Zora Travels

"Let them eat cake!"

So, lately I've been an anti-blogger.  Daniel was just hovering over my shoulder...looking at recent pictures on our camera, telling me I should title this entry "Let them eat cake!" and I totally snapped.  I expressed - too loudly - that I miss blogging, that I need my space to blog.  I can't have him hovering as I climb into this realm...I've got "blogger build-up."

I wonder if I could just commit to writing a little here each day?  And you know what?  Even if it is about the wedding, I have to just face reality that this event is what I think about --- A LOT.  Claire told me the other day to relish these moments, these days of calling Daniel my "fiance," of selecting a dress, of picking out flowers and veils and thinking about favors, of making invitations and gathering song wishes and sentimental readings.  So, I'm embracing it.  I am fortunate to have this opportunity to plan such an event, to launch our new family at such a public and glorious affair...and some may consider it "silly" and "why bother with so much energy for just one day?"...however, it is an adventure that I wish to be on right now.

Under the guidance of the sweet Maribel at Rossmoor Pastries, we just indulged in buttercream frosted cake with various fillings.  The sugary paste and electric colors still linger on my tongue as I mull over my first (and only) wedding cake tasting experience.  Cardboard cakes, encircled with satin ribbons, climbing with piped cherry blossoms and dusty "frosting" scrolled upon the sides.  Ceramic cake toppers of couples kissing, dancing, and sitting in sportscars glimmer inside the display case.

Our venue's "package" included a cake, decorated, and delivered...it was actually quite easy to decide on all of it.  Nothing so far has seemed that difficult.  I suppose the most effort has gone into the wedding dress but THAT will be decided tomorrow.  Yep, I'm proclaiming it now.  On my third day of dress shopping, I'm going to find "the one."  Like most things in my life, I'll know, I'll smile and choose; I'll be relieved and I won't look back.

I can't wait to spend yet another day with my mom and Sara, the consummate wedding planners.  I swear these women should take this up full time.  Mom has provided me the binder that I schlep throughout LA on vendor appointments; Sara has sprinkled bridal magazines, ideas, and patience into many afternoon chats.  I am grateful for them both.  I know that all of my bridesmaids (Courtney, Fadime, and Claire) would relish these afternoons...but from afar they each somehow wink their approval of the details.

**Ibrahim Ferrer is streaming from the office...Daniel's lingering near the door (afraid of me).  I shouldn't have snapped.  Blogging can always wait.  He's dancing salsa by himself.  Ah, I do love him.  I'm off to join the carpeted dance floor.**

Click here to see what our guests won't be enjoying.

A belly full of chicken

Yesterday, I engaged in a "tasting."  A peculiar event in which a caterer invites potential clients and those of us without a choice (the venue has no other options) to their facility to sample their food and select our menu.  My entire adult life I have held strong to the notion that I will not serve a rubbery chicken and hard rolls at my wedding.  Very few other aspects of the day actually crossed my mind...but passion against serving mediocre food has been one of them.

So, imagine my face as my plate hovered above the chaffing dishes containing various little chicken breasts covered in sauce.  I prayed they would be flavorful.  I prayed they would look half this delicious on our own buffet table...and more than anything I just wanted to know if the roll was hard (it was). 

After an obnoxious amount of food (which completely negated my morning aerobics class), and the wondrous advice of my mom, we chose our menu.  I was blitzed on three champagne cocktails and a hefty shot of Bailey's in my coffee.  We sat next to Becky and Gavin who radiated with that "Calvary-Chapel-born-again" virtuosity.  The blessed youngin's are even having a "dry" wedding.  I stained my tongue with an electric blue ribboned cupcake as she told me about their scrabble board invitations.

Becky and I are both crazy, I realized.  Crazy-wedding-planning-crazy.  And as Daniel wakes this morning and his fingers are crinkled from cutting photo corners for our handmade "save the dates," he'll think I'm crazy, too.

The three

Three students greeted my yesterday with the requested item...out of 150.  I was proud of them.  I experienced more cursing,"n" word, "on-the-verge" texters, sleepers, ipod wearers and belligerent teens yesterday than I had in a very long time.  Being back in the thick of a genuine urban school of several thousand students is interesting.  The acidic marinade at lunch of teachers who should have long since retired and the students who purposefully block your walking path have brought back strong recollections of why I went to a charter school.

