Searching…

Believe it or not, during and in between all the travelling I’ve been doing, I’ve also been searching for a job. Which can be discouraging. And highly entertaining at the same time.

I’ve posted my resume on the major, as well as not so major, sites. Today, I decided to post it on CalJobs.

First step in this process, to build a job objective. But, the website makes you choose categories, none of which *really* apply to me. I’m looking for a marketing job (which I realize is next to impossible, but I like challenges). Is that Professional? Sales related? Managerial? I try all of these. But then the next choices are just ridiculous. So I default to Professional, Education. That’s what my degrees are in. And, I do enjoy teaching English as a Second Language.

The next screen asks me to select an occupational category. Before me I have a list of a dozen or so titles, again, none of which *really* apply to me. So I choose “English and Foreign Languages,” which is as close to English as a Second Language as I can find.

The next screen beckons me to choose the job title which best describes my job objective. And there, at the top of the list, is Biology Instructor. Since when is Biology considered English, or a foreign language, for that matter?

I decide to cut my losses and exit.

Favorite New York Moments

Eat The Babke

As we were walking down the city street on an animated Sunday, enjoying the warmth of the late September sun on our bare backs, we spied a cardboard sign, tied with wire twist ties, the kind used with garbage bags, onto a chain link fence. “VILLAGE VIEW FLEA MARKET. TODAY.” Megan and I stopped in our tracks, read the sign, looked at each other with a glimmer in our eyes, then set off to find the flea market. The market housing undiscovered treasures. The market where we would find the next “great deal.” The possibilities. The hopes.

Another piece of ragged cardboard had a wobbly black arrow pointing down a sidewalk. We followed, excited by the prospect of the unknown.

Perhaps we were in the courtyard of a senior citizens’ facility. Perhaps not. A large blacktop was transformed into a market. Card tables, legs unsteady, in an “s” shape, avoiding the tall trees providing shade for the dozens of benches scattered. Treasures, spread out on each table. Packets of BC Powder, appearing to be 30 years old. Bottles of shaving cream. Costume jewelry, the sparkle not quite as bright as in its heyday. Vinyl records. CDs. Paperbacks. This was going to take some effort, some persistence, to unearth our special find.

As we were perusing, the woman behind the table sauntered up to us. “Look at you! Look at you! So skinny – here, eat the babke!” and she thrust a ziploc sandwich bag containing a slice of babke into my hands. I started to protest – we had just eaten lunch, and she waved me off. “Eat the babke! It’s a good babke!” In disbelief, Megan and I opened the bag, and began to eat the babke. It was good. I was transported to 1920’s pre-war Poland. The old women were chatting animatedly around us. Megan told her “thank you” in Polish and we were off. As we left, we heard mutterings, “Such a skinny girls, they need-a the babke…”

Edison Diner

My friend Josh called this a “hidden treasure” – a diner off of Times Square where you can still get good food for a reasonable price. Excited, we hugged, sat down, and immediately began talking, ignoring the menus before us. The waiter came by, brought us coffee and water. He asked if we were ready to order. I glanced at the menu, wondering if I could make an off the cuff decision. I looked at him, shook my head, and asked for just one more moment. He smiled at me, leaned over, and began reading the menu. Literally.

“Well, you see, this section is the sandwiches. Grilled cheese. Turkey. Ham and cheese. Or, you want the deli sandwich, you look here. Nice pastrami, tuna, roast beef. And over here, these are the main entrees. You want something more, you look here. Lots of food. Over here – here’s the soups. Feeling like a cup of soup today? Then, on this side, we got the breakfast. Pancakes, bacon, toast, eggs. What cha’ feeling like today? A nice orange juice? Coke?”

I stared. I’ve never had a menu read out loud to me before. Especially in New York.

