Virtual workouts aren’t my favorite if there’s a live in-person option. There are pluses, like having the entire spin studio to yourself. There are more virtual classes available. Some can be done at home. 24/7 access.
I don’t own a stationary bike so I went to a virtual spin class today. I opted for one called “The Trip,” which takes you on a surreal, computer graphic ride through hills and highways resembling roller coasters. Studio lights are dim, a screen comes down, the music comes on, and an instructor’s voice from who knows where guides the workout.
It’s a hard 50 minute class that I haven’t attended in several years. I’m the only one in the studio. Plus. I start the “ride.” After the warm up I realize it’s too much visual stimulation. I pump as hard as I my legs will pump. I listen to the cues. Add more resistance, the invisible voice instructs. Nah, I’m good, I pant back. I do my best to keep up with the beat, the cues, the hills, and bright lights that guide me along a virtual road up to the sky and down, roller coaster style. I can’t skid off the road on this ride. Plus.
I last 25 minutes. Minus. Sharonda, my favorite instructor, isn’t here to catch me cheating. Minus. So I cheat. Minus. My heart feels like it’s running away from me and I can’t catch it. Minus. I’m the only one still in the studio. Plus turned minus.
I need other people for good, healthy peer pressure. How did I ever survive 50 minute rides? I’ll be back, but I’ll try the version with a screen full of human instructors. Once more classes are added, I’m opting in for the in-person instructor led version. I’m so done with virtual everything.
The place is a “bakery boutique.” I look for the address then poke around their online space. Macarons. I’ve never had one. Maybe I’ll eat one today. Frozen coffee drinks. Boba tea. Smoothies. Fancy cakes for special occasions we aren’t celebrating any time soon. I peruse the menu before we leave to prepare S. with options for today’s, what do you even call it? ‘Tween date? Hangout? Meeting with a friend? I don’t dare call it a playdate because that’s for little kids. Eleven is way too old for a play date.
We arrive and walk toward the bakery, her friend waiting near an outdoor table. Ready to enter and pay for her order, S’s friend interrupts, her giddy personality bubbling from her grin. “You made it! My mom gave me money for us to have treats. She’s in the car.” Okay. I thank her and S. bounces a little, trying to contain her excitement. They walk in. I return to the car.
There’s a liquor store on one side of the parking lot. Should I take a look? I decide against it in case S. returns for more money or something else. I don’t dare go back to casually say she can find me in the liquor store. I don’t want to make an irresponsible adult impression. I also don’t want to embarrass S. Those reprimands are never fun.
My Chiquita Bonita Banana de Mamí, Missy Lou, Fia Mia, Noodle, Oosey-Goosey child is growing up. I’m lucky if she lets me call her any of those names now, outgrown almost as soon as she kicked her feet free out of that infant swaddle. It seems that her feet have always been ahead of her. I snap a picture. Seriously? I’m snapping a picture of my kid hanging out with her new bff.
I roll down the windows and sit in the car, the steering wheel a makeshift desk for my journal. I need a mom-ervention, a sister-vention. I switch between journaling and pinging text messages to my sisters, each one interrupting the other conversation. I send the picture.
Awww...
It gets worse Cat.
Those boba teas are 👎🏼
Sorry to say, it does get worse! I would've gotten a slushie instead.
I feel like the paparazzi. S. got invited to hang out with a friend at a little bakery boba tea place. My pingüilla is a middle schooler who doesn't want to hang out with me. 😩😩😩
She probably hates it lol! 😂 I'm not sure what she ordered.She's been glued to my side through about the end of fourth grade. She still falls asleep in my bed. E is always in his room. They come around when it's convenient. Like when they need food or a ride to a boba tea place.
I write a little. Ping a little. Watch a little. It rained earlier. The tables and chairs are still wet. Bff takes off a black hoodie and wipes down the table and chairs. They sip. Laugh. S. waves to see if I’m watching. I am. I wave back. Shrugs her shoulders. Back to the bff. Takes a sip. I don’t think she liked the drink she ordered. They both keep shaking their hands free from what seems to be condensation transferred from their drink cups. Neither one goes back in to ask for napkins. As much as I want to, I don’t swoop in to suggest it either.
Bff’s mom strides toward them. They all go inside. Ah, looks like that mom is swooping in to ask for napkins. Nope. Bff’s mom walks out with a drink. S and bff return to the table. Looks like more giggles and a few minutes later, they both rise and part ways.
