risk having to quarantine because of a plant.

The next morning, the top of my thighs still throbbed once I made it to hot yoga. Prior to COVID, I took classes with that studio five times a week. In addition to participating in a 60-minute class, I’d hoped to see one of the owners. Turned out, I’d blocked him in the driveway.

The manager on duty, came out and instantly recognized me. Thank goodness I’d not changed too much nor was incognito with my latest pair of birth control glasses. She told me that I could leave my car where it was.

I did much better in yoga class than capoeira, but I was still out of practice with 25 out of 26 yoga poses. The easy fix: do a half set on my own just like I used to do prior to moving to Austin in 2009.

Later that afternoon, I met another writer friend at a restaurant known for its barbecue, especially brisket. She and I strategically chose a table near the order line as other people in our party straggled in.

After knowing one another for nearly four years virtually, I finally met one of my cousin’s long-time friends and creative partners in real life. He and his spouse moved to Austin six months before I’d moved away.

For a second evening in a row, I enjoyed a beet-based cocktail. “Beet ‘Em to the Punch” was a wonderful after-dinner beverage.

Afterwards, most of us went to a nearby coffee bar, which was far more than that. We met yet another poet and sat outside with our drinks, away from the live bluegrass band, so we could talk without screaming. Ideas flew around the table since all of us had produced different creative endeavors.

The last thing on my itinerary that I’d sent out prior to arriving in Austin was breakfast on Tuesday. Fortunately, three other friends met me there. Again, they had either participated on or attended The Roulette. Sometimes, one can fall into a nostalgia trap. Yet, I used the reminiscing as motivation to migrate eight year’s worth of Roulette summaries to this blog.

For my last dinner in Austin, we went to one of third mom’s favorite local restaurants. Good timing since Cinco de Mayo landed on a Taco Tuesday.

Before moving away from Austin, I’d ordered takeout from this restaurant. The food was as delicious as I’d remembered with the added bonus of dining in with good friends and a house margarita made with one of my favorite tequilas: 1800.

Since my return flight was in the early afternoon, I had plenty of time to gas up my rental car, paying the most per gallon in memory.

Fortunately, I needed little more than a fourth of a tank since most of the things I’d done were clustered around South Austin.

The joys of catching an early afternoon flight on a Wednesday: 1) sleeping in; 2) missing morning rush traffic; 3) allowing enough time to gas up the rental car before turning it in; 4) leisurely going through security.

Now for the downsides: 1) first flight was delayed for 20 minutes, narrowing the time I had to go from one gate to the other to about five minutes; 2) despite sprinting to the other gate, they had closed the door although the plane was still there and hadn’t pushed back yet; 3) those gate agents were far more concerned with disappearing than actually assisting me; 4) I had to handle my own rebooking because one of the gate agents hastily handed me a card to scan the QR code.

If I can help it, I’ll never fly on United again nor have a layover in Houston. This was the second time in a row that United has been woefully unimpressive with their customer service. Not only did their delay cause me to miss the connecting flight, but they also informed me that since the delay was due to weather rather than a mechanical issue, they wouldn’t give me hotel nor food voucher.

Well, fuck them!

Just wonder how long it will take their horrible customer service to fail like Spirit Airlines.

Some decision-makers at the Houston Airport thought it was a good idea to not allow stranded passengers to stretch out and sleep when screwed by airlines. I tried a variety of failed positions in a row of seats with fixed, extremely hard armrests.

The only entertainment break came while sitting askew in one of the massage chairs that had metal rollers uncomfortably jutting out in the back of the chair. I streamed Kimmel on my laptop and shared the screen with another woman who sat in the adjacent uncomfortable massage chair.

My gate changed twice, necessitating me to trek between terminals A and B via Skyway. The sad irony was that had I remained in A, I could’ve had a good night’s rest because there were a variety of different chairs associated with restaurants that were accessible even though the restaurants were closed.

To top things off, periodically and unnecessarily, those stupid safety announcements blared over the PA even though there weren’t any flights. The whole thing seemed like a scheme to prevent stranded passengers from sleeping.

