Manifesting Spiderman

One of the pole fitness classes that I attend regularly is “Intro to Inverts,” which, out of context, sounds like a class for people who want to learn about introvert personalities. Instead, the physically challenging goal of this class is to perform various acrobatic exercises upside down on the pole.

Initially, I thought there would be around ten moves to learn. For a creative person, I woefully underestimated the exponential invert choices someone can make given her skill level and imagination. I like to think of the class as “gymnastics with a pole.”

One of the moves, which isn’t technically an inversion, but can be achieved from an inversion, is superman. Several methods can be used to end up in the superman pose: holding onto the pole with one hand, faced down with the pole between the legs and the other hand outstretched as if flying.

I first attempted this move a few months into my pole journey nearly three years ago. The superman pose exposed many weaknesses in my abilities. Unlike Superman being weakened by kryptonite, I grew stronger in my pursuit.

Over time, I’ve gained upper body strength and flexibility through regular pole fitness practice. Every now and again, I’d attempt the superman. All the elements that go into positioning myself into the pose had improved, but I still couldn’t completely execute the move.

Amazing how close I got without actually getting there. Yet in one class, I’d slid down to where my feet were on the floor. That was the only way I completely twisted my hips into position. Apparently, my shoulder needed to be a smidgen more flexible to hang onto the pole while dangling.

Nonetheless, I celebrated the small success. I happily exclaimed to my friend, who was practicing on a nearby pole that I’d reached a new level in my superman pursuit. Except I kept calling the pose “spiderman.”

Even when I tried to correct myself, I continued to call the move “spiderman.” I joined my friend laughing. I’d spend all my concentration on performing the move. Who cared if I called it the correct thing?

Weeks later in chair dance class, the same friend and I retold that story since there’s also a chair pose where you balance on top of the back of a chair like superman, which is far more achievable for most than the pole version. I performed the chair version of superman on the very first try and never mistakenly called it “spiderman.”

The dance instructor showed us the chair version of the spiderman pose. It was far more acrobatic since you had to balance on your arms on the chair with one knee bent to reach an elbow.

After showing us the pose, another instructor walked in, sporting a T-shirt decorated with little Spiderman heads all over it. I nearly lost it. “We manifested Spiderman!”

Coincidence? Just in case this was part of external forces yet to be explained, I want to manifest other things with my Spidey senses. People always talk about thinking positively and projecting/being the things you want to see in the world.

For the latter part of 2025, I’m going to meditate on having a much better ending to this year than beginning. Lord knows that 2024 ended very poorly for me.

Packing for Ghana

The vast majority of my international travel has been financed by working as a secondary math/science/ELS teacher. Schools automatically took care of the many details. Yet for this trip to Ghana, no school is picking up the tab although, thanks to a very seasoned tour leader, many of the bureaucratic details such as getting a visa are being handled.

The combination of our tour guide’s essential/suggested packing list and research have given me a protracted shopping errand, which I’ve been chipping away at since January. After initiating the passport renewal process, I made an appointment for a yellow fever shot and messaged my nurse practitioner about antimalarial medication.

When I picked up my atovaquone-proguanil medication, I just laughed because, at the time, I had been studying for my pharmacy tech exam and that was one of the 600 medications that I memorized.

As I thought about all the creature comforts that I wanted to have for my two-week stay, I knew that my THC-free CBD topical and hemp oils were at the top of the list. Our tour leader stated that I could bring my CBD products. Online research confirmed that CBD wasn’t on any Ghanaian narcotics list. Nonetheless, the legality was “evolving.”

So, I bought two amber dropper bottles, one for the CBD and the other for CBG, and a metal tin for the CBD topical. I want to be lowkey about the whole thing.

As much as I enjoy my electronic things, I didn’t want the hassle of charging those items. I found an international charger/adapter locally. I’m only taking my phone and airpods, leaving the laptop and tablet at home. Besides, I’m part of a large tour group, including relatives. So if anything happens to my phone, then they can send me their digital pictures.

I’m packing analog tech in the form of a journal and a mechanical pencil to jot down the experiences for this trip. Granted, the “journal” is an outdated planner from 2014, but still the pages are blank and it’s small enough to fit into the purse that I’m traveling with. Unlike my previous journals, my intention will be to use those notes to write multi-part blog posts to document my travel.

