For this year’s Mother’s Day celebration, we treated Mom to a gospel musical where all the women and a lone man wore a hat AKA a “crown.”
As soon as we entered the theatre, I recognized my 5th grade teacher.
Not only was she one of my favorite teachers, but she was also one of Mom’s favorite teachers.
Over the years, Mom bragged about how wonderful my 5th grade teacher was such that a talkative, creative student like me always had something do after quickly finishing up the regular classwork.
My former teacher had no time to reminisce. She whisked us to our seats ASAP.
Even though the musical was the perfect non-materialistic gift, the theatre had offered its first Saturday matinee the week following Mother’s Day.
All that good singing and funny moments during the interwoven storylines put all of us in such a good mood. Even the weather cooperated.
Afterwards, we treated Mom to our favorite Italian restaurant downtown. Apparently, we enjoyed ourselves so much that neither my sister nor I bothered to snap a picture.
I wish we could have more entertaining moments like this. I know that some days, Mom feels overwhelmed with primary caregiver duties, even with a 48-hour/week team of attendants for Dad. Many a time, Mom has lamented that she thought her life would be different if she were blessed enough to live this long.
That’s what makes occasions such as these so special. We get to step outside the stressful chaos of our everyday lives. I hardly ever pass up the opportunity to gift an experience like this.
For the second year in a row, I hosted a Galentine’s Day indoor skydiving excursion. I sported a “Boss” T-shirt for the occasion to dispel any doubt who was in charge. Kidding. Not really.
I joked with the one friend who hadn’t ever flown before that she had to go first. To my surprise, she was game. We ended up flying from youngest to oldest, which still put her first. By that same logic, I went last, which was fine by me since I believe, as the host, guests should go first.
For the first time ever, I entered the wind chamber without any nervousness. Even our instructor commented on how relaxed I was during my flying time. Thank goodness my sister was there to take pictures and videos. I had no sense of how high I’d flown on my own.
This time of year, there’s an indoor flying competition; so several teams were present. We shared our flight time with a team who practiced different configurations in between our flights. At least two of the competitors looked older than me. If I ever get an opportunity to retire, I’ll add this sport to my routine. (How I wish there was a word with more pizzazz than “routine” or “hobby” to describe something one enjoys doing on a regular basis.)
The moment I had been waiting for, the second flight to go to the highest level. The only way the experience could have been more thrilling was to do tricks, which may occur in the future when I have more time and money.
As a matter of fact, while we waited to have our preflight safety class, there was a lone flyer who worked on technique one-on-one with an instructor. That’s truly the way to do it. As for now, I cannot afford to drop a few hundred dollars for ten minutes of instruction.
I enjoy getting together with friends once a year to fly. And my sister, who’s only flown once and crossed it off her bucket list, mainly looked forward to the post flight lunch. She recommended a nearby Peruvian place, which was delicious.
There’s something about completing a fun group activity that makes delicious food taste even better. The conversation flew around as animatedly as we’d each flown, making the whole experience one of the best Valentine’s days I’ve had.
I don’t have a passion for cooking. The most I do since moving back in with my parents is make breakfast every morning. Even the pull of Thanksgiving didn’t inspire me to prepare a dish or dessert to share.
For a brief moment, I thought about bringing my very first batch of Kool-Aid pickles. I’d only learned about their existence a few days prior to Thanksgiving on National Pickle Day. Since the preparation didn’t involve too many ingredients nor much effort, I tried it out.
The most time-consuming part was finding the Kool-aid packet. Not only was it on an aisle that I usually skip, but I couldn’t buy an individual packet like we used to do when I was a child. So, I got my pack of five and used the blue-colored one. (Who really gives a damn about what the actual artificial flavor was?)
Then, I bought the cheapest jar of pickles, which conveniently enough, were also thinly sliced. As any kitchen scientist knows, the more surface area something has, the quicker the absorption rate.
When I got home, I poured 2/3 cup of sugar into the bottom of a mason jar, emptied the Kool-Aid packet, forked out all the pickles, and then filled the jar with the pickle juice.
Mom, who’s auditorily-challenged but still managed to hear that I was up to something, entered the kitchen to investigate. I told her about my edible experiment, explaining that they’d be ready in three days.
Despite the surrealness of blue-green pickles a la Dr. Seuss, they were delicious. Although they were festively colored, I was in no creative mood to dress them up or at least arrange them beautifully on a tray to elevate them to a Thanksgiving side dish/condiment.