Um. The tuna melt. And a glass of orange juice. Josh ordered matzo ball soup and lox. The waiter left. Josh and I stared at each other. After a moment, he broke the silence. “I have never in my life seen that happen.” Me neither. Maybe he was just being nice. Maybe I look illiterate. Or like I forget my reading glasses. “Well, I would say if you were wearing the type of shirt he could look down he was trying to get a peek. But you’re not. That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen…”

Fifteen

As my friend Cindy and I walked along a path in Central Park, we noticed a family approaching us. A group. A very, very large group. Of children who were obviously siblings, with the same facial features and matching clothes. We stopped. As discreetly as possible, we counted. Fifteen children. Yes, fifteen. Ranging from baby to teenager.

I was once a kindergarten teacher. With 21 children in my class. There were days that I thought I wouldn’t survive. I stared, in disbelief, at this woman, who around the clock, no breaks, had 15 children to care for.

K-Mart

It was very chilly. Daniel and I ducked into K-Mart to pick up a jacket, a sweatshirt, a fleece, something to provide warmth, for him. He found what he needed, a gray fleece, zippered front, hooded instrument of warmth, the only one in his size. But, it didn’t have a tag. As we were heading down to the cash register, we grabbed an extra one, with tag. At the check out counter, we explained the situation. He wanted to purchase the small, but it didn’t have a tag, so we brought an extra one, price tag attached.

“Oh, my gawd. You are so smart. You are the best customers. You are so smart. How did you think to bring an extra jacket down? You should get a gift for being so smart.”

Daniel and I smiled at each other, desperately trying not to burst into laughter.

Clerk #2 walked by and saw the extra jacket. “What, they don’t want this?”

Clerk #1 came to our defense. “No, honey. Listen to what they did. They wanted this jacket, but it didn’t have a price tag. So they brought an extra one. Ain’t that smart?”

Clerk #2 was now impressed. “You such good customers. You are so smart. I wish all customers was as smart as you. That’s a good customer for you. Good for you.”

When Lori Met Pastrami

I grew up in the south. Delis are a new thing for me. Daniel took me to Katz’s, on the lower East Side. We shared a pastrami sandwich. For half an hour he endured my groans, my incomprehensible mutterings, my expressions of deliciousness. “Oh, my god. Oh, my god. This is amazing. Oh, my god. It melts in your mouth. Oh, my god. This is so good. How come I’ve never tried this before? Pastrami, where have you been all my life?”

Magnolia

I guess Daniel hadn’t heard enough of me moaning and groaning over culinary delights. He guided me to Magnolia Bakery, maybe in SoHo? A small shop, barely large enough for the dozen or so patrons crammed in. We waited for the fresh trays of cupcakes to arrive. We filled 2 small boxes, grabbed a coffee, and found an unoccupied bench across the street. I was paralyzed by the sugary goodness coating my throat. The moist, dense cake. The incredibly sweet, absolutely divine frosting that caused me to lick my fingers, lapping up every last morsel of crystallized sweetness. Loyalties aside, these may rival Krispy Kremes.

Miss Liberty

“Last boat to Liberty Island – 4:00 pm” the sign read, as we stood before it at 4:10 pm. I sighed. I’ve always wanted to see the Statue of Liberty. Always. And for some reason, on my half or dozen or so previous trips to New York, I haven’t been able to. Daniel tried to comfort me. “We’ll come back tomorrow.” I know. I’m just disappointed. I really wanted to see it today. I’ve waited so long. It’s okay.

We continued on about our day, visiting other sights, lounging in the park, enjoying the incredibly hot, incredibly unseasonable summer weather. After dinner, he led me down to the subway. I wasn’t sure where we were going, but I followed his lead. We boarded the Staten Island ferry. A few minutes into our journey, he led me to the rail and pointed.

It was her. The Statue of Liberty. Lights beaming. As was I.

In the Cincinnati Airport

You can’t get directly to or from North Carolina. There’s always a connection. Tonight, it’s Cincinnati. As I was sitting here, typing away, I noticed a woman to my right eating popcorn. Not so unusual, except that her plastic bag of fake yellow, pre-popped corn filled her entire carry on. She munched beside me for a good 20 minutes, staring into space, hand to bag, hand to mouth, aimlessly crunching. When the boarding announcement for her flight was made, she unzipped the limp duffel bag on the seat beside her, placed the bag of popcorn in it, filling her carry on, slung it over her shoulder, and made her way to the gate, motion uninterrupted. Hand to bag, hand to mouth, step, step, hand to bag, hand to mouth, step, step…

On the Plane

“Would you like something to drink, Miss?” the flight attendant twanged.

