Zora Travels

185 things to do

Some things are silly.  Last year, I quit my teaching job to travel in South America.  Since I never left, I stayed teaching (subbing, actually) at the same school all year.  In order to work in the same school system next year, they want me to fill out an online application, complete with letters of recommendation, transcripts, the whole works.  I have also gone for three interviews (guest teaching, English department, and administration).   They now want me to travel to downtown LA to visit the HR department in order to participate in yet another formal interview with "a consultant"...although I was already offered - and accepted - the job.

Umm?  Hello?  I love your school.  I never really left.  You said the position is mine. I still currently sub and also coach, observe, and critique all eight of your "first year" teachers....but you still need four interviews, a complete online application, and a visit to HR?  I'm still on YOUR COBRA insurance, for Christ's sake.  I still use your internal email system....the same one that you used to ask me for all the above materials.

uh....silly...silly, silly, silly....but the job -- I'll TAKE IT!

Besides that...all is well....you are about to experience my mind late at night....and the blather here will reveal why my blog has been so ignored.  I mean I can't possibly express each day how I am the ever-expanding bride.  I know, I know, "he loves me the way I am" but I don't love the lingering possibility that the dress won't fit...or the hovering shadow of what it is that makes me eat myself into twenty pounds in six months.  I mean, my dress is a rental...there is only so much forgiveness in those seams.

And what is up with DIY invitations?  Stab me in the eye with a rusty nail next time I even consider print-at-home anything.  The paper doesn't suck, when it sucks it gets stuck, the ink runs dry, the dimensions don't work, online directions don't seem right - so the happy couple endeavor for HOURS to drive around local LA freeways and exit various dodgy points in Long Beach to find the perfect way to describe the finding of our merry local's parking lot.  The future bride-to-be with her lime green swirled heart .42 stamps has to thumb down a Navajo necklace .02 addition....and the black landscape of the envelope now seems somehow tainted.  And tissue paper--- what the f__k is that for?  To bug me?

But then there's my mom.  Who sits with me today for hours and talks me through various acid peels, obscuring undergarments, vendor confirmations, seating arrangements, center pieces, placecards, flower girl accessories, ring bearer shoes, and banister decor.  We relax in her backyard that smells of coconut and chocolate mulch, lick popsicles and sip iced coffee.  She scurries off the porch ... plucks her gardenia leaves and the neighbor's orange leaves to check their viability for boutonnieres.  She's my hero today.

I am in love with Daniel.  I am no longer in love with wedding planning.  It draws a portion of most breaths into a vortex of white, black, lime, and rusty orange.  How did I ever develop a color scheme?  Why do I care so much about my hair that I not only ask a stranger to fix it...but today scheduled a "trial" appointment?  Is it that serious?  And no my "bride arms" aren't in the most amazing shape and no I haven't been "treating" my hair and skin to luxurious regimens.  I just shower, ignore my hang nails, and occasionally go to the gym.

And that woman long ago who imagined bare feet and spiked lemonade in mason jars and a few calla lilies in hand while an Ipod played played a Beatles tune...where is she?

"She" is slipping off the wedding shoes (shown here) after a day of breaking them in.  "She" is wondering what else can be accomplished tonight from the 185 items left unfinished according to The Knot's checklist.  (And why does the groom's section have only 5 things on it?)

I want to be more present in the moment, thinking of heart and mind-filled vows that will join me to Daniel forever in the tenderness and adventure of marriage.  I need to find yoga again, meditation, relish the steady comfort of employment and health insurance...and peace of mind in the day...gratitude for my health and the health of those I love...not constantly planning and vexing over the five hours of one day in July.

Oh, was it like this for you other brides out there in cyber-space?  My mind is tired.

But when I take a breath and let the air and my mind move freely, I think of other things...like the fact that instead of complaining about HR....I was offered a job!  9th grade English teacher...the BEST grade level for my cheesy personality...the September bliss of a paycheck and free insurance. 