S. returns to the car. “I got a macaron! Here, have some.” I take the piece she offers. Delicious.
Coming soon…The Anchor Chart Pub. For teachers. All day happy hour. If you take a mental health day, come on in and get a deal. We’re working on our menu, so please be patient while we develop these recipes with our resident (part time, second job) teacher mixologists who craft the perfect cocktail/ and so far, only mocktail.
Tasting rooms will be available for team planning.
We’re working on a special Pandemic Teaching menu. If you have menu suggestions, please reach out. Should your suggestion make it on our menu, we’ll send you a discount code to use on your first visit.
I followed Mom into the dim, musty store. The crammed racks bulged with pioneer costumes, so I thought. Tables full of merchandise didn’t catch my attention. Mom led me to the back of the store—it smelled like Goodwill. “Can I help you?” A woman with twitching cheeks and shaky hands that moved to the beat of her voice approached us.
“We’re looking for boots. Monday is Western Day and she needs a pair of boots,” Mom informed, looking down at me. I hoped not to find anything here, but pretended to study the goods and figure out what Mom was up to.
The lady brought a pair of black stitched boots with pointy tips. “These are boys’ boots, but they might fit. No one will know the difference,” she said holding them up, attempting to display them in such a way to make me forgive her for showing me something so ugly.
“Try them on,” Mom impatiently muttered.
I took off my old sneaker and tried to stuff my thick foot in the boot as I held on to a display table for balance. “They won’t go in.” Both embarrassed and relieved, I shook my foot out. The boots were huge and my feet still didn’t fit in them. Good. I didn’t like them anyway. A few had potential, but they were made for dainty feet, too small for me.
I acted disappointed, knowing we’d soon be at Carmen’s, the paradise of western attire. I visualized my boots: soft and smooth, smelling leathery sweet, no creases until I put them on and walked around in them. They’d illuminate my life until I scuffed them up enough to make them my own, but not so much to wear them out too quickly.
“I think we found some,” Mom interrupted, shaking me back to the darkness of reality. The rickety sales lady, our of breath, approached us. She looked flustered. She climbed a tall, creaky ladder to retrieve a dusty box. What’s inside? Ugly boots or dream boots?
Mom helped me open the box, as if I were a toddler that needed help opening a gift a parent was proud to present. No one tried these on judging from the smooth, unwrinkled tissue protecting the boots. Through the thick layer of tissue, I couldn’t make out the boots. My heart pounded harder as my hopes went up. This was the moment I’d been patient for. Finally, I’d look good on Western Day, not overly costumed like a rodeo clown, but dressed up enough to look western, like the other girls. No sneakers this year. All I wanted were dream boots. I looked up at Mom and smiled. “Open ’em up.”
Holding my breath, I carefully unfolded the tissue. First the top layer, then the next. There they were, all settled in their nest, my eyes probably the only eyes to gaze on them ever since they incubated on the top shelf of the cave-store. I looked at Mom, waiting for her reaction.
“They’re beautiful,” she beamed.
What? Mom must be insane. These are the ugliest things I’ve seen in my entire life, I silently screamed.
“Try them on,” she instructed, sounding less demanding than when she had me try on the boys’ boots. There was no way I was putting these things on. Two-toned beige and brown with frou-frou stitching ruined the boots. The stitching made them look like a quilt for feet. They weren’t smooth. Not leather. Too pointy. The real kicker? They stood on a three inch heel. Not my dream boots. I hated them. I’d be the center of attention, the rodeo clown.
“Try them on,” Mom reminded me.
“Oh, yeah, okay.”
Reluctantly, I eased my right foot into the boot, balancing myself against the table again. My toe touched the bottom of the boot and my foot slowly progressed. Please don’t fit, please don’t fit, please don’t fit. My foot popped right in. Too bad a prince wasn’t looking for his Cinderella. I shifted my weight onto the booted foot. My left foot dangled aimlessly without its partner.
I hope they’re too expensive. My stomach quivered at the thought of wearing these things. These were the kind of boots floozy women wore, the kind who had bleached-blond hair with dark roots, the kind of women who wore frosty blue eye shadow and streaks of fuchsia that blemished their cheeks while they held a cigarette between crookedly lined orangey-red lips. These boots were made for women who wore low-cut, skin tight shirts and designer jeans that might pop if they sat down too fast.
“You like them, right?” I didn’t want to disappoint her. I looked down at my foot again. “The boots, you like them, don’t you?”
Don’t. I don’t like them. I didn’t have the courage to say it out loud.
“They’re the right price and you will wear them if I buy them, right? Right?”
I nodded. “Oh…yeah…right.”
