Writing With Abandon

Reflections and ramblings about life as an educator, writer, reader, knitter, and over-thinker. Trying to do the writing only I can do.

  • “I still need to paaaaack,” I say.

    We’re sitting at a table at Books & Books. The waiter has finally taken our order and I’m hangry. V is coloring a blue bed on the paper we brought from home.

    “You still have tomorrow though,” P says.

    “Yeah, but I work, and I don’t want to be scrambling on my last night.”

    “Right.”

    “I at least want my clothes and toiletries packed by tonight,” I say.

    “Toilet trees?” V interrupts. “What are toilet trees?”

    P and I laugh. One of us starts to explain what toiletries are, while the other asks what kinds of toilet trees the others are envisioning.

    Toilets growing on trees? (Me)

    Trees growing out of toilets? (V)

    A toilet made from a tree trunk? (P)

    I grab a piece of paper and fold it in half, then use brown, green, and black to draw the first two types of toilet trees. My illustrations get a lot of giggles.

    “You could write a story about the toilet trees!” V encourages. “You can fill these other pages.” She taps once, twice on the inside of the folded paper.

    “A story? Hmmm…

    “Once upon a time there was a little girl named V. She was walking along in the Land of Toiletries when she had the urge to go #1. But in the Land of Toiletries, there are no bathrooms!

    “So she looked off into the distance and saw a tree with fresh toilets glistening in its branches. She ran to the tree, climbed up its trunk, and shimmied down a branch to a perfectly 6-year-old-sized toilet.

    “‘Ahh,’ she said with relief as she relieved herself.

    “Then she climbed back down and went on her merry way!”

    “Write it here!” V exclaims, delighted, tapping the inside of the page with her blue pencil.

    So I write it down.

    “That’s a lot of words,” V observes. “Don’t forget to put ‘The End.’ You need to add a picture too.”

    I draw a picture of a little girl in a pink dress climbing up into a toilet tree. This gets more giggles.

    Alysia arrives at that moment and joins us at the table.

    “What’s this?” She asks.

    “Do you want to read her your story?” P asks V.

    And so V reads us the story of the toilet trees.

    “That should be your slice,” Alysia says to me. “With no other context.”

    I had to give some context though.

    Now back to that packing I need to do…

  • Starting the morning with so much gratitude.

    Even though last night’s wine makes me feel groggier than I would have liked, kept me from sleeping in later than I would have wanted.

    An unreal balcony, like a whole separate room, seemingly custom-built for this couple.

    A delicious dinner, barbecued with care by Jason.

    A table setting with new plates, curated by Gi.

    My love smiling at me across the table.

    Laughter.

    Oscar cuddles.

    Playful teasing after four years of friendship.

    I smiled and looked at them all — Jason, Gi, P, Osqui — and could see us a couple of years ago, us right now, and us in the future, with little ones running around. I could see it all at the same time.

    This life.

    This rich life.

    In spite of all the obstacles (because there will never not be obstacles), there is so so so much to be grateful for.

    And this little friend-made-family is one to savor.

    The hostess with the mostess
    Jason and I are slipper buddies
    As candid as I could get, after dessert
  • Ana sends the message to our Slicers WhatsApp chat on Wednesday: “Hi slicers, I’m hosting tomorrow’s writing group on Zoom. If you feel like writing together, I’d love to have you!”

    The last and only other time I came to the Thursday writing group was on a Thursday that I worked late and was super distracted. I think I was trying (and failing) to file my taxes online (I ended up going to H&R Block, and good thing I did, cause they got me a refund versus the thousands TurboTax was gonna have me owe). I hadn’t eaten much. I didn’t engage the way I know I can. I didn’t write the way I know I can, either.

    So this week, I was determined.

    “Can you send a reminder tomorrow at 7:40?? I will try to make it!”

    And right on cue, she did.

    But I’m getting ahead of myself. Because tonight’s prompt is what we did in the hour before logging onto the Zoom.

    At 7pm, I was lying back on a bolster for a supported savasana in my Thursday yoga class with Susie, my favorite instructor. Vinyasa with sound bowl ending.

    At around 7:15pm, I was putting my props away and rolling up my mat. I said goodbye, and headed out into the evening air.