Every successive plane seemed older than the last. My bottom line, as usual, at least we didn’t crash.

Once again, everything was smooth once I reached RDU: picked up my checked bag, caught my hotel shuttle back to my car and drove home in the rain.

Once home, I discovered a package from a friend who lived in Wimberley, TX. Our schedules hadn’t aligned for us to visit with one another, but Mom and I enjoyed his gift of pickles and onions.

Good thing I’d had a fantastic vacation because with the current high prices and sorry customer service, I’m definitely staying close to home.

Not Playing

As a child, I loved going to scary movies with my two older sisters. At some point in early adulthood, real life became scary enough.

Although I’ve never seen any of the Saw movies, I’ve seen trailers and a “Scary Movie” spoof of those movies. So, I know that they are based on gruesome games.

Logically, such things don’t happen in real life. Yet, the world’s so crazy that, sight on seen, I knew I didn’t want to play any game these folks were hosting.

While I’m at it, I’m crossing off the list Hunger Games, Squid Game and any other competition where death and mutilation are baked into the cake.

As a matter of fact, I discovered years ago that I don’t do well with any game/sport that involves a ball; this is an extension of that.

About the only thing I was willing to do was take pictures and pose with one of my sisters. Nobody got hurt.

Tip that Motherf*****!

Rarely do I attend an event after work besides dance or yoga class or going swimming. Every now and again, something tempts me away from that exercise regimen.

Speaking of “men,” some friends and I got together for what was advertised as the “Australian Take Over.” Perhaps the ripped guy in the poster was an Aussie, but certainly not any of the actual dudes in the show. But what do you expect for less than $20?

After eating at a nearby restaurant, we walked over nearly 30 minutes after the show was supposed to begin.

One of my friends somehow knew that the show hadn’t begun yet and joined us about 15 minutes later.

The show opened with that classic male dancer song, “It’s Raining Men.” One friend remarked how young most of the dancers looked. I told her that was because we were older women. Actually, the guy in charge was older. They could’ve totally rebranded themselves as “Big Dog and the Pack of Pups.”

The oldest dancer played a triple role as the DJ and hype man, who probably wore even more hats as manager/father/asskicker. As a matter of fact, the title of this blog post honored his most common refrain throughout the event.

I’d prepped ahead to make it rain. Normally, I use online banking. However, the Saturday before the event, I happily skipped into the bank stating that I needed $40 in ones. Even a small rain shower grows flowers, right?

Well, I went with $40 and returned home with $34. Apparently, I just made it sprinkle. One of those experiences where a drop or two hits you, making you wonder if it was raining.

When I shared that conclusion with Mom, who’s notoriously cheaper than I am, she admitted that the last time she’d attended such an event, she just sat back and watched, never tipping once.

In February, I filed my taxes and was beside myself because the great state of NC refunded me a dollar. Even with the attitude of “at least I didn’t owe the state money,” I felt insulted not to receive a bigger return. I even started a quest to find at least a dollar in change as an ongoing 2026 quest. To date, I’ve only found two cents, which I think is a reflection of how hard times are, with everyone looking down for fallen loose change.

Nonetheless, with the first dollar I tucked into a male dancer’s waistband, I thanked the great state of NC for providing me the means to “tip that motherfucker.” After all, that dollar represented 1/6 of my money that found its way to a stripper.

The most lucrative way the dancers made money was to sell “hot seats.” For $40 dollars a pop, women sat in a chair on stage, along with their dancer of choice who interacted suggestively with them. When he finished with one, the stripper escorted her off stage so any other woman who’d paid could replace her on stage.

Additionally, before the hot seat dance began, the DJ/manager encouraged the audience to set our girlfriends up by tucking money in various parts of their clothing. The more money she was decorated with, the more the dancer interacted with her.

One woman, who had obviously been in a recent accident, rolled up, using a walker, with her left arm in a sling. She’d sprung for two hot seat dances. Both dancers impressively accommodated her condition. They were duly rewarded because she’d reach into that arm sling, and pull out money to shower them with.

Now, one group of women had at least $1,000 worth of money. They bought hot seats, made it rain money all night long and set their girlfriends up for a good time.

