Pas de Deux

Image by Freepik

Working together in front of a classroom involves rhythm and timing. It is a salsa where the partners dance at 160 bpm captivating their audiences with elegant moves and fascinating dips. The partners separate and groove individually as they shine in their own glory of notes and style only to come back together imparting the most important of information in their moves. It is not a line dance where they move lock-in-step. It couldn’t be because they each bring a talent to the table, one a gen. ed. teacher, the other – Sped or El. There would be no need for two if they danced the same exact moves. Nor is it a waltz in simple repetitive counts of three over and over again. Lessons are too unpredictable. Teaching together means pausing and allowing your partner to take the stage and shine. It means reaching out and taking his hand as you move into place to make the next leap before he spins you and lets you slide to the floor allowing him to then split leap jump over your head. It is should be effortless and should flow even without practice.

Unfortunately, my partner steps on my toes – all throughout the dance. She leaps when she should glide, she runs like a wild rhino when she should halt. And I am stiff and frozen in a stoic move of resistance and frustration. We lack rhythm and timing and will place last in the dance contest this year. 

Trim and a Haircut: Beauty Parlor Blues

It was beauty parlor day at the nursing home for my mom. That means it has been nearly three months since I have made the time to pamper and groom her properly. 

Yes, I go every week like a dutiful daughter. I deliver her assorted requests of garlic powder for her blood pressure, French's Yellow Mustard for her indigestion, and raw honey for her throat. The list is varied, but it is always something as if the brand new facility had no kitchen or cleaning supplies.

Why, for months, well, actually almost a year, she asked me over and over again for a hair dryer. She refused to let them do her hair because she said they would let it air dry and of course that "would just give her pneumonia." I tried to disagree with her, but that is just asking for a fight. And she just may hit you if you are close enough when you "talk back" -- her term for sassing.

Finally, I tired of that complaint and went shopping to purchase her a small compact dryer that would fit neatly in her bathroom drawer. The next week, she tells me, they probably wouldn't use it anyway. She would just rather wait for me. 

Oh, and yes, I wash her clothes, though that is supposed to be apart of her package. However, her clothes began to disappear when the aides washed them, and were showing up on the backs of other residents... literally! 

You see, I had written her name in giant letters on the back of them figuring no one would see the writing when she was sitting in the wheelchair, but there would be no mistaking who they belonged to -- especially with a name as unique as hers: "Lovie." 

But to no avail because "Lovie" was still spread all across the four wings of that nursing home. When the staff wasn't losing them, her neighbor was stealing them. (By the way, this is the same lady who walked into my mother's room while she was at lunch, crawled into her bed and began to eat the candy out of my mother's Easter basket while watching her TV.)

I was also tasked with bringing home the weekly bag because she can't stand the thought of hers being washed with others who my mom swears have bedsores and flaking skin. I can't say that I blame her. 

At any rate, for New Year's Day, I decided to give her a fresh start for the year to make her feel pretty. I painted her nails with a two color design. Next, I cut her hair and trimmed her eyebrows that were beginning to take on a life of their own. Then, as I began to pluck the stray hair that grows under 88 year-old ladies chins, my mother who hates to admit she even has hair there, looks up at me and asks, "So how often do you cut your?" 

As my mouth dropped in disbelief, I had to remind her that I do not grow hair under my chin… yet. Obviously, with her genes, I may if I ever make it to 88.

My True Love's Gifts

In the first week of Christmas, my true love gave to him(self), a brand new BMW Transmission.

Why did I have to add the car type, you ask? Transmissions are already ridiculously expensive. However, a luxury German made car transmission is the price of a small American made vehicle -- fully loaded -- and I needed you to understand the magnitude of the bill.

In the second week of Christmas, my true love gave to us, a brand new hot water heater... that took two days to fix... leaving us with no hot water. My big burly retired Marine teased me because I was using my electric tea kettle to fill the bathtub. He said, "It's not too cold, You could take a shower. You guys are wimps." Yet when I came home from work on the second day, I caught him with the teapot in the bathroom.

In the third week of Christmas, my true love gave to me, $800 worth of front tires... to replace the bald ones... so I could pass the VA. inspection. Of course with my luck, their one inspector was out that day leaving me having to make sure I squeeze in another visit to a car care center with all that free time I have during the busy holiday season. Of course my deadline was December 31st.

In the fourth week of Christmas my true love and I gave to my son, a great Christmas. (The gods gave us a break.) Yeah! We focused on my son, though. We decided we had given each other enough lavish gifts for the year.

However, in the fifth week of Christmas (December 31st to be exact -- just when I thought we finished the month unscathed) my true love gave to me, a brand new rear passenger side tail light fixture for $400 dollars because I still failed the inspection.

You see, it was broken, and I kind of forgot because the light still worked. It's just that the red plastic covering was a tiny bit cracked,... okay... broken open... leaving a bright white light glaring into the windshield of all that followed me. I didn't think it was that bad; I just considered myself a beacon of light. Besides, it was my true love's fault.  Ever since a heavy wind blew the basketball hoop onto the hood of his Bimmer, he never pulls far enough up the driveway to allow me room to back out of the garage without a fight. And I believe the only reason he refuses to park in the garage is because he hit the side of the door opening as he was turning in one day (though he has never admitted it.) Hence, early one dark morning at 5:30 a.m., I clipped his car trying to back out of the driveway. We were waiting until January to fix it, forgetting that I needed a safety inspection. Ugh!

