Lord have mercy! I actually slept well on my penultimate night in Ghana.
I took pictures of European and African dignitaries, and Al Gore, in the hotel hall of fame prior to walking.
(Please click on individual pictures to see the full view, then click on the browser back arrow to return to blog view.)
For the second time during a walk, the sky was clear enough to see the sunrise.
We walked upon a soccer team playing catch while in waist-deep water. One player had dug a hole, buried one of his feet and worked out his free leg, using resistance.
Our tour guide finally joined us, late, but walked back with us.
“You’re done!” RC said to her sneakers as she laid them out on the balcony to donate. I did the same with my blown-out shoes.
I’d collected shells for my other sister although they were not too impressive. I hardly enjoyed the beachcombing experience due to all the trash washing up. I couldn’t even use the ocean waves to rinse off the shells well because of the presence of plastic bags.
I changed into my new tailored shirt, which looked better than the original. My motivation came from our tour guide who said that he always wore traditional fabric on Fridays. Sounded appropriate for my last full day in Ghana.
I exchanged $150 to pay for a book, Proudly Ghanaian, by Prof Kwesi Yankah, which had been described to me as “social satire at its best,” and to tip out our six support staff. I gave money to three of the six other members who were collecting money for support staff since they were conveniently poolside.
I entered the spa to get a massage, but there was no availability until 3 PM. As I stood, looking forlornly at the reservation book, the front desk woman stated that I could get a 30-min massage for just my neck, shoulders and back. I agreed. After waiting for a bit, the front desk woman consulted with a massage therapist who agreed to work on me for an hour.
The massage therapist was AMAZING. At one point, she worked over my back with her forearms, then like magic, went over my back with hot stones. Every little bit helped. Both my right hip flexor and low back were tight. Good to loosen up everything just in time for contorting myself on that Accra to NY flight. At least the wine would be free and I’ll be able to watch movies.
Don’t know why I thought I could have two amazing experiences in a row, but I parked myself in a poolside lounge chair and ordered what I thought was a simple samosa appetizer, which didn’t come after an hour. Not sure whether it was the actual heat, hunger or anger that overheated me, but I couldn’t stand it any longer.
I returned to my room to eat some of RC’s snacks. Since the room was being cleaned, I gobbled a few snacks and returned to the lobby to give my appetizers one last try.
I approached a woman who looked like a supervisor and explained the situation. Within five minutes, a server delivered a hot order of samosas to the table. Lord only knows how long they’d been ready.
Crisis averted.
I immediately asked for the bill and a to-go box. Once the supervisor brought the change, I handed all of it to her while shaking her hand, thanking her for her quick problem-solving actions. She had a big beautiful smile. I’m sure some butts got chewed out. I shared with her that I was quite angry before and she had turned my attitude around.
We looked like a Ghanaian fashion show, riding to the early dinner, which also included a recognition ceremony where the support staff had voted which one of us tour members were “the most” in various categories.
The categories that I won were: most athletic, most African and most intellectual. One cousin with mobility challenges won the most adventurous category.
The six tour members who had collected money to tip the staff made short, heartfelt speeches, praising the good works of the six staff members before presenting them with their envelope of money.
At one point, I offered Money Man some chocolate. Apparently, I’d miscommunicated because he took the whole bag and put it in his bag, thanking me for the chocolate. Hopefully, he wasn’t offended that all of the chocolate bars had been opened.
Rain Goddess got the ball rolling with the table and four chair donations for the school we’d visited by pledging five sets. On the bus, others pledged to donate money for the remaining table and chairs until the requested 33 sets had been met. We all applauded the generosity.
Once we returned to the resort, we took pictures by the waterfall.
The final Strange happy hour started when I messaged my niece about an unopened malbec and half a bottle of sweet white. Most arrived while I was in the shower, but I told them to open the malbec. As usual, Rain Goddess came about an hour later with ANOTHER partially filled bottle of sweet blush. That got the party going again.
If the calm happens before the storm, then the nightmare unfolds after a day like today.
At 2:20 AM, the airline emailed that my flight to JFK had been cancelled due to air traffic control safety concerns. Fortunately, I’d slept well. Better to deal with the emotional toll.
