Category: Special Events

My birthday is ruled by sevens. Not only was I born on the 7th, but originally my birth month, September, was the 7th month in a 10-month Roman calendar, which is why the prefix is “sept-“. Plus, I was born in 1970. Thanks to the year 2021, I’m now a 17-year-old thrice over. That basically means, unlike when I was originally a 17-year-old, I’m highly aware that I don’t know it all. Speaking of “17,” I was supposed to be born on the 17th. So much for that plan.

My roommate and I ordered takeout. We were going to have a drink while we waited for our food.

As soon as we walked in, they enthusiastically told us that our order was ready. Obviously, we weren’t dressed to pick up takeout. We informed them of the plan, which we still followed even though our packed leftovers sat at the bar with us.

Another birthday tradition I started when I turned 40 was to wear a tiara for all my birthday activities. Considering that I’d planned to stay home the entire long weekend and work on my actual birthday, I made that trip count for the tiara photo op.

The next day, I celebrated my birthday by ordering things that would enhance the quality of my work/life balance: a firestick, an adjustable standing desk, a vibration plate, and a tankini.

I broke my usual rule about fooling around with new technology at night. I really wanted the pleasure of watching Netflix without hooking up my laptop to the TV. That had been my inexpensive workaround for years. Then in about a year and a half, the effects of COVID finally caught up with the connection.

After using that HDMI hookup at least once a day, the laptop port couldn’t take it anymore. Even butterfly clipping the TV cable in place onto the TV like an IV drip (or should I say “IT drip”) into the HDMI port on my laptop as a workaround only lasted for about a month.

So as I knew would happen, the simple firestick instructions still had gaps. Fortunately, one of my nieces called to wish me a Happy Birthday. Among other things, I narrated the technological hole I was in with the “it’s so easy!” set up.

After she agreed that a firestick should be ready to go once attached to the TV, I backed out of the step I was trying to set up, and tried something else. I honestly don’t remember how I did it, but the Wi-Fi started downloading updates, which I hoped would help since I was attaching new technology to an old TV.

Once I got the firestick to interact with the TV, then I had to get the remote to connect to the TV. I got stumped on choosing the correct TV IR Profile. As every good IT person knows, just Google everything.

I found out more about Insignia TVs than I ever wanted to know except the one thing I actually wanted to know, the infrared profile of the damn TV! Thanks to perseverance and some guy who shared how he chose his TV’s IR Profile: trial and error. The good ol’ standby. Worked for me on the first try.

A UPS email sent my expectations through the roof about getting my standing desk. To be delivered between 11:30 AM and 1:30 PM? My Black ass! After work, I changed clothes to do pool exercises. When I returned, my standing desk box had magically materialized in my bedroom. I took one look at that box and thought, “What a fun Sunday morning project that’ll be!”

Friday, officially my mother’s 81st birthday and the 8th day of celebrating mine, another present I’d bought myself awaited in my bedroom, thanks to my roommate’s efforts.

Although one can do a full workout routine on a vibration plate to sculpt muscles, improve lymphatic and blood circulation, better balance and (the jury’s still out about) weight loss, I was far less ambitious. I plugged it in, flipped the switch, which didn’t actually turn it on. Pressed the power button, followed by the start button and vibrated while slowly doing some squats. Until I read an email, telling me that I had a package.

The free swim cap with the raggedy-edged American flag design mirrored the state of the country. Nonetheless, it’s a damn fine swimsuit and the added bonus is the company name happens to be my initials. On Saturday, I put my tankini on to take a virtual yoga class, then kept it on to do my swimming pool exercises: capoeira kicks, jogging, and eggbeater kicks.

Normally I don’t buy desserts, but since the state of TX recently passed a law that essentially outlaws abortion, I made an exception. This dessert shop sold sugar cookies where some of the proceeds are donated to abortion care. I wasn’t in a sugar cookie mood even though they had icing. I made a $5 donation on top of the desserts I bought.

I put together the adjustable standing desk with few problems, given the minimal written instructions and the mostly accurate illustrations. Yet once I’d assembled it, I couldn’t lower it. I squeezed the handle and pushed down. Nothing. I wanted to tinker with the mechanism, but envisioned cutting off my fingers. Instead, I checked the company’s website. No troubleshooting tips. I sent them an neutrally-worded email. Called the alleged support number, which no one answered because it was a Sunday morning.

