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As if I needed ONE more thing added to my already bountiful, jam-packed schedule, I started another professional pursuit: obtaining my pharmacy technician license. Part of the appeal, besides career advancement, is that my company will pay for it. That got my attention.
Also, I’m a lifelong nerd. I absolutely love reading, especially in pursuit of learning a new trick. First, a coworker emailed many study materials. Then, my supervisor emailed more study materials along with information about company compensation for employees who get their pharmacy tech license.
One favor I did myself was to delay registering for the exam. I’ve been juggling several creative projects for a few years. I don’t want to take away too much time from them since they truly make life worth living.
Instead, I plan to do work around my creative schedule. By not having a firm deadline, I feel relaxed as I read through 10 pages of the study guide during the week and 20 pages on the weekends and holidays.
Since I’m not doing a serious drill of the material, I read through the material rather quickly, with the exception of the calculations section. That part was more challenging than I originally thought it would be, but I figured it out for the most part.
Once I finish the read-through of the study guide, I’ll check out the other study materials, then take a few practice tests online. I’m not even sure if such a thing exists, but I’ll research that when the time comes.
Hopefully, the testing site will be in town. Regardless, I’m already looking forward to the day off. PTO is it’s own reward.
As I type up slew of journals I’d written, starting around 1992 when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer and ending roughly around 2011 when I started blogging, I mark the growth that I’ve made as a person, regardless of my inherent flaws, but driven through my passions.
I knew when I was a teenager, that most guys I briefly dated, bored me. I wanted nothing more than to combine the attractiveness I found in a guy with the intellectual creativity that I also craved. After many decades, I’m not ready to conclude that such a guy doesn’t exist, but he’s a unicorn.
Another long-running theme: the utter lack of money no matter what job I have. I learned long ago that “residual income” was the way to go, but that seems as unattainable as world peace and the end of all violence. Speaking of violence, at least I no longer want to slap or cuss out people who dare say in my presence that “money can’t buy happiness.”
I still find that saying to be bullshit, given the fact that, with the correct set of priorities, money is a powerful happiness tool. Case in point: for the past 20 or so birthdays, I’ve either planned an itinerary of birthday events that I’ve invited friends to participate in or, more recently, made a list of things that I’d buy myself.
The COVID shutdown nearly ruined my milestone 50th birthday, except that my sister and I were determined to not let happen. As a matter of fact, by the time September rolled around, one of my nephews had turned 20 and Mom had turned 80. Yes, we’re all 30 years apart. We had a combined Zoom birthday party with mostly extended family and some friends.
For the following birthday, I made my first birthday gift list and bought myself several life-enriching things: a portable standing desk, a vibration plate and two TYR tankinis. (Note: I love that swimwear line because its name is my initials!)
In June of 2021, I’d landed my first bona fide desk job, where I was expected to sit for eight hours a day. That job inspired me to dream up of ways to make my work life far more liveable. Three years later, I STILL use the standing desk and vibration plate, but I’ve recently replaced those two tankinis with two more since I’d worn them out over time with active use.
Plus, I’ve continued to make a combination itinerary/gift list for myself for every subsequent birthday. The thoughtfulness behind my list reflect solutions to challenges to enhance my life.
Another running theme is my creative project juggle. Never have I ever had enough time nor money to fund these projects to the extent I would have love to, but I’ve always done the most with what I have.
I’ve written novels and poetry; produced a long-running monthly theme-inspired spoken word and storytelling show; produced two podcasts; produced/directed/edited short films; edited different written works for hire; painted; illustrated.
Two years ago, I abruptly uprooted my life. I’d seen the writing on the wall, which read: my income hadn’t revived since the pandemic. At least I was already working from home and could take my job with me.
Too bad my social life wasn’t portable as well. I rebuilt it from the ground up. A little more challenging since I worked from home. The first thing I looked into was African dance classes. Not only were the vast majority of classes geared toward students and children, but absolutely no African dance classes were offered. The only adult dance classes I found were for pole fitness.
I’d taken many different styles of dance class and this style had been on my bucket list for several years. Yet, the genre has been so sexualized that I couldn’t find a friend to try it out with me. Now, I had no friends to persuade.