Since we’re paying good money to stay at one of the best hotels off the beach in Accra, I bought two new bathing suits. In real life, ie when not on vacation, I swim once a week, so I’ve already “tested out” the suits.

Our tour leader suggested that we spray our clothes with permethrin (another pharmacy tech drug!). I believe this was the same thing that we Peace Corps Volunteers had dipped our mosquito nets in, but I only remember doing that once the entire time that I was served, not every six weeks.

When I used to work and travel around developing countries, I’d always pack toilet paper, minus the cardboard roll, in my purse. I’m very happy that personal hygiene technology has evolved. I may use these wipes to double as a washcloth as well since I don’t want to pack a regular washcloth. I’ve not been able to find a small camping towel. Unlike regular washcloths, camping towels are fast-drying and lightweight.

Even more challenging to find than camping towels are books about Ghana. I’m not sure if this is a result of all the book bans that have become a scourge of diversity and intellectual thought, but the digital libraries of Austin and North Carolina have next to nothing on Ghana between the two of them.

I was mildly successful when I searched travel books, but there was no travel book devoted exclusively to Ghana in either digital library although I found snippets in guidebooks on West Africa, along with a niche travel book about the best street food around the world.

As usual, I’m sure once I arrive, I’ll think of several things that I wish I had brought with me. In those times, I’ll just make due with whatever is available, reminding myself that I’ll only be there for two weeks.

Breaking the Rut

Three times in a row, the work week started off wrong. My personal life exacerbated a streak of the “Monday-est Mondays that ever Monday-ed.” A perfect storm for a bad mood.

Exercising after work every day had little effect. My stiff left shoulder revisited. Initially, I experienced that painful condition when I first started taking pole fitness classes, which I originally credited for the injury. Then I learned that “frozen shoulder” was one of seemingly hundreds of symptoms that may accompany menopause.

Menopause, the neverending adventure.

When the local theatre premieres a new play/musical on a Thursday evening, they offer half-price tickets and theme-inspired libations. Since the show was set on a Caribbean Island, we enjoyed beef empanadas and a fruity rum cocktail. I happily declared to my friend that this event broke the curse.

A-type personality that I am, I strategized how to maneuver my way out of the rut, both personally and professionally. Things had started to pay off. That wonderful show, which combined mysticism with African dance and Afrocentric attire, marked the upswing in a creative and fun way.

Not a moment too soon. For the first time in years, I worked on the following Sunday. In the past, I’d worked a half day on a few Saturdays for overtime pay. This time around, the powers that be assigned the Sunday shift for normal pay because they gave me Tuesday off.

Normally on Sundays, I scan pictures as part of a long-term project. That endeavor shifted to Tuesday before getting a massage. I may have an intense goal-oriented personality, but I also adhere to a daily rhythm where I like doing the tedious things first then progressing to more fun and relaxing activities as the day unfolds.

I’d booked an hourlong massage, dedicated to unfreezing my frozen shoulder. Ninety minutes before the appointment, I shopped for an international electrical converter and adapter, two bathing suits, and permethrin spray for my clothes…all provisions for my upcoming trip to Ghana in July.

For the first time ever, my massage therapist was a Black man with dreads. Although I indicated that I wanted medium pressure, I suspected that he applied hard pressure to unfreeze my left shoulder. I didn’t complain although I tensed up in another part of my body. I knew that firmer pressure would be better in the long run.

During my hot yoga class later that day, I enjoyed greater range of movement in my neck. He’d stretched out my neck and shoulders, so I continued the process.

I ended the day working on a digital illustration while binge-watching TV. My usual evening wind down.

The day had been a perfect balance of relaxation and getting things done. Returning to work wasn’t a nightmare since I’d attended a meet and greet and orientation for the new position.

Things had become stale in my current position because there was no way to grow my career in a direction I wanted to go. At least with this new lateral move, I’ll be able to network into being a trainer. Once a teacher, always a teacher!

Brunch and Wine Mother’s Day

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.

