The Inevitable Question

Coworker: So, did you do anything special over the break?

Me: Actually, I took a trip around the world, you see. First, I stopped in Egypt to see the pyramids, and then I went to Greece to climb Mt. Olympus. After that, I stopped by the Coliseum in Rome to see a gladiator fight. Soon after that, I went to Israel so that I could dive down to the deepest part of the Dead Sea. Then, I went to Australia to eat some kangaroo steaks and shrimp on the barbie. Next, I went to China and I walked the entire length of the Great Wall. After that I went to India to drink some authentic chai tea. Finally, I went to the heart of Brazil to learn the ways of the Kraho Indian tribe in the Amazonian Rainforest. And I got back to Montgomery just in time. Amazing, huh?

Coworker: Oh, that’s nice. We went to the beach.

Okay, okay, what I really did was drive out to Augusta, GA to see my aunt and uncle and beautiful little cousins. I had a great time, slept in a bit, ate lots of nice big Southern breakfasts, got lots of love, hugs and kisses from my darling cousins and . . . what would Labor Day be without a barbeque? Ribs, chicken, hamburgers, hotdogs, potato salad, greens, baked beans and corn on the cob. Good times.

I’ve also started this book that I bought when I was down there called The Tipping Point by Malcolm Gladwell. I already read another of his books called Blink and I was wowed, so my next quest was to read his previously written book. The guy is brilliant. He proposes in very sparkling and understandable prose his theory that ideas, trends, fads, phenomena, etc. spread in the same way viruses spread. It’s basically the epidemiology of ideas. It sounds weird, but it really makes a lot of sense, and it’s highly interesting.

Anyway, (sigh) work continues on the morrow. I might use my outlandish answer to the inevitable question just to get a reaction out of someone.

From the Archives of Standardized Test Samples

Why haven’t I been blogging lately?

a. There’s so much going on I don’t have time.

b. There’s absolutely nothing going on, so there’s not much to say.

c. The band director googled me and found my blog and told me that he’s read everything I wrote about him.

d. I’ve been consumed with testing out my newly discovered telekinetic powers.

The correct answer is b.

Status Quo

status quo n. the existing state of affairs

Lately, I've been getting fed up with the status quo. The problem is, however, that sometimes I feel like everything I'm doing is simply contributing to it. How can I justifiably complain if I'm a part of the thing that's bothering me?

I don't mean to sound . . . flippant about this, but so many times people have given me a "word" telling me that I'm going to do something great for God's kingdom. That God is going to use the gifts and talents He's given me. Don't get discouraged. Your labor is not in vain. Stay faithful to Him.

That's great, and I receive it. I accept it, and I feel that I am willing to do whatever He has for me to do. I don't plan on throwing in the towel any time soon. But why do I feel like I'm the servant the lord gave the 2 or 5 talents to, but instead am behaving like the one he gave only one to (See Matt. 25:14-30)? It's unnerving and frustrating to feel that I'm not doing what I should be doing with what He's given me.

Is there anything wrong with what I am doing? And if so, what in the world am I supposed to be doing? Because right now, I feel lost at sea.

The 'Cool' I'm Not

I don’t write this to gain sympathy at all. It’s just the facts.

The fact is that I’ve never been cool. I know, that sounds ridiculous, like, who in the world cares or even thinks about whether I’m cool other than me? But I was just thinking (a dangerous activity sometimes), and that was one of the thoughts that crossed my mind.

As a child, I was a teacher’s pet in school and outside of school I spent the days skinning up my knees as a tomboy. As an adolescent, I was a bit of a misfit because we made a big move back to the States after being overseas for most of my formative years, and I was looked at like I had just come from Pluto. That was back when my family first found a church home, and even there, as the new girl, I was out of place. In high school, things got a little better. I was always a nerd, but I went to an all-nerd high school (an academic magnet school), so at least I fit in. I then became counted as a nerd among nerds, and in that environment, it wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. (To my credit, I did get voted as “Most Likely to Succeed” as a senior.) But now that I was a “church girl” I was also a goody-goody. And “goody-goody” doesn’t usually equate with “cool.”