I’d celebrated coming under budget while on vacation. Now that would be put to the test. Another tour member had been the first to sound the alarm in the group chat. Dr. Kofi scrambled to rebook those of us who were on the cancelled flight.
One of the biggest challenges was waiting. Looked like I wasn’t leaving until Monday. Since it was very early in the morning in the States, I didn’t message anyone until after breakfast. In the meantime, I contemplated asking Dr. Kofi about a homestay or other cheaper accommodations.
The drama continued with every waking hour. My sister called to let me know that another couple who were on my original NY flight had rebooked on my sister’s DC flight. When I checked, the flight had sold out. The cheapest flight was a three-stop adventure, starting in Brussels. As soon as I’d leave Ghana at 6:40 PM, I’d arrive in Brussels at 5:35 AM to depart six hours later. Not too bad, followed by a two and a half hour layover in DC.
I was the only one on this itinerary. At least one person expressed concern over me flying solo. I must admit, traveling as part of a group had been nice, but at the same time, I was happy to go home.
After breakfast, I attended an impromptu meeting off of the reception area. The plan was to have someone take me to the airport by 3 PM.
Around noon, I messaged my supervisor back in the States about getting flextime for Monday, along with three pictures from the trip. I managed to log into the work platform to make an official time-off request for Monday.
I thought about intermittent fasting. I had too many cedis to spend all at the airport, but was motivated to give it the ol’ college try. I still didn’t want to use my credit card until I returned to the States.
Even though I’d be the first to leave Ghana , I’d arrive home hours after the second group who would depart Ghana around 10:20 PM.
Rumor had it that JFK workers were on strike, so rebooking for Monday may not work out either. I should’ve known that the source of the JFK workers’ strike rumor were two of the New Yorkers in our tour group themselves. They were cynical about the situation, but there was also an IT issue. Adding to the confusion, one member posted an article written on July 24th that an airline worker strike may occur today. Another article, another vote for weather-induced cancellations.
Although some people’s final destination was NY, those who had other final destinations, could rebook on another airline and get a refund. Only three of us did that. Another couple were booked through Amsterdam.
One of the worst things, the repeated good-byes. Yet I looked forward to posting my updates via our group chat.
Nonetheless, I was still in a weird mood. I didn’t want to leave the hotel room. I made a mental note to spend all those cedis at the airport. My mood had me thinking that I didn’t want to spend US dollars in Brussels nor use my credit card. If I had to put a name to my mood, I would have called it “stubborn.”
After landing in Accra, I’d wished that my medium-sized gray luggage had had a distinct marking, so I could pick it out from all the others. I rummaged through my suitcase and rediscovered hanger loops on my silky pajama pants. I pulled them off and tied those pale yellow pieces to the handles. Now, I could distinguish my common-looking suitcase, providing it didn’t get lost.
I called the credit card company to make sure I didn’t embarrass myself when in Brussels and attempt to use my card. I was definitely going to buy something, but I didn’t want their currency. Thinking about my immediate future help me escape my foul mood.
A resort employee picked up the suitcase on time. So, just pool servers who, for some reason, were the inefficient ones.
I had a last-minute interesting discussion with the tour guide while he drove me to the airport: “funeral terrorism.” He explained how aggressive mourners “celebrate” the death of someone, which was big business with billboards, a lot of people, food, drink and so on.
I captured one more traffic scene before we entered the airport area.
As soon as I walked in, I checked the departure board. A friendly woman told me that I’d arrived too early to check in. She escorted me to a seating area, saying she’d help me check in later, then escort me to a lounge where I could wait comfortably and eat all for $60.
So, I waited and read for about 30 minutes when the A/C caused me to use bathroom. I walked around afterwards, mainly to stretch my legs. I checked the departure board again. I saw that that friendly woman had pointed out the incorrect row where I needed to check in. As a matter of fact, other passengers were already in line.
We weighed our luggage first, then proceeded to another airline worker to show our passport. In the slowest part of the line, we checked our luggage. As I stood in that slow line, I replayed my conversation with that woman. I’d mistakenly told her that I was going to “Amsterdam” instead of “Brussels.” All was well since I’d caught my error in time.
When I finally checked my luggage, I did a double-take because one of the employees looked as if he could’ve been related to one of my parents’ longtime friends. I wish I could have taken a picture, but I didn’t dare just in case that part of the airport was considered a sensitive area.