Amazing things like Claire who awaits her beautiful baby to frolic under dancing monkeys.  Like Julie who received her referral of a little girl and her baby brother today from Ethiopia.  Like Cindy who is in Addis Ababa right now picking up her son Olly.  Like our friends who stay up late watching their brave child battling illness.  Like our grandparents who tell stories despite their pain.  Like my step-sister who got engaged yesterday.  Like my niece who turned one today.

And that's how I'll end.  Here's the little 1 year old applet last summer....on the day we met.  I love you, Bean!

The smiliest

It's been a while since I wrote...lately I have nothing prolific or poetic to write...so I avoid my blog.  Although I realize most of my readers (the 10 of you) don't come here for literary prowess...rather perhaps a glimpse into my simple, ordinary, Long Beach life.

Here's my yesterday.  An early rise and breakfast with Daniel.  A coastline drive to San Diego for a day with my youngest step-sister, Heather.  Her little boy, Caiden, is turning 1 this week.

He is the smiliest thing you'll ever see.

Here is the happy couple and the happy children.  Caiden, in his crab outfit, and Trevor, in his mighty-muscle outfit.  It was a great day.  One filled with wedding chatter on the drive down and lots of jumping and running with the kids.

Full circle

Sometimes I just need to ask for help.  And when I do.  I get it.  The list of "to do" items for the wedding continues to build.  Nothing is being added...it's just a matter of crunch time.  The calendar now whispers that flowers be ordered, grandparents be asked about their boutonniere/corsage wishes, rehearsal dinners thrown together...and the invitations. Eighty of these little suckers need to be printed and put together and mailed this week.  I saved us a few pennies by picking up invites at Michael's.  They are nice and simple...and a complete painin the arse.  The printer doesn't suck them up properly and some of you dear readers will soon have a chance to see the off-center, smeared, squirly invites next week.

But I got Mr. Daniel (aka Mr. Thesis) to spend some quality time hovering over the printer. And sometimes I just need his time.

If time is what I want....now I'm going to get it.  Here's the handsome graduate of CSU Fullerton.  A recipient of a Master's of Economics.  A writer of a 52 page "wind-energy-policy" thesis.  It was a beautiful work printed upon cotton sheets, signed with flowing ink from his panel members, invisible blood, sweat, and tears (of my ducts) watermarked the pages, if held up to the light.  The journey was long.  Months and months of his shiny head bent over the desk, fingers plugging at keys, eyes soaking in the luminous Excel screens and policy pdf's.  Quick dinners eaten with a distant and weary gaze.  Countless weekends and evenings spent alone...although sharing the same house.

But it's done!  He's graduated.  Graduate school is completed.  I am so proud and happy (for him and for us).

And now we're here...in Las Vegas.  Tying ribbons on the invitations.  Taking care of his Lola.  Soaking in the buttery warmth and comfort of his family's home.  His mind belongs once again to the world.  His eyes shine brighter, his sleep comes quicker, and his heart now widens to embrace the needs of his family. 

I've never taken part in the daily care of a grandparent.  Combing their hair, mashing their food, putting on their chapstick, lotioning their feet.  This family cares as much for their older members as most care for their babies.  There is no nursing home.  No weekly visits forced upon grandchildren.  Awkward halls and meeting rooms with bingo and applesauce and sullen attendant faces.  Instead, Lola Rose, sits below photos of family, cruises down the stone floors with a loved one at her side, listens to angelic singing and naps wrapped in worn blankets from long ago.

Life comes full circle.

Silent but deadly

I'm proctoring a test today for two students.

One of them has gas.

The class is silent with the exception of their lead tips bubbling in answers.

The stench creeps over to me at my computer.  I quickly squirt hand sanitizer in my hand...every time.  My hands are dry.  I hover my hands near my nose and inhale deeply.  The pungent smell of alcohol singes my throat.  I try not to to give the odorous student the stink eye.

This, too, is part of teaching.  It's not always thank you notes and "Good Morning" smiles.

...gassy student is shifting in their seat.  Must abort typing and prepare to bathe in Purell. 

(At least it's unlikely I'll contract the swine flu with this regiment.)