But the problem was that, though I was a goody-goody at school, I wasn’t counted much differently among my peers at church. I was never one of the ones that took glee in courting the edge, and many kids (most of them a few years older than me at the time, now that I think about it) did. Yet, it wasn’t just my aversion to courting the edge that branded me as uncool church-wise as a young(er) person. I was never the one to have the “diva” thing down either. Some of y’all know what I mean. I never developed a following for my singing ability. I never swapped badges with any boys at Youth Camp. I never had a date to the pizza party. I never owned a set of hot sticks. Let me back up and say that I was not an outcast. I had friends, good times, all of that. It’s just that I was never cool.

But then I went off to college. College was really freeing, because nobody cared. I really recommend college to everyone. I still felt slightly uncool, though, especially on the weekends. I was never a football fan, and I never frequented The Strip. Except to go to the Crimson Café.

And now? I don’t think I’ll ever be cool, but that’s okay. (I mean, one look at how many people I’m linked to on EC is proof of that.) I guess if I somehow became cool, that would mean that I was somehow not being myself.

But you know, I guess what it all boils down to is one’s definition of ‘cool.’ Maybe the ‘cool’ I’m not is only one definition of many.

Back to School Night

Tonight we had Back to School Night at the Middle School, and, as I'd hoped, "His Musical Hotness" was there.

What is it about being around him that makes me revert to my junior high self? With everyone else I was smiling, talkative, etc. With him, I couldn't do it. The liquid electricity that shoots through me in those moments has some kind of paralyzing effect. Of course, I greeted him when I walked in, but beyond that, no small talk.

The principal was going to put us at a table together to meet and greet the parents, but at the last minute decided I should have my own table and moved my little sign. He jokingly said, "Oh, I've been abandoned." lol.

There were a few caught glances, but otherwise, nothing. Honestly, it's not that I want "something." I just want to get over my junior high-ness and be able to talk to the guy. Ask him how his first year is going so far, just chit chat. But I haven't even been able to do that. And I don't see him very often. We both work at the middle school but our paths rarely cross since I'm going back and forth between middle and elementary and he's always in the Performing Arts Building unless he comes to the MS building to check his box or whatever.

I feel sort of girlish and immature talking (blogging, whatever) about him the way that I do, but he really does seem like a genuinely good guy. He's cute, yes. But from how I've seen him interact with people, he's more than just a handsome face. I would be okay if he were cute and shallow. But he's cute with substance. (From what I can tell so far, anyway.) And that's what makes it worse.

Can You Relate?

I wrote a silly little list for 90&9.com—Top Ten Things Said to the Single Church Girl.

I got a kick out of writing it, so I hope some folks get a kick out of reading it. And I wonder . . . what kinds of things are said to single church guys? "Will you marry me?" Bwahhahahaha! Due to their scarcity, I wouldn't be surprised. When supply is low and demand is high . . .

(sigh.) It's the age we live in.

One of the first

questions I think I'll ask God (not related to my previous post at all, btw) when I hopefully get to Heaven is this:

"God, why did you make roaches?"

They are the most disgusting, filthy, simply yuck things to ever grace the face of this planet. I mean, what are they good for? I mean, really? I had an incident at school today, and it unnerved me so much, I am taking a break to write about it now.

I opened one of the drawers of my teacher desk to take out a file folder. Big deal. But then I saw a black, shiny, scurrying creature and I nearly freaked. Why, God? Why now? I planned to crush the nasty sucker with a big tub of crayons. But each time I smashed down, rattling the metal drawer of my desk, it scurried to another corner, and another corner, and finally hid under bunches of papers. Great! Then I had to carefully remove all teacher paraphanalia from the drawer in order to crush him good. I prayed, "God, wherever this thing is in the drawer, please, whatever You do, please, do not let it crawl on my hand while I am taking these things out." I finally had a clear spot to really get him. I brought the tub of crayons down a few more times and kind of nicked him. Then, he did that nasty roachy thing that I hate--flipped on its back and started wriggling around. It took all I had to stifle my screams.

But then I had an idea. Expo whiteboard cleaner. "That'll teach you to scurry around in my desk drawers!" I said out loud. "Die, die, die," I repeated with each spray. I went to the girl's bathroom and came back with a gignormous wad of paper towel to dispose of him. By the time I got back, the wriggling had stopped. Another one bites the dust.