    At 7:20pm, I was crossing Alhambra Plaza, looking at the three random cop cars with their lights flashing, double parked against the median, where three women were on their phones looking concerned. I wondered what had happened, but didn’t see any signs of an accident, so kept moving.

    As I walked along Alhambra Circle towards home, I read a few texts from our CRT chat, and then opened my Jetpack app. It had been glitching in the morning, not letting me leave comments. So I cautiously read a few slices and commented. Gi’s about girl dinner. Vicky’s through the perspective of a rooster. Sophie’s middle-of-the-night slices. Jesu’s síndrome pre-viaje. Carol Ann’s about missing her dad.

    At 7:27, I glanced up and saw my building aglow. I went to snap a photo, but saw it wouldn’t showcase the golden light in the same way. It would just look like a random photo of a street. Whatever. I love my building.

    At 7:28, I went to cross the street. A woman crossed with me, pushing a baby stroller with a newborn. She was wearing a t-shirt that said MOM GROUP DROP OUT. I walked on the side of the cars as an extra layer of protection for them.

    At 7:29, I entered my building and waved to Jon. I needed to walk Pheebs and feed her too, then feed myself. Would I have time to shower?

    At 7:33, I got home. Phoebe jumped down from her perch on the couch to greet me. I slid the harness on her and left my phone on the table as I brought her down to pee. I riled her up in the elevator as we came back upstairs. I fed her.

    7:36pm. What to eat, what to eat.

    I opened the fridge. Nothing.

    I opened the freezer. Frozen meatballs from a few weeks ago? Nah… Frozen Trader Joe’s tamales? Yup.

    Wrap in a wet paper towel, microwave 3-4 minutes, let stand 1 minute.

    Could I shower in that time? Maybe not. I was too hungry.

    I scrolled more on Jetpack. Con’s slice. Ana’s about Thursdays.

    Ping! Ana’s text reminder came in, right on schedule. 7:40pm.

    My tamales were ready. I ate them while I continued to read slices.

    At 7:53, I gathered my laptop, my reading glasses, and my water. I reset the dryer that I’d put on before yoga because our loads usually need a second run.

    At 7:54, I determined that I did have enough time to shower.

    At 7:58, I put on my pajamas.

    At 7:59, I determined that I did not have enough time to wash my face.

    At 8:00, I clicked onto the Zoom link and met the other ladies here tonight.

    We all decided to slice about what we did in the hour before arriving to the writing group. I wonder how their hours unfolded.

  • When I read Consuelo’s slice, The Egg Thingy, I knew I’d already been influenced. An easy, no-clean method for perfect-every-time soft-boiled, medium-boiled, and hard-boiled eggs? Sign me up. And they even made a smaller version. Perfect.

    I ordered it last Saturday and it arrived Sunday morning, just in time for breakfast.

    I was so excited to unbox it and get breakfast going. I sent the WhatsApp group updates for each stage:

    Turning it on
    OoOOoOoOooohh
    😱 “Oh. My. God.”

    They were PERFECTION.

    I couldn’t believe how easy it was.

    P got excited too when I sent him the picture.

    And all week, I’ve been enjoying my soft-boiled eggs on toast with avocado for breakfast. No more pans to clean up, just shells, in with the compost. A quick wipe-down of parts and then the Egg Thingy goes back in its corner.

    Egg Heaven, really.

    Until this morning.

    “Trying the omelette feature,” I texted P. Casual.

    It had already incurred more work than just piercing the bottom of the eggs, but oh well. I was gonna get my greens in!

    The Egg Thingy started chiming as I finished washing my face in the bathroom.

    “For a drier omelette, leave the eggs in the Rapid Egg Cooker for an extra two minutes,” the instructions manual had said. No rush.

    When I took the top off, it looked promising:

    But when I tried to transfer it to a plate?

    I guess you can’t have it all with a $17 kitchen appliance.

    But at least I have my trusty pan, so I could salvage the remains.

    I guess I’ll have to stick to what the Egg Thingy knows best: soft-to-hard-boiled goodness, nothing more and nothing less.