Licensed to Wed

It's official....anytime in the next ninety days.  If we happen to be walking down the street, stumble into a clergy member, utter "I do" and force them to sign the license that we just happen to be carrying in our back pocket...then we could be married - or - we could wait until July and do that whole "white-dress-tux-candles-cake-dancing thing."

**Don't worry you "already purchased the plane tickets so Holy Hell what is this woman saying," we'll opt for the latter.

It felt good to be at the courthouse yesterday.  Holding hands and kissing in the "green line" at the Norwalk County Recorder.  Swearing to the woman behind the bullet-proof glass that "all information is accurate and true to our knowledge." Her voice crackling through the cheese grate circles that "we have up to ten days after the wedding to return the document for official verification."  Looking at my new last name typed into boxes, my birth name in box 9....disappearing by box 29.

I need to practice a new signature.  How does one make a cursive capital H, do I change my name on everything, must it all be done right away?  Will I answer my students when they call me my new name next year?

Speaking of students....I met some today.  I gave a sample teaching lesson for a 9th grade English position at a charter school only a few blocks up from my old job.  I arrived (true to my birth name) an hour early and watched the teens cavorting during lunch.  Giggling and sagging pants.  Ball throwing and dunking.  Chip dust wiped on too-tight jeans.  Spoons filled with sweet chili powder taffy to suck. Lap sitting in the dark hallways.  Teen pregnancies revealed as the wind pulls a billowing shirt against the stomach.

My palms were damp with sweat as I passed them quotation strips at the door.  My sample lesson began under the watchful eyes of 25 critics all under the age of fifteen.  We danced with diction and denotation.  Spun literary samples of connotation and foreshadowing...and at the end of 45 minutes, I hope that I secured a job for next year.  It hasn't been easy this year.  Covering for maternity leave, subbing for sick colleagues, constantly hustling to keep money flowing in. A mind and soul full of hopes for ascending the Andes in Peru....and instead trekking the familiar freeways of Los Angeles for teaching scraps.

And am I ever tired of saying:

"No, we aren't going to South America."

"No, that didn't work out."

"Oh, I sub this year when I can."

"We never left actually; our plans changed."

But for these "scraps" I am grateful.  And today I tasted again the elation of teaching English.  Isolating morsels of literary prowess, weaving them into a discussion, laughing and floating around the room as I drag them (willing and un) into a new orbit.  Shake things up with poetry.  Dull things down with standardized testing. Spice up writing with detail.  Pepper expressions with new vocabulary.

You can't beat English teaching.  Oh, I'll complain in September.  You can bet on it.  I'll write how having 160+ students is hard work.  How Student X won't listen.  How Student Y won't wake up.  How Student Z has annoying parents.  But I'll also remind myself that this is my talent, my charge, my passion.  I don't know how many more years the classroom versus the nursery will hold my focus.  I will exchange the red pen for the diaper cream in the near future...so I want to relish the essays this next year.  Savor the sass of a questioning teen.  Radiate gratitude for my employment.  Be the type of teacher that Mrs. McClellan was to me.

Mrs. McClellan - does she even know how she affected my life?  My portly wobbling into the fifth grade.  My turbulent loafing in the sixth grade.  She saw me through both years.  Not with kind words and worried eyes...but with books, and essays, and expectations that I use my voice, my mind, and discover my own value.  I felt my self-esteem steadily seeping out into the valley...rushing down to meet the Columbia River and splash out into the Pacific...and yet every day she handed me a mirror.   She made us look at our reflections and say, "I am smart and worthy of being loved," long before I ever saw Saturday Night Live. I didn't necessarily believe the mantra...but these were often the only kind words I thought to myself all day.

Maybe one day I'll find her.  She'll know that she inspired me to teach.  To teach with integrity, to anticipate that the students are brilliant and funny and curious, to issue profound disappointment with their poor choices in behavior or work ethic with just a furrowed brow, and in the end...it is never a grade, or a shoulder pat, or a smile that shows them what I think...it is simply that I shake their hands one last time and say "Carpe Diem" before they walk out the door for summer.  And they know that I know they have beautiful minds.