What? I couldn’t believe what came out of my mouth. Silent words of protest tried breaking free. Why did I say that? I lied. Mom, I lied. Can’t you hear me? I hate these boots! They have high heels. It’s like walking on stilts in a circus. I’ll fall flat on my face. People will laugh at me.
“We’ll take them.” Mom smiled at the twitching lady.
“Wonderful!” She took the box, relieved her trip up the ladder wasn’t wasted. While Mom paid, I wondered if she bought the boots because she thought they were beautiful or if she bought them so I’d stop bothering her. On our way out of J.C. Jones, Mom handed me my purchase. I glanced down the sidewalk knowing my dream boots lived at Carmen’s Western Wear but weren’t destined to come home with me.
Mom’s famous question broke the silence. “Are you satisfied?”
The budget. That infamous budget forced Mom to buy me what I wanted, but didn’t want. If I needed a small bottle of glue for school, she bought the huge bottle to last the rest of the year. When I requested a cigar box to use for my school supplies, she bought a plastic one so it wouldn’t wear out. When I told her I needed a large green eraser, she bought one that was half pink for pencil erasures, and half gray for ink erasures. Who erases ink? I never used that eraser.
Sixth grade me in the pink western shirt with hot pink satin piping.
This time I was determined I wouldn’t let the budget get in my way. Western Day approached at school. It was the biggest day of the year, bigger than Halloween. Everyone participated in Western Day. I hated it because I only had last year’s pink western shirt with hot pink satin piping around the sleeves and collar. Mom had to hack a foot off the bottom of my jeans for them to fit.
I wanted to look like the other girls. Every year they wore their western hats and Wranglers, plaid western shirts pearl-buttoned up to the collar, and leather belts with their names stamped on them, complete with shiny heart shaped buckles that clasped in front. To complete their outfits, they wore boots. They got new boots every year. I had to settle for my sneakers.
I made up my mind. This year would be different. I owned a western shirt and jeans. I learned not ask about a hat. But boots, oh how I wanted a pair of boots. I imagined my boots, nice and smooth, black or brown—a nice neutral color, waiting for me on Western Day morning. I’d own the good kind, leather boots that creased around the widest part of my foot to fit, molding themselves to fit only me. They wouldn’t sound like high heels—those were too clickety—but commanding, a strong thud that let people know when I walked down the hall. Just the right sound, unlike how sneakers sounded when I stomped around in them or how they squeaked when I dragged my feet.
I needed con Mom into buying me these boots. “Just be patient,” she’d say. That meant no; it always meant no.
Determined to get my boots, I approached her cautiously like a cat approached a foreign object. I purred, “Western Day is coming up and I need a pair of boots. I can wear last year’s shirt, I have jeans, I don’t need a belt, but I need boots. Besides, the weather is getting colder and they’ll keep me warm when I walk to school in the mornings.” Whew! I let it out and she didn’t interrupt me. “I’ve been patient,” I added, letting her know I wasn’t taking no for an answer.
“I’ll think about it,” she replied.
It was better than ‘be patient.’ Progress in the making. It wasn’t a yes or a no, but a maybe. Maybes worked out to my advantage. I pestered her about the boots until she gave in. I felt like two-stepping her to the car, but I didn’t want to make my enthusiasm too obvious. She might change her mind.
We drove to Carmen’s Western Wear. We rarely bought anything here; it was too expensive. They had lots of nice things to look at and dream about. Usually full of customers, there were no parking spaces. Mom parked a little way off, in front of old and grungy J.C. Jones, which sat next to the drugstore. I asked if they were even still in business. I jumped out of the car and made my way to Carmen’s. Mom cut me off.
“No, we’re going this way.”
I looked around. What did she mean?
“The drugstore?” I gulped.
“No,” she replied, pushing the door into J.C. Jones, “they have boots here too.”
Well, I thought, maybe we’ll go to Carmen’s after we’re done here.
I used to write on walls. The first time I wrote on one was when I was in 3rd grade, or was it 5th? We were supposed to move to Corpus Christi, Tx. Then Uvalde. Then Hereford. There was one time when all things looked favorable and we would move once and for all. At least that’s what I gathered from all the eavesdropping on my parents’ conversations when it seemed I preferred to take an armload of Barbies from one room to another. I was the weird kid who wanted to experience being the new kid at a new school. To leave my mark on our house, I took a ballpoint pen and scrawled The Almaraz Family on the closet wall in my best, largest cursive handwriting.