An even slower-moving security line provided some entertainment, witnessing other impatient travellers bumrush one of the two lines. Not everyone was late for boarding. Some were merely self-important.
That line allowed me plenty of time to study the row of duty free shops. Once I cleared security, I made a beeline to purchase $60’s worth of chocolate. I saved one small dark chocolate bar for my flight with free wine.
My airport dinner was 200 cedis ($20). Good thing I had enough money for a selection of chocolate and food with a shot of Baileys. I spent the last 30 pesewas on a large chocolate lollipop with four pesewas remaining.
Good thing I was already squatting over a toilet when I read the warning sign on the back of the door. Perhaps such signage would better serve the public if it was displayed on the customs cubicle when passengers landed in Accra.
First stop: Cotonou, Benin. DRY flight. Still ate some chocolate. I shared chocolate with the woman who sat beside me, who liked it because it wasn’t too sweet at 60%.
After the 44-minute flight from Accra to Cotonou, we were both directed to change seats. I went from an aisle seat to window seat in a row just forward of the bathroom. I risked using it. Not too bad for an airplane toilet.
I clarified with a flight attendant that the next flight served wine and pre-ordered a dry red, which was the right kind of “dry” to pair with dark chocolate.
That airline’s plane had more leg room. Just as I’d become comfortable in my new seat, another flight attendant asked me to move. Back to my original seat. Since the window seat was open, I upgraded myself. A third airline worker checked my ticket and stated that the guy beside me was in the wrong seat. I’d moved from my second seat because a little girl sat in the aisle seat; therefore, I should not have been moved in the first place since families needed to be seated together.
My wine was overdue. I felt like crying like one of those babies on the plane.
After landing in Brussels, I reunited briefly with the woman who had been my original seat mate. They had also wanted her to return our original row 44. She’d refused.
We walked for a long time together since the terminal wasn’t near anything. All those morning walks with Dr. Kofi had conditioned me for this. Thank goodness I didn’t have to use the bathroom because the nearest one was very busy and I didn’t see another until after clearing security.
The Brussels airport didn’t give a damn if the water bottle you carried was airline-issued. Anything over a certain amount of milliliters, they’d throw it out unless you wanted to go back through security. I would’ve chugged that bad boy on the plane had I known.
The departure board only went to 11:20 AM, not noon; so, I sat down, not knowing my gate number prior to security.
Another long walk. At 6:30 AM local time, I reached my gate with only five and half hours to spare. Luckily, there were nearby USB-C ports to charge phones and airpods while listening to audiobook.
Thanks to homeland security, I showed my passport again, along with the boarding pass, to two different people. The first person merely confirmed that the name matched. The second person at the desk was very friendly, asking questions like a customs agent. Inquired about my Ghana visit. I volunteered that I’d taught in both Tanzania and Egypt. Passed that hurdle with flying colors. Glad I didn’t have the other guy. He seemed business as usual, asking people sterile questions such as US address.
Promptly at 10 AM, the sign for IAD popped up. Once past customs and security, I was immersed into the world of duty free with pathways, reminding me of IKEA. I, of course, ignored all the shopping and focused on getting to the gate.
Rain started moments prior to boarding. I stood in a winding amusement park boarding line. Fortunately, I walked past a group who hadn’t gone through homeland security. I was happy to see a neck pillow and blanket waiting in my seat. Made up for the fact that I had a middle seat.
Lunch choices for rows up to 53 were beef, chicken or mushroom pasta. For rows 54 and higher, the flight attendants asked with a big smile, “Would you like pasta?” To which I replied, “Well, it’s better than nothing.”
My attempt to haggle with the cute flight attendant for a free Bailey’s failed. That brother wasn’t in the mood although I’d perfectly argued that since they had run out of two meal choices, I should get a free Bailey’s. He reiterated that the only free alcohol was beer and wine. I was no longer in the land of everything being negotiable.
Descending into DC, turbulence rocked us like a rollercoaster. A nearby baby started crying. The woman, who sat in the window seat, finally needed to use the toilet, but it was too late.