Instead, I stuffed my inside jacket pockets with my silver chalice and a 375 mL bottle of red wine. Along with my Thanksgiving pants, a drinking jacket was the perfect accompaniment for the holiday.
Of course, I wasn’t the first to think of a “drinking jacket.” A quick online search resulted in many hits for beer jackets, showing off all the features to accommodate various drinking accessories and ease of transportation.
I’d have to make several modifications if I truly wanted to transform my multi-pocketed jacket into a true wine jacket, starting with straps to secure the chalice and the bottle. Or much deeper pockets.
As I’ve ranted before, the fashion industry abhors women’s clothing having pockets, much less deep pockets. I’m not sure if it’s whether to pressure women to buy expensive handbags or to pressure women to show off our bodies, unencumbered with bulky pockets, but men don’t have the same struggle. They even enjoy pockets with their pajamas.
As usual, the chalice was a big hit, but one person just had to clown me about the size of my bottle. He didn’t even want wine. My niece had brought a 750 mL bottle of wine. So, there was enough wine for everyone who had good palates: my nieces, a nephew and me. The rest only liked fruity cocktails and very sweet dessert wines, ie alcoholic Kool-aid, as I refer to them.
Time will tell if I’ll be inspired to prepare something for Thanksgiving. Or create a better wine jacket.
My goal-oriented brain nearly caused me to miss visiting a friend who I hadn’t seen in 20 years. We’d worked at different schools in Monterrey, Mexico. Although we now lived less than two hours away, finding a day we both had free was a challenge.
At that time, the countdown to vacationing in Ghana loomed. I dedicated every free moment to packing, shopping for things to pack, and setting aside many hours to rush through editing a podcast project before my big trip.
I paused most of that craziness to visit her on the Fourth of July, which landed on a Friday; so, I had the day off. I reasoned, where my friend lived, also had stores.
I incorporated my search for second-hand pants with visiting her. Fortunately, she was game. She even elevated the pursuit by calling it “thrifting.”
However, first on the itinerary was lunch. She recommended an Indian restaurant where she’d never had the buffet. By the time we left the restaurant, I was ready to walk off all that delicious food.
We ended up visiting four places in search of pants that fit, resulted in no camel toe, and had no fake pockets nor fake drawstrings. A much harder pursuit than I originally thought.
I even found a fanny pack that met most of my criteria: black, no designer’s name on it, and big enough to accommodate my bigger, better new cellphone. Still not leather, but for an inexpensive fanny pack, I was very happy with the find.
In the end, I was only one pair of secondhand pants shy of my original goal. Close enough. Once in Ghana, I could get pants made. Or, even better, not care about how many times I wore a certain pair of pants because I would be on vacation.
Either way, as my visit came to a close, my friend stated that thrifting was a good way to spend the day together after lunch, but before all the Fourth of July madness had begun in earnest. She extended an invitation to a barbecue she and her partner were attending later that evening, but I declined.
Since I hadn’t planned on spending the night, better to leave before sundown. I needed energy to juggle other creative projects once home. When it comes to projects, my logic is similar to that old Lays potato chip slogan: bet I can’t do just one.
Many times, I focus so much on my own pursuit of happiness, I don’t often plan to loop other people in. I’m happy that the stars aligned, along with our schedules, and we could catch up with one another. That was far better than any go-through-the motions celebration.
My sister and her family participated in an axe throwing event a few months after I’d done it for the first time. Apparently, my nephew was the guy to beat.
As soon as my sister announced that they were coming down to celebrate Father’s Day with our 87-year-old father, I immediately said that I wanted to take my nephew axe throwing on Saturday before our late lunch, which my octogenarian parents refer to as “dinner.”
My niece invited herself along, at which point, I extended the invitation to my other sister.
Originally, my sister agreed to drive us there and watch. Thankfully, she changed her mind because she was definitely my comic relief. For one attempt, she threw the axe so hard to make it “stick,” but caused a very loud noise as wooden shards rained down along with the axe. Then, she sheepishly looked around to confirm how loud it was.
I thought I’d have better technique that time around. I only remembered the basics with very little muscle memory. Whereas everyone else tried throwing with one hand, I knew from my previous visit that that wasn’t a good strategy for me.