  • Last Friday, at our slicers meet up, Caro greeted me with a hug and told me that morning, while she made her coffee, her eyes lit upon a card I’d written her last year that she now has on her fridge. Later in the evening, when discussing the ever popular topic of “what to slice about,” I went back to Caro’s comment: we could write about what’s on our fridges!

    “I don’t have anything on my fridge,” Cande said. But then—“wait, we do have four small magnets for each of my family members.”

    “That’s a slice!”

    And that’s my slice tonight, as P gets his dinner ready and I wait for him so we can keep watching “Shrinking” on Apple TV (we’re obsessed).

    My fridge in all its glory! (With all children and babies’ faces blocked for privacy)

    So, what’s on my fridge?

    • A big KLA magnet
    • A dollar bill with a “SAY GAY” stamp on it (important here in Florida!)
    • Last year’s school photos of V, JH, and Emmie
    • A card from my student E last year
    • A card from my (basically) sister- and brother-in-law from when I got my new job
    • Thank you cards, Christmas cards, cards of appreciation
    • Post-its of appreciation
    • V’s drawings
    • Photo booth strips
    • Magnets from Italy, Mexico, and the UK
    • Our Brick (which I haven’t used in a while, but Instagram has been off my phone so it’s fine)
    • This year’s Valentine’s cards
    • Mini printed pictures
    • A postcard print with “ways to say I love you” that a former coworker made back in covid to support the US Postal ServiceM
    • Magnetic photos from Ariel’s wedding
    • A meat thermometer
    • Two post-its of a cartoon hair called Seamus (it’s an inside joke, you wouldn’t get it)
    • P’s wish for kind resolutions to all conflicts
    • The tasting menu from our celebratory dinner this summer after I got my job
    • A Husky light courtesy of my dad this Christmas
    • A thank you card from a friend’s wedding
    • An appliance repair company’s magnet
    • Ana’s letter to us slicers and the magic orange stickers

    Everything on my fridge brings me so much joy. It may not be neat, but it’s a mess of love.

  • The sun rises every morning and shines its orange-pink light through our apartment windows, illuminating the room and everything in it. It lights up the dust that seems to settle on every surface and float in every pocket of air I glance at.

    I dusted and wet sprayed the apartment this Sunday. P swiffered, vacuumed, and mopped the floors last night.

    And yet.

    The dust still reigns.

    I do not think I will be able to conquer it.

    Not when I see it on my iPad keyboard, wipe it off, and watch more settle on it instantly in the sun’s spotlight.

    The dust is relentless.

    Has anyone, anywhere managed to get a handle on it? Do I need to be spray-wiping every day? Every few hours of every day?

    It comes from the vents, it comes from the pollen outside when I open our balcony doors, it comes from my hair and Phoebe’s hair and P’s hair and all of our skin and also the dryer and the lint and our clothes, and the soil from the plants, and the dirt from our shoes when we come inside.

    There is always construction outside, no matter where I live in Miami, so if it’s not pollen, it’s construction dust making its way through the air outside and into our apartment.

    I want to be like Martha, dancing with my vacuum cleaner as I suck up the hair balls and dust bunnies that creep along the floor. Or like Kim, whose apartment surfaces shine like they’re in a commercial for a cleaning product.

    But right now, I’m just me, surrounded by dust, staring at it sticking to the iPad keyboard as I finish typing out this slice. Wondering if it’s even worth trying to get rid of at all.

  • “Can I borrow Phoebe’s bed?” V asks me, walking into our room as I finish folding the clothes from the drying rack.

    “Sure!” I say. I think she’s just going to pick it up, but she hesitates and lays down in it. “Do you fit in it?”

    I walk around the bed to see that she’s curled up. “You do!”

    V laughs. She notices Phoebe’s puppy blanket by her head, and claims, “I need this,” then grabs it and brings it into the living room, announcing that it is a boat. She lays it flat on the floor. Pauses. Folds it in half and lays it down again. Phoebe climbs on, filling the boat in full.

    “Actually, this is part of the boat. I need another blanket!”

    She runs off into her room. P is sitting on the couch, watching the imaginary play unfold.

    “Whose boat is this?” He asks as she comes back out with a large blue fleece-y blanket.

