Category: Special Events

Just as my life was settling down and starting to feel too routine, my sister invited me to volunteer with her and my nephew for an outdoor activity. I’d been to this outdoor family-oriented area previously when I’d searched for a leave a book/take a book kiosk.

Apparently, this organization had hosted the Ninja obstacle course activities for several years running. There were three levels, that roughly corresponded to age groups: treehouse for the the youngest participants, intermediate for older children and elite for adults–although some older children and teenagers attempted the elite course and some adults ran the intermediate course.

We rolled up just in time to meet the morning volunteers, have a boxed lunch with them, then listen to a brief orientation. Several women knew my sister from previous volunteer events.

Treehouse course

Although my volunteer assignment was at the participant registration desk, I hardly did a thing because three other women, who’d worked the event several times in the past, ran the table. Before I could greet families and individuals who approached the table, one of those women would yell out their names as they approached and helped them. As they processed people who registered with far more forms than my Virgo sensibilities thought was necessary, I caught on to the rhythm of how things should be done.

(For the record, two forms could have been combined on the same piece of paper with people only filling out the liability part if they weren’t going to run an obstacle course and another section if they were, then signing an attendance sheet to keep a running total of who was there that particular day since the event was held over multiple days.)

Intermediate Course

I managed to help perhaps two groups to register, but with one of the other women double checking my work, which I didn’t mind since they weren’t treating me as if I was incompetent.

Elite Course

During a lull, I walked around the grounds to take in the activities since registration was a ways away from the action. The treehouse course wasn’t actually being run by volunteers, so parents had to supervise their own children rather than watch them as an audience member. Only the intermediate and elite courses were being ran and timed as recorded events.

In the brief time I watched the elite course, two guys dropped at the same time, with one guy landing practically on top of the other, injuring him. The medic on duty was an impressive linebacker-built Black man. I immediately thought that if I had an emergency, that was the person I’d want to come to my aid.

The other people in line for the elite course didn’t seem the least bit phased by that injury and once the injured guy was helped and escorted out of the pool of water to audience applause, two more guys started the course. The faster of the two was working his way across the peg ladder when one of his pegs broke in half. He reported that he heard it cracking just before he fell into the pool. I didn’t blame him for feeling robbed.

Later in the day, the real work began. We tackled our parents’ front closet, which doubled as a pantry. Although the closet wasn’t as big as the garage we’d cleaned and organized, it was still full of stuff since we’d first moved into the house in ’79.

We moved out a portable rack full of coats and jackets, then cleared the floor and the bottom three shelves of canned/boxed/jarred food. After vacuuming mystery grain (that looked like corn meal, but Mom disagrees), wiping down and lining the shelves, my sister arranged the preserved food in the closet, which my nephew and I had grouped for convenience.

This process, which took much longer than we’d anticipated. Here are some things we discovered: 1) far too many boxes of Jello, especially lemon and orange, which will probably become Jello shots; 2) far too many boxes of vanilla instant pudding; 3) lots of stuff that should have been in the garage now that there was room; 4) a genealogy report my maternal grandfather had assembled.

That last nugget is the stuff of great discoveries are made of. The report was chock full of family history, most of which I didn’t know. Nonetheless, given the deteriorating condition of its flimsy construction paper cover, I knew I had to preserve it in sheet protectors. Once I removed the three brass brackets and placed the pages into protectors, I noticed the pages had no numbers.

I bought white blank labels, cut them into small squares and placed them on the lower hand side of the protected sheets. Then, using a scanning app on my phone, I took a picture of each page. Finally, I emailed the digital copy to my other sister and a cousin who has done deep research into our family history.

As I read the report, I noted that there were inconsistencies in the names. Within my mother’s part of the family tree, her older sister, Marguerite, who’d tragically died in a fire as a child, had been omitted.

• Yes, the Virgo in me wants to update the report to clarify the confusing parts, correct the errors and expand upon the entries where the entirety of a person’s description is merely the son/daughter or spouse of someone. Plus, the index in the back should also be referenced with page numbers…now that they exist!

My birthday box from a friend arrived days before my actual birthday.

Last year, I gifted myself several self-care items for my 51st birthday. This friend rounded out last year’s effort with gifts to help spiritually. Among the packet of information included, detailing the incense, pyramid crystal, and amulet was a personal letter about his personal spiritual journey.

