Browsing Category Lifestyle and Culture

Nations across the globe are glued to their screens, captivated by the most riveting reality show ever televised, featuring a cast of hardline conservatives as its stars. The only souls not anxiously awaiting a divine twist in this tale of woe are those card-carrying members of the “My Political Hero Can Do No Wrong” fan club. Yet, I suspect even some of these die-hard supporters are secretly crossing their fingers, hoping they don’t get caught in the mire. (Some already have.)

Who among us, having reached the age of wisdom, isn’t familiar with the folly of letting a fox into the hen house? Alas, the cunning fox has infiltrated, and a pack of wolves is standing guard. The high-and-mighty are wreaking havoc, turning everything topsy-turvy – save for their own plush lives – while breeding a quagmire that’ll require eons to set right. All the while, they’re maintaining those tax breaks and financial safeguards for the wealthy elites.

If left unchecked, before long, these devious creatures will be trying to convince the masses that water is dry and fire doesn’t burn. But far be it for me to let logic interfere with a captivating political illusion. Please tune in next time when we’ll be regaled with tales of how the sky is green and gravity is nothing more than a left-wing conspiracy.

Sometimes, it seems that the apocalyptic events in Revelation are unfolding faster than Amazon Prime deliveries. I can’t help but wonder where the hands on the symbolic Doomsday Clock are positioned. At last check, according to the BAS, it was 89 seconds to midnight. The Clock may apply specifically to technology, but I’m considering a quote commonly attributed to Albert Einstein, “Everything is relative.”

Shifting gears closer to home.

Doctors can be annoying, especially to a new patient. Those of us who have been around the block a few times know that — despite their training and medical degree — they don’t know as much as they want us to think they know. Some operate under the principle of “fake it ’til you make it.” Understandably, they don’t have all the answers, but few will admit it. For over twenty-five years, I had an excellent doctor. If she didn’t see an answer to my (often numerous) questions about whatever was ailing me at the time, she’d say something like, “I don’t know, but we’re going to see what we can find out.” I greatly respected her for that, and I was devastated when she retired a year before the COVID-19 Pandemic, and I had to find another PCP. (I’ve been through three so far.)

Physicians are adept at using complex medical terminology, and their educated guesses are practiced with such authority that their diagnoses become self-fulfilling prophecies (hopefully good ones!). Let’s be honest: occasionally, our doctor is just as lost as we are when trying to figure out what ails us based on what we tell them are our symptoms. And because time constraints imposed by insurance companies limit the time they can spend with a patient, they either refer us to another doctor, usually a specialist, or adhere to the unofficial motto of Dr. Makeaguess and write a prescription, “When in doubt, pill them out!”

Humor aside, I try to avoid bringing race into everything, but our world makes that nearly impossible. So, while I’m spouting off about doctors and the medical profession, I want to make my readers aware of a New York Times bestseller, “Legacy: A Black Physician Reckons with Racism in Medicine.” It’s a compelling work authored by Dr. R. Uche Blackstock, a prominent Black physician and healthcare equity advocate. In this insightful book, Dr. Blackstock delves into the pervasive issue of racism within the medical field, shedding light on the disparities in treatment between Black patients and their white counterparts.

Dr. Blackstock draws from her extensive experience and research to illustrate how systemic racism manifests in healthcare settings, affecting the quality of care received by Black patients. She provides a critical examination of the biases, both conscious and unconscious, that persist in medical practices and institutions. It’s a worthwhile read.

Then there is Artificial Intelligence (AI).

As I see it, AI is like a comedian with perfect memory but terrible timing. The other day, as I was doing some research on Google, the following message suddenly appeared on my monitor: “Verifying that you are a human.” The words vanished as quickly as they had arrived, leaving me startled. What??? It felt like a moment straight out of a sci-fi flick. “What next?” I wondered. Will people using personal computers have to blow on the screen or snap their fingers to prove that we are living, breathing human beings?

And just HOW did the site verify my humanness? I didn’t do anything to comply, although I did blink in awe when the message appeared on the screen. Perhaps blinking was the required response. LOL. I wasn’t asked to enter a username and password or answer a ridiculous secret question like, “Why do round pizzas come in square boxes?” I wasn’t prompted to enter a CAPTCHA (Sounds like, but not to be confused with gotcha!) Anyone using a computer has encountered CAPTCHA at some time or another. It prompts the computer user to solve a simple mathematical problem like 3+4= or type a few distorted letters to prove they are humans.