Now I can go back to my day.

I Asked God

I asked God for strength,
that I might achieve . . .

I was made weak,
that I might learn humbly to obey.

I asked for health,
that I might do greater things . . .

I was given infirmity,
that I might do better things.

I asked for riches,
that I might be happy . . .

I was given poverty,
that I might be wise.

I asked for power,
that I might have the praise of men . . .

I was given weakness,
that I might feel the need of God.

I asked for all things,
that I might enjoy life . . .

I was given life,
that I might enjoy all things.

I got nothing that I asked for,
but everything I had hoped for.

Almost despite myself,
my unspoken prayers were answered.

I am among all men, most richly blessed!

-Anonymous-

This Is Ridiculous

Grrr . . . I don't even know the band director. And he barely knows I exist! Those are the givens.

But this morning I was doing my usual building hop (from Elementary to Middle School), bustling towards the Middle School office to drop off my lesson plans for the week and make copies. Then I spotted him. Bam. He was on his way out, I was on my way in. Our paths were to cross, period. I looked up, smiled, cheerily said "Good morning," and kept walking. (I wasn't about to stop and try to strike up some kind of mundane conversation; he probably had things to do, and so did I.) He did the exact same thing in kind. Big deal, right?

It wasn't until after I put my plans in the principal's box and stopped at the copier that it hit me. A delayed adrenaline rush that caught me off guard. An irrepressible smile. It was him! It was him!

And this is what I hate. That such an infinitesimally small, insignificant nothing can cause me to respond this way. This has got to stop. This is ridiculous.

The New Band Director, Part III: The Golden Boy

The new band director, as I’ve mentioned previously, is hot stuff. (Parts I and II, for your convenience.) Everyone thinks so. I mean, everyone. During inservice, he played the saxhorn (I think . . . some kind of smaller tuba looking instrument) with the choral director on the piano—they did a duet, and everyone was transfixed. The teacher next to me nudged me knowingly, and teachers in my vicinity were giving me winks and conspiratorially pointing towards him. I know, I know. Yes, he’s cute. But just because he’s cute in my book, it doesn’t necessarily follow that I’m cute in his.

I think of him as the golden boy, the wonder child, the young prodigy that everyone loves. He’s already splashed in a full-color photo all over the pages of one of the local newspapers. Everyone raves about him. I’m 100% sure all of the middle and high school girls in band will have fervent crushes on him. He’s the hot new thing.

I guess I was sort of the hot new thing when I was hired last year. The teachers were impressed with my Spanish ability. The kids liked me because I’m a younger teacher, full of energy; I’d jump around and do crazy, fun stuff—I got a few comments and emails from parents saying how much their kids enjoyed my class. That’s how new band director is now, except like times 50.

I just couldn’t bring myself to approach him when we had little breaks during inservice. Part of it was that I felt like everyone was like . . . watching me? No, more like they were watching him and if people saw me approach him they’d be all . . . you know, since they’re trying to fix us up anyway. But the main thing was that I just felt . . . awkward. I regressed into my junior high self (yeah, Alabama was way behind on the middle school concept). He’s cool and he’s golden and people gravitate towards him. I wanted to say something to him, like, you know, give some friendly encouragement from a former first-year teacher, no harm in that, right? But I just . . . couldn’t.

Today was the first day of school. It went along well. My teacher buddy (they’ve partnered all teachers with other teachers from different departments and we’re to work together to create three team lessons for the year) sweetly sent me a bag of candy with a note wishing me a great first day. That inspired me . . . I sent an “I hope you had a great first day” email to all the new teachers individually (band director included, of course). After all, I remember all too well what it was like when I was new. He was the first to respond back to me. It was something generically nice, like, “Thanks, my first day is going well, I’m having a blast, I hope your day is going well too.”

Sigh. I hate being attracted to the guy that everyone else is drawn to. It makes the junior high me begin to emerge, and I can testify that I’ve spent too much energy doing everything I could to leave the junior high me behind.

I Feel . . . Like Sanctus Real . . .