For the first few months, I wore a mask. Didn’t bother me one bit that I was the only one. I was already going outside my comfort zone as the oldest student at 52.9. Plus, I was extra cautious since my parents were in their 80s and had just recovered from a mild to asymptomatic bout of COVID when I’d moved back home.
I’d taken four months of classes when I attended a pole dancing competition as an audience member. That experience helped to tame my inner critic.
Not only did I witness a range of body types, but also a range of ages. So, although I wouldn’t magically age backwards, strenuous exercise would help keep me strong, flexible and energetic. Three qualities normally associated with youth.
Moreover, I didn’t need to lose weight to invert on the pole. That was a limitation I put upon myself because I “needed” to lose 20 pounds. Yet, once I saw women much larger than me effortlessly inverting among all the other acrobatic moves, I knew that all I really needed to do was practice.
Although new skills take me longer than the average student to acquire, with regular practice, I eventually accomplish my goals. No matter how “bad” my performance may seem in any particular class, every effort provides a really good workout. That’s truly the bottom line.
As soon as I walked into the restaurant where my nephew, a hamburger enthusiast, chose, I knew I’d drink tequila, and no matter the entree, I’d be generous with a red hot sauce. The dirty floor tipped me off.
I learned from living and travelling in many developing countries that one surefire way to kill the pathogens in dodgy food is to consume strong alcohol. My favorite is tequila. Definitely something magical in that agave-derived drink. As soon as one sips that intoxicating elixir, the digestive track starts to settle down.
During a safety meeting I’d attended, the speaker recommended generously covering one’s food in red hot sauce if it looked questionable. Turns out that capsaicin, which is found in red chilies, helps kill most food-borne bacteria. Although garlic, onions and black pepper have similar properties, it’s far easier to carry and apply hot sauce than fresh garlic, onions and black pepper.
As if the lack of cleanliness wasn’t enough, the restaurant also had overpriced, watered-down margaritas. Fortunately, I had tequila at home to ensure no digestive wars.
My nephew informed me after the fact that he had a gift card for the restaurant, which was given as a Christmas present. As luck would have it, he didn’t have the card with him, so he’ll have to return to use it.
My ever-youthful aunt turns 70 at the end of July, which was why her surprise birthday party took place at the beginning of July. She thought she was going to a fundraiser. Instead, we raised the roof.
The evening’s lineup was deceptively simple, but like all surprises, involved months of planning and stress from keeping the details away from the notoriously nosey birthday girl, especially when she’d called up random people to guilt trip them about not making any plans for her upcoming milestone birthday.
Since the theme was “Mardi Gras,” the party planner encouraged us to wear purple and masks. My sister and I thought, “No problem!”
She’d just go to the local party store, pick up some masks and that’d be the end of it.
Not so.
The party store was closed due to an older woman driving her car through it. So, our plan B was to make our own masks. Here’s mine:
At least the place setting wasn’t hideous.
Unlike Mom’s side of the family, Dad’s side of the family hardly ever hosts a reunion. We normally get together only for funerals, weddings and birthdays. I only know my first cousins’ children because they resemble them. I managed to catch a few names in passing.
Although my aunt was initially ticked that no one had spilled the beans, she rallied to the cause. Not only did she warm up the dance floor, but kept it hot the whole time with whatever combination of partygoers who happened to join her.
Before retirement, my aunt was a top-of-the-line cake decorator. Her former coworkers/supervisees baked her a superrich yellow birthday cake.
During one of the most sentimental moments of the evening, my cousin told his mother how much she meant to him, his wife and children.
At least he’s known for being a talkative person.
Unlike my aunt’s husband. His tribute to her was not only the most I’d ever heard him speak in one setting, but it nearly brought many of us to tears.
After all was said, danced, and eaten, the group picture-taking began.
Here’s the male cousins’ pose.
Followed by the female cousins’ pose.
More female cousins joined the group and for some reason, my nephew as well.
The last time this side of the family got together was for Dad’s 86th birthday, but we didn’t dare surprise him.