At the end of the night, the dancer who’d brought his drink on stage in the beginning when they were being introduced, danced his hot seat set. During the middle of his dance, someone had bought him a shot, which he paused dancing to shoot.

The last woman he had on stage was part of the rich making-it-rain-all-night group of women. He placed her on the floor, whisked off her crocs, sprayed whipped cream on her toes and put one foot after the other into his mouth to eat the cream off her feet.

B L E C H!

Even the DJ/manager remarked, “Johnny, you’re a better man than me!”

Some things are too nasty to be sexy. I mean, when Ludracris sings, “I wanna, li-li-li-lick you from your head to your toes,” THAT sounds sexy. There’s a good reason he doesn’t sing, “I wanna, li-li-li-lick your musty croc toes.” Although some would be into that.

Perhaps Johnny had drunk tequila at some point in the night. That’s the only alcohol I credit with medicinal properties.

BUT STILL.

I glanced at my friend, who had the same look of disgust on her face as I probably had on mine. I mouthed the words, “Ready to go?”

She nodded.

Although we’d missed the finale, we’d gotten our money’s worth. The next morning, I woke up in a good. I won’t need another ladies night out like that for another decade. Or until I become one of the make-it-rain-all-night rich women. Whichever comes first.

Locked Out

I bought my car brand new in 2009. I aggressively paid it off because I hated the idea of having yet another bill.

I fondly remember shredding all the car payment booklets that the bank periodically sent, encouraging me to make regular payments.

As a matter of fact, I’ll never forget the time I proudly told one of the bank administrators that I was paying more than double in car payments to be out of debt faster.

She looked at me sternly and said, “We want you to make your regular payments.”

The bank lost money in the form of interest every time I made an overpayment. The most memorable detail about interaction was that the banker was another Black woman, who I foolishly thought would celebrate with me.

All skinfolk ain’t kinfolk. She was first and foremost a banker and wanted all the money. Well, so did I. Plus, fuck the bank.

I don’t remember the year the radio stopped working, but it was long after I’d paid the car off. Even so, I refused to spend nearly a thousand dollars to replace it. Instead, I started listening to audiobooks on my phone while driving.

At one point, perhaps when my car was about 15 years old, the dealership, where I got the oil changed, started telling me that I could get a great deal on a newer car. I informed them that unless they guaranteed that the newer car came with no payments like the one I had, I didn’t want it.

After all, I only paid for occasional maintenance, which was much cheaper than a regular payment.

I always joked that I’d drive my car until the tires fell off. I discovered another situation which motivated me to contemplate buying a preowned car: the car itself had locked me out.

Do you know how it feels to have your car keys in your hand and STILL not able to unlock the door? It’s like the car is rebuking you.

My work around was to unlock the front passenger’s door, then reach over to unlock the driver’s door. OK, so that got me in the car, but was embarrassing enough to start me researching preowned cars. That hourlong exercise led me to call the dealership to see how much fixing the door would cost.

What? Around $400? Done!

Once again, I spared myself from returning to the car payment hamster wheel. For now.

The Tequila Strategy

Mom’s favorite restaurant gives me diarrhea. No matter what I eat from that bountiful Sunday buffet, it’ll disagree with my digestive track. Whatever the secret ingredient is, she’s immune to it, but it makes me sick. Or perhaps Jesus spares Mom because she goes to church.

Whatever the case, while at the restaurant, I liberally use red hot sauce, which contains antibacterial capsaicin that battles against food-borne pathogens.

Then, I counteract the effects of that dubious food by taking a tequila shot when I get home. However, that’s only effective if we return home in time. That’s too big of an “if” when it comes to the shits. Of all the restaurants that should serve alcohol, this one does not.

This last time, I warded off digestive problems: I brought my tequila shot with me. Strawberry lemonade never tasted so good.

Reminded me of the time when I used to teach at an American school in Alexandria, Egypt. While living in Egypt, I commonly carried a flask in my purse because the vast majority of restaurants didn’t serve alcohol.