At one point, the only safe idea I could think of was to put the portable desk on the floor and push down while squeezing the handle. That desk lowered as if it had good sense. Apparently, when I initially raised it, I couldn’t get enough leverage to lower it. Fortunately, I won’t need it that high again now that my workstation rests on it. Even when I’m standing on vibration plate.

This was my second attempt to cast the Zoom class from my laptop to the TV.

With that thought in mind, I returned the laptop to its resting spot in my bedroom. Funny thing. The sound comes out of the laptop and not the TV. Perhaps the free app I downloaded to cast Zoom call doesn’t allow that. I wouldn’t pay a whopping $2.99 for a better app. Not until the free shit totally breaks down. It’s the principle of the thing. I may be a year wiser, but I’m still cheap.

By the next day, I tested out another free app to watch a YouTube video. Lo and behold! the sound came out of the TV. Then again, even the second app didn’t cast Zoom sound through the TV. At least this time, I read the fine print: “devices,” such as Zoom, which doesn’t have any built-in sound control, won’t allow TV sound. Live and learn.

This birthday has confirmed my belief that money can buy happiness with the right set of priorities. Everything I gifted myself contributes to mental and physical well-being.

I credit still being in a plague for all my Olympics viewing. There’s still a hotbed of COVID superspreading, so this event has broken up my usual TV programing.

And speaking of hotbed…some genius thought it would be a wonderful idea to make Olympiad beds out of a cardboard frame. First of all, if anyone can endure the rigors of having sex in untraditional places, whether it’s a tricked out bed, or comfortably contorting into a strength position for loving, it would be Olympiads. Secondly, if all else fails, there’s still the floor.

The opening ceremony was a 4 1/2 hour theatrical extravaganza. From the interpretative dance and tap dancing to the parade of nations, which displayed more flight attendant attire than anything else, but Tonga man was still an oiled up crowd pleaser. My absolute favorite part was the “living emoji” choreography with animation sequence, depicting the international symbols of the Olympic events. That production crew deserves an Oscar for that segment. The juxtaposition of Kabuki theater with that out of control jazz pianist was fabulous. I’ve never seen a pianist use so much of her body not only to play, but to dance with the instrument.

I watched events I had never seen before. At one point, I googled, “What’s the name of the Olympic sport that looks like soccer in a swimming pool?” No, I didn’t feel the least bit stupid when the words “water polo,” flashed on the screen. As a matter of fact, I’m happy I finally learned what that sport looked like after hearing about it for so long. I especially liked that the women’s USA team had a black goalie with long powerful arms, batting away the opposing team’s shots like stopping white women from touching her hair.

Besides the obvious rooting for the home team, or any other country I’ve lived in or Brazil since that’s the birthplace of capoeira, I enjoy learning the stories behind the athletes. Beyond being amazed by their physical acts of strength, I am inspired by their personal narratives. After all, I don’t know any of them personally. Not even the top gymnastic GOAT, Simone Biles, who resides in Houston when she’s not wowing the world with her spectacular feats.

The most awe-inspiring and unpredictable thing Biles did during this year’s games was to take a mental health break. The world watched in horror as she got lost in space while in the air during her vaulting routine. Gymnasts call this phenomenon “the twisties.” An athlete undergo catastrophic injuries when that happens. Fortunately, Biles didn’t suffer permanent physical injuries and knew to take a break.

The world overwhelming supported her wise decision, but the usual trolls demanded that she continue and ridiculed her for not continuing. This flared the “Black women must fight all battles all the time” argument. Sigh. One fine day, and I sincerely hope I live to see it, Black women will be seen as human beings and not beasts of burden who must utterly exhaust ourselves for the comfort and pleasure of others.

Meanwhile, other women are fighting to dress comfortably, given the rigors of their sport. Given the fact that The Olympics started when no women had a say in formulating the rules, now the athletes themselves must demand a voice such as the Norwegian handball team. They were fined because they wore comfortable shorts rather than the skimpy bikini bottoms. Pop star Pink offered to pay the fine, but in the end, the European Handball Federation paid the fine rather than the team itself.

Lots of controversy swirls around this year’s Olympics and many felt that the games should have been canceled due to the pandemic alone, in addition to all the other bullshit that goes on due to the Olympics.

As usual, I wonder if cancellation would better address any intersectionality of discrimination. Showing elite athleticism often breaks down barriers and allows spotlights to be shined on such things as mental health issues, gender disparity, sexual orientation discrimination and the such. How much can be gained by NOT seeing these athletes hailing from different backgrounds?