Since we were the first ones there, arriving a few minutes after the place had opened, I felt no reluctance at shouting “dammit” after my axe hit the board then dropped. When our 30 minutes were nearly up, a father and young daughter arrived. Didn’t stop my cursing since I figured he’d brought his child to such a questionable place for kids in the first place. The child didn’t hear much of my cursing since they entered the rage room to beat an old water heater along with some other items.
When I’d come by myself the first time, I didn’t bother keeping score, so playing an actual game added another layer to the experience. For both games, we placed the same: my nephew in first place, me second, my niece third and my sister defended her position in fourth place.
Since my first throw for the second game had stuck on the board, but way above any part of the target, I called it a “fancy zero,” which my nephew recorded as “F 0.”
Regardless of the results, we all had a good time during our short visit. Next, we picked up my other nephew and arrived at the seafood restaurant before anyone else to get the long table set up.
Although we’d gathered around to celebrate Father’s Day, the special guest was the newest edition to the extended family. She’d never met us before and was in no mood for a crowd of smiling strangers.
Regardless, we all enjoyed celebrating at a delicious seafood restaurant where none of us had ever visited before.
On Sunday, I woke up in such a wonderful mood. We’d dined together as a large family before and the experience hadn’t put me in a good mood the following morning. Must have been the axe throwing. Some other friends credit the sport to relieving stress, which I’ve not felt during the activity, but this time around, I definitely felt the after effects.
The key to maximizing the joy of axe throwing is going with family and friends.
When I researched the closest “wine tasting” to where we lived, I didn’t take “wine bars” into consideration. That oversight meant that we’d whisked Mom nearly an hour’s ride away through beautiful country scenery to a place that allowed us to have a glass of wine along with sweet and savory prepackaged food for purchase.
I knew that we’d want real food prior to sipping wine, so I asked the wine bar employee for a restaurant recommendation. Several places opened at 5 PM, but a popular destination served both lunch and dinner.
Only challenge was that they didn’t take reservations for fewer than five people. I was encouraged to call when we were 30 minutes away. I called when we were about 20 minutes away. The guy who answered the phone informed me that they were too busy to honor telephone reservation requests.
I fumed.
While my sister parked the car and Mom waited in outdoor seating, I went inside to place our name on the waitlist. When the guy asked me if I was on the list already, I recognized his voice from the call. Chalk it up to maturity that I didn’t cuss him out right then. With a tense look on my face, but a tone as neutral as I could muster, I informed him that I’d called 20 minutes ago, but wasn’t allowed to be placed on the list.
A nervous look swept across his face. Recovering, he told me that the wait time had shortened. We were sat just after we’d had a pleasant conversation with a librarian and her daughter. Not only that, but we received a table in the bar area, where Mom didn’t have to walk too far or use stairs.
My sister and I made quick work of choosing what we wanted from the specials menu. We told Mom we’d all share: blueberry salad, shrimp with ravioli, crab dip with fried pita pieces, truffle fries and crab rolls. Since my sister is always on a mission to find the best key lime pie, we shared a slice afterwards.
Even with the three of us sharing everything, we only finished the salad and dessert. The rest of those delicious leftovers became my Sunday dinner and a few lunches during the following week.
We strolled for two minutes to our next destination. Mom traveled from one venue to the next without any problems. She’s funny about walking. If shopping, Mom can cover nearly a mile. Any other activity, she prefers to ride in the car. So, both the proximity, weather and terrain aligned perfectly for Mom’s stroll.
As soon as we walked in, I announced that I would like to try their malbec and that Mom and my sister would sample the sweetest Kool-Aid-tasting wine they had. When it comes to alcoholic drink flavors, my sister loves peach; so, her sample hit the spot. She and Mom both got a glass of the peachy sweet wine, while I passed on the Malbec and got I red, which the woman described as “jammy.”
Since I’d picked up lunch, my sister bought the three glasses of wine, two bags of chocolates and a bottle of spicy honey, which we didn’t try until later that evening after we were home.
Mom took three sips of wine, including the sample glass, declared herself done and wanted my sister and me to finish the rest. If we’d known that was all she was going to do, we could’ve shared our glasses of wine with her although I knew upfront that she wouldn’t have liked my wine choice.
Both the time of day and those few sips of wine helped Mom nap on our way to our local mall, sparing my sister from Mom’s shotgun-driving. Fortunately, we only visited one store since Dad had sat at the dining room table with the caregiver, not eating his dinner, which consisted of soup and a sandwich.