If weakness is a wound
That no one wants to speak of
Then “cool” is just how far we have to fall
I am not immune
I only want to be loved
But I feel safe behind the firewall
Can I lose my need to impress?
If you want the truth, I need to confess

I’m not alright
I’m broken inside, broken inside
And all I go through
It leads me to you, it leads me to you

Burn away the pride
Bring me to my weakness
Until everything I hide behind is gone
And when I’m open wide
With nothing left to cling to
Only you are there to lead me on
Cause honestly, I’m not that strong

I’m not alright
I’m broken inside, broken inside
And all I go through
It leads me to you, it leads me to you

And I move, and I move, and I move...closer to you
And I move, and I move, and I move...closer to you
And I move, and I move, and I move...closer to you
And I move, and I move, and I move...

I’m not alright
I’m broken inside, broken inside
broken inside, broken inside
And all I go through
Leads me to you, leads me to you

I’m not alright, I’m not alright, I’m not alright...that’s why I need you

It's a pretty real song. Check it out here. Watch the music video here.

Aargh!

Teacher inservice is tomorrow and Thursday, and the first day of school is on Friday (albeit a half day). I am so not ready.

Blast it all! How did the summer go by so fast? How have the days slipped by leaving me so exposed, so unprepared? What am I going to do?

I have this insane idea that things are just going to fall into place. And the funny thing is, usually, when I have this anxious, I-don't-know-what-I'm-gonna-do feeling, they do. Now, I'm not banking on it. I mean, I have prepared some things here and there. I'm not a total wreck. But Lord Jesus, I know, I know it's going to all fall on me like a ton of bricks as deadlines loom closer, and I'm preparing myself for some sleep-deprived days.

But doesn't the Bible say somewhere that He's a God who never sleeps or slumbers? So I hope He'll be there with me, helping me dig myself out of this procrastinatory hole.

Honor to Whom Honor Is Due

I promised I was going to do this. First a confession: The title of my blog is not original. I, in effect, borrowed it. Why I did not think it would cause even the slightest irritation, I do not know. I guess I was thinking along the lines of "imitation is the sincerest form of flattery" or something. But had I known that my "borrowing" would even slightly irritate, I would have never done it. Especially not without giving recognition/acknowledging that it was borrowed. Okay, backstory:

My friend Homegirl, as I've mentioned before is a writer. A poetess. She printed a pseudo-"chapbook" (as they call it in the writing world; pseudo because she said it wasn't a real chapbook)—in other words, a collection of poems. She titled it Where You Can Find Me . . . For Now. The "for now" was slyly printed in smaller font underneath the former part of the title. We both had a really good laugh about it, the title that is, because of the classic Homegirl-ness of the elusive "for now" part. You can only find me here temporarily. I go where the wind blows. Just be grateful that you were ever able to find me at all, even if for a fleeting moment. Of course, I know Homegirl better than that, but that's what we were laughing about—her seeming desire to put forth a . . . transitory, elusive, ephemeral image. Oh, so writer. lol.

So, I became endeared to the title and adopted it when I started my blog, leaving off the "for now." Of course I informed Homegirl of my blog's debut, and since she didn't say anything about it then, as time passed, I honestly nearly forgot that her chapbook title was the inspiration for my blog title.

But I went to visit the other day, and she was going through old stuff and she pulled out the famed chapbook.

"Where you can find me for now, " I read with a laugh. "Yeah, that's where I got the title of my blog from." And then, she made an admission I had been ignorant of for over a year now. She said that it bothered her a little at first. Gasp! I never knew that. Shame flooded over me. We were discussing it again later and she tried to soften it saying that it didn't bother her that much, it's just that . . . and I finished the sentence for her. It's just that I didn't give her recognition for it.

So now, Homegirl, I admit my wrong. I humble myself before you, before the entire realm of the blogosphere and admit that the title of my blog, Where You Can Find Me, is not my own. I hereby give all honor and due respect to the genius of my friend, who is the rightful recipient of any credit given for having invented said title. I'm not worthy, I'm not worthy . . .

Here's to You, Butterfly

I caught this bittersweet moment in life on a street curb. This butterfly, though part of one of his wings is torn off, is still alive. I just saw the little guy there and didn't know what to do. He caught my eye because he was just sitting there, fluttering away on a street curb. Why doesn't he fly away? Then I looked closer and realized why. I couldn't put his wing back on for him, so I decided to immortalize him on the web. Here's to you, butterfly.