    “Phoebe’s boat!” She replies without hesitation. “Phoebe’s famous boat!”

    “So Phoebe’s the captain. That makes you first mate!”

    The blue blanket is a bit too big for her and she’s trying to fold it. “Can I get a little help please?”

    I step forward from the doorway and grab the other two ends of the blanket, helping her lay it down. Then I sit on the couch with P.

    “She would love a Nugget,” I say, imagining the forts that would grace our living room.

    “I used to have a futon growing up that folded into a chair,” P says. “It wasn’t a very comfortable chair though.” P pulls open Amazon. We start to browse play furniture.

    I look back up a couple minutes later and V has decked out her boat to the max: Phoebe’s bed and blanket at one end, her pillow and duvet next to it, and then both ottomans on the other side. Her new book lamp lays next to the sleeping area.

    “Who wants to play with me?”

    We both stand up and head over to take a seat on the ottomans.

    I love this girl’s brain.

    For the next half hour we are on Phoebe’s Famous Boat, Disney songs playing in the background on Spotify (water-themed, of course: The Little Mermaid, Moana, Finding Nemo). I give V the Swiffer duster handle as a fishing rod and grab a blender cup to bail out any water. V scrounges through Phoebe’s toys for the ones she’ll “fish” for, designating the dolphin, the stegosaurus, and the crocodile as pets. We can eat the red squid, which keeps inking all over our faces, and the piece of candy she finds floating around, but the rest are off limits. Phoebe can’t seem to keep it straight though, and manages to make off with Dolly the dolphin whenever we’re not looking, chewing on her floppy fins.

    We have a moment for bedtime and are given floating sandals from V so that we can visit the islands for more materials. P almost falls overboard but V saves him.

    Then we get a bit hungry and I check the time. Not too long before Ana picks me up for book club.

    There’s a hole in the boat, so I use the opportunity to suggest we leave the boat for repairs while we make a pit stop at the closest island and go to the Juice Palace.

    V’s eyes light up. She loves juice.

    At first she thinks it’s part of the imaginary play.

    “This is a real juice palace,” P explains. Once she understands, we leave the boat at the dock and head off the four of us.

    The drive is short, and soon enough we’re parking at the juice palace, aka. Palacio de Jugos, with its aggressively red and yellow striped awnings. V wants to hold Phoebe’s leash, but decides against it after Phoebe doesn’t quit pulling.

    As I’m the Spanish speaker in this crew, I lead the pack to the different ordering counters.

    First stop, juice. Guava for V, soursop for me, and mango for P. Plus two actual mangos. $7.

    Next up, tostones. I pick up 10 giant, smashed tostones for book club, and a side order of sweet plantains for V. $7.

    Third, fried rice for P. I order a ration rather than a plate because I know they’re going to pack it in. They do. The server perfectly crafts a mound of fried rice to fit inside the clamshell. $7.

    Finally, we go for the tequeños. You have to order them at the juice counter, so I’m back there again. Four tequeños and one chicken empanada, please.

    “Solo tenemos dos de queso,” the woman tells me.

    “¿De qué son los otros?” I ask.

    “De guayaba y queso.”

    I turn to V: “Do you like guava and cheese tequeños?”

    V nods vigorously. The woman and I laugh.

    She goes off to grab the guava and cheese tequeños and hands me the bag, before sliding the card reader over for payment. $7.

    I take the other bags from P so he can wrangle Phoebe, and we start marching out of the juice palace and back to the car.

    V has already finished half of her guava juice.

    We pile in, ready to enjoy our loot before climbing back aboard Phoebe’s boat.

  • Today we had our monthly book club. I was originally going to write about how I got influenced by Con’s slice, “The Egg Thingy,” but I’m so filled up after book club that I’ve just been sitting here on my balcony, staring at the blank page on my Jetpack app, basking in that feeling.

    I’ve been in a couple of book clubs before — one during the pandemic that met on Zoom, another my second year at KLA — but this one is something special.

    Gianna started it up in the fall. Her mom recommended making the book club as big as possible, because there are always people who can’t attend the meeting on a certain date or can’t read the book that month because they get too busy. By having a lot of members, you’re more likely to keep it going, because at least there will be someone attending each month. So Gi’s extended the invite every time she hears that someone’s a reader or trying to get back into reading, which means our club has grown since September.