Mom was usually with him at dinnertime and the caregiver didn’t realize that Dad only ate sandwiches if they were quartered. Moreover, he’d missed Mom since we’d left around 11 AM and returned around 4:30 PM. As much as Mom had enjoyed her special Mother’s Day outing, once again, it was at the expense of Dad not joining us.
We’d left Dad at home last year as well. If Dad accompanies us anywhere, Mom, being the primary caregiver, has the extra task of attending to him even though the rest of us help as much as possible.
But for one day a year, two of the best gifts for Mom are rest and self-care. Even if only for a few hours.
Easter 2025 fell on 4-20, the code in cannabis culture for smoking marijuana, and not, as urban folklore tells it, the police code for marijuana. (That code varies among police departments.)
In my family, we have four April birthdays: Dad, a sister, a nephew and a niece. On top of that, there are two among my sister’s in-laws, twin brothers. Then, her sister-in-law’s sister-in-law’s birthday was the Saturday we all met up at a Mexican seafood restaurant.
We’d eaten there once before. So, my sister and I had looked forward to their punchbowl margaritas. She’d arrived first and ordered a strawberry margarita, but didn’t bother to read the description.
As soon as we walked in, she told me to sit beside her to help her with that extra large punchbowl-sized drink. I told her that it was “pool-sized.” I sipped it. Mom had to stand up to sip it. Yet, I had my mouth set for the spicy mango margarita, garnished with a chamoy-laden straw.
Dad, who loves going out, but usually becomes grumpy having to wait for his food, didn’t grumble at all. This was a rare picture where I captured Dad both smiling and looking at the camera. In contrast to Dad either wearing a goofy expression or looking in another direction.
I had all my birthday family members to pose before the entrees hit the table.
Speaking of hitting the table, once my drink arrived, my newfound fleeting hobby was nibbling all the chamoy off the straw.
My other sister, who’d arranged the event, arrived last because she stopped off to buy helium balloons to tie on the chair of the April birthday people.
The restaurant gave all the birthday people three mini churros. We also enjoyed Dad’s pineapple coconut cake that Mom made for him at home. Unlike our comical efforts to sing “Happy Birthday” at the restaurant, we got our act together for this rendition:
On Easter Sunday morning, I attended a 10 AM “Feel Good” yoga class, which was unheated and slower-moving than my usual “Sunday Funday” hot yoga class. When I checked in, the receptionist told me that there were plastic eggs hidden in plain sight.
Although I saw two on my way to class, I only took one, which I saved in my bag for after class. Since I attended the last class of the day, I collected two more eggs because the previous class hadn’t found them all. Not only did all three eggs contain a piece of chocolate, but two out of three had an offer: a free T-shirt and a free class for me and a friend.
I leave for yoga before my parents leave for church, so I didn’t see them in their Easter Sunday best until Mom called me to come outside to help with Dad. We paused for the cause for the Easter poster couple.
On the Monday following Easter, we learned that Pope Francis had passed. Although we’re not Catholic, it’s always a somber day when a spiritual leader passes. May he rest in peace.
Finally discovered a wonderful way to celebrate Valentine’s/Galentine’s Day. The best part, I convinced two friends to join me.
Actually, didn’t take much convincing on my part. They seemed ready to cross “indoor skydiving” off their bucket list. Just needed someone, such as myself, to make the arrangements.
We were lucky in two ways that I made reservations a few weeks in advance.
First of all, an employee warned me that participants in an upcoming national indoor skydiving competition would start filling all the slots during a “hell week,” which was around the Saturday we wanted to fly. So, I made reservations early and we had the time slot to ourselves.
Secondly, since we arrived earlier than our 2:30 flight time, we watched one of the competitive teams practice. Although watching was free, I considered that entertainment an added value.
Both of my friends had irrational fears of what could happen, which were somewhat quelled when they saw an eight-year-old girl flying and having a ball.
I shared with them that the first time I skydove, I thought that there would be no net and that a wind turbine with blades rotated below the chamber. Talk about someone who’s watched too many movies.
Like my previous experience, we were taken to a classroom, where among other things, our guide explained the hand signals.
One of my friends became very familiar with the “calm down” hand signal, which looks like the surfer’s “hang tight” hand gesture. During her first flight, she kept flutter kicking her legs as if swimming while flying. By her second flight, she was markedly calmer.
My other friend, who I wasn’t sure would make it, since her busy schedule takes her out of town frequently, caught on the fastest with controlling what her body was doing within the chamber.