And now it is the new year, January 1st to be exact. While, I am the first to admit that these stumbling block, Murphy's Law type unexpected bills around the holiday are annoying, I will add that I realized the truth which is that we are blessed to be able to pay them off without issue. The true nightmare would be if we could not.  However, let's hope this year my true and I are done with the lavish gift giving for now.

The View

All of my  blogs used to be funny because I love to laugh at myself and make others laugh in the process. However, tonight I was going to write about the  deplorable treatment of my mom in her nursing home, and I stopped. It is far from funny. It would depress me, and you would not want to read it. Besides, I would not have enough time to write about it anyway.

Then I decided to write about my son, there always used to be some funny scenario to share about growing tweens. However as I wracked my brains, I realized that there is nothing funny because he has reached the start of brooding teenaged funks! He mopes past me and grunts barely audible answers to any question I pose.

Lastly, there’s my husband, I am sure that there is a story there however, I am so busy teaching, taking care of mom, going to class, and grading papers or creating lessons that I scarce see him enough to experience anything funny. (Though I will say that my newly retired husband had the audacity to nudge me in an electronic game of scrabble because I had not made time to make my move.)

Which brings me to my final thought on this situation which is quickly becoming the norm and beginning to overtake my weekly submissions.

Last week, I couldn’t find the time to write at all, and the week before that I wrote a poem about… well, not having anything to write about.  The week before that it was a short paragraph about not having time to write… and the week before that I squeezed in a very short paragraph after school and before the parents arrived on Back to School Night.

And now here I sit basically filling this blank space with more banter on not being able to write due to time constraints as I watch the big hand near the 12 on the clock and my grad professor turning on her presentation.

Sadly, as I perch here straddling this window sill called SOL Tuesdays, looking out at all the other wonderful writers running past my house, I feel like Esperanza’s grandmother in House on Mango Street, who “looked out the window her whole life, the way so many women sit their sadness on an elbow.” Life has a tight grip on my leg pulling me back, so it can board up the opening through which I have been trying my best to escape these past few weeks since finding you

https://twowritingteachers.files.wordpress.com/2008/02/slice-of-life_individual.jpg?w=300

Uncle!

The teacher who wanted to write

Said this taunting blank page will I smite!

She stared down the screen,

Tried looking real mean,

No matter, it still won the fight!

https://twowritingteachers.files.wordpress.com/2008/02/slice-of-life_individual.jpg?w=300

Leaving a Glass Slipper

I made a promise to myself that I would write every week. After all, it is the least that I could do for myself. You see, I love writing. However, I tend to put everything and everybody from classwork to housework, ahead of myself, so there is no time left for me. So tonight, as I sit here pounding out a quickie just to satisfy my goal, I ponder the usefulness in this act. This  writing falls way short of my normal pages long cathartic pieces that also double as euphoric endorphin releasers. Instead, I race the clock and hammer out perfunctory pieces that waste my time as well as that of other SOL readers. I said I would be ready this week, yet, as the clock nears 10:50 pm, I sit here once again, tip tapping away. I suppose, the flip side to not writing with depth is that I am writing, though I must admit, I feel like Cinderella coming out for just one dance at the ball before the clock strikes twelve leaving you with this glass slipper.

No Selfie Stick or Fire Hoses

I am so proud of my husband. He just glided in his last aircraft landing from Portugal yesterday after 48 years of flying (26 for United and 22 years flying for the Marines). The entire crew  joined our family for his last meal at one of his favorite restaurants in the Barrio Alto. The next day on the plane, his crew made a great congrats announcement and all the passengers clapped. Then, on landing, he made an awesome farewell speech on the loudspeaker where he introduced  me and my son and then passed the gauntlet to him as he announced our son's intent to become a pilot as well. 

As we taxied towards the gate, we were met by fire trucks shooting water over the plane. The door opened to a Jetway filled with a host of friends from the grounds to other pilots. Lastly, he had our son stand by his side to say goodbye wearing his captain's hat, and yes, he even made me join them. The passengers all hugged him and some even stopped to take selfies.

Next, the chief pilot came on board and gave him a beautiful plaque, and then he took pictures with he crew before heading out to join some more pilot friends and their family for dinner at Clyde’s. It was a great day for him, and he deserved it. 

Then,I began to think about my own retirement and what it will be like. I was truly happy for my husband, but thought how funny it was that 200 total strangers who never even saw his face until landing wanted to take pictures, hug, and high-five him. He was treated like a celebrity, as if he had done something that they will will remember him always for. He flew 1/3 of their seven hour flight sharing duties with two other pilots. Yet these total strangers wanted hugs and selfies with him. 

Yes, I am extremely proud of my husband for his 22 years of service with the Marines (including flying in the Gulf War) and then 26 more years for a commercial airline. However, when I retire I know I will pack up and empty my room one last time, pick up a lapel pin at the last faculty meeting, and maybe be given a cake and small celebration in the teacher's lounge if I am lucky. Of the thousand's of kids who I cared for, taught, and nurtured for 180 days each year... there will be no selfie stick or fire hoses shooting water. But I will get the best gift of all, the memory of all the lives I touched and the knowledge that I know I made a difference.