I announced that I’d start crying if turbulence didn’t calm down. I led my section of the plane in applause once we touched down. Then I stated that we all needed to put our feet down to help slow the plane down “Flintstone” style.
Like a bad omen, my original gate was A1C. Too on the nose for someone who was pre-diabetic. I changed flights because my original flight was overbooked by one. I switched since I traveled alone. Plus, I received a $300 voucher, good for a year.
With all these changing time zones, I remembered to take a malaria pill after 6 PM local time. I walked to the water fountain, then entered the nearest bathroom. As soon as I questioned to myself, “What are all these men doing in the women’s restroom,” I immediately turned around and entered the correct bathroom.
Delay. Delay. Delay. Delay. Cancelled. That had truly been the most rotten ending to a fabulous vacation. I still hadn’t reached my final destination. At least the plane hadn’t crashed.
With my flight cancelled, I devised a new plan: pick up my luggage and rent a car. I went to baggage claim. I avoided a long, seemingly unmoving line. Instead, I asked an employee who stood off from a distance. She told me that no luggage, even for a cancelled flight, would be on the baggage claim conveyor belt. It would go to its destination on the next available flight. Had I not had travel brain, I would’ve figured that part out without having to ask.
I declined a courtesy hotel voucher for earliest flight on TUESDAY.
Since there was no car rental place at the airport, I hopped on first shuttle. I had no idea if any cars were available. I’d already told sister that there was no need for my nephew to pick me up if he wasn’t going to drive me to NC.
The first rental place had no available cars. I fast-walked across the full length of the parking lot around 10 PM by myself on the outer perimeter of a high fence to a second place only to be told that they would not rent me a car if I didn’t bring it back to their location when I was done.
All day long, I had been annoyed at myself because I had worn my neck fan. In the dead of night with all that power-walking, I enjoyed the cool breeze from the fan.
I was in such a mood, I would’ve whupped any ass who wrongly crossed my path if they’d mistakenly thought that a lone woman walking at night was helpless.
Instead, I received a team of angels.
The first was in the form of a soldier who had been scheduled on the same flight to RDU as me. My plan at the second rental place was to pay another person renting a car for a ride to RDU. The soldier stepped forward, stating that he was in the same situation.
Instead of getting a lift, we both fast-walked to a third car rental, which was a good clip away, just like the distance of the second place from the first. That place had the longest line of them all. Plus, without a reservation, there was a slim chance of availability.
Reluctantly, I called my sister again. Time had ticked past midnight, yet she picked up the phone. My pitch: have her son pick me up from the airport, I’d drop him back home, then borrow his car. They had a few cars at home and could be without one until the weekend when they attended her in-law’s family reunion.
My nephew was dead asleep. Instead, two more angels joined my cause: my sister and her husband. They drove separate cars to the airport, so I didn’t have to drive anyone back to their house. Meanwhile, the soldier and I took a shuttle back. On the way to the airport, I asked him for his driver’s license. He readily gave me both his license and military ID. I took a picture and texted it to my sisters and mother.
He was 22, and gave off good vibes, but I believed in both trusting and verifying.
He had flown to DC to rendezvous with his girlfriend and her family for the weekend. He also had not taken advantage of the Tuesday rebooking with hotel and meal vouchers since he had to attend an Army-sponsored class at 7:30 AM on Monday.
He could hardly believe the solution I’d pitched to my sister.
Once my sister and her husband arrived with their son’s car, two bottles of water and a rather large snack bag, the soldier shook his head in disbelief at his good fortune that we’d met.
My family took off in their car as we’d left in my nephew’s car. The soldier noticed that the remote key indicator light was on. He called my sister because I was still on the longest hold for the airline since I’d chosen not to stand in that nonmoving, long-ass line at the airport.
Fortunately my family wasn’t too far away. They pulled over on a highway shoulder and I parked behind them. My brother-in-law gave us a key and they took off.
Again, the soldier noticed that the indicator hadn’t turned off with the presence of the key. I’d been too distracted on the phone since an airline agent had FINALLY picked up. I’d not left the roadside shoulder since I was arranging the delivery of my luggage to the house or to the nearest airport.
The soldier inspected the key and discovered it was the wrong make. My brother-in-law had given us the spare key for the car he and my sister were driving. So, I still had to go to their house. His key to the car that we’d borrowed had fallen out of his pocket. Nonetheless, I enjoyed the opportunity to use their bathroom. The soldier received another bottle of water.