    Our book club now has 12 members, and each of them has a unique perspective and life story that they bring to the meetings. Most of the members work at KLA, but not all of us. Although we usually meet at Books & Books, today we went to Moni’s house.

    We each brought something to eat or drink. Moni made a cheese board. We wore our swimsuits and sat in the pool. We laughed, we talked, a few of us cried a bit.

    Sometimes our conversations center on the books and the plot and the characters. But more often, the conversations jump out of the book and into our own lives and values and opinions.

    I’ve so enjoyed getting to know each of these women better over the course of this year. I wish we could meet every two weeks instead of every month! But I’ll hang onto the energy from today and savor it until the next meeting.

    Book club by the pool 🙂
  • I wake up (a little) later — anything with the digit 7 or above makes me happy.

    We go out for breakfast at Tinta y Café. I order the breakfast sandwich with egg, cheese, guava jam, and ham, and a fresh-squeezed OJ. W

    We make a grocery list and I eat half of my sandwich.

    We come home. I run to the bathroom while P prepares the food for Phoebe, ready to start our morning of errands — Home Depot, Aldi, Trader Joe’s — before our beach day.

    I go to text Male to see what time works for said beach day.

    As I do, P tells me Phoebe won’t eat.

    I look up, then down, because P is sitting on the kitchen floor with Pheebs.

    Weird.

    We try to hand feed her some kibble, she takes it, turns her nose at her medicine which she usually gobbles down, and then spits the kibble up. Then she heads to her bowl, appetite back.

    Weird.

    Then she stops eating before she’s finished and walks away. Doesn’t throw up, but doesn’t look comfortable, either.

    We call the vet. Are told to monitor but come back if her symptoms get worse.

    I let Male know we’ll circle back later.

    We decide that I can still go to Home Depot. We’ve been needing to clean up the silicone job the handyman did (it never dried) and do it ourselves. I’ve also got 3 fiddle leaf fig cuttings that have roots and are ready to be transferred to pots.

    I drive to Home Depot. It’s only 5 minutes away, but driving still makes me nervous since the accident. I consider that maybe I need to get behind the wheel more often to get comfortable with it again.

    At Home Depot, I FaceTime P as I get distracted by all the different plants.

    I end up getting what I need:

    • 3 small pots for the fiddles
    • Potting mix
    • Silicone sealant
    • Metal putty knife
    • Paint thinner
    • Paper towels

    Along with a few things that I didn’t but wanted:

    • Herbs (sweet basil, cilantro, and lavender)
    • 3 small pots for said herbs
    • 4 small flowering annuals
    • A large planter for said flowering annuals

    A kind employee helps me load my car.

    I drive home, listening to Brené Brown and Adam Grant’s new podcast.

    We follow my dad’s instructions carefully, and successfully put down the silicone. The paint thinner is slippery.

    We start a load of laundry.

    I head out to the balcony to begin gardening.

    Ready! (I’ll deal with those dead plants on the right at some point — they belonged to my landlord or the previous tenant.)

    With the soundtrack of the birds chirping, I pot, repot, and water everyone.

    I clean up and check out my work.

    Flowering annuals! 😍
    3 baby figs and the snake plant, happily repotted!
    Herbs!!!!

    Phoebe seems better.

    I eat the other half of my breakfast sandwich and write this slice.

    Patrick will go get groceries now. It’s only 1:16. Maybe we’ll still make it to the beach.

  • Over winter break, I was scrambling to figure out where to cut my hair and how much to cut off. My hairdresser that I’ve used for the last few years was on maternity leave, and my hair was getting way too long. No spring in its step. Flattening easily. Taking forever to dry.

    I’ve had all kinds of haircuts over the years. My hair was pin straight as a little kid, photos showing me with a short bob and thick, straight-across bangs. In elementary school, I tried to cut bangs like Lindsay Lohan does in The Parent Trap, but obviously they didn’t come out like hers, so I wore a headband most of that year. My hair got long and was mostly straight and wavyish throughout middle school.