Cranberry juice, please.

“All we have is cranberry apple, do you want that?”

That’s fine.

“Well, you’ll also be getting 59 grams of sugar.” She stared at me, smirking as she delivered this information.

I pondered this. The woman in 30C gasped. “Oh, my gawd. 59 grams of sugar. Can you believe that? Oy!”

I could feel the pressure not to consume the cranberry apple juice. Okay, then, I’ll have a Diet Coke.

The flight attendant nodded in agreement. “Well, you know, I don’t always tell people that. About the sugar. But I looked at you, and I thought, this woman looks like she would want to know there were 59 grams of sugar in one cup of cranberry apple juice.”

As she handed me my Diet Coke, I ruminated on this more. Why do I look like the type of woman who would want to know there is 59 grams of sugar in a drink? Do I appear diabetic? Dietetic? A health nut? Obsessive?

I Love New York

And that’s where I’ll be for the next week. Visiting friends, family, and being a tourist. Even though I tell myself I’m ready to settle down, every time I pull out my suitcase, the adrenaline flows. Adventure calls…

Weather

I love the wind. It is my favorite weather phenomenon. A gentle breeze is refreshing, but a strong, gusty wind, that invigorates me. As I was walking today, the wind whipped up. It slapped me, full on, pushing me back, causing my hair to blind me, whooshing this way and that. Fallen leaves quickly rustled across the sidewalk. Branches swerved, swayed, and creaked. I was disappointed, when, as quickly as it had come, it left.

A haze hung in the air. I blinked several times, attempting to clear my eyes. I soon realized the cloudy haze was reality, not my eyesight. As I walked to Old Salem, a minerallyness in the air assaulted me. All around I could smell the rain, but I could not feel it. Not yet. Every now and then one, maybe two, drops of rain would plunk my nose. I would start to open my umbrella, then wait. Nothing more. I continued walking.

Several times I heard the roll of thunder, distant, but loud. Claps so strong they shook my stomach. The rumbles startled me. I watched; I waited. Nothing.

I arrived home after a couple of hours of walking. I searched the skies. Still nothing but gray. Just the threat of a storm.

I poured a cup of coffee and gathered today’s mail. Bill. Advertisement. Catalog. Bill. Letter. I took those things worth reading to the balcony with my coffee. As I sat there, mindlessly flipping through the printed matter in front of me, I was rewarded for my patience.

The flash shocked me. I glanced up just in time to see the bolt of lightning split the distant sky. Only moments later the BOOM of thunder was right upon me. And the wind. The powerful, gusty, unrelenting force. Followed by a few scattered, heavy drops, then a deluge. The drops pelted my face, my hot skin welcoming the cool pellets.

All around me is a dull roar – that of water overflowing gutters, that of temporary streams forming in the streets. I am happy.

Billboard

In giant white block letters on a solid black background, right here, alongside of I-40 in North Carolina:

“Don’t make me come down there.” – God

I’m not kidding you.

I just got back from my own personal Bible Belt tour, visiting relatives in Georgia and South Carolina.

On The Road

Thank goodness for safety latches. While trying to open the trunk (on my parents’ car, not mine) I accidently popped the hood. But didn’t realize it. Until I had been driving on the highway, at speeds of anywhere from 55 to 70 miles per hour, for half an hour. As I was bopping along to my “Best of Korea” tape, I noticed a strange thumping sound. Boom. Ba-boom. Boom. Ba-boom. I then looked directly in front of me. The hood was bouncing up and down. My first thought, “OhMyGodThisIsMyParents’CarIDon’tHaveInsuranceWhatWillHappenIfIDieNoOneKnowsMeHere.” Ironically, I was on a part of I-40 that was under construction (okay, that describes all of I-40), so there was no shoulder. The nearest exit was an eternity away.