I realize that AI is here to stay, but I’m not a fan. In fact, I’m about as sick and tired of hearing about it as I am of listening to prerecorded messages answering my calls to businesses with, “Press 1 for English. Following that will be a series of ridiculous commands to press this and that number until I’ve run through the entire decimal system twice, only to be told, “No one is available now to take your call.” Aarrgghh!!! By the way, forget pressing zero to reach a live person. They’ve gotten wise to that and nixed it.

I’ve done enough venting for now. Time to let my keyboard cool down before it melts!

Would you believe your ambitious blogger has been MIA because her muse decided to take an unauthorized extended vacation? (I think Ms. Muse is on sabbatical, still trying to recover from last November 5.) Nevertheless, without even sending a postcard! POOF! She vanished like my willpower does when I enter an all-you-can-eat buffet!

So, nearly three weeks have passed, and my New Year’s blog post remains in “pending” status – until today. During my “drought” amidst my stagnation, a comforting thought emerged: When faced with the challenge of the blank page, grab a rich caffè mocha and lose yourself in the pages of a good book.

Thus, I’ve been swimming in my home library like Diana Nyad treads water in the Atlantic. Oh, the places books will take you. They are not mere bound volumes of paper and ink but portals to a vast world. Books are the ultimate transformer; they can slip one into the skin of any character. Become a superwoman or a wicked witch! They’re like little magic carpets that whisk you away faster than you can say, “Beam me up, Scotty, (so I can search for that darn muse!)”

It is a sad tragedy that my offspring somehow failed to inherit my bookworm genes. Neither of them is a voracious reader like I am. So, sometimes, I imagine with horror that my precious collection will end up in a landfill after I kick the bucket. Perish that thought. Hopefully, my book babies will find new homes through the charitable organizations I’ve been supporting.

But enough about my future literary estate planning! Let me turn to the matter at hand.

What to write about for my first post of the New Year? I considered climbing back up the family tree, but the last time I did that, I shook the branches too hard, and some leaves flew off and got bent out of shape. As I understand it, some of those leaves are still smoldering, like California wildfires.

So, while trying not to be the devil’s advocate, I’ve decided to be my own muse and explore a less volatile subject. And, speaking of the devil.

As one frequently grappling with profound questions about faith, I find myself at a crossroads between traditional religious beliefs and personal spiritual exploration.

My journey began in childhood when I walked into the living room one evening as my parents were watching a news report about the violence against civil rights workers. I innocently questioned the existence of evil in a world governed by an all-powerful God and asked my mother, “If God is all-knowing and powerful, why doesn’t he just wipe out the evil forces?”

She looked at me like I’d been playing hooky from Sunday school and then said, “We don’t question God,” which left me unsatisfied and curious about why we couldn’t seek answers from a divine parent.

As an adult, I still witness the prevalence of wickedness worldwide, which seems to have intensified since my youth. This observation leads me to revisit my earlier question with renewed urgency. Why can’t we question God and receive clear, unambiguous answers about the evilness in the world? (I ask the questions but don’t get comprehensible answers.)

I suspect others harbor similar doubts but are hesitant to express them, perhaps fearing divine judgment for merely entertaining the question. Yet, if God is truly omniscient, wouldn’t He already know our thoughts?

My spiritual journey has led me away from organized religion and towards a more personal, direct relationship with the divine. That’s why I identify as spiritual rather than religious, a stance some may dismiss as disingenuous. However, I find this approach authentic – striving to embody Christian values of compassion and humility in my daily life without adhering to rigid doctrines or rituals.

For the past few decades, I’ve chosen not to attend church, rejecting the notion of being a “part-time Christian” or a “Sunday Saint, Monday Sinner.” I acknowledge the complexity of faith, recognizing that one can feel blessed while still experiencing stress and doubt. The popular saying, “If you pray, why worry? And if you worry, why pray?” highlights the tension between faith and human nature.

While I believe in the power of prayer, I also grapple with the contradictions inherent in religious texts and teachings. Some might find my approach to Christianity as quasi-Christian or even agnostic. Nevertheless, I focus on living out the core teachings of Jesus Christ – treating others with kindness and respect – rather than strictly adhering to all Biblical scriptures, which – as I see it, are often contradictory and confusing. The spiritual path allows me to feel less hypocritical while navigating the complexities of faith.

Another reason I’ve chosen to distance myself from organized religion is due to its tendency to draw sharp boundaries and claim exclusive truth. I’ve witnessed the divisive potential of religious organizations, even within families. Instead, I embrace a more inclusive view, respecting various names and concepts of the divine across different faiths. Whatever you want to call your Omnipotent One – God, Jesus, Yahweh, Jehovah, Allah, it’s all good.