Arby's Orange Cream Swirl Shake

I've fallen in love with you, Orange Cream Swirl Shake. I don't know what it is about you. Is it your soothing creamy texture? Your mysterious vanilla swirl within the tangy orange? Is it that your Dreamsicle-esque savor brings me back to the days when I was younger and carefree and shamelessly licked left-over Dreamsicle stickiness off from around my lips?

What have you done to me, Orange Cream Swirl Shake? In days when I have professed my love for other cold, creamy concoctions—Caramel Frappucinos, Iced Chai Tea Lattes—you singlehandedly burrowed your way into my heart in the space of one slurp.

What does this mean, Orange Cream Swirl Shake? And I don't even like orange that much. You tantalizingly beckoned to me from off of the Arby's poster which boasted your novelty. There was something in that first glance that made me feel you were the one. But when I held you in my hands and swallowed that first slurp, I was assured, and you erased all doubt.

Channy Oakley

We had a western themed 5th Sunday dinner today, and I went all out . . . yee-haw! I had a toy gun in a holster too, but the kids were going crazy trying to pull it out and shoot it in church, so I thought it best to leave my gun-totin' days behind.

Time to Get Crackin'

My parents left for Atlanta this morning to go to the UPCI's Black Evangelism Conference. I wanted to go, but extenuating circumstances prevented my attending. Later on this afternoon, my mom called me excitedly on her cell.

Mom: Chantell! You won't believe who I ran into!
Me: Ummm, someone I know?
Mom: Yeah, guess who it is!
Me: Ummm, a friend of mine?
Mom: Yes.
Me: Ummm, a a girl friend or a guy friend?
Mom: (clearly relishing this little game) A guy friend.
Me: Is the guy friend my age?
Mom: Uh, no . . .
Me: Mom, just tell me who it is.
Mom: I met Professor Beardsley!
Me: Beardsley? Really? That's pretty cool. I didn't know Beardsley was going to the Black Conference. That's awesome.

Beardsley was my brilliant professor at UGST. My mom went into the story of how she ran into him and how she met his dad and his kid, yadda, yadda. I thought it was pretty cool. But then she said, "And I was telling him how you wanted to come but weren't able to and how you're going to be so sorry you missed seeing him and then he said, 'Yeah, she has a paper due for me in about two weeks. No ifs, ands or buts about it.'"

Yipe! Beardsley is awesome and a great guy, but he is no joke. Perhaps it was best that I didn't go and run into him and possibly have had to admit that I haven't started writing the paper yet. I will take my parents' running into him as a nudge from Providence telling me it's time to get crackin'. Yea, Lord.

The New Band Director, Part II

Okay, so if any faithful readers out there remember, I was all in a tizzy because my co-workers were driving me crazy about the new band director. It was insane because ever since he was hired to replace the outgoing band director, not a day would go by that someone wouldn’t mention something about his cuteness and how I’d just love him and how I just had to meet him and all of this.

As I suspected, the reason we’d be so perfectly suited, in my co-workers’ eyes, was that we shared an overwhelmingly strong common bond—African-Americanness. It sort of felt like an unspoken, “You and the black guy are just made for each other. I mean, you are a black girl, right?” Aw, black guy, schmack guy. It was just annoying and, yeah, so I hopped up on my soapbox in the previously linked post.

But (sigh, there’s always a ‘but’ in these kinds of things), I finally met him today. Since I’m an exploratory teacher, I could choose to go to any of the team meetings I wanted to, but I chose the 8th grade one since it was closest to school starting back up and it would give me a chance to touch base with everyone, I could go check up on the progress of my new room on the elementary side, yadda, yadda yadda. So in the middle of the meeting, the new band director walks in late because he was finishing up summer practice with some of the kids in band, all apologetic.

It dawned on me: This is the new band director and my co-workers were not lying when they said that he was cute. My inner monologue—Be composed, make sure your mouth isn’t hanging open, act normal. Oh, great, what if all the stuff they’ve been saying to me about him they’ve been saying to him about me!