One of the parents had invited several of their kids’ teachers to dinner during Ramadan. Once we received our nonalcoholic drinks, I offered the other teachers to top off their drinks with a splash of tequila. None of them took me up on my offer.

Afterwards, some teachers reported having digestive issues. Since we all had eaten the same food, we ruled that out.

Then, we compared what we’d drunk. None of teachers who had karkade, a sweetened hibiscus tea, were sick. As a matter of fact, all the teachers who reported being sick had the lemonade. Except for me.

Tequila had neutralized whatever was in the lemonade. So, began my belief in the medicinal power of tequila.

Tequila’s also my go-to for a hot toddy. Other people reportedly use whiskey, but, to me, the best combination for a hot toddy is hot water, local honey, a few whole cloves, fresh lime juice and a shot and a half of tequila. Soothing and delicious!

I’m not a healthcare professional. Don’t even play one on TV, but I firmly believe that tequila should be a part of any first-aid kit or emergency bag. For medicinal purposes, of course. After all, there’s good reason that people will sanitize their hands with drinkable alcohol as a last resort.

Last resort because alcohol, especial tequila, should be consumed. But that’s why they call it an emergency.

Just like when when the remnants of an ice storm lingers on your windshield. As heartbreaking as it sounds, you can use tequila to melt that ice if you no longer have isopropyl alcohol.

But really, with all the technology available, you should always have enough forewarning to get the isopropyl alcohol and save your tequila for times such as when my mother invites you to her favorite restaurant.

Yoga Fight Club

I usually arrive early to my hot yoga class to both acclimate to the room and work on some personal movement goals prior to class. I choose the best spot to set up given what’s available when I enter the room. Mat placement is an on-going challenge.

Wherever that place is, becomes “my spot.” For a limited time only. Then I leave, relinquishing whatever sense of ownership I had. As temporary as the attachment is, my awareness is brought to how much stock I put into my choice when I have to relocate.

Not all reasons are equal. For example, if there’s a full class and we all have to readjust our mats, I’m very cooperative and my temper doesn’t flare. But when circumstances involve me and, let’s say, the poor choices of some other person and their yoga buddy, then I start to simmer.

Recent example: I unrolled my mat adjacent to a spot that was near the wall. Normally, I would’ve taken the spot closest to the wall, but there was a saucer-sized dip in the floor, which I’ve dealt with before. Throughout my practice, avoiding that spot in order to retain balance distracted me.

Another woman set up her mat by the wall while I was in the middle of doing a warm up stretch. A few seconds later, another mat rudely plopped down between us, alarming us both.

“Oh, you want to practice beside me?” She asked the interloper.

I looked up to see a child who was 11 to 13 years old. Definitely her child. Of course he wanted to practice beside his mother. They’d come together. Why wouldn’t they practice side by side?

My temper sizzled: ALLTHATEMPTYSPACEINTHEROOMANDSHECHOULDN’THAVECHOSENASPOTWHEREBOTHSHEANDHERSONCOULDPRACTICEWITHOUTDISTRUBINGSOMEONEELSE?

I kept my rant to myself as I moved my mat over to the next space. Before I had reestablished my sense of possessiveness over the new spot, the instructor advised me to move over a little more to avoid colliding with the son during one of the postures she had lined up for that morning’s practice.

As I moved the mat over a little more to the right, I announced to the mostly empty room, “If I have to move my mat one more time, fight club is going to break out.”

Everyone laughed. Apparently, they didn’t acknowledge the grain of truth embedded in that proclamation. I felt aggressive. Fortunately, class began soon after, which helped distract me from my anger.

Throughout practice, I soon discovered that he had a beneficial position between two women who were seasoned yogis, since no matter if a pose had us looking left or right, he had his mother as a guide on one side of him and me on another.

Even more so than my mat placement challenge, controlling my temper is definitely the biggest challenge. I’m so happy that throughout my life, my anger hasn’t caused me to do something detrimental that I couldn’t undo or work around afterwards.

Having a balanced temper is far more important than being balanced in a posture. I wish that as I gain physical balance that mental balance improved in tandem. In my experience, the latter lags behind the former.