But my crafty-side has taken root and launched into an exciting project.  I have cut, rounded, glued, stuck, and created only five of these little wonders....and just sixty-five more to go.  Some will receive them in the mail, thus, I'll refrain from too much explanation.  But I'm all fired up, with sore fingers from x-acto knife precision, sore legs from spinning class, and sore eyes from late-night spreadsheet creation.

Ignored blog

I've been avoiding my blog.  My mind has has felt like an exploding Martha-Stewart-crafting-bridal slushpool of thought and for days I just couldn't think of anything of value to say.  Then I realized that this blog serves mainly to keep my words flowing, my fingers tapping, and my brain from stagnating in the murky puddle of teen vocabulary where I spend most of my time.  I don't have to be prolific, substantive, or universal in my connections with the eight of you who regularly visit this space.  Sometimes...or rather often...I am a simple person.  Not to deprecate my worth or fish for compliments...but I prefer mashed potatoes to garlic-infused ones, I'll take a regular coffee with splenda over a sugar-free vanilla chai latte, and I'll read the Los Angeles Times over the New Yorker any day.  My mind hums along at a steady pace...licking up the linted thoughts of those wiser before me and unearthing revelations that long ago were accepted as common knowledge.

Take foil for instance.  It was lauded as a scientific marvel for years as my cheesy nachos oozed upon its aluminum sheets.  With bare hands, I would grab the corners and pull the piping hot pile of goodness onto the counter.  One day, in the airy kitchen of the Berkeley house I shared with the post-doctoral physicist, I praised the mysterious genius of this metallic wonder.  His bushy eyebrow (yes, just one) crinkled in the middle...a bit like when I was enthralled by the amber bubbles in his level.  He murmured something about heat conduction and soon shuffled back to his bat cave.  I knew that I had just learned something rather elementary, yet, admittedly, every time I grab the corners of foil from the toaster oven, I still grin.  It's just instantly cool...right from the oven!

What can I do to not think about tomorrow?  I fear being eaten alive.  The simple project with "small-groups of low-skilled seniors" has turned into a full-fledged teaching assignment of five periods with over 150 unmotivated young adults, many of whom couldn't graduate even if they did pass this test in March.  I'll have to take a melatonin to sleep.  My palms sweat and my shoulders slump just pondering the thought of once again introducing myself to a new batch of kids this year. 

I had these grand visions last summer....me flitting about various schools with my wheely-cart full of projects, into new classrooms for a day, locking a door behind me each afternoon having left lengthy notes on the students' behavior, dusting any remnants of disdain, disrespect, and dysfunction from my shoulders as I wheeled towards my car at the chime of the final bell.  Instead, I face a daunting classroom and the salty faces of disenfranchised youth.  They have every right to be sour.  They have not been expected to think, to express, or to learn.  Their beautiful ripe minds have languished in apathy and I do not assume my talents can reach but a very few.

But that's the beauty of teaching...particularly in the inner-city.  The "few."  Tomorrow some will boisterously press my buttons, some will posture with suspicion, others will verbalize disdain and glare with distrust....but some will shake my hand, take out the marbled composition book I asked them to purchase and begin to write.  I'll walk by and tap their books, touch their shoulders, and say "thank you for being prepared."  They will listen; I will care.  These few will learn.

Inauguration Day!

We have been stashing Obama odds and ends on top of our bookshelf for months.  A campaign poster picked up in Ellensburg, our ballot stubs with "I voted" stickers, the front page of the LA Times on November 5th.  I smile thinking that the only bushes at the White House tomorrow evening will be shivering outside in the ground.

I can't sleep tonight...hence this tryst on the computer that I shall surely regret tomorrow as I struggle to teach 11th graders rhetorical devices and shadow poetry.  Luckily, there is coffee.  It will be my savor.

Meanwhile, I kvetch about all things wedding.  How is it possible that for hours I've thought of little else?I try and read...but visions of handmade paper invitations dance in my head.  I knit a few rows of my neverending scarf (which is a good thing because it means I'm not eating)...and find myself considering what type of shawl my bridesmaids might like.  I chop vegetables for the soup...while thinking of how to haggle with the caterer for a lower price.  I watch a PBS special on India...and visions of henna swirls on our wedding cake come into mind.