My sister and her husband, had spent a few hours at the beach prior to going to the hotel to get cleaned up to attend the party AFTER the surprise.
I enjoyed a delicious, freshly made chocolate chip waffle during a hotel stay for our family reunion a few weeks ago. That inspired me to make waffles for breakfast on the Fourth of July. I had the day off, so I didn’t have to rush.
Instead of using a chocolate chip and syrup garnish, I chopped up fresh strawberries and bananas, then thawed out blueberries. Although that fruity mix was delicious, I should have cut up the fruit before making the waffles.
Both Mom and my sister had told me that our waffle maker worked just like the one at the hotel. I took that too literally, thinking that each waffle would take about 2 1/2 minutes and at the end, the machine would beep.
So, as I decapped and quartered strawberries, I smelled a burning waffle. Bad enough that I’d overpoured the batter, which self-corrected by dripping out of the apparatus within seconds. Although it was a little overcooked, I slathered it with butter as if it was perfect. Fortunately, the smell of bacon masked any overdone waffle smell.
Some people read tea leaves, but here are some plate readings. First up, Dad’s plate:
I’m the only one who doesn’t use paper plates. I used to when I first moved back, but then we were told that those plates weren’t recyclable. Since I make breakfast for dad most mornings, we had our red, white and blueberry waffles on real plates. Dad gets a smaller portion than I do. For someone who sleeps most of the day, either in bed or in a chair, he doesn’t eat a lot. Breakfast tends to be his biggest meal of the day and his bird appetite kicks in throughout the day.
Not only do I get a serving slightly more than Dad, but with the addition of hotsauce.
Mom, who often boasts of not eating breakfast because she drinks a blender full of smoothie along with ginger tea, was easily convinced to make a plate. She scrambled two eggs, then warmed up a waffle. Since she saw that I’d microwaved the fruit with syrup and a pat of butter for 30 seconds, she did the same, with comparatively less syrup. Mom was so excited to dig in, she initially forgot the bacon. Granted, she’d had a piece while I was frying it up.
Then, my sister came over much earlier than normal. The magical draw of waffles. Despite all the better waffles stacked on top of my disastrous first waffle, that’s precisely the one my sister chose. She put a few pats of extra butter on one half, folded it over, and warmed it up while she scrambled some eggs. Although she claimed to not want any blueberries, some snuck in. Then, she topped her plate off with a smile pile of bacon. (I’d meant to type “small pile,” but I LOVE this typo!)
This was the greatest celebration start to the Fourth of July. The best part: didn’t see a single firework!
As many projects as I juggle, I don’t have much bandwidth to take on much else outside work and exercise. Yet, I know I can do better when it comes to aligning my life more sustainably. It’s so easy to sit back and watch images on TV, shake my head and think what a shame when I know that I’m not doing everything in my power to lower my carbon and plastic footprint.
It’s even more challenging now that I’m living with my parents, the octogenarian teenagers. Not to put too fine a point on it, but it’s very challenging to raise their concern for the health of the planet, even for the sake of their four grandkids. Mom is so enthusiastic about single-use plastic bags and is quite annoyed by my insistence to wash and reuse Ziplock storage bags.
I attended a virtual talk by author and environmental activist, Erica Cirino, who talked about the research behind her book, Thicker Than Water. I was so impressed by her experiences, especially her efforts to build a sustainable house by minimizing the amount of plastic it contained. Eventually, I ordered her book.
Was it the Devil, the Universe or Amazon fucking with me when that book about seeking solutions to the plastic crisis came bound in plastic?
Another effort I made was to eliminate single-use dryer sheets. Even though one can clean the dryer’s lint tray with a used dryer sheet, it still winds up in a landfill. A sustainable alternative? A pack of three woollen balls. The kit even came with a small container of frankincense and myrrh to spray on the balls, which provides a light scent of those wholesome oils. Even so, the small container is made of plastic. Once I find a recyclable container of essential oils, there’s always Mom.
One Saturday, I was in the middle of doing laundry when I left to attend a yoga class. Mom figured she’d help me out by taking out the bedspread from the dryer and placing the load from the washing machine into the dryer. According to her, there were only two balls in the dryer when she removed the bedspread.