Just last year, the world protested against police brutality because they saw the video of George Floyd’s murder. Now, the world is witnessing how these seemingly arbitrary Olympic rules are being applied. Why, for example, an athlete cannot participate for consuming a THC gummy, which didn’t enhance her performance, but a country found guilty of doping its athletes to give them an edge can still participate with a name change.

The world is watching. There are many different ways to protest. Yet we cannot care about what we don’t know about. Video is a very powerful medium, which motivates the masses to take action in whatever form they have access to.

The mere presence of skateboarding for the first time as an Olympic event shows changes happen with advocacy. I look forward to the next Olympics. I optimistically hope the discussions we’re having now are woven into how things are run in 2024. I also hope that the next time around, I’ll have to make time in my busy schedule just to watch the Olympics…perhaps in a public place, unmasked on the weekends.

Two days after quitting both of my nonlucrative, remote, part-time jobs, I virtually attended the 80th Strange Family Reunion. Yet another silver lining from the coronavirus. The plague sank me financially, hence the two jobs, which kept me underemployed. Yet this global event allowed me to attend our family reunion two years in a row because all it cost me was time.

I met relatives I didn’t know existed and heard stories of ancestors I never knew. Thanks to technology, I’ve captured several narratives from the second generation of freeborn Stranges of whom my mother is one of the remaining of 12. I even took the opportunity to invite them all to participate in a podcast interview, which I launched last year, Strange Family Folklore.

Throughout the virtual program, I kept directing certain parts because I knew I’d eventually have to edit the video for posterity’s sake. I pointed out at the end of Sunday’s hourlong virtual church service, sermoned by one of my cousins, that next year when we’re all together in real life, our tradeoff will be not having a record of the program from start to finish like we’ve done in the past two years.

That prompted one of my sisters to suggest that “someone” could still record impromptu interviews with family reunion attendants, which motivated my other sister to volunteer her to do so. I felt that one coming on. Just like I knew yours truly would probably edit it.

Before I get too ahead of myself, though, I’ll focus on editing this year’s reunion. Since this will be my third Zoom recorded editing project, I’m hoping that it’ll be the charm. I finally have all the clips, including the ones from the other two breakout rooms. As three other people sent me their clips, I fondly remember how that step used to be the stumbling block.

This time around, I knew exactly what to ask them for and how to retrieve it, regardless of how they sent it to me. I even played the role of IT with one of my sisters. She was stuck in that loop of doing the same thing repeatedly, expecting a different result. She’s not crazy. She just didn’t know another way to send the mp4. Not until I talked her through it.

Fortunately, I’ve upped my technology game. My full-time job is tech heavy, and I’m also taking an evening Data Science class. My worst fears of biting off more than I could chew has not come true. If anything, the more I learn about how to use technology to pursue both work and creative projects, the happier I am.

My navigation through this modern jungle of existence has become more interesting. The light at the end of the tunnel isn’t a locomotive ready to mow me over after all.

Memorial Day weekend found me fretting over impending full time employment. I’d been offered a job, which was contingent on passing a drug test and background check. The only snag? A glitch in the digital platform, followed by a holiday weekend, which meant I had to wait until Tuesday to give my prospective employer a call since no one got back to me by Friday.

The one fun thing I’d planned for the long weekend was doing yoga in a friend’s back yard. She’d completed teacher training and had begun to give one-off classes. I hadn’t managed to attend any of her previous classes since I prefer to exercise in the mornings. Plus, my existence had reoriented itself to doing everything from home despite the fact that I love to have an excuse to be with other double vaxxed people. Memorial Day provided the perfect opportunity to check several boxes.

She led me in an hourlong general yoga flow under a tree. Afterwards, we shared food and a bottle of wine. An exercise I like to call “detox-retox.” I loved reconnecting with her. Not only do we share yoga in common, but also reading, writing, and we’ve both been teachers for years.

I was in such wonderful spirits, ready to pick up where I’d left off in job search hoop jumping. Put the key in the ignition, and there it was: the check engine light. I took a deep breath, put the car in reverse and ruminated about how to juggle another emotional-financial consideration.

I’d begun my job-seeking mad dash over a month ago. Although I’d worked a brief math tutoring gig that gave me a life line into June, I thought I would have secured a more lucrative, stable job by now. I have a new part time job, but it’s not enough to keep me afloat. Besides, that would have been too easy.

Part of my initial optimism was that society had begun to reopen and was anxious to hire. Yet even for lucrative entry level positions (not really an oxymoronic statement given the past year and a half), there are far more steps in between accepting an offer and getting on payroll.