Photo Album Memory Lane

After about a year and a half of typing up my journals at a frenzied pace, then finishing the six-month marathon of studying for my pharmacy tech certification, I finally began the task of scanning all of my photo albums.

The original mission was to marry the pictures with the journal entries. And yet…it proved to be a far more enormous task than I’d originally thought. As usual. I even stumbled across yet another journal while searching for all my photo albums. Fortunately, that journal was smaller than A4 size and written in big handwriting.

Most of the albums had loose pictures that were hastily stuffed in either the front or back cover of photo albums, which I sat aside for that magical time known as “later.”

Instead of merely focusing on the pictures that I’d journaled about, I started scanning all of them. Unlike the journal pages, I didn’t shred any pictures. Something far more precious about an actual picture than the original paper where I wrote down thoughts and experiences.

One of the motivations for typing up the journals was to shred them and not lug all that weight around, but the average album is far heavier than the average journal. Even so, I’ve not yet come up with a comfortable way to downsize those particular possessions.

During one of my scanning sessions, which only occur on the weekends, my nieces and nephew were visiting. I guided them down memory lane, showing them pictures of ancestors whose names they’d heard of, but who they never had the pleasure of meeting. We also had fun seeing pictures of their parents in their glory days.

With all the other projects that I juggle, I’m taking the slow stroll through the photo album memory lane. I have them stacked up and they’re still visible versus “hiding in plain sight.”

The task at hand is firmly embedded in that part of my brain where I put long-term projects. By small increments, I’ll eventually complete the process. Even those albums that couldn’t yet be added to the stack due to gravity making them tumble.

Perhaps by the time I finish the process, a new technology will have been invented to archive the actual pictures in a manner where I’m comfortable to downsize the actual albums. From here on out, one of my life goals is to maximize my experiences without accumulating material things.

2025 Dogwood Festival Dance Lessons

This year, I overcame the inertia of reclining in the den, binge-watching TV while working on creative projects on a Sunday and actually partook of a beautiful Sunday downtown event.

I met my sister and her son at an African restaurant near the car show, shared a funnel cake, watched some local actors who performed wrestling, followed by some dance performances, two of which included a mini lesson.

By far, the most enjoyable event for me, was witnessing my nephew take these lessons. He’s the guy who looks like a dancing black bear, wearing a cap:

Birthdays & Easter Eggs

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.

Marvelized

Marvelized (adj): the state of believing that one’s life has become something out of a Marvel movie.

I suggested both the word and its definition at the invitation of one of my coworkers who asked our colleague resource group (CRG): If you could add a word to the dictionary, what would it be and what would it mean?

Granted, the comic book world I most feel that I’m living in is Batman, who is a D.C. character, but saying that my life has become “D.C.’d,” regardless of any way I spell it (D.C.-d, DC’d, deeceed, and so on), still doesn’t sound or look as cool as “marvelized.”

Also, since I work for a pharmacy “D/C” means both “disconnected” (as in a phone call) and “discontinued” (as in a prescription). So, definitely not using any variation of that abbreviation for what I’d add to a dictionary.

Of course, I wasn’t the first one to think of “marvelized,” as I later discovered online. I merely created another facet to the definition. “Marvelized” simply means to be in a state of wonder or that a work of fiction is influenced by the Marvel Universe. Seems like no one had previously applied the adjective to the degree of how out of pocket life in the U. S. has become.

For every big move I’ve recently made, I’ve contemplated about how the Orange Menace and The Legion of DOGE are going to fuck it up. This is more than paranoia since they are attacking the very institutions we citizens depend on when we say that we are a part of a civilized, developed country with a functioning federal government.

Filing taxes, renewing a passport, controlling air traffic…I was even preoccupied when I recently bought my new smartphone.

The Orange Menace declared a tariff war against most of the world, then rescinded it for everyone except for China, ultimately raising the tariff against them to 145%. As I sat in the store in the middle of purchasing my phone, another customer informed me that some electronics had just been exempted.

The salesman assured me that my phone was part of the previous shipment; so not subject to hyperinflation or whatever the hell it’s call when a comic book villain capriciously tanks the economy, then revives it part way.