That was one of the worst things I did. I was the poster child for an obedient, responsible first-born. In college, I’d wake up in the middle of the night and scrawl snippets of inspiration, lines of poetry wanting to be born, titles for books that have yet to be written, little philosophical tidbits my brain processed from class discussions, quotes from English class readings. I taped sheets of notebook paper along the wall next to my desk so it was ready for me to fill throughout the semester. Writing on dorm walls? Not allowed. A journal and pen lived on the floor next to my bed, but I liked the idea of being a renegade and writing on walls.
When I moved into my own classroom, word walls were one of my favorite features. As I moved from one campus to another, I landed one that allowed painting walls, within reason. I cheered up my classroom and painted a quote here and there. I had plenty of decorative letters that spelled out DREAM, READ, BELIEVE, and READ EVERY DAY. Besides books, this is another way I’ve left my mark and wrapped myself in the comforting arms of words.
Never did I imagine I’d be wary of spring break. I’ve been counting down the days, but it isn’t the same. I’m tired but not in the way I’m normally tired. It’s a stuck sort of tired. Tired of being stuck in the unknown, having to roll with whatever comes our way, like it or not. Weary and wary.
Sure, that’s how life usually happens, but there’s this heavy lull. I look on the bright side, at least I like to believe I try. I’m an apathetic teen who isn’t in the mood to do anything, but wants something to do. I’m looking forward to the break, but I’m not, because breaks have been anything but breaks. I want to go places, but I also want to sleep in.
I only have a week and I don’t know whether or not I want to look forward to it. I’m skeptical and working on optimism. One more day. I can make it one more day. Then I’ll wait to see what happens. Take one day at a time. An hour at a time. Still.
I’m nervous. We have one of those busy-ish evenings. Prescription glasses are ready to be picked up before the office closes for the day, but they need to be picked up today for tonight’s orchestra concert. The concert doesn’t begin until 8:00 tonight. Between the glasses, dinner, travel time, getting ready, and arriving on time, it’s takeout night.
Usually it’s a treat. Lately, it’s been a disaster. It happens when I’m hangry. There are days when I skip breakfast, pack a sad little lunch, stay late for a staff meeting, and I’m ravenous when I get home. Takeout sounds like a great idea. I place my order. Everyone else makes their requests and off they go to retrieve the goods. I’m guzzling water to fill me up because if I start snacking to hold me over, I’ll eat too much.
Staying home to get started on household duties that pile up during my day’s absence, my husband volunteers to pick up our order. One night, I order a fancy salad and add a chicken breast for a more filling, yet light dinner. We unpack our food. The chicken is missing. I check the receipt. Sure enough, not ordered. I calm myself down using the strategies we use with kindergartners because I’m about to flat out wail. I find a chunk of chicken in the fridge, add it to my fancy salad, and devour my meal.
On another occasion, I order a burger from one of our favorite burger joint. We have ingredients for burgers, but we have to thaw meat. We’re not feeling the cooking tonight. The restaurant is less than ten minutes from our home. Picky eaters beget odd orders, especially for burgers. I order mine with mustard, lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, no onions, add cheese and go ahead and add fries. I’m splurging today. We order with time to get it home in less than half an hour. No need for extra water or snacks.
However, it’s already 6:30. We ordered at 6:00. We should be eating by now. 7:00. Nothing. Hmmm…I message my husband. No response. 7:30. No food, voicemail kicks on. I could’ve already defrosted the meat, made the patties, cooked them, peeled the potatoes and made home-fries. I start snacking, just a little. He’ll be here any minute. 8:00. Another call, still no answer. I’m getting a little worried. 8:20. The delivery arrives, finally. There was a wreck. Okay, I get it, but it was that bad? I didn’t even hear sirens.
We unpack our food. Order number one: burger, plain, with fries. Check. Order number two: chicken sandwich, no pickles, no mayo, fries on the side. Check. Order number three: burger, everything on it, add jalapeños and an order of chilli cheese fries. Check. I’m salivating by now. My stomach rumbles. I can eat through the wrappers. Order number four: burger, dry, lettuce. Fries are missing. That’s it. Forget calming strategies, I implode.
Here I am an adult mom modeling behavior about how to handle not getting her way. “You will go back and get the right order, I’m so tired of this!” I put the brakes on though. Positive energy in (inhale), negative energy out (exhale). Check the receipt. All of the orders were correct. Of course. I went to the fridge, retrieved a block of cheese, found the mustard, and reassembled my burger after I reheating it. My kids share their fries. Two fries from each of them. After I chomped down my dinner, I asked why it took so long.
The burgers were ordered at the location 30 miles away. The wreck was in that direction, nowhere close to where we live. During rush hour.