FINALLY on our way, we made brief stop at a fast food drive-thru for coffee. I wasn’t a coffee drinker, but on rare occasions, when I needed to stay awake, I’d use it for the drug it was.
To simplify things, we both ordered two iced coffees with a french vanilla shot. Just like the beginning of my Ghanaian journey, service wasn’t fast and had us questioning if anyone was working. I did myself a favor by ordering a small.
In retrospect, I should’ve done myself an additional favor of ordering plain black coffee. No prediabetic, such as myself, needed a high dose of sugar, which made me incredibly sleepy. I hadn’t originally wanted him to drive, but we would’ve lost time if he had to wait for me to nap.
After a power nap, I needed to use the bathroom and the car needed gas. The soldier exited for a gas station in a podunk town. Although the station was closed, we still gassed up.
In that eerily quiet atmosphere, we kept warning each other not to speak into existence the horror movie ambiance of the gas station. We skedaddled after filling up.
He drove to a nearby truck stop, bustling with activity. I was so focused on getting to the bathroom, I didn’t notice the strong marijuana smell the soldier had detected.
I felt refreshed enough to drive. Not only were we both careful drivers, but we believed in going at least five mph above speed limit to keep up with the the flow of traffic. I was determined that he would make it to class on time.
After dropping him off at long-term parking, I got a large water and canned coffee with 12g of sugar. That was the lowest sugar content out of all the canned coffees. I paced myself, sipping a little every five to ten minutes.
I cruise controlled while singing along with the radio. Two things my 16-year-old car didn’t have.
The good things about not having my suitcase were not unpacking and starting a big laundry job. Of course, I still had plenty of things to do as the day unfolded after arriving home at 6:38 AM.
The airline luggage delivery links didn’t work. Then, I had to do some extra bullshit to get a refund for the last leg of the flight. Once I actually spoke to a live person, I fumed that they weren’t going to deliver my suitcase to my house for free. I had to pay $75 COD.
I knew there was no way I’d return to Raleigh for my suitcase. Plus, I had to work the next day. I didn’t feel like hitting the road after work. I counted out the $75 in cash, cursing the whole time.
At that point, my other angelic sister stepped up. She stated that she’d pick up my suitcase, then reached over, took $20 and told me to save the rest of my money.
More than fair. She’d been visiting with a friend in Raleigh on Sunday while waiting to pick me up at the airport. I’d texted her every two hours or so when my last flight kept getting delayed. She was still on that glorious summer vacation that was so long, most teachers forgot what they dreaded about being in the classroom.
On Tuesday morning, while I zombied my way through work, my sister traveled to Raleigh, went to the baggage claim area with a vague description, including the pale yellow cloth that was tied around each handle, and found my suitcase.
Not only did she text me a picture, so I could make a positive ID, but she also posed with the fifth angel: the airline worker who had patiently sorted through some additional bureaucratic gymnastics to locate my luggage.
Note to self: next time I fly anywhere, take a picture of the luggage in addition to tying cloth around the handles. Also, keep praying because God will send angels.
For our 84th consecutive Strange Family Reunion, we had some brand-new activities along with improvements on classic activities, making this year’s gathering fresh for everyone.
One of our continuing traditions was the flag display. The Ghanaian flag represented part of the story of where our family DNA came from. As a matter of fact, that was one of the reasons nine of us visited Ghana for two weeks.
In recent years, we have incorporated a reunion theme.
This year’s reunion theme was the 70s and Soul Train.
On Friday, along with our usual fish fry, one of my cousins had invited her line-dancing group to perform. Her purpose was twofold: entertainment and education. She shared that her line-dancing class was a wonderful way to stay in shape and socialize. Another dancer was a member of the medical field and told us some facts about the link between exercise and good health.
One of the needles we thread at our reunions is hosting a variety of activities for different age groups, especially for younger relatives and the young at heart. There was a field day (balloon toss, basketball, volleyball, cornhole, dodgeball) for the kids on Saturday morning while I interviewed 21 Jesse Strange descendants for my podcast, Strange Family Folklore.