Since my bedroom is across the hall from the laundry room, the third ball couldn’t have rolled too far. Nonetheless, I couldn’t find it. Mom’s solution: “Two work fine.”
After literally sleeping on it, I woke up, knowing what I had to do. I lifted the mattress to see the challenge from another perspective. The third ball was entangled in the dust ruffle.
Normally we eat leftovers, either warmed up in the microwave or the airfryer. We’d been using disposable airfryer liners. When we ran low on the liners, instead of buying a new pack of disposables, I found an alternative.
So far, everyone has used, washed and reused this silicone airfryer liner. At this point, I don’t even want to know the bad effects, if any. I’m taking the win until I can’t.
Unlike the the reusable straws.
Once Dad came home from rehab after his hip surgery, I bought a pack of metal straws to replace the disposable plastic straws. You would’ve thought I’d invited Satan to live with us. Mom hated them.
Now that Dad has caregiving services for 48 hours a week, I no longer bring him liquids on a regular basis. On the rare occasions that I bring him a drink, especially if I make him a mocktail, I use the metal straws. They’ve been relegated to special occasion straws rather than daily straws AKA drawer clutter.
I’ve been decluttering for decades. Don’t want to take a step back and fill my personal space with good intentions.
For our 83rd reunion, the Strange family incorporated Juneteenth, AKA “Emancipation Day,” decor and history as part of our agenda. Conveniently enough, our reunion fell on the weekend following the United States’ newest federal holiday.
Our reunion spanned Friday through Sunday, starting with Fish Fry Friday. For most of us, it was the first time we’d seen one another since last year.
No matter how much catching up we did, the food, as usual, was the star of the show. This year, Mom led the food line.
While members of the 80s (year-old) Club went through the buffet, I raced around to take pictures of the latecomers and family members patiently waiting their turn at the buffet.
Finally, all the generations ate together. Very delicious food, thanks to the dedicated kitchen staff. In the past, Strange family reunions were a hodgepodge of potluck style covered dishes. There were multiples of the same dish, like five different potato salads.
For many years now, I’ve evolved into a very fast eater, which served me well in this instance. I used more manners than usual since I was in the public of extended family and family friends. Yet, I sped around the shelter to capture as much of the moment as possible.
My sister, who’s a member of both the Strange Family Historical Society and the Strange Marketing team, never missed an opportunity to advertise our family history book and both family calendars–all chock full of information.
A few months prior to last Christmas, I bought an outdated digital camera. Partially because it was inexpensive, but also because there were so many gadgets that came along with the camera, which were all conveniently stored in a cute little backpack.
Originally, I’d bought it to record the Christmas show that I’d written and produced for my family. Yet, for every special occasion, I’ve taken the camera out of its cute backpack and learned how to use a new feature. This time around, I took far more pictures, using the portrait mode.
For several past reunions, members have taken a hayride around some of the Strange property, but I’d never rode. I was determined to go on the practice run on Friday.
I hopped off that practice hayride and continued my quest to capture portraits. At some point, I’ll learn the other settings besides portrait and video, especially to adjust for the amount of background light. But kudos to the patience of my extended family. Added bonus, I managed to jump into a few pictures myself.
For the first time in our family reunion history, we had a s’mores and movie night. Some little ones mistook the inflatable screen as a bouncy house. Originally, we wanted to stream “Miss Juneteenth,” but that location still had unreliable connectivity. Instead, we played a DVD of a movie that was a few years old.
On Saturday morning, the Strange Family shelter transformed from a fish fry venue to a festive Juneteenth celebration.
In addition to the Juneteenth theme, all family members were invited to participate in a pop-up museum, honoring the twelve first freeborn generation of my great grandfather, Jesse Strange.
During the most sweltering part of the day, we gathered under the shelter again for our main reunion program, which consisted of the event call to order, introduction of the emcee, reading of the scripture, prayer, followed by the blessing of the food.
For the second year in a row, vegan family members had their own buffet. For the most part, the rest of us omnivores respectfully stayed away, except I demanded a dollop of Mom’s potato salad. That woman has a superpower when comes to making vegan food taste like the omnivore’s delight.