Let’s order a family pack of tacos and add on the flautas. It’s Chuy’s night this week. Last time we had plenty of food plus extra for decent leftovers. Six taco shells, meat, rice, beans, queso, chips, plenty of jalapeño ranch, salsa, a dozen flautas…I’ll make my own margaritas. This is a great deal and we don’t have to special order anything other than adding the flautas.
Once again, hangry. We order. We unpack our food. Five taco shells instead of six. No flautas. Check the receipt. It’s correct, but we didn’t get our flautas. My husband calls, sorts out the order and goes back for them. I’m on my second margarita. I start with the chips and jalapeño ranch. I stuff myself until the flautas arrive. We serve ourselves cold tacos and warm flautas.
It’s takeout tonight. Again. Check everything before you leave. Unpack all of the food in the car. Check the receipt.
I’m waiting. We had a staff meeting today. Two more hours until the concert starts. I had a sad little lunch. My stomach rumbles.
Years ago I found a book (or maybe the book found me) called Whatcha Mean What’s a ‘Zine? I don’t remember where I found it, but it looked interesting so I bought it. Well, hello, this was the best purchase I had made to inspire kids to write in my classroom. I shared it with my teaching bestie and we came up with a plan. After we both read it and started using them in the classroom, we presented a professional development session for secondary teachers in our district. I was hooked and the kids loved them. This was back in the day when foldables were all the rage.
If you aren’t familiar with ‘zines, they are small, self-published mini-books, or tiny magazines, on any topic. They’ve been compared to flyers or pamphlets that were used way before printing and buying magazines was the norm. Think Ben Franklin’s pamphlets. We liked using these and the students responded well because they’re small and less intimidating than writing on full sized sheets of paper. We had students use them for note-taking, free writing, mini-graphic novels for those who wanted to give it a try, publishing their personal narratives, and even for a variety of responses to reading. In our PD session, our handouts were two separate ‘zines that participants folded with us. They were a hit.
As COVID made its entrance, I became restless. Connecting with my friends on social media was great, but I wanted something different. I wanted connection with snail mail. I posted an invitation for friends to DM their snail mail addresses so I could send them a little something. Unexpected snail mail from a real person is a treat, at least it is for me. Close friends and family whose addresses I already had were default recipients. However, I wanted to reach out to those farther out of my everyday circle: new colleagues, old high school friends, new friends.
I planned to mail a quick note to say hello and sticker bomb the outside of the envelopes because as a true child of the ’80s, I’m a sucker for fun stickers. Then I got an idea. I’d make a ‘zine. I knew everyone was going through tough times adjusting. I’m not a naturally optimistic person, so I decided to make a Little ‘Zine of Happiness and send some happy mail. I created my first (and so far, only) ‘zine that isn’t classroom related.
After I made the original ‘zine, I unfolded it, scanned it, and printed copies. Assembling them was therapeutic. I bought stationery, collected addresses and sent them out. I used all the Christmas stamps I had since I didn’t get around to sending cards, a delayed little gift. I didn’t send them all at once. I’d send out two or three, wait a few days and then send a few more. I made sure to tuck in the little ‘zine.
I received delightful messages from recipients, some of whom snail mailed me back. Many told me it arrived at the perfect time and put smiles on their faces. I left a blank on the cover for personalization. My ‘zinester teacher colleague, now an instructional coach, passed them out to her teachers earlier this year to lift their spirits. That was my intention, to spread joy during a tough time.
More topics roll around in my head for new ‘zines. I even created an Instagram account for people to share there, but it’s quiet right now. I plan to make more, but following through has waned. I’m sure inspiration will visit soon. Feel free to get your copy here and share some happiness.
*This is sometimes referred to as a “smoosh book” or an 8-page book. No fancy tools required. Not even scissors, unless you want a clean line. Video directions for folding are here.
Oh, hi Monday. Again. It was the weekend. I should’ve been winding down Saturday evening, but from what? I read and wrote most of the day. I attempted to clean out the closet under the stairs. Emptied it out on this great quest for minimalism, but I’m not feeling the adventure. I want to crawl into my hobbit hole of stuff, keep it, and have second dinner. Or maybe it’s second and third clutter. Of books, notes, real snail mail addressed to me, little bits of golden word nuggets scrawled on bits of paper that don’t quite have a place to fit–yet. They’re looking for the piece that needs them: a story, a song, a bit of advice, a letter, maybe a list. I tossed a few things, but moved everything back in. I’ll save it for later, and wait for a wizard to show up.
Nerds Beget Nerds 