I shouldn’t have worried. Once on the side of the road, I couldn’t actually unlatch the safety latch. Which, in theory, is a good thing. That safety latch prevented the hood of my parents’ Chrysler I don’t know what it is but a very big model car from flying into the windshield. I lifted. I poked. I prodded. I glanced under the hood. As I was bent over, in my sundress and heels, trying to figure out how to get the hood unlatched, a pickup truck with three fine specimens of southern gentlemen pulled up. “How-deeeeeee, little miss. You got a prooooob lem?” The one speaking leaned out the window, sneered, then spat his tobaccy juice. I mustered what I hoped was a sincere, not sneer, smile. No, everything’s fine. Thank you. Even with my dismissal, they continued to watch me struggle. I felt my face burning as I finally got the latch undone (good work, Chrysler). Too embarrassed just to slam the hood shut, I propped it up, bent over and began examining in earnest.

“What cha’ lookin’ for, little lady?” They were still there.

I turned sharply. With my most authoritative voice, I stammered, Just…. just, routine maintenance. As the words left my mouth, I immediately wished they hadn’t. The three gentlemen looked at each other, raised their eyebrows, and, I believe, made an effort not to laugh. Not a good one, but an effort nonetheless. “Ru-teen main-teeennance out here, in the midduhl of no-where? Why don’t chu let us hep you out?” With that, Mr. Tobaccy began to open his door, reaching out of his window and opening it from the outside.

This was not good.

I slammed the hood shut. Look-y there. Everything checked out just fine. Ya’ll have a good day now, you hear? And with that, I scuttled back into the drivers’ seat, immediately locked all doors, drove off, and never looked back.

Two Peas In A Pod

Is a phrase often used to describe siblings. It doesn’t really apply to my sister and me.

I was looking forward to my visit there. I really was. I guess I never really thought beyond, “I’m going to visit my sister and her family and we’re going to have fun.” Sometimes details deserve attention.

My reading choices: Half a year’s worth of Southern Living. Country Living. Better Homes and Gardens. Romantic Home. Or, the bible verses painted on the walls.

My video viewing choices: Veggietales (Bible stories acted out by animated vegetables). Or, The Wiggles (a “Modern Day Beatles For Kids” rock group from Australia).

I felt like a foreigner again.

The Sisters

The cast. Grandma Esther (86), Great Aunt Ruby (85), Great Aunt Magie (pronounced MAY-gee) (76), and me (Lori, 34).

Grandma has been living in an assisted living facility for a year and a half now. It’s a beautiful facility (nicer than any of the places I’ve lived in over the past 4 years….). The staff is loving, the residents are friendly, activities and outings are always available, but, it’s not home. My grandmother pitched a holy fit when my father admitted her, because of medical necessity. She complains constantly, but every so often she lets it slip how much she likes living there. As soon as she realizes she’s said something positive about Summit Place, she begins complaining again.

Every Saturday morning, her sisters drive out to Summit Place, pick her up, and drive her to her house (2 miles away). If it’s a sunny day, they sit on the front porch and watch traffic. As Grandma says, it’s “much better watchin’ here at the house, at that there place (the assisted living facility) the cars just come in and park. Ain’t no fun in that.” If it’s a rainy day, they sit inside and stare out the window, talking the whole time, about nothing in particular. Around 11:30 they fix tomato and Wonderbread sandwiches, have a cup of coffee, then at 2:30 they load back into the car and all go to their respective homes.

Saturday, however, was a special event. I was coming to visit. I don’t think they’ve ever forgiven my father for moving “north” (to North Carolina, mind you) and taking the grandchildren away. I remember that point always coming up at one point or another on every one of our visits.

I hadn’t even turned off the keys to the car when Magie came slowly scuffling down the wheelchair ramp attached to the back porch. I waved, locked the car and started towards her.