My parents gifted me money, reflecting my new age.

Since moving back home, my family has shown me that not all people have joined me in not carrying cash. Two weeks after being gifted cash, it came in handy when I applied to get my NC license plate. When the employee told me the amount for the service, I pulled out my credit card as she said, “At least $5 must be paid in cash.” Although I gave her a surprised, questioning look, I didn’t bother asking any of the obvious questions, considering we’d been living in the upside down for the past few years.

The makings of a White Russian.

Mom had made “us” a pineapple coconut cake for our birthdays. Not that she’d asked me what type of cake I wanted. Nonetheless, when she told me that I could use the leftover heavy whipping cream for some recipe, I knew that I’d make us a liquid dessert in the form of a White Russian. The next day, after work, I went to the liquor store, known collectively as ABC stores, to buy the other ingredients. As a nod to Austin, I chose Tito’s.

Crude but effective cocktail shaker.

I’d either given away or packed away my cocktail mixing set, so this mason jar served that purpose. Honestly, when it comes to mason jars, one’s only as limited as one’s imaginations. I certainly wasn’t going to buy another hand mixing set, given all the stuff my parents already had.

We celebrated Mom and my birthday at a seafood restaurant.

I’d never eaten at this restaurant before, but both the decor and the food were wonderful. As a matter of fact, the only thing that was a disappointment turned out to be the birthday cake that they’d gifted us.

Mom blew out her candle first.

Since Mom and I were sitting directly across one another, we didn’t bother with taking a group pic of the two birthday women, but I’m so happy that I captured her in the process of blowing out her birthday candle. I handed my camera to my nephew without first explaining to him that he was to take my picture. When I saw him start to point the camera at Mom, I started yelling at him to take my picture since I’d already taken Mom’s.

I blew mine out fussing at my nephew.

At least he managed to take a decent picture. Next time, I’ll talk to him first about what I want, then hand him my camera. I’ve been away so long that I didn’t really appreciate how much instruction he needs despite him being in his early 30s. He’s cognitively a teenager at best.

At one point, Dad became a little restless, so I got his walker and he and I started walking the length of the restaurant. I’m not sure what brought more of a smile out of other people as we walked by. I wondered if it was my tiara or the combination of Dad and I walking together, but apparently we were a happy sight.

I threw on a cute dress, put my hair up and switched purses to look more presentable than my usual work-from-home attire to attend an out of town event at a house museum in San Antonio with one of my cousins and a friend. We’d underestimated the traffic and arrived much later than we’d anticipated. Somehow, we didn’t miss too much of the documentary about the Ethiopian civil war.

Afterwards, we did the touristy thing and went to the Riverwalk for dinner. As hungry as I was, I tasted the fast food quality of my entree, accompanied by the watered down cocktail. Apparently, we were lucky to get that on a Thursday evening since the restaurant closed at 9 PM.

I chalk that up to the pandemic where everything seems in short supply, especially staff to keep places open.

I finally turned the corner in this picture.

When I looked at these pictures my friend had taken, I was surprised at the older woman in the cute dress and with stylish purse. I knew this day would come, but I didn’t figure it would happen on an occasion where I felt particularly attractive. I walked off the feeling and thought, “Well good for me!” I’m glad that I can feel vivacious even if I don’t look like it. (Notable exception: check out the definition of that arm casually draped on fencing. Daily planks, anyone?)

Check out the comfortable footwear.

I was told in my early 30s that I had the sensibilities of a woman in her mid 40s. I took it as a compliment. I’d kicked the come-fuck-me pumps to the curb when I joined Peace Corps. I didn’t even pack a pair of heels for that 2 1/2 year experience. I let go of many materialistic hangups while volunteering in Tanzania. So easy not to believe the hype of consumerism and fashion during that time.

Even now, among my immediate family, I have the fewest clothes, shoes and psychological attachments to material things. That’s served both me and my bank account well. The only thing I wish I’d done differently with my money was invested it better. It’s one thing to pay off one’s credit card at the end of the month and have a 401k (or some retirement equivalent), but it’s quite another to chase after economic investments that generate income whether I’m chasing after it or not.