    Then, sometime between sophomore and junior year, it got curly, likely due to hormonal changes. My parents and my sister have curly hair too, so it was only a matter of time (there is a great photo of them in the late 80s or 1990, when Tillie was still a toddler and I wasn’t part of the picture yet, and they all not only have the same hair type, but the same hair style: big, loose curls — I love that photo).

    Before college, I got bangs, which didn’t last too long, as then I started playing around with cutting my friends’ hair and having them cut mine. Halfway through freshman year, visions of Jean Seberg in my mind, I walked into a barber shop in Brooklyn and walked out with a very short pixie cut. Then I grew it out, with a series of strange cuts and bobs during the awkward phase. When I studied abroad in Barcelona, it was back to shoulder length curly, and back to short bangs. I got a fun cut that was ever so slightly shorter in the back. Senior year I cut it into a bob again, and a year later, I got another pixie before moving back to Madrid. I kept the pixie up for a while but then let it grow out once more, passing through the inevitable awkward phases again.

    It’s mostly been somewhere between a bob and past shoulder length since then. I cut bangs a few years ago thinking it’d be similar to when I had them in college (spoiler alert: it wasn’t, whether because my hair is way curlier now than it ever was, or because I live in freaking Miami). I have told multiple friends to not let me cut bangs ever again, and they have held fast to that commitment (thanks especially to Ariel and Gianna, who say it to me anytime I text them that I’m craving a change).

    So back to January. (I kind of forgot where this slice had begun!)

    (And actually, I had intended this slice to be about my hair routine, as this morning was a wash day. We’ll see what we can fit in. The kettle just turned off and I’d like to settle in with my morning tea and the NYT games before my work day begins.)

    I found a couple of hairdressers on Instagram and messaged one of them, who essentially told me all my products were wrong and the way I was styling my hair was wrong too.

    Ahem.

    This all coming from a stylist who, by the way, doesn’t have curly hair, not even barely a wave.

    Any of us who have curls, frizz, ringlets, coils, significant waves — we’re all on a journey to figuring out what works best for us. And sorry, but someone who doesn’t have the personal experience of trying to tame those curls in 90% humidity needs to just zip it.

    She essentially told me that if I wanted a haircut from her, I’d need to embrace body and frizz cause that was what my hair type was (sending photos of the shag cut that just isn’t my vibe), or succumb to significant styling every time I washed my hair.

    But see, I’m a veeeeery low maintenance girl. Wash day isn’t even that crazy for me and it’s still a lot of effort (mostly because you can’t brush curls in between wash days, so all the 50-100 hairs that fall out of your scalp daily? The ones that don’t fall to the floor stay trapped on your head until you wash, which means you’re pulling out clumps and clumps of hair as you wash and rinse. For someone who does not like hairballs, it’s not fun).

    And anyway, 90% of wash days, I do like how my hair dries! My routine does work!

    So I said BYE to that hairdresser and found another who did have my hair type and did have experience cutting curly hair, and she revived my hair by cutting off about 3-4 inches and I have been enjoying this cut pretty significantly. She even gave me the confidence to trim wayward curls myself, because sometimes that’s just what happens with these babies!

    Which brings me back to this morning, and my hair routine.:

    • Wash twice, deep condition, rinse.
    • Using a wide-toothed comb, comb out my hair, parting it down the middle (I have a heavy part and there’s no way to fight that) and combing the hair at the front forward (this was the new hairdresser’s tip).
    • Flip once, flip twice. I do not know why I do this, but it works.
    • Grab a few squirts of leave-in conditioner — I used the Ouai for many years, but am now currently using Crown Affair’s which smells so good — and with prayer hands, apply to hair flipped on both sides, then scrunch scrunch scrunch.
    • Take a few pumps of Crown Affair’s mousse (I used to use a cream/gel that my mom swears by and that I used for yeeeears, but I’m trying the mousse lately for lighter hold!) and apply in the same way as the leave-in.
    • Use a microfiber towel to scrunch up the remaining product and moisture.
    • Done!

    And then it’s always a surprise how it dries. Let’s see how it goes today!

    Post-routine curls, ready to go!

    Edit – 10:42am – for the dried look! It’s a good hair day!