Additionally, another cousin, an accomplished quilter whose works have been a part of several exhibitions, arranged a one-day popup exhibition.
Her quilts depict African American subject matter along with more personalized family quilts. Below are two examples where her siblings and their children decorated a square to represent themselves.
Even the fabric that served as the base for the quilting squares, reminds the African diaspora of our roots.
My cousin provided the family an opportunity to create our own representative squares, which will eventually be made into a quilt. My square depicts my childhood nickname, “Tweety Bird,” and my dreads.
Another continuing tradition was the hayride, which occurred multiple times on Friday and Saturday. This year’s route had been expanded to include the Strange cemetery.
I had not visited since that rainy day when we buried my Uncle Floyd in 2023. (Please click on individual pictures to see the full view, then click on the browser back arrow to return to blog view.)
For the first time ever, the Strange family reunion rented a nearby venue to host our Saturday evening catered dinner and entertainment. The organizers encouraged everyone to dress up as their favorite decade.
Never one to pass up on a chance to dress in costume, all I needed to complete my look was a larger-than-life Afro wig. I already owned the bellydancing pants and top. Majority of my relatives who’d known me all their lives, didn’t recognize me initially.
On Sunday, our very own ordained members of the cloth presided over church under the Strange shelter.
For me, the most intriguing thing my cousin said during her sermon was: “There’s no piece of dirt that is any better than another piece of dirt. We’ve all come from the dirt and to the dirt we will return.”
That resonated with me. The only thing that has ever stopped me from achieving something was the lack of time devoted to the endeavor. Not the lack of money or talent.
The real challenge: how will we spend our limited time from dirt creation to dirt reunification? If that seems too big a question, then scale it back to this: what can be done between now and the next family reunion? Stay tuned.
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.
Once again, I subjected my body to a painful examination all in the name of observing proper healthcare in the form of a gynecological exam. Although the appointment takes less time than the other painful exam, the mammogram, I experience far more pain intensity with a PAP smear.
Not only am I in a more vulnerable position, with my ass hanging off the edge of the table, feet in stirrups and, usually completely naked except the two-piece examination attire, consisting of a stiff paper towel vest that opens in the front and a large rectangle paper towel that drapes over the top of my pelvic region.
Normally, patients have to remove all clothing. I rebelled this time, wearing my polar bear knee-high socks that my sister had gifted me from her Alaskan cruise vacation.
Even with the smallest plastic speculum with lots of lube, the pain from those extended hard plastic duck lips was only marginally lowered. At the height of piercing pain, I was told to relax so she could open the speculum. I was beside myself. After all that fucking pain, that damn thing wasn’t even open yet?
I warned her that I needed to curse in order to get through it. The last time I’d had the procedure, I wasn’t in menopause; so, this time around, even with the extra lube, the procedure was worse than I remembered.
She brightly informed me that she could see my cervix.
“Is it giving you the finger?”
“No, but it doesn’t want to look me in the eye,” she responded without hesitation. Apparently, my uterus was slightly tilted to the side.
A few deep breaths and a lot of cursing later, the exam was over. As I dressed, I ruminated, once again, why no woman engineer had designed something better.
At this point, I’m convinced that only the lack of priority has prevented the invention of something less painful to perform a PAP smear. I have neither the money nor the engineering background, but I’m not going to wait until I obtain either to educate myself on the feasibility of developing something better.
Hell, I don’t even care if someone steals the idea as long as in five years, I can have a far less painful PAP. Why five years? Well, I’m happy to report that as miserable of a time that last appointment was, the results were normal. I now have five years to come up with something better.
In order to fast track the implementation of new gynecological tools, I need the advocacy of powerful politicians and influential people like AOC, Oprah and Michelle Obama. After all, they’re women too and subject themselves to that painful procedure as well.
Proving once again that the universe conspires with me, a mere three days later, I attended the 84th Strange Family Reunion where one of my cousins informed me that her daughter was studying biomedical engineering. I immediately shared my vision with my cousin about what I needed to happen.
The only difference, unlike most people with an idea, I’m not satisfied with demanding my younger cousin to do something that I want to see in the world. I’ll help her achieve that. Two of us researching and funding the idea is better than one.