I’ve made a point to meditate on other things, yet I think avoiding the negative consequences of losing my cool may be the most important focus I can develop. I believe in the notion of improving how I respond to external things by improving myself internally.

Amen

Guacamole and Popcorn

Mom, my sister, her son and I visited Dad in the hospital after having our Sunday “dinner,” which was actually lunch. Either way, I knew our visit would be long since Mom liked staying until Dad had his dinner around 5:30.

So, I packed my iPad to work on my digital illustrations while visiting with Dad. At 87, Dad takes multiple cat naps at the drop of a dime. He has never been much of a talker, which has been a great complement to Mom’s loquaciousness. Besides, there’s something lulling about a hospital room that induces sleep.

I was impressed how my nephew fell asleep, by lobbing his head backwards with a serious arc in his neck and shoulders while not falling over backwards. If I hadn’t witnessed the feat multiple times during our visit, I wouldn’t have believed that he had the flexibility to accomplish the pose.

After several hours ticked by, Dad finally received his dinner. Being a notoriously fast eater, I could have eaten up the entire tray in under 20 minutes.

Not Dad. He tantalizingly fed himself so slowly that I thought most of the food would slip off the fork before entering his mouth, which was why we encouraged him to use his spoon. Once his eating utensil finally arrived at its destination, Dad would then lay it to rest on his tray as he chewed.

Very good technique for anyone who’s trying to eat less. Yet, Mom and I encouraged Dad to pick up his spoon had continue eating. Periodically, he complained that he had to “rest.” As slowly as he ate, I was surprised that he felt taxed by the effort.

In the meantime, I was so hungry, I found myself watching Dad too intently. That slow arch of a food morsel lifted from his plate into his mouth. Although I’ve never been a sports fan, I redirected my eyes to watch the basketball game. March Madness helped distract me from temporary hunger madness.

Before we left the hospital, I requested that my sister make her famous ol’ fashioned popcorn on the stove. She was the only one out of us three sisters to inherit Mom’s love for cooking. As a matter of fact, I prefer to “cook” like my other older sister by ordering take out.

Mom also made a request: guacamole.

I immediately informed Mom that my request had come first. In actuality, my sister easily made both since neither one was a time-consuming process.

Just so happened, there were no good chips to pair with the guacamole. Of course, my nephew ate those stale potato chips with the dip. I, on the other hand, topped my bowl of popcorn with a dollop.

Absolutely delicious! How had I lived over half a century and not paired these two things before? Granted, chips are a better dip delivery system, but it’s not the only tasty one.

The guacamole didn’t quite bind the popcorn together like melted marshmallow-style popcorn balls, but that just helped to encourage me to eat slower, smaller bites and truly savor my food. The trick was to eat fast enough for the popcorn not to become soggy, but slow enough to enjoy.

I’m not exactly sure when I began “packing it in,” but I estimate over 30 years ago when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer. During that life chapter, I didn’t have to rush due to a time crunch. Upon reflection, I recognized that habit as a sign of depression. Even though I found healthier ways to deal with depression, for some reason, fast eating has remained with me.

I rationalize this habit during my 30-minute lunch break, stating that I don’t want to be late returning to work. Yet, when I had an hour-long lunch break, I ate just as fast. Even when not at work or when I’m not consciously thinking about it, I eat quickly. I’ve conditioned myself not to savor my food.

Sure, I acknowledge when something’s delicious. That edible pleasure hasn’t escaped me, regardless of my eating speed. Yet now, there’s always another thing to do. Whether it’s returning to work, or finishing laundry after Saturday morning breakfast, or working on some creative project.

I used to think that eating at a slower pace was a retirement habit. Now that I don’t think I’ll be in the position to retire, my next experiment will be to eat slower with less food on my plate. That way, I won’t feel the need to pack it in as quickly given whatever time frame I have. Also, 20 minutes has to pass before the brain registers that your no longer hungry.

Perhaps that science will help remedy my panicked eating…along with prioritizing savoring my food and “resting” like Dad does.

Buying Happiness: Animation Time

Whenever I receive a gift card or bonus, the first thing I brainstorm is how to use that money to improve/enhance/enjoy my life. I’m one of those rare people who believes that money CAN buy happiness–as long as you have the right set of priorities.