I’d known for years that I needed to get a colonoscopy. Even when I learned that Black people should get the procedure done at age 45, I still made excuses. Finally, when the good insurance kicked in with the new job, I started the routine check up circus–the so-called managed health care in the US. This procedure was the last in a round of crap that needed to be done. How opportune, I used the word “crap,” a lot of preparation is made to get the crap out.

I’d either heard or imagined so much about the special diet one needed to follow prior to getting a colonoscopy that I was pleasantly surprised what all I could eat. As a matter of fact, five days prior to the procedure, all I had to do was stop taking my multivitamin. From there, things slowly became more restrictive. At the same time, since I’d written out a loose menu plan for the remaining four days, I looked forward to the novelty of the foods: homemade muffin with bananas; greek yogurt with two sliced bananas and generous amount of honey; a rotisserie chicken sandwich with toasted white bread, sliced avocado and baked potato chips; canned tuna with fresh squeezed lime juice, sliced avocados and baked chips; canned salmon with fresh squeezed lime juice, sliced avocados and baked chips; half of rotisserie chicken with baked chips; lemon and pineapple mixed jello, gatorade, strawberry/lime fruit popsicles and mango fruit popsicles.

The worst day was prior to the procedure where I could only eat jello, clear liquids except alcohol, and in the early afternoon, start the most distinctive part of the colon prep. I finally opened the bag of joy I’d picked up from the pharmacy the previous week. I saw the infamous GoLytley that I had to mix and drink four liters of, but I couldn’t find the laxatives, which I had to take an hour prior to pounding the colon cleanse fluid. I took the whole bundle back to the pharmacy.

This time, the on-duty pharmacist explained that the OTC ticket meant I had to pick the laxatives off the shelf. I’m glad she escorted me to the area because she had trouble finding the laxatives herself. Thank goodness it turned out to be less than $2. I work for a pharmacy. I know how much certain medications can cost although OTC tend to be cheaper.

I’d heard so many horror stories about GoLytely. With the lemon flavoring, it wasn’t that bad. I downed about 16 oz every 15 minutes until I’d consumed the entire four liters. It had begun to kick in halfway through while I was still putting the final postproduction touches on my latest Strange Family Folklore podcast episode. I had completed the voiceovers in the morning; so, all I had to do in between quaffing colon cleanse and running to the bathroom, was arrange the audio tracks.

I published the episode about 30 minutes before virtual book club began. The camera remained off during the meeting because I didn’t want them to know that I periodically got up and used the bathroom. I finished drinking the cleanse 15 minutes into the meeting. Fortunately, my wireless headset allowed muting by raising the mic up and then lowering it to speak. A few times, I spoke while on the toilet in between goes and flushes.

One thing that concerned me initially was that my liquid bowel movements had never turned clear. Instead it was a bright yellow or “the color of Mountain Dew” as a nurse later described it. My trips to the bathroom became a competition between my bladder and colon to see which could empty its liquid contents first. The big winner? Dry panties!

I never felt hungry, which was partly due to taking my regular CBD powder, which doubles as an appetite suppressant. One of my friends, who’s much smaller than me, stated that when she prepped for her colonoscopy, she’d lost 5 lbs. I was curious to see how full of shit I was. Hmm, only 3 lbs. So, my friend was full of more shit than me, at least by that measurement!

The morning of the appointment, my friend, who I refer to as “my third mom,” promptly picked me up and drove me to the surgery center, which was almost a good long walk away. The dehydration kicked in as I read over a ton of paperwork. Once again, I thought about how difficult this whole thing would have been if I were functionally literate. As I filled out the forms, a cute baby entered in the arms of his mother. When a nurse escorted me to the prep room, I overheard another nurse gushing over the baby. I said, “Yes, that baby’s so beautiful, you know he probably has COVID.” They all laughed. I told them that was just the devil in me coming out. Another nurse told me that I’d made their day.

Truth be told, I was happy socializing with other people. I didn’t give a damn that it was the surgical center staff. They were still human beings. At times like those, I felt sanity returning.

As I undressed, I nearly forgot to take my panties off, which was the whole point of getting undressed in the first place. No matter how many times I have done it, tying that hospital gown in the back is always uncomfortable. Tying it in the front merely feels like another ill-fitting dress. Tying it in the back feels like I should get paid.