I very cordially introduced myself to him, trying not to stare at how nicely his long lashes framed his eyes. Good googly. His fine, boyish face was reminiscent of that once-in-a-lifetime, Euro-black man I met in Paris. Ay, caramba, I was not expecting this.

My Current Song

You know how songs get stuck in your head and become your theme song for a while? I present to you "Lost at Sea" by Jimmy Needham. I plan on getting his CD Speak when it comes out August 15. Click play and enjoy!


Upload music at Bolt.

Me vs. Procrastination

Me: Procrastination, I am sick and tired of you thinking you can have free reign in my life. I don’t think you realize how much I hate waking up in the morning knowing I have things to do and then going to sleep that night realizing I haven’t even attempted to do any of them. Geez, I don’t know how I even got this far with you around. I’m a pretty patient person, and I’m pretty non-confrontational, so I usually grin and bear it. But sometimes things reach a point where I just have to be for real and tell you. Procrastination, you’re getting on my nerves. Go away and stop trying to tell me I have more time. My summer’s almost over for goodness sake! The first day of school is in a little over two weeks, and I haven’t even started writing the Paul paper yet . . . well, I’ve done some research and found some good sources, but still, I haven’t done any major strides toward applying for grad school yet, and I have nothing organized curriculum-wise for the new school year. This is the last straw, Procrastination. I’ve never told you these things to your face, but it’s high time that I stand up and refuse to be punked by you any longer. Get that silly grin off of your face! I’m being serious.

Procrastination: I just couldn’t help but note that you’ve wasted even more time in writing your little rant against me when you could have been doing something more, uh . . . constructive? (snickers) Sucker.

Me: AAARGH! Okay, point taken, but this doesn’t mean you’ve won. (realization flooding my brain) In fact, you’ve never won! Ha, ha! No matter how much you persuade me to keep putting things off, I somehow always get things done. You’ve never gotten me to a point where I have missed a deadline or failed to come through. Sure, you may have kept me up late some nights, or forced me to get up at ungodly hours in the morning to finish the job, but isn’t that the point?—I finish the job, despite your wily ways. I get it done, regardless of your skullduggery. So there! What do you have to say to that, scurvy knave?

Procrastination: (rolls eyes languidly, sighs, and sullenly begins to walk away)

Me: Nothing. That’s what I thought. That’s right, get on out of here. (under breath) I told him, humph. Couldn’t even say nothin’ back.

I don't know why

I wrote this, and I don’t know what everything means. Homegirl, a former Iowa Writers' Workshop attendee, MFA candidate in Creative Writing friend of mine said that sometimes you don’t know why you write what you write or what it all means until years later. And really (disclaimer time), I don’t take my writing that seriously because it seems that I know enough to distinguish between the good and the not-so-good that I read, but I don’t know enough to do what’s good and steer clear of the not-so-good when I write, poetry especially. So, you won’t hurt my feelings if you laugh at my peanut butter hope and jelly dream sandwiches. lol.

If you could see beyond
My molecules of fickle flesh
If you could not be blinded by
The blur of my electrons
As they whiz round
Chunks of insecure nuclei,
Colliding into one another
Like immature marbles set free
In the dust of schoolyard passion,
If you could catch
The good my tears do
When they soften the cracked earth
And are sprinkled into soup
Meant to warm the lonely,
If you could probe
My mind, winding labyrinth,
Strewn with Rubik’s cubes of stalwart logic
3D Viewmasters of memories, and
Cartoon lunchboxes filled with
Peanut butter hope and jelly dream sandwiches,
If you could delve into
The constructed bloody pulp that is my heart
If you wouldn’t mind
Getting a little messy
Shooting through my veins
Mingling with adrenaline
Not knowing whether it’s in response to
Excitement or fear,
If you could tell me
What my eyes are made of
Why my hands get so cold and
How my boisterous laugh is infectious,
I’d scramble all over the world and
Pick the finest
Similes, metaphors,
Hyperbole, synecdoche,
Metonymy and personification
Harvested by language farms of renown,
I’d slice them up delicately
Removing the skins and the rinds and the seeds
Arrange them on a silver charger
Garnished with a verse from Shakespeare
Lay it at your feet and hope,
As surely Ruth hoped as she lay at Boaz’s feet,
That you’d wake up and take me in.

