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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.
In the nick of time, my bonus socks from work arrived on a Saturday morning. Their arrival had taken so long that when I’d asked for an update during a past meeting, one supervisor said that she’d heard that that email, asking for our sock size, was a hoax.
Seeing is believing. I packed my socks into my already bloated backpack for the beach.
My sister picked me up later that day. Even later than planned, thanks to my nephew. Once we rolled up to the condo entrance, the attendant told us, with a big smile on his face, that our reservation had been cancelled. He then informed us we’d stay in the rental mansion across the way. All we had to do was pay the rental fees.
I corrected him. If we stayed there, the fees would be on him.
We unloaded our things into the condo where my nephew immediately reported to his usual spot on the sofa as if it were his job.
My sister noticed that the floors had been redone, along with some furniture upgrades. We’d been vacationing at that condo for decades. For me, it had lost its shine, but that was more due to not doing anything more than eating seafood, hot tubbing, then walking on the beach in the morning.
I did the exact thing this go around as well. I’d come off a very taxing work week where four days had felt like six. Plus, I’d worked my last day with my former team and come Monday, would start a brand-new position. An overnight beach trip in between the transition brought relaxing closure.
Either the sound of birds or the sunlight peeking around the curtains woke me up on Sunday morning. I’d effortlessly slept in. Even though I’d forgotten my night guard, my jaw didn’t hurt in the morning.
As a matter of fact, I’d slept so well, I thought that tingling nerve pain in my low back, which hovered around my right hip, had been remedied with a better mattress.
Nope. I hadn’t been walking fast enough around the condo to trigger that tingling sensation. I’d skipped my morning stretches: knees into chest while lying in bed, forward bend while standing beside the bed, squatting, followed by shifting from one side to another while squatting on one leg with the opposite leg stretched out to the side.
When we reached the pier, I stretched out my back. For once, I requested that we walk slower, which was usually my sister’s request of me.
Although my nephew stayed a week at the condo, my sister and I returned home the next day. She had to finish out the school year by working on Monday and Tuesday. I, of course, worked the entire week.
On our way back home, we stopped by Bucc-ee’s. The last time I visited was my first time. The rain had pelted down so hard, I credit the weather for thinning the crowd.
This time, the weather was perfect, the crowd unreal. As soon as we walked in, I made a beeline to the bathroom. Thanks to my sister, she brought my attention to the line for the women’s bathroom, which I was about to bypass.
The line moved quickly. Women employees directed women visitors to bathroom stalls that wrapped around the perimeter of the large room as soon as they became available. Despite the efficiency of the fast-moving women’s bathroom line, men leisurely strolled in and out of their bathroom. Even men who escorted their sons walked in and out with ease.
Our second “line” was a tightly-packed crowd gathered around the large warming bin where brisket sandwiches should have been. We’d already foraged the sweets we wanted as we made our way to the sandwich line: beaver nuggets, peanut butter and caramel popcorn, and a pecan praline.
We eased our way into the waiting crowd and befriended two women, who confirmed that the mob had gathered around for a brisket sandwich. My sister told one of the women, who was closest to the empty bin, that once the next batch of brisket sandwiches were loaded, she should pass back four of them, one by one. That strategy worked and we bounced to our third and final line to pay.
Although we paid separately, I followed my sister to the next available cashier. I took pictures while he rang her up. Despite his masked face, the mirth in his eyes shone through as he rang me up.
“How did you enjoy your visit?”
“Are you serious?”
My sister and I maneuvered out of the establishment as deftly as we’d circulated around it while shopping. Other stupefied shoppers had stopped and stood, blocking our direct path to escape, ahem, exit. Scanning the crowded chaos, the other shoppers were either looking for separated loved ones or attempting to visually locate something they wanted to purchase.
Once outside, I breathed easier. Although I don’t suffer from claustrophobia nor panic attacks, I was hangry, but happy to be out of the crowd.
We devoured our sandwiches in the car, followed by the sweets. The brisket sandwich seemed a little thrown together, but still tasty. Next time, I’ll stick to the chopped barbecue. I’m almost convinced that one has to be in Texas to enjoy good brisket.
Regardless, I flowed into my new position as relaxed as one could be when, typical Monday, platforms glitched and directives were scarce. I loved it.
I convinced my sister to go to an artists’ night with me. From the time we entered, she was the star of the show.
Last year, she was ordained as a deacon. Born with a generous spirit, my sister usually attracts people. Before she’d warmed the throne, another woman gravitated toward her. As many things as my sister’s involved in, I thought she knew her.
Turned out, the woman was one of a handful of artists who’d set up a table for the evening. We came upon her table as we circulated around the small space that was efficiently packed with different artists.
My sister bought from two artists and networked with the others, especially the guy who had had several strokes, along with his wife. That married couple created a rehab box of tools for stroke survivors. My sister took his contact information to connect him to someone else in her growing network.
Although I was only there to check out the weekly event and possibly buy a leather fanny pack, I loved the shrug. One of my nieces had taken up knitting during COVID, a hobby that she’s continued. I’ve seen her blankets, sweaters and scarves. A shrug might be an exciting new knitting avenue for her.
Without my sister there, I would have left the event in under 15 minutes. Not only did she take the time to browse, purchase and network, but she helped me not focus on the very loud music that would have pushed me out the door even sooner.
Years from now, when I finish my illustrated book, that cozy creative venue is a place where I’d like to read and hawk my latest book. I hope they don’t go out of business or civilization doesn’t collapse prior to that.
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.
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.