Despite the political turmoil, either I’m very optimistic or in denial, but I still dare to dream that my efforts will afford me to live the life that I want. After I return from my two-week overseas vacation, I’m going to dedicate more energy to continuing my path forward to a new career opportunity within my company.

Right now, it’s all I can do to carve out some time to learn Twi, juggle creative projects, exercise and read.

“Normalcy,” like everything in life, is an illusion. Any given illusion can evaporate just like the trillions of dollars that recently disappeared from the stock market. I’m not sure why economists don’t refer to themselves as illusionists instead. The Marvelized world definitely has more use for illusionists than economists.

Basic Twi Language Lessons

I knew that as soon as I finished my pharmacy tech coursework and national exam, the time vacuum created from no longer having to study would be filled with something else, especially things I’d put on hold to prep for my upcoming trip to Ghana. The way I saw it, if I was going to drop that much money for a two-week experience, I was going to get the most out of it.

Once again, the nerd in me came out to play. I found free online Twi lessons. The first course was a highly technical Linguistics 101 course with antiquated drill and kill teaching methods. I did that for two days before I went in a completely different direction.

I absolutely LOVED the colorful, fun Twi lessons geared toward kids. Half the lessons were set to music with the narrator singing vocabulary words.

Eventually, I’ll get a library card since the digital Austin public library I have access to has very few books on Ghana and absolutely nothing on the language. My hope is that I can find a few books on the history of the country, so I can put the few vocabulary words that I encounter in context. That’s one of the best ways to learn a foreign language.

My expectation isn’t fluency. I’ll probably not be able to speak Twi passably. I’ll just learn as much as I can merely to add another layer to my visit. At this point, I’m learning nouns and perhaps with more lessons, I’ll be able to say simple greetings and ask basic questions.

Even so, I’m resisting rewatching videos. I don’t want to go down that rabbit hole. So far, different video lessons repeat vocabulary. I want to be mindful of the joy of learning rather than the grind. After all, there won’t be any quizzes or exams. Just the quality of my experience, visiting another country.

Reasons to Celebrate

After six months of studying, I FINALLY passed my national exam. I’m officially a Certified Pharmacy Technician. Next time I log into work, I’m adding that “CPhT” to the end of my name. I don’t have my score yet, but it doesn’t matter in the long run since I passed.

I was elated to see that instant confirmation that my six months of hard work, including cramming most of the details of 600 medications had paid off. Honestly, they could’ve had far more math questions since that was my strong suit.

Especially since that exam had the nerve to throw in ANOTHER drug other than the 600 I’d studied. My only saving graces for that question were that I knew what the other three meds did and the mystery drug had the correct suffix for the drug class needed.

Nonetheless, I skipped off, driving to the other side of town to splurge on an early dinner. I’d always wanted to check out a new Korean BBQ place and ended up getting a hot pot since I dined alone. Even though it was a bit pricey, I justified the expenditure by making it part of my celebration itinerary.

For Friday, the celebration was merely not having to study before and after work nor on my breaks. What a luxury! Of course, I had to stop myself from plunging into some other time-consuming activity. Yet, there are at least two projects that I had put on the back burner until I finished my coursework. I may revive one of them on Sunday. After a mani-pedi.

On Saturday, I attended an R&B festival with my sister and a friend. Mother Nature cooperated and we enjoyed five hours of breathing fresh air, talking, people-watching and taking advantage of the food truck libations.

I avoided all the barbecue since my sister had already made preparations to barbecue ribs and sausage. She makes the best in town, coupled with Mom’s potato salad.

Instead, I got an order of pork shoulder with yellow rice and beans, but what really set the whole meal off were the tostones (fried savory plantains). Instead of being a half-dollar sized, the biggest one stood up at one end of the to-go boat like a tombstone. Originally, I had wondered why they didn’t cover the food, but as I walked back to my seat, I became a walking advertisement for that Puerto Rican vendor, which boasted being the 2023 best food truck of the year.

At the start of my coursework, I’d stated that a new phone and earbuds would be my reward for successfully passing the national exam. With all the tariff bullshit, I think it’s going to cost me even more than before, but I’m determined to have something better than what I have now since I want to take spectacular pictures for my upcoming trip to Ghana.

That has to be the motto during this administration: keep moving forward with bouts of relaxation.