My spiritual journey is continuous questioning, personal growth, and a commitment to living ethically and following the Golden Rule. As I seek the answers, I remain open to exploring life’s profound questions while striving to embody the values of compassion and humility in my interactions with others.

As we enter 2025, may God’s presence guide our every step and fill our hearts with hope, peace, and purpose. May His love surround us, His wisdom illuminate our path, and His strength sustain us through every challenge in the next four years and thereafter.

Even though numerous scientific studies have proven that astronomical bodies do not affect our lives depending on our birth date, many people believe the contrary. Humans have long looked to the stars for answers and directions to plan their lives based on Zodiac signs and horoscope predictions, which began over a thousand years ago. During the 19th Century, Harriet Tubman is said to have used the North Star as a compass to guide her during her numerous trips along the Underground Railroad.

I don’t believe in horoscopes, although occasionally, I read the columns in the newspaper for the fun of it. This being April Fool’s Day, I decided to read my horoscope and see what I am supposed to believe is in store for me today. As I began reading it, one line seemed to fluctuate, and I thought that surely the powers that be have a sense of humor. The horoscope said, “Be careful in your financial dealings because mixed communications and errors might cost you money.” Well, I’ll be a two-fish swimming Pisces! It was the correct prophecy, but it was overdue.

At the risk of angering the astrological gods, I leaned back in my chair and snickered, thinking that my stars must be misaligned because today’s prediction was nine days late.

A week ago, on Saturday, I placed an order online for food delivery from a popular restaurant. I’ve ordered from this place a few times before without incident. After clicking “Submit,” a message appeared on the screen, “Process failed. Try again later.” (I’m paraphrasing because I can’t remember the precise wording.) That was unusual. As instructed, I waited a few minutes and tried again. I got the same message.

I told my SO what happened, and he said the place was probably very busy because a popular sports event was airing on TV, and maybe many folks were ordering online and tying up the website. So I waited a few minutes and then tried again. I got the same message as before. I called the restaurant, told them what was happening, and asked if their website had a problem. They said they were unaware of any issues and suggested that perhaps the site was busy. I should wait a few minutes and try again.

My intuition never fails me — when I listen to it. It told me to stop trying, but I was hungry. I had not defrosted anything from the freezer to cook for dinner because I had my mind and taste buds set on one of my favorite meals. I hesitated but ignored my instinct and decided to try to place the order again. I re-entered my payment information and clicked submit a third time. By now, I’m getting agitated. I told myself I’d try once more, and if my order didn’t go through, I’d give up and maybe fix a couple of choke sandwiches (for the uninitiated, that’s slang for a peanut butter sandwich with or without jelly.)

After a few more attempts, I gave up, and – believe it or not – frustrated, I was pushing my chair away from the computer desk when the doorbell rang. I joined my SO as he opened the door and was surprised to find the DoorDash driver standing there with a brown bag containing our meals. I thought he must be delivering someone else’s order to us by mistake, but when we checked the receipt stapled to the sealed bag, it listed every item we had ordered. When I left the computer, I remembered that the website still showed “Process failed. Try again later.”

After expressing our confusion to the driver, who was oblivious to the problems with the website, he said, “I just deliver the meals, mam.” We tipped him, and he went on his way. As my SO opened the bag and checked to ensure the contents were what we ordered, not someone else’s meals, an ominous thought struck me like a lightning bolt. I rushed back to the computer, where the food site still showed a buffering symbol and the “try again” message. At no time did the website indicate that the order had gone through. I closed the window. Then, my instinct told me to check my bank account. I did so immediately. Holy smoked turkey! To say that I was stunned is an understatement. I was dumbfounded to see that my account revealed seven – yes, seven charges – for a single food order, totaling $623.41.

In my choking Whitney Houston voice, I said, “Hell to the no!” and grabbed the phone and called the restaurant again. After being transferred to what I perceived to be every room except the kitchen, I ended up with someone who claimed to be the tech person, although I had my suspicions. She told me they did not detect any problems with their website. I told the alleged techie about the numerous overcharges on my bank account and said I wanted the error corrected. She said she couldn’t do anything about it (Did she seem nonchalant, or was it my imagination?) and referred me to the corporate office. Of course, when I called Corporate, a recorded message said the office was closed until Monday.

I knew I’d have a nervous breakdown if I had to wait 48 hours to resolve the matter, so I phoned my bank (Thank God the customer service office was open.) Fortunately, I reached an agent who spoke understandable English. After I explained the situation to her and she confirmed seven charges were showing in the same amount for a single order, she reversed six.