When will the constant list-making stop?...well, according to my just-opened account at The Knot...in 171 days.  That sounds like an eternity right now.  I envision dozens of afternoons sizzling my eyes on this computer screen looking at potential center pieces, online florists, and low carbon footprint invitations that are so expensive that the "green" approach loses it's pull.  I've looked at more fair trade handmade paper from cow dung, banana leaves, coffee plantation waste, mango leaves, and lokta fibers than anyone really ever should.

I am working on a wedding website, importing my guest list from Excel, researching ways to pay respect to Daniel's Filipino culture with traditions and Pampangan phrases and capiz shell candleholders.

And more than anything...tonight...I just wish I could sleep.  The alarm is set for 4:40am.  A final freeway commute with microwaved coffee, a cruel treadmill with blaring rap music, and bored teenagers with texting fingers await me tomorrow.

...just one more look at post-consumer recycled rice-straw paper from the Philippines.  That would be a nice touch, wouldn't it?

Under the chandelier

And the winner is.....beneath this chandelier.  We have found the spot for the wedding, the credit card has been swiped, the contract signed.  This 1920's chandelier will dangle over our guests as they sip cocktails on a summer evening in July.

It's pretty amazing.  The fact that we have: booked a location, timed "my walk" to the altar (2.5 minutes), chosen linens, imagined flowers, and teared up walking past the gurgling Spanish fountain.

My mom and John accompanied us today to solidify the passion that both Daniel and I felt from the moment we entered the heavy wooden doors last week.  It may seem odd that in the land of sandy beaches, green parks, and historic gardens, we've chosen an indoor venue...but our hearts melt upon the red tile floors, candelit mantels, and upholstered chaise lounges.  Our hands search for one another as we turn every corner, our eyes sparkle with imagination, our minds swirl with the enormity of the occasion.

It was a tough decision.  Los Angeles is coated with modern lofts, museums, courtyards, restaurants, beaches, and ball rooms; all calling for varying artistic visions to pull of a ceremony and reception.  But here in our own backyard...a few miles down the street...we've found the location where our future blends, our family begins, our love is celebrated.

This morning I found myself dancing in the bathroom and singing "Alberta, Alberta."  I caught a glance of my face in the mirror, head band indentions in my scarlet hair, spinach in my teeth....and all I could do was smile.  An episode of "This American Life" about matchmakers in Afghanistan was blaring from the office and I glanced at Daniel hovering over the paper, still in his pajamas.  I felt happy.  A true serene bliss that I had an entire lifetime of memories to create with this man in the grey shorts. 

Long Beach paints the canvas of our relationship.  We met at a coffee shop on Broadway, first kissed under a tree on Ximeno, got engaged in our first home on Vermont, and will marry in a historic building on 3rd.  We love this town.

Winter heat

While Chicagoans are snowed in, my face will soon glisten under the Los Angeles sun.  While Gazans predict bombs in their future, I await an afternoon with friends huddled over sandwiches and frozen yogurt.

Sometimes I am struck by the stark contradictions between my life and what others are experiencing.  The profound comfort, security, warmth, and love that I try to notice often lies in a luscious pool that I've muddled with worries about celebrations, travels, and future.

Here are my current list of questions:

1. Where, oh where, in LA will we get married?

2. Is there going to be a Catholic ceremony in Las Vegas...if so, what types of things will the priest need me to do?

3. When we fly to South America, who will we work with?

4. Where do we put all of our stuff while we're gone?

5. To which city will we move in August? (*Options are: Berkeley, Ann Arbor, New Haven, Austin)

6. What type of job will I find in this new city?

So, as I type these questions, more come to mind...but it's too silly to post them all (okay, just one more, what type of dress will I wear?). I look at them and I remember what I was recently told that the Dalai Lama has said about worry:

“If you have fear of some pain or suffering, you should examine whether there is anything you can do about it. If you can, there is no need to worry about it; if you cannot do anything, then there is also no need to worry.”