Batman

I just finished watching “Batman Begins” with my little bro. It was pretty awesome. It had the dark, noirish feel as the earlier Michael Keaton Batmans—pre-Val Kilmer and George Clooney. Ick.

Batman always was my favorite superhero. You know why? Because he doesn’t have super powers. He’s just an ordinary man who chose to fight evil.

See, folks like Superman and the Spiderman and The Incredible Hulk have superhuman strength, the power to fly, x-ray vision, spidey sense and the like, but Batman has nothing but his own little gadgets and ingenuity to get by.

He doesn't have any powers, but he has a cause.

Smorgasbord

Steve Madden Sandals
I was desperately looking for some trendy white sandals to go with an outfit while I was on my St. Louis trip. Steve Madden was having this crazy 50% off sandal sale, so I indulged. And you know how a lot of Steve shoes have these insanely high heels, but they were cute and I figured I could risk breaking my neck or twisting my ankle since those bad boys were 50% off. Plus I tried them on and I managed okay.

What I didn’t take into account is the factor of nervousness. I guess since I went to a larger-than-I’m-used-to unfamiliar church that weekend and I’m just naturally self-conscious in unfamiliar territory. Nervousness produces sweat, and sweaty feet aren’t good candidates for high, open-toed, open-heeled shoes. My feet wouldn’t stay put. They just kept trying to slide out through the open part in the front just meant for my toes, and I guess it didn’t help that my feet are pretty narrow. It was a disaster. “This is the first and last time I’m wearing ya’ll,” I told them. And I banished them to a corner of my jumbled closet.

But today I showed mercy. They were still in their box, looking up at me with puppy eyes, begging to be worn. I wasn’t feeling especially nervous today, so I gave them a second chance. This time my feet and the sandals clicked. So I might wear them another (non-nervous) time.

Erik Erikson’s Stages of Psychosocial Development
Infancy (Birth-12 Months): Trust vs. Mistrust
Younger Years (1-2 Years): Autonomy vs. Shame & Doubt
Early Childhood (3-5 Years): Initiative vs. Guilt
Middle Childhood (6-10 Years): Industry vs. Inferiority
Adolescence (12-18 Years): Identity vs. Role Confusion
Early Adulthood (18-34 Years): Intimacy vs. Isolation
Middle Adulthood (35-60 Years): Generativity vs. Stagnation
Later Adulthood (60 years-Death): Ego integrity vs. Despair

First of all, isn’t that an awesome name? Erik Erikson. Anyway, I was advised to . . . do a little investigation on Erikson’s stages. I actually first learned about him from an Educational Psychology class I had to take, but I despised that class, so maybe I had sort of a mind block up. But here I am, smack dab in Early Adulthood. From another site: “The young adult must develop intimate relationships or suffer from feelings of isolation.” So I guess that’s my psychosocial crisis right now. lol. I’m just using the psychobabble all the rest of them do.

But it rings true. It’s the point I’m at in my life right now, and that’s cool.

One Hundred Years of Solitude
I’m trying to get literary this summer, so I’m following a well-devised list to read the greats. I haven’t cracked Anna Karenina yet, but I’m going to. Anyway, reading One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel García Márquez was reading a living, breathing, epic creature. Think Kings and Chronicles with a modern-day, Latin American flavor. There was one teeny, tiny detail that gave my brain a little prick. One of the gringo characters was from Prattville, Alabama. It’s a small town right outside of Montgomery. That was so bizarre to me. Why, out of all of the small town places in the US, would this Columbian, Nobel Prize winning author mention Prattville, Alabama? Maybe some more investigation is in order.

Caramel Cone and the Realness of God

Häagen-Dazs Caramel Cone ice cream is really good. Caramel ice cream with a caramel ribbon and waffle cone pieces covered in chocolate. Even though I hadn’t had it before, I knew it was going to be good. I think I have a sixth sense for judging the deliciousness of never-tried-before ice cream.