Once that was done and I’d hopped in the bed, the prep nurse worried me a little, commenting about how small my veins were. She said she’d have to “explore around” to find a vein. I screamed in my head, “How about NOT doing that?” She tied off my arm to make the veins bigger. Initially, she examined my left arm since that one was easier to access, but then she looked at my right arm and noticed that the veins were slightly bigger on my dominant arm. She got it on the first try and commented how I was a gusher. At least I didn’t need an additional jab. She set up the saline drip and put the oxygen tube in my nostrils, over the glasses, but under the mask.

At that point, my friend was allowed to join me. I thought the wait would only be about 30 mins, but it lasted much longer. During that time, the anesthesiologist introduced himself. I asked him if I’d barely be under so I could watch the monitor since one of my sisters had stated that was her favorite part of the procedure. Even with a mask on, the smirk shone in his eyes. He assured me that I wouldn’t be awake enough to watch the monitor. After he left, I asked my friend if he seemed a little too young. She told me that if I thought that, I was old.

In the operating room, I joked with the OR nurses about how I almost forgot to take off my panties, which they agreed would have defeated the purpose. I also shared with the them that at least this procedure wouldn’t be painful like my breast biopsy. I added that we all needed to encourage more women to go into engineering because all these painful medical machines were mostly likely designed by men. The way I said it, made them all laugh, but nod in agreement. I said, “If you think I’m funny now, just imagine me with a few drinks.”

Next thing I know, I woke up in the recovery room. I felt refreshingly awake as if from a good nap. I was ready to socialize. The nurse who attended to me was all business. She brought me a small cranberry juice and a snack-sized Cheez-its. When she handed me my bag of clothes and shoes, she told me to get dressed but to remain in the bed with the guard rails up. That worked for everything except my jeans. I stood up on the bed to put them on. Around that time, she asked if I was dressed. Since I was buckling my belt, I said “Yes.” When she pulled back the curtain, she was shocked to see me standing on the bed. I assured her that I did yoga on a regular basis and felt perfectly balanced and not dizzy. She said I should have asked for the guard rails to be lowered, so I could do that while standing on the floor. She reported to my friend that I was “wasted.” Not hardly. I simply did the logical thing, given her directives and my particular set of skills.

As my friend drove us home, I talked the whole time, telling her she’d have to help me polish off the jello. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had jello without alcohol in it. I ladled out the jello into two bowls and topped them with fresh bananas, blueberries and strawberries.

Additionally, I brought out a selection of cut cheeses, a roll of mozzarella wrapped in prosciutto and crackers. Instead of our usual happy hour bottle of red, I served lime-flavored sparkling water. Not really my thing, but my friend likes sparkling water, along with most of the world, apparently.

After cleaning up lunch, I called Mom and told her that I felt great after the procedure. Plus, the doctor had only found one polyp. My friend chimed in that it was a small one. I appreciated the positivity all around. Of course, now I pray for it to be benign, not just for being cancer-free, but so I wouldn’t have to have another procedure until a decade from now.

Then I called one of my sisters who thinks she’s my mother AKA “second mom.” We had a good conversation, but then I handed the phone off to my friend because she had questions for my sister. Second mom and third mom talked much longer to one another than I had to my own mother or sister! Nonetheless, I’m glad they had an opportunity to reconnect. They’d hit it off the last time my sister had visited.

Since I’d taken the following day of as well, I took full advantage of what was essentially a 4-day weekend. Another friend hosted and led a full moon yoga class in her back yard. Normally, when people go under sedation, they say one shouldn’t drive, operate heavy equipment nor make major life decisions. Yet, I was a little hard-headed precisely because I felt clearheaded.

Thanks to the Saharan dust, the moon appeared hazy, but everything else about the evening was divine. The temperature dropped to a very comfortable latent heat, the humidity wasn’t oppressive and since I’d lathered myself in Skin So Soft, the mosquitoes were held at bay.

Afterwards, I enjoyed talking with the other participants, completing a day full of socializing with other people, starting with the medical staff. That was just as therapeutic as getting a colonoscopy and doing yoga. I didn’t indulge in a glass of rosé with the other yogis. That was my one post procedure concession.