What I can do for wedding planning, I'm doing.  I'm bent over the computer for hours per day...trying to find a venue that fits and feeds those we love on an itsy-bitsy budget (by ridiculous LA standards).  I can go dress shopping with my girlfriends next weekend and my mom the following.  I can cross my fingers that Berkeley and Michigan send Daniel acceptance emails.  I can research storage units, volunteer positions in Peru, and school districts in all four cities....but after all of this is done for the day, why can't I just turn off my mind?

Last night, Sara and I sipped vodka, rum, and cranberry juice from a fish-bowl container in Redondo Beach.  Tortilla chip crumbs fell atop the flagged bridal magazines, notebooks, calendars, and organizers as two nuptial-focused minds sought to figure out the "where, when, who, how" equation of our July wedding.  What a fascinating process this has turned out to be.  The guest list contracts, the budget ebbs and flows (depending on just how much debt we consider acceptable), the location changes by the minute and with every shift of venue, my brain launches into an entirely different motif, dress, color palate, menu, beverage, and floral parade.

It is truly exhausting...and I realize this sounds preposterous.  A middle-aged woman, afforded the luxury by parents and in-laws to celebrate her nuptials in style , is tired of looking at online candle-lit pictures and catering proposals.  Waaaa...waaa...sniff....sniff.  But I simply never knew what was involved in planning a wedding.  I see now why people hire a wedding coordinator.  It makes perfect sense.  As of today, there are five friends, two aunts, and a mother involved in looking for venues, caterers, rental chairs, cupcakes, etc.  Not to mention me and my betrothed.

I know that we'll find a spot.  The day will radiate with personal touches that show our quirks, unity, wanderlust, and multi-cultural zest.  In the meantime, I am a substitute teacher in a computer class, watching teenagers do very little, appreciating the crisp air and wishing I could use the bathroom.

Wine savvy

I've wound my dusty car past the twisted vines of Napa.  I've sat at the bars of Firestone, Ravenwood, and Robert Craig.  I've watched learned oenophiles pour tiny sips, comically suggest that I spit (ummm...I just paid to taste it.  I'm swallowing, thank you), and then refer to the wood, berries, honey, and legs.  I like the legs, I like to plunge my nose so deep into the glass that the tip sometimes touches the wine, I like to gargle, and I like getting tipsy.  All of my likes meld nicely with the land o' squeezed grapes.

But what I've never understood, retained, or been able to employ, is a basic knowledge of how wine can enhance food.  Because when it comes down to it, I eat...a lot.  I love food.  I relish stinky cheeses, crusty bread, salads bathed in exotic oil dressings, pastas tossed with spiced cream, chocolate torts and bubbling cobblers.  And with all of these things, a goblet of spirits is welcome.

Yet, when faced with the daunting task of choosing a wine, I'm this simple.  With red sauce - red wine.  With light food - white wine.  With dessert - gewurtzraminer.  Done.

So, imagine my pure delight.  Literally internal squeals of pleasure, when I was invited to a tasting at the home of my friend Beth.  Her husband, Stephen, is opening a wine bar in Santa Monica and wanted friends to sample the potential cuisine with wine.  It was the perfect evening.  Sara, Alyce, Daniela, and I lugged our bags of essays, computers, and, in my case, stacks of wedding books, to our cars, past the yellow school buses bursting with cursing-hormonal teenagers, and caravaned to Santa Monica.  I bid WW adieu for the evening and my mouth soaked pot stickers, shrimp quesadillas, and fries in rum cocktails in the Honeycomb Lounge of the World Cafe.

We soon transported the revelry to the alphabet sponge mat of Beth's livingroom.  There we watched the ever-growing and ever-cuter Sierra crawl from lap to lap in search of sparkly things.  She had her eye on my earrings but in cruelty, I removed them quickly while she was en route.  By the time she scampered up my knee...they were gone.  She was not amused and quickly returned to Daniela.

After a bottle of congratulatory champagne was sipped (I have NEVER consumed as much champagne in my entire life as I have in the last few weeks...something about being engaged brings out the bubbly at every occasion), we were brought to the table for the tasting to begin.  This is the second time I've been asked to provide official feedback on a friend's product, thus, I knew that in the midst of each new morsel I should start writing down impressions, gut instincts to whether I would order it or not, what worked, what didn't. 