The day after Memorial Day started off as normal: work, yoga, lunch. Then, with the optimism of someone still in control of her life, I dropped by the car dealership to get that check engine light looked at. My jaw dropped when the guy told me that I’d have to leave my car for at least 48 hours since there were about 40 cars ahead of mine. “I can’t do that!”

I didn’t exactly yell at him, but rather in surprise. I’d mistakenly thought I’d have to wait a few hours for them to diagnose what was wrong and then fix it. Of all the weeks that had just dragged by uneventfully, I actually had some shit to do in the next 48 hours.

I nervously drove to get groceries. The following morning, I went to a drugstore to take a drug test. At least that part of my dilemma had been figured out. My prospective employer had remedied a tech glitch, setting me on the next step. Later that evening, I drove to a networking happy hour.

Finally, on the third morning after seeing the check engine light, I dropped my car off. Prior to the pandemic, the car dealership ran its own shuttle service. For society 2.0, they found it more economical to hire a Lyft on behalf of their customers within 12-mile radius. I nearly fell back when I read the description of the car that would pick me up: Black Maserati Ghibli. Holy shit! I’ll take the hit for being “classist” when I say wholeheartedly, “Why is someone who drives a car like that, driving for Lyft?!”

The driver was as attractive as the car. I told him that I’d had a challenging week, but his car was a bright spot in my otherwise shitty week.

Sure enough, I had my car back by the next afternoon. Wasn’t picked up in a fancy pants Lyft, but by the time my car was ready, I was in the middle of ploughing through all my on-boarding documents for my new full-time job. I was right, things had started picking up after riding in that Maserati.

I’m going to need a full time job to pay for all the repairs.

For the first time in the history of the US, we have two women seated behind POTUS during his unofficial State of the Union address. Harris and Pelosi, the respective VP and Speaker of the House, masked because they both believe in science and taking care of their fellow human being.

If the sight of this trio sent any progressive’s heart aflutter, Biden’s speech brought it home. He wanted to improve infrastructure, healthcare, provide free community college and to pay for it all, make the rich, including corporations, pay their fair share of taxes. Biden emphasized that trickle down economics have been shown not to work.

Speaking of work, he wanted to invest more in women by closing the wage gap. During this shutdown, so many women have lost our jobs in order to take care of loved ones. As the economy reopens, we need to run the “new and improved” version of our economy and not the “back to normal” version.

Lord knows I’m rooting for his plan not only to work, but in a timely fashion. I’m about at the end of my economic rope as I send out a furry of job applications, sorting out the bullshit as I go along. It’s amazing that employers are complaining that they can’t find people to fill their positions. I got an idea: pay a living wage.

An emotional weight I didn’t realize existed, lifted on April 20th. Despite the date being infamous for marijuana, that had nothing to do with it. On this day, a Black man who was murdered on Memorial Day 2020, had finally received a just verdict. For once, a White man, a former cop at that, was held accountable for murdering a Black man whose life mattered.

George Floyd’s murder sparked international outrage and protest against police brutality. Yet the mainstream media didn’t report how the world protested Floyd’s death. In contrast, mainstream media always report how Super Bowl winners are “World Champions” although no other country participates in the competition. So, football is king except for when it kneels during the national anthem to protest police brutality.

I didn’t watch any of the trial. Nonetheless, it was impossible not to read or hear the highlights. TV clips and soundbites. Snippets in tweets. The thoroughness of the prosecutor reminded me of what my relatives have always told me: “You have to work twice as hard to get half as far.”

The standard is to prove someone is guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. The prosecutor had to do far more than that. He had to overcome centuries of conflicting racist dogma, starting with the big Black man trope where he’s a subhuman beast with superhuman strength to justify, using excessive force. Yet when the big Black man is murdered, which disproves the superhuman strength racist theory, then they use the big Black man’s pre-existing conditions and bad habits for not being able to endure excessive force; therefore, the big Black man’s responsible for his own death.

Scatologists identify animals by their shit. I do the same thing with racism. The dominant narrative has recycled the same racist shit for centuries. The defense attorney didn’t stray from the old playbook. Emphasized how a big Black man posed a threat that only excessive force could neutralize, then focused on how the big Black man’s past drug habit, health status, the crowd, the vehicle exhaust and the fact that he had enough breath to still speak when he stated he couldn’t breathe and called for his mother. Did all he could to convince the jury not to believe their own eyes: a handcuffed man, lying on his stomach on the pavement while a cop knelt on his neck for nearly 10 minutes.