For years, I referred to myself as a one-woman production company. Many monetary gifts have gone toward podcasting, digital illustration, and filmmaking. Even though writing and performance are my strongest talents, I don’t shy away from all other aspects of embellishing my writing auditorily and visually, beyond costuming.

Two years ago, I attended a local film festival and spoke with one of the filmmakers whose project was an animation. I took notes, thinking “one day” I’d check it out and create something.

Amazing how quickly time passes when actively living. Last year, I visited Ghana, produced the longest podcast episode to date, and created a short film as a Christmas gift to my family. And those were just three creative/adventurous things among my usual juggle of activities.

I started off the new year contemplating whether I’d round up voice actors. Then, I wondered if I could save myself the “trouble” and do all the voices myself. Are there animation platforms that had a feature to alter one’s voice? What’s the least expensive way to do an animated project?

These questions and more all waiting to be discovered once I start researching them, bringing “one day” of doing an animated project even closer. Just as long as I don’t fall into that “analysis paralysis” trap.

That’s where one researches the hell out of something but never takes action beyond that. I’ve not been guilty of that for years. I usually fell into that trap with writing projects. I tend to run with other creative ideas outside of writing, especially if I buy something.

The next video opportunity will be recording 15 hours of me teaching yoga as part of my 200-hour yoga certification. The instructor stated that we could be as simple or complex as our video production skill set allows.

Challenge accepted.

Check Out the Tech

During my 2025 End-of-the-Year (EOY) review with both my former and current supervisors, the former gushed praises about me, stating how much she missed me and wanted me back. Since I’d only been with my new team for the last two weeks of December, the former supervisor had written the review.

One of the few times that my current supervisor spoke was to inform her, good naturedly, that he wouldn’t allow me to return to my former team.

Accolades aside, the meeting motivated me to start making moves on my new team. I’ve had a few months to get the lay of the land. Now’s a good time to explore stretch projects where I can use my math and/or editing skills for the team.

Additionally, my former supervisor reminded me of one of my 2025 goals: to land a pharmacy tech job. When asked about that goal, I admitted that when I get a new position, I pour my energy into that opportunity. I quickly added that I’d completed two continuing education courses to maintain my pharmacy tech certification.

Then, I shared my newest academic pursuit: a 500-hour yoga certification online course. If we’d had more time to indulge, I would have told them about how I’d already read several of the books, taking extensive notes because I didn’t want to spend money on books nor add to the volume of material things I possess.

Instead, we kept the conversation about my 2025 successes, resulting in an above average rating, along with the corresponding pay bump and bonus. I surprised my former supervisor when I stated that this was the first time achieving that recognition. I briefly explained that I’d started working in 2021, so I had to first navigate through a global pandemic before thriving at work.

The following week, I had my monthly one-on-one check-in meeting with my current supervisor. When I mentioned possibile stretch projects, involving math and/or editing, he stated nothing was available. Yet he said that he’d keep me in mind if any Resolutions or Assist Line openings became available since that would increase both my talent and compensation.

When I mentioned adding pharmacy tech jobs to the list, he hesitated. He explained that those positions would be a lateral move. I confirmed that when I interviewed for a new position, I’d also expect more compensation.

For some reason, I thought being a certified pharmacy tech automatically meant that I’d get a compensation bump. Goes to show that I’m still thinking like a teacher, where attaining more education went hand in hand with a pay bump.

As a matter of fact, I was going to bite the bullet and apply to a pharmacy tech job that involved working some weekends. Now that’s off the table if no more money’s involved.

Granted one can have the certification without having the title reflected in one’s job title. Looks like that’s the route I’m destined to go. I’m just not sure if I want to increase my rate of irate callers.

What Light?

We thought we’d be funny by placing a novelty drink light into Dad’s water glass. Mom and I kept prompting him to comment about it. My nephew giggled in anticipation. Watch how Dad handled the situation.

When I showed Dad the video, I told him that we kept referring to his water glass because we wanted him to talk about was in it. He said, “Well, it sure wasn’t egg nog.”