After eating, we had the lighting of the candle in remembrance of those who had transcended. Then, we listened to some family history that genealogy had uncovered.
My contribution to the program was a Juneteenth powerpoint. Once again, technology nearly stopped the showing of the presentation. Yet, with the help of three cousins and trial and error, we made it work.
Prior to showing the video, my sister and I played the “Miss Mary Mack” hand jive, which most people had heard of, but then I surprised everyone by telling them that its origin was Emancipation. I then explained the symbolism throughout the song that supports the claim.
One of our reunion traditions is recognizing graduates from high school and college along with a monetary gift.
One cousin dreamed that the family should have a flag. So, the Strange Family Association sponsored a flag design contest. To enter the contest, one had to be a dues-paying member, include the 12 colors that represented each branch of the first freeborn generation along with their names, and the SFA logo. Only members who were current with their dues could vote for design one through eight. I was lucky number seven.
The Strange Family Historical Society set up a table to sell our family book and calendars as well as update family member contact information.
Meanwhile some of the younger generations played in the kiddie pool, the playground, volleyball court and basketball court.
For Saturday’s hayride, I recorded the conversation with the oldest living member while another cousin led the group on a short hike to the spring.
Finally, at the very end of the event, they announced the results of the flag design contest. Let’s just say that my design may eventually become a Tshirt.
After sweating throughout the day, I posed with my sisters. Of course, one of our cousins had to jump into the scene.
On Sunday, another cousin gave a sermon under the shelter.
Sunday dinner consisted of leftovers from the past two days along with cold cuts and goodbyes.
Proving once again that you’re never too old to do something new, my parents, the “octogenarian teenagers,” attended their first Juneteenth celebration. Added bonus: none of us had ever visited the park where the event took place.
The event didn’t start until 1. Since Dad’s caregiver was due to arrive at our house around 5, we visited during the hottest part of the day. Not ideal, but at least we found a shady spot. Unfortunately, we couldn’t set up near the stage to see the performances, but we still heard everything.
As I walked around the vendors to get a cold drink, someone gifted my parents “church” fans. I made a second trip around the food vendors for one of Mom’s favorite edible treat: a hot dog. I compromised and got all of us sausage dogs. As a surprise, I also bought an order of fried pickles.
A few days later, I attended another Juneteenth related event with my sister. I thought I was going to hear about The Underground Railroad along with a long table full of visual aids, but the “talk” turned out to be part storytelling, acting/singing and audience participation.
The storyteller herself had long ago recruited her husband to participate, but my sister was the first audience member of the evening who was voluntold to help with a presentation. Her job was to hold a basket of sunflowers, which have large brown “eyes” in the center, symbolizing “lots of people were watching;” therefore, it wasn’t safe for enslaved people to sneak on a ship.
This ploy was used a few times as a signal by abolishionists. The abolishionist stood selling flowers. As long as they stood in a particular spot, the enslaved people knew that it wasn’t safe. As soon as the coast was clear, then they could advance.
When I was voluntold, I joined two other people. We sang the first verse of “Ring Around the Rosies.” Apparently, singing about the plague wouldn’t have been too unusual back in the day. However, when the storyteller told us to sing the second verse, all of us volunteers looked at one another. A common reaction.
So, the storyteller and her husband sang the second verse: The cows are in the meadow, eating buttercups. Thunder, lightning, we all stand up!
If enslaved people heard the second verse of this children’s song, they knew it wasn’t safe. The cows symbolized the slave patrol and the buttercups symbolized the enslaved. “Stand up” meant for them to go away.
While I volunteered, I noticed my 5th grade teacher in the audience. As soon as the event was over, I made a beeline to her. Of all the people from my past, I never thought I’d run into a former teacher. She’d had a prolific career of inspiring young minds; so, I reminded her of some of the things that happened in my class to distinguish it from all the other classes.
My fondest memory: one of my classmates wrote a poem, where she described every classmate in a couplet. “‘Dag-nab-it’ is Teresa’s favorite word of three; that’s what makes her so funny.” Yes, I have never forgotten my couplet. My 5th grade teacher STILL has a copy of that poem.