Had the mishap occurred today, I might have thought it was an April Fool’s joke by a depraved worker. Instead, I’ll blame a website glitch and the unreliability of an astrological prediction that was nine days late. And as fond as I am of that eatery, I won’t order online from them again.

“Did she just say what I think she said?” That was my first thought when I overheard the remark made by “Mae,” my houseguest.

Although it occurred some time ago, it still bothers me because I haven’t decided whether it was an ambiguous compliment, a subtle insult, or an innocent thought spoken aloud while I was in earshot.

Perhaps Mae said what she said in jest, and my humor gene was on snooze. Nevertheless, when I looked at her upon reentering the room, I didn’t see a hint of a smile or a sign of embarrassment, but indifference seemed apparent.

I have debated whether to leave this issue secured in my private diary and simmer every time I reread it or vent about it on my blog and get it out of my system once and for all.

Whitney Wolfe Herd, entrepreneur and Jill of many trades said, “Life is about perspective and how you look at something; ultimately, you have to zoom out.”

I zoomed out, then zoomed in. Over time, I even considered that I may have made a mountain out of a molehill, so I hoovered over it like a drone for a while. Nevertheless, Mae’s remark irked me. What exactly did she mean?

It happened on Thanksgiving Day a few years ago. I had invited Mae and her husband for dinner. Shortly after they arrived, I left them sitting in the living room, watching a football game on television while I went to the kitchen to check on the remaining dish that was not quite done.

During my absence, Mae must have been eyeing my living room like Martha Stewart because as I was reentering it, I overheard her say, “This looks like a museum.”

Before she could shut her lips after finishing that statement, my antenna shot above my furrowed brows. Then, my meddling inner Lo-zilla whispered, “Did she have the audacity to say that your place looks like a museum? Are you going to let that go unchallenged?”

I was about to ask (politely, of course) what she meant by that remark, but before I could get the words out, her husband jumped to his feet, threw both arms above his head, and enthusiastically yelled, “Touchdown!” His wild outburst caught us both off guard, but it cut the tension like a samurai sword, and then we all immediately turned our attention to the game.

I’ve read that professionals who study human behavior will tell you that sometimes it is not what someone says but how they say it. Intonation and tone reveal emotions and thoughts. You can think one thing when you say something, but the person who hears you express that thought might receive it differently.

Take the phrase, “Get out” for instance.

“Get out!” can be said excitedly to express disbelief. “You say you hit the Powerball? Get out!” Or it can be said angrily and forcefully, indicating that I want you gone. “Get out!”

So as not to risk spoiling the rest of the day, I did not revisit the awkward moment and my guest’s ambiguous statement, but it remained superglued in my mind.

Why did I take offense? Because I don’t think my home looks like a museum. I’m not saying a museum is a bad place—it isn’t, and I like visiting museums. But there was something about the way she said it that irked me. Mae may have meant her remark as a compliment, though her tone belied that. Perspective. Perception. I was conflicted.

My home reflects my affection for black culture, especially the living room with its tranquil earth tones. Throw pillows, some with designs of varied texture and tribal embroidery, are tucked on a medium brown sofa and wide seat recliner. Plain burnt orange cushions add a splash of color. My coveted collection of African masks, art, and other cultural artifacts acquired over decades are strategically arranged on the walls, atop the bookcases, and on other surfaces. A brown, black, and taupe area rug with an ethnic theme is layered on the beige carpet in front of the couch.

This plant lover’s assortment of live and artificial green plants brings the beauty of nature indoors. One viny philodendron I’ve grown for over 15 years climbs the wall and creeps over and around two small, glossy-finished portraits of African girls near the doorway.

My home is my castle. It’s not a museum or a showplace. You’ll never find a photo spread of it in Better Homes and Garden magazine. I decorate (not really decorate, just put together) things to suit my taste and lifestyle. There is nothing high-end about it. But it is neat and clean. I could say it’s hypoallergenic if the dust bunnies would stop shooing away the cleaning fairies.

Nevertheless, it is my safe harbor. My quiet place. When I need a time-out,  a temporary escape from the stressful, insane world, I close the curtains, turn on some smooth jazz, cuddle in my recliner, and escape into a good book.

Ahhh, I feel better now that I’ve vented. I zoomed in and out, and I’m letting it go.

“Perspective alone can make an experience positive or negative, but regardless of which you let it become, it can only have as much power … as you give it.” — A.J. Darkholme