The first time I attended a pole-dancing competition, I was brand new to the sport. I couldn’t analyze many of the moves, but the most impressive thing I witnessed was different body types poling very well. Up until that point, I had lied to myself about losing around 20 pounds in order to do certain pole tricks. Afterwards, I realized that I only needed consistent practice, not drastic weight loss.
The same friend who’d driven me there the first time, drove again. We missed the 10 AM performance of another student from our studio, but we eventually saw our former teacher much later in the evening.
We located three other teachers from our studio, sitting in the third row. One of them informed us that the event was running an hour and a half late. Judges had difficulty submitting their evaluations electronically. The time in between performances lagged by several minutes. At one point, when only about five minutes had passed between competitors, we cheered.
Although this event occurred on the second official day of summer, that was the beginning of the heatwave. The facility jacked up the AC. Granted, competitors needed the cool temperature so the poles wouldn’t become slimy even after volunteers had cleaned them in between performances. Of course, I forgot to bring a sweater or wrap.
We dashed out to eat. Shivering had worked up an appetite. I practically inhaled my coconut lamb curry with buttered naan and mango lassi. The warm (both physical and figurative) ambiance made the food even tastier.
Once we returned to the pole competition, a woman who had a red toy car fit for a toddler on stage, was in the middle of her performance. Not only was her performance infused with humor, pole tricks and storytelling, but we later learned that the 62-year-old had practiced her routine for a year. She was elated that her four-minute routine had not left her out of breath. She definitely deserved that first place award.
The next performer was a much younger man of color. Earlier, when we were checking in to get our wristband, I’d complimented his fabulous Afro. He performed a sensuous routine to a slow 70s song. Although he’d strutted on stage in a black, flowing, feather-trimmed robe, once he threw that to the ground, his pole attire was the stuff of male dancer fantasies.
We left after our former pole teacher performed, vowing to make our attendance to the yearly competition an annual celebration. Also, I have taken away different inspirations each time I’ve attended.
My sister gifted me some crabs that her next door neighbor had prepared. The thought of them sounded delicious, but as soon as I opened the container, I was apprehensive.
Although I knew they were dead, I braced myself as if they would move. Even after I warmed one of them up, along with some hush puppies, I cautiously removed the crab from the air fryer as if the added heat may have reanimated it.
Why did Mom have to join me at the kitchen table? After all, she and Dad had already eaten over an hour earlier. She took one look at my bowl and began pestering me.
“Don’t eat the dead man. You’re not going to eat the dead man, are you? You’re going to take the dead man out, right?”
Clearly, the whole point of her conversation was to see how many different sentences she could make using the phrase “dead man.”
In the meantime, I nibbled away at the skinny legs, which had next to no meat, but served to delay the inevitable. Finally, I started in on the body. As soon as I removed the majority of the shell, the whole thing was as appetizing as a dissection. Nothing looked edible.
I asked Mom which part was the dead man. For all her nagging, she had no idea, which confirmed my earlier suspicion. She advised me to ask my sister, who conveniently walked in the front door at that moment.
Once my sister told me to only eat the white meat, where the legs had been attached, I finally came to my senses and recognized the familiar-looking crab meat. Although it was well-seasoned, the usual dining pleasure was barely there.
Next time, I’ll stick to big crab legs, crab meat that has already been incorporated into a dish and lobster tail. Amen.
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.
Two years ago, a feral cat birthed a litter of kittens under the tarp that covered our hibachi grill. In that litter were a white cat and a black cat who may be the parents of the latest patio brood.
We did not tag nor DNA-test the felines, but they definitely roamed around with their offspring as if showing off their babies to Mom.
My childhood pet was a dog. No one in my family had been a cat person. As an adult, I developed an allergic reaction to cats. Yet, we delight in seeing them.
The former science teacher in me wonders what other critters their presence keeps away. Although raccoons tend to be larger and more aggressive, these feral cats have the agility advantage and perhaps the numbers as adults. I’d love to think that our patio cats are keep predators away.
We don’t feed the cats nor do they knock over the trash bin for food. Whatever they do for sustenance, we don’t contribute to, but they lodge on the patio furniture and under Dad’s wheelchair accessible van.
Now that there are no children to enjoy the big backyard, I’m happy that some harmless lifeform makes good use of it.