Come to find out, Daniela and I have a very similar palette.  While Alyce and Sara tend to veer towards reds with more tannins and mellower cheeses...the two of us get stanky with our blues and prefer our reds a bit lighter.  With pumpkin bread pudding we sipped thick honey wine; with prosciutto shaved pizza we relished bold fruity reds.  And my ultimate experience was Stephen walking us through how to move around the cheese board.  Four speckled blue wedges lay on the board.  Goat, sheep, and good.  With two glasses of red at the ready, we spread a smidgen of a cheese upon an oiled toast.  Just before the last morsel left our mouth, we introduced a splash of wine.  Suddenly, the cheese flavor burst on my tongue.  My mouth, my mind, my entire world vision was emboldened.  It was luscious, informative, and I'm hooked.  When this little wine bar opens, if they can guarantee me that these cheeses will meet me there, I'll be a loyal customer.

I left Beth's a bit more wine savvy and ever more in love with cheese.

  

In between the giraffes and the chimpanzees

Now that Claire is recovering nicely, my mind is a swirling festival of wedding ideas.  I can't turn it off.  I try and meditate "downward dog, cobra, breath, breath"...go to the gym, knit a scarf...but the wedding circles back in my mind.  I envision the sound of children laughing, my uncle shuffling on the grass, clinks of wine glasses, Daniel's chocolate eyes looking back at mine as we exchange vows.  It is a constant whir of vibrant color, floral magic, French love songs, and excitement.

There is also this "dark" side to wedding planning.  Two things:  the budget and the guest list.  In an ideal world, every second cousin, all my friends from high school, old college pals, and all of my lunch mates from work could join the party.  It seems like such a celebration to have everyone who makes me smile surrounding us....literally, because I'm probably going to make them stand in a cheesy circle at some point...but reality and $$$ shade my vision. 

Shortening the guest list, eliminating guests, reducing the food, shrinking the alcohol, foregoing cake....all things can be squeezed...but at some point the wedding will feel like an orange, peeled naked, covered in pith, lacking juice....still full of vitamin C, sweet...but dry.

How much do I want to squeeze?  Isn't this exactly what credit cards are for?

And when my best friend, Courtney, emails me that "there is still space in between the giraffes and the chimpanzees" at the LA Zoo...how far am I willing to go?

I mean, would you board a private tram at the zoo, wind your way through sticky-fingered-cotton-candy children and stroller racing parents, to an area where long giraffe necks curve over the fence munching on plants and chimpanzees scratch and scream in the grassy fields nearby???  (And for only an appetizer and a champagne toast?)

 

Two cute nephews!

If there are two cuter nephews on a blog today, then please let me know....otherwise: I win, I win!  Say hello to Trevor and Caiden.  My youngest step-sister Heather's two little boys.  Trevor piles into your lap and even though his memory of me must be somewhat fuzzy...he snoozles and hugs and laughs with ease.  And Caiden, well, there is no more relaxed baby than this little guy.  His entire body melts into your arms, his blue-blue eyes look curiously around the room, his feet twitch as you eat, his lips smack, and he drools at the site of food.  And pinchers...he has some quick ones.  If you click to enlarge this photo, his recent neck grab is visible.

Geography is such a dramatic component of relationships with children.  My friend Mara's seven children, who live just a few blocks down the street, have each witnessed my face, influence, and love multiple times per week for most of their lives.  While my brother's children, whose photographs and video make my heart burst and my soul ache to hold them, live painfully far and I see them maybe twice a year.  Sure, I make cheesy videos saying "Happy Birthday" and send little trinkets but do they know me?  When they see me, does their heart pitter-patter because they know that animal voices, tickling, and silly songs are probable?  Do they have a nickname for me...or do their parents have to point to my picture on the fridge to remind them who I am?

My last weekend of holiday vacation ended in a saturated sphere of domesticity.  I relished my .6 loss (over the holidays mind you!!!) at WW,  took vigorous notes at the first (of many) wedding planning sessions with my mom, then went to Downey for a knitting session with Summer and Darcy.  Here is the "before"...a simple square of knitting.

 

 

And here is the after....my, look at this fine purse!  I'm using the same yarn for a long scarf...since someone "borrowed" mine from a dinner party.  Photos of that completed project to come.

The challenge of the week- can I knit instead of eat?  This might end up to be a really really really long scarf.