My most infamous memory: For Inventor’s Day, I removed the hard paper roll from the center of a wire coat hanger, bent the two sides into a rough V shape. Using my “invention,” I tapped different objects and stated that based on how much that object caused my invention to vibrate, one could identify what the object was made of. Of course, I named my invention “The Vibrator.” How my teacher had kept a straight face, I can only guess. Even when I reminded her of my invention that evening, she stated how precocious I was, inventing a device that people who have a significant visual impairment currently use to guide them when they walk. Sure, let’s go with that conclusion.
History is full of brave people who fought against injustice, especially when dealing with crimes against humanity. Benjamin Lundy, a Quaker abolishionist, established several anti-slavery papers.
The Underground Railroad was a network of people, consisting of whites, free Blacks and the enslaved. Some of the intel about where ships were sailing and when was communicated by Black Jacks, African seamen who performed various duties.
Another symbolic flower used for coded communication was the Blackeyed Susan. Since they have a smaller eye than sunflowers, Blackeyed Susans conveyed that fewer slave patrollers were in the area.
For comparison, check out the bigger eyes on these sunflowers:
In addition to songs and flowers, children’s rhymes also communicated hidden messages. The various things that Old Mother Hubbard found in her cupboard meant something to those who deciphered the message.
As if I needed yet another reason to buck the fashion industry:
This was perhaps my favorite part of the entire presentation–teaching enslaved children how to spell, using a narrative/song. Since teaching enslaved people literacy skills was illegal, it had to be done in secret. Children gathered in slave quarters to learn a skill such as sewing, but when no patrolling eyes were around, a qualified adult passed out small slates along with an edible substance that they wrote with. If someone outside the quarters spotted danger approaching, they’d make a verbal signal, so the children could secret their slates and swallow their edible writing “implement.”
For our demonstration, we were given small slates and a piece of chalk. The storyteller started by saying how we started walking on a trip. She drew a line, which we copied on our slates. Then, she drew a circle, telling us about how we ate a hoecake, but the hoecake had a tail on it. After we ate, we crossed a river, so we drew some waves on top of the initial line that we’d drawn. Once on the other side, we saw a snake, which we drew. Then, we saw a horse, “I” then saw a smaller horse. Caught a fish with a hook. Saw a church with a cross. Ate another hoecake. Finally, saw another small horse. The name of the city that we’d spell would be our destination.
The storyteller told us that quilt patterns conveyed messages and enslaved people read the patterns even if they couldn’t read words. When I conducted an online search to find out what specific patterns meant, I wasn’t surprised to see that there was a strong pushback that suggested that quilt coding was a myth. The crux of the pushback rested on the disbelief of the enslaved learning those codes, who to trust and other dots that weren’t cleanly connected.
Saturday mornings are dedicated to cleaning, doing laundry, and running errands. Preferably all before lunch. Afterwards, that is when the real weekend begins.
This particular Saturday, I made a liquor run before returning home. After buying alcohol, I saw this:
I’ve stopped watching horror movies for the most part although “thrillers” seem just as bad, but I definitely recognized Chucky and his bride. Not sure if they were just for decoration or a clever security ploy, but the windows were rolled down and no one was in the car. I didn’t go closer to investigate since that would have been suspicious even if the horror dolls weren’t there.
The following Saturday, Mom had me go on a wild goose chase. She takes a vision supplement that is usually out of stock. I’d been to more than one pharmacy and hadn’t found the exact formulation she used. She didn’t want the same name brand with a different formula. I told her that it would be easier to find unicorn milk.
A few days later, ask if speaking it into existence, this woman parked behind me:
When I joked about her not having unicorns, she told me that she hadn’t added them yet. I didn’t think that ductaping things onto one’s car was legal, but it’s certainly entertaining.
On Da Edge Cowgirl definitely seemed like my kind of person or certainly a character worthy of loosely basing a fictional character on. I scarcely remember anything she said about herself since most of our conversation was about the event. Yet, perhaps the fewer facts the better for fictional purposes.
So often, people use cars as status symbols. Happy to see some people make other statements. Even if I’m not sure what it said.