My friends made me go first since I was the so-called expert, having flown once before. I was the only one who barrel rolled against the wall. For my first flight, I wound up upside down. For the second flight, I did a half twist against the wall. Although I wasn’t supposed to do any of that, those were the most fun moments of both flights.
Then, came the moment I’d waited for on the third flight. Going all the way to the top. That alone was why I’d wanted to go indoor skydiving again after two and a half years. Unlike the thrill ride of an amusement park drop, floating to the top and back down again didn’t make my stomach flutter. Yet, I still felt exhilarated as joy rides are wont to do.
After all was said and done, one friend joked about returning to do it again the next day and the other wanted to jump out of an actual plane. This would be an expensive form of entertainment to do on a regular basis. As far as jumping out of a perfectly functioning airplane, not for all the money in the world.
For the past few decades, I’d signed off on every email with “Cheers.” This year, I set the intention for the year. Embrace Joy.
There are those who believe that EVERYTHING that happens in one’s life is a choice. That position is as unrealistic as NOTHING is a choice. Between being omnipotent and a perpetual victim, I have made “embrace joy” my motto/affirmation/mediation/fight chant, which I also use as a closing line in all my correspondence. Not just to remind myself, but also to make a gentle suggestion to the recipient.
With the “embrace joy” mindset, I participated in a virtual orientation the day before MLK’s observed birthday for an upcoming two-week trip to Ghana in July. About a third of the travel group will be extended family members.
On the MLK holiday, I started off with waffles and bacon for Dad and me, our special holiday breakfast. Then, since I had the day off, I studied my Pharmacy Tech coursework, which I’d begun mid-September last year and am projected to complete mid-March of this year. Next, I ran a few errands, including getting two passport photos for the Ghana trip.
Looking at February, I will cross another bucket-list item off: axe throwing. Two weeks later, I’ll revisit another activity that I enjoyed for the first time three years ago: indoor skydiving. This time around, I’ll soar to the highest heights instead of just six feet above ground.
As the year unfolds, I will continue doing those things that bring me joy. Especially since I think the peaceful transfer of power has been a concession to the most evil-minded oligarchs who have ruled the States during my lifetime. Time will tell how much is paranoia and how much is foreshadowing.
Nonetheless, if there is a positive pathway through the chaos, which may set barriers in the way for those in my demographic, I will be among those who dare to believe and act that I still have viable choices to make.
Contrasting chaotic choices, the president pardoned all of the insurrectionists, among many other ominous executive orders, bringing us further into the land of Gotham.
After months of planning, one of my Austinite friends and I met up at a halfway point in Elizabethtown, NC. Although he and his partner had recently purchased a plot of land in VA, they transformed a bus into a mobile tiny home and drove to a quiet beach in NC for the winter.
My friend chose the restaurant since he follows a vegan diet. My sister, nephew and I are omnivores, so we definitely found something delicious. Starting with the wine.
My sister and I both got a wine flight, consisting of five choices. As much as possible, I avoided sweet wine. My sister was the opposite. I often tease both of my sisters and mother of liking “alcoholic Kool-aid.” Only my nieces, other nephew and I have a good wine palate.
My first three wine choices were no brainers: Merlot, Cab, and Red Blend. I included the Pinot Gris only because the description included the word “spice,” even though I’m not a white-wine drinker. My last choice was the worse, Noble Muscadine. I’ve created a new foodie rule: never order/buy any wine that includes the word “war” in its description.
During lunch, my friend and I reminisced about the non-profit where we met. I was so surprised that he still volunteers with them once a week remotely. In general, we’d both moved on and continued to pursue happiness. I shared with him my creative projects: filmmaking, blogging, digital illustration, and podcasting.
He and his partner are doing their best to reduce their carbon and plastic impact, among other things, which is why they are going to develop their land in an eco-friendly bed and breakfast with a vegan menu.
At the mention of veganism, my sister and I shared how Mom had made vegan potato salad for our niece during Christmas. My sister had also made a Christmas batch of vegan egg rolls, which she offered to make for my friend’s bed and breakfast once it was up and running. I’m holding both parties to that future plan.
After lunch, we toured the hallway, which was covered with celebrity-autographed photos. My friend and I posed with Snoop Dogg. Then, we said goodbye to my friend and took a stroll around the area where some animals were.
We didn’t get close enough to get spat on, but I may have to implement the strategy female llamas use when they aren’t interested in a male. New year, new strategy!