The next day, I slept in, ate breakfast and then took my car to the shop to be serviced. All in all, it was a day of running errands, which in itself triggered the desire, once again, to have a 4-day work week. I’ll just put that out into the universe for now.

I love picking myself out of a crowd.

For a free event that boasted an open bar along with a modest taco and chips buffet, I was surprised at the small crowd that gathered to hear a live interview with show runner, writer and all around interesting person, Elgin James, co-creator of Mayans MC and The Outlaws. I’d never seen either of his shows, but that didn’t stop me from enjoying his interview.

You just never know a successful person’s origin story. For anyone who even suggested that he had to go through life with an abusive father, street gang and prison to be the man he is today, James said a very confident, “Fuck that!”

Yet, with his background, the last thing he wanted to do was write about it. One reoccurring theme in his life, as he stated in his interview, was no matter how messy life became, there were always women who cleaned it up. That’s the main reason, if he has the freedom to do so, he writes about women. He finds women to be far more dynamic characters than men, which flies in the face of what audiences usually see depicted in film and TV.

After two or three seasons, the emphasis of the show changed and lost about half their audience, which was comprised of mostly men. As the season continued, more women started watching, eventually surpassing the number of men in the original audience.

My main takeaway from his interview is not only to write about what you know, but fight for that narrative to be told. It’s definitely worth the effort to elevate these stories because if we don’t, who will?

I always think I have a crappy camera.

For example, all the pictures for this post are of a full moon, but look like the sun. If I didn’t know better, I wouldn’t know better. Instead, I chose to lean in and try out different filters, knowing one day, I’ll buy a phone with a much better camera. That day will pretty much be under similar circumstances like I purchased my last phone, when it started losing basic functionality.

As I look at these pictures, I’m reminded of how peaceful my new neighborhood is.

This has more to do with the lack of vehicular traffic than anything else. I’ve taken several after-work walks and have varied the route each time. The most enjoyable walks were long enough to clear my head from the day, avoid exhaust fumes, and not leave me preoccupied with being run over.

Being out in nature is its own reward.

As long as there’s nothing to spoil the meditative quality of the activity. That’s far more important now than ever before. Even though my camera couldn’t capture the beauty of the flower moon, much less the eclipse, which pictures came out worse, I’m happy I paused my streaming binge watch to witness a natural phenomenon.

For once, I was in the right place at the right time.

I’d seen posters for this concert, but had no inclination to go. I truly put the brakes on my social life in addition to the pandemic. As I see it, I can’t justify being in debt, since I was underemployed last year, and shelling out money for social events. My only exception is ordering takeout once a week because I can readily control the upfront costs involved with that. (At least that’s how I rationalize it!)

By some miracle, this concert was free.

I’m not sure who underwrote the free tickets, but the woman who’d given the invocation at watercoloring event the week before, had raced around the room, telling us to give her our contact information if we wanted to attend this concert for free. I’d had my business cards because part of my reason for attending the workshop was to network.

Not only did she provide free tickets, but free food as well.

Since Kidjo is from Benin, we had a sampling of Beninese food. Our meal boxes contained a variety of vegetarian food, seasoned deliciously, complete with honey beer to wash it down. I’m not sure what they call honey beer in Benin, but in Swahili it’s called “wanzuki,” a fact a shared with a friend who also attended the event.

Cap Metro provided a free shuttle to and from the event, which they dubbed a party bus. I’ve been on a bonafide party bus back when I lived in Honduras. The only things that made this a party were the liveliness of the riders, the fact that it was free and it saved us all the time and money of parking. (Dare I mention the ever-rising gas prices? I’m paying more for gas than I’ve ever paid in my life.)

The international assortment of musicians performed so well, it was a shame to remain seated. What I didn’t know before hand was that she’d remade a Talking Heads album. Throughout the concert, I kept wondering what the connection was because they’d covered so many of their songs.

I read after the fact that Kidjo had heard Talking Heads music for the first time when she studied abroad and knew instantly that it had African roots. I loved her interpretation of their songs.

After the fact, we waited on the “party bus” for nearly a half hour for the rest of the riders. I could myself losing steam…just like the middle-aged woman I am. Once again, I fantasized about having a four-day work week. If that had been the case, I would have joined the real partygoers to the afterparty at a historically Black restaurant. Yet, I did the responsible thing and went home.