Even one of the defense experts fumbled. He suggested that under the conditions, Floyd should have “rested comfortably.” The prosecutor went pie eyed. I wasn’t surprised though. Unfortunately, there are doctors who believe that Black people don’t experience pain like White people do. So, why shouldn’t this so-called use of force expert?

And yet, for once, none of that racist shit worked. At the end of the day, the jurors unanimously believed that the former cop’s actions led to Floyd’s death.

Very few times do things make me cry, especially tears of joy. That verdict did it. On that day, I celebrated. Just for one luxurious moment. Of course, much more will have to be done to eliminate systemic racism and hate crimes against Blacks. After all, the most dangerous place for a Black person to be is still in the mind of a racist.

For good reason. Although I generally like all three, I don’t have any of my own. I’ve tried with plants. Even those plants that other people with green thumbs say can’t be killed. They haven’t seen my best effort to keep plants alive, which eventually leaves them dead.

Fortunately for me, my friend’s usual dog sitter wasn’t available. There’s very little to break up my weekly routine, even though I live in TX, where the governor has declared us “fully open.” That’s such warm welcome for an emerging superspreader event. At least this opportunity allowed me to safely leave my apartment and normal routine in what felt like a mini spring break.

I spent nearly 48 hours dog sitting. For most of the waking hours, I binged watched Amazon Prime while writing or illustrating along with my two corgi companions, who had very different personalities as I quickly learned now that their humans were temporarily gone.

Introducing, Mr. Sensitive.

With a total disregard for whichever device I had at the time–a laptop for writing; an iPad for illustrating–Mr. Sensitive edged those things out of my lap to cuddle. To be clear, he’s NOT a lap dog. Dogs that are so heavy that they put one’s leg asleep cannot pull that off. After rubbing his fur while simultaneously protecting my device, I gently guided Mr. Sensitive beside me where he curled up.

Next up, Little Bad Butt.

And that foxlike coloration is so appropriate. Notice that over-the-shoulder glance. The look to see if I’m paying attention because she’s got an idea. She took my visit as an “I’m-gonna-get-away-with-some-shit” field day.

Since Mr. Sensitive was usually too upset to eat more than a few nibbles of food, Little Bad But had this coy way of casually strolling over to his food bowl. Then, she’d look back at me, then back to her brother’s bowl as if to say, “Oh my. Look what I found here. Why, we can’t let this food go to waste. I’m going to take a few bites and…it’s gone. Happy Bowl!” That same scenario played out a few more times, except for once when Mr. Sensitive actually finished his food.

The first day, I binged-watched TV until past midnight. Wanting to sleep in the next morning, I left the doggie door open, so the dogs wouldn’t have to wake me up to go outside. I moved their doggie beds from the master bedroom into the guest bedroom, thinking the dogs would just see that since I was going to bed, they’d go to bed.

Ha!

Mr. Sensitive paced and whimpered until I gave the signal, granting him permission to hop onto the bed and curl up beside me. Little Bad Butt had some trouble jumping onto the bed, but once she joined us, I thought she’d curl up and go to sleep.

Oh, what a fool I was.

She romped around on the bed never once settling down, making tinkling noises due to her two tags clapping together as she moved. After the thrill of being on the bed wore off, she hopped off to indulge in her favorite hobby: barking at nothing in particular. Thanks to me leaving the doggie door open, she frisked around outside barking, in what I’m sure translated to: “Mom and Dad left me with this new sitter who has no idea what she’s doing. Anyone else up? It’s party time!”

Mr. Sensitive, ever the follower, soon jumped off the bed to join his sister outside. Then, I lumbered out of bed. I officially became a Friday night party pooper. I shut the doggie door before opening the patio door. Mr. Sensitive knew the party was over, but Little Bad Butt just stopped barking and looked at me. I called to her and motioned that she come inside. I can’t tell for sure if she was weighing her options. Eventually, she came in. I returned to bed. Next thing I knew, the sun came up.

This was a new day. The new twist in the schedule was my live-streamed noontime yoga class. I set up in my friend’s office, closed the door and had an uninterrupted yoga class. I heard some sounds on the other side of the door, but nothing distressful.

From there, the day flowed to a similar repeat of yesterday with the notable exception that the doggie door was closed after midnight before I went to bed. Both dogs slept in their own beds without any fuss. Of course, I heard the early morning wakeup whimper to let them out.

Now that the dogs have trained me to take care of them, I’m looking forward to another extended visit. If only plants could be so cuddly and interactive.