“LAW! Chile! You ain’t change a bit!” and with that she gave me a hug that knocked the breath out of me. I looked down at the youngest of the sisters, this woman who stood almost a foot shorter than me, and wondered where she got such strength. Laughing, I followed her inside. Hey, Aunt Magie, how are you? It’s good to see you. “We bin starin out the window all mornin’.” (It was only 10 am). “Law! Look at ‘chu! Mmmm!”

This scene was repeated twice more. Once with Grandma, once with Aunt Ruby. It was raining on Saturday, so we sat at the formicaed kitchen table, tablecloth turned back so we wouldn’t mess it. That’s the way Grandma’s entire house is, protected from the signs of everyday living. The slipcovers on chairs and sofas. The doilies, everywhere. The thick, clear, plastic runners, protecting the ancient wall to wall carpet.

They wanted to know all about my travels. How my mom and dad were. Grandmother pulled out the mini-book that is my parents’ itinerary. “Ev’ry Sat’day we try an figure out where they is. Can’t e’en say haf these names. Where they at now?” I smiled, took the itinerary and started scanning down the dates. France. They’re in France now. They’ll spend the day in Paris, then travel to the countryside tonight. Heads shaking and “Mm, mm, mms” heard in stereo sound around me. “Ain’t that sumpon. They trav’lin’ all round the world like that. Ain’t e’en any di’sasters. You know, they always doin’ that mish-nay work when folks in trouble. But not this time. Just seein’. Just seein’ what’s in the world. They sure is blessed to be able to do that. Mm, hmmm. God shore looked down on them mighty pretty.” I laughed.

Hey! I think I have some pictures of us, hold on a minute and I’ll go get them. Before they could say anything, I ran back out to the car and grabbed my laptop. I thought I had downloaded pictures of my parents and me together in Korea, as well as some in China. I took the laptop out of its case and placed it gently on the formica. “What chu got there, chile?” This? It’s my computer. I have some pictures on here. “You got pictures in there?” I then realized that they probably had never seen digital pictures before. I prayed silently they wouldn’t think it was the work of the devil and try to dismantle my computer.

I booted up. Opened the “My Pictures” folder and scanned quickly. Yep. Sure enough, there were pictures of mom and dad, in front of the various sites in Korea and China. I enlarged one. The sisters squealed in delight. Aunt Ruby jumped up and turned off the lights. “This just like a picture show!” “Look at that!” I scrolled through just a few of the pictures, telling a little history about South Korea and the places we visited. They were delighted.

I shut down the computer and we continued to talk. Aunt Magie complained about how Grandma couldn’t go to her normal church every Sunday, “Ain’t that a shame.” Grandma commented about her daily devotion book. Wednesday’s devotion was about forgiveness. “It talked ’bout forgivin’ yo family when you get into an argument. And I thought to myself, I ain’t never got into no argument with my family. Ain’t that right.” Aunt Magie contemplated this first. She sat with a pensive look. “No, can’t ever remember us fightin’.” Aunt Ruby was next. “Not ever. E’en when we was under momma and daddy’s roof. Mm. They had good control o’er us. Nope. Never any disagreein’.” For the next 20 minutes they exchanged declaratives back and forth, confirming they had never argued.

They sat together on the couch, my grandmother in between her two sisters, them all looking back and forth at each other, shaking their heads, trying to remember any argument they had ever had. When they were satisfied they couldn’t remember any, they moved on, talking about their other brothers and sisters. Their mother had bore 11 children, but only 5 survived past infancy. I listened as they recounted how each had died. Whooping cough. Stillborn. One fell into the fire. They talked about Grandmother dropping out of school in 5th grade, because her Daddy couldn’t afford the hospital bills and was too proud to ask the County for assistance. Grandmother kept the younger children, allowing her mother to go to work in the mill. They talked about their marriages, and the deaths of each of their husbands, “God rest his soul.” I have heard the same stories for 34 years. The details never change, yet I never tire of listening. I probably could quote, verbatim, each of the stories. Each inflection, each exclamation, each interaction. But listening is magical. I sat, riveted, watching, listening, feeling the love.