***********************************************************

Today, I was about to take a shower, but instead of stepping into as-hot-as-I-can-stand-it water and blasting Starfield, I sat on the toilet lid and cried into my towel. I really worked myself up. As usual, it was something very minute that tipped the scale and it all came pouring snottily forth. I really hate when I do that, not only because it makes me feel . . . unstable, but because on top of everything else, I begin to berate myself for reacting the way that I am. Anyway, bunches of irrational thoughts began to slip through my mind, among them, that no one cares or understands. God, there is absolutely no one I can talk to. No one would even want to listen to me in this state. No one would even think that whatever I had to say was worthwhile. No one would understand me even if I did try to explain it. And suddenly, the phone rang.

I sucked it up as best as I could to answer it, and it was a dear sister who is very sensitive to the things of God.

Me: Hello?
Sister: Hi, is everything okay?
Me: Yeah (sniffle), I’m okay (voice breaking).
Sister: The Holy Ghost told me to call you, Chantell. What’s the matter, dear?

It was crazy. It was like God was saying, “Don’t you think I care? What? Well, I’ll show you!” and in that instant He impressed that sister to call me, just to prove His point.

Sorry, atheists and agnostics. I can’t prove His existence, but just my knowing that He’s real is greater than any evidence I could offer.

My Little Revelatory Thought

This morning at church, I listened to the pastor preach about faith. Oh, faith! Oh, jump up and down and get worked up and excited faith! Move mountains, swing from the chandelier, woo-hoo!

I’ll admit that perhaps my initial response was a slightly cynical, “Okay, tell me something I haven’t already heard.” I’m just being honest.

He started talking about holding on to the promises that God has made to us and to the promises in His Word. And this is the confidence that we have in him, that, if we ask any thing according to his will, he heareth us: And if we know that he hear us, whatsoever we ask, we know that we have the petitions that we desired of him (I John 5:14-15).

Of course, there’s a little catch, if you want to call it that. Overall, God doesn’t really seem to be a God of instant gratification. Even though He’s got some rock-solid promises, it doesn’t necessarily mean that the promise will be fulfilled like, tomorrow. That’s where the whole “holding on” thing comes in.

But here’s the revelatory thing my pastor said: In the time between making the petition known or the prophecy going forth (oh, so Pentecostal) and the actual fulfillment of it, you’re going to be expending energy. Wondering when it will come to pass, turning it over and over in your mind. So, since you’re going to be expending energy anyway, why not expend the energy positively instead of negatively? Instead of brooding, doubting, and looking at it pessimistically, why not hope for it, have faith that God is a man of his word, so to speak, and believe with everything in you that it will happen?

Okay, let’s say your flight to Paris or some other international dream destination is indeterminately delayed. You don’t know how long, but you know you’re going to have to wait. You could do one of two things: One, you could spend the indeterminate wait complaining, fearing that the flight is actually canceled, and feeling sorry for yourself thinking how it’s so unfair that you have to waste time at the airport when you could already be in France eating crepes as you walk down the Champs-Elysées. Or two, you could sigh and think, “Oh, well, flights are delayed all the time,” and you could spend some more time planning out your Paris trip, get a caramel Frappucino from Starbucks, buy that book you were always meaning to read, and find a nice spot in front of the terminal window to watch the sunset.

It’s up to you.

Here's What I Get for Intensely Thinking

I'm already starting to get wrinkles. Not like for real old people wrinkles, but it's a wrinkle or two on my forehead, when I wrinkle up my brow while I'm in intense thought. It's almost like a frown, and when I do it, it looks like the number "11" between my eyebrows, and when I don't do it, there's still a slight wisp of a wrinkle. Grrrr.

I've been trying to get myself to lighten up. Stop brooding and pondering and rehashing everything and trying to figure every detail out, I tell myself. But do I listen? One look at the slight wisp of a wrinkle on my forehead would answer that question.

I think I've found a semi-solution. Anytime I have a negative or uneasy or pensive or regretful or melancholy feeling, I go into that intense thought mode, possibly as sort of a defense mechanism. Like, maybe my subconscious (oh, so Freudian) thinks that going into the mode will block the negative feeling, will protect me from it. But going into the mode is causing me to have wrinkles prematurely, and I won't stand for it. My solution? Just let it happen. If the negative feeling starts to come, I'm going to try not to fight it off, try not to go into emotional denial and take cover in my "mode." I'm just going to accept it and allow myself to feel the hurt until it passes. Ha. Always easier said than done.

Or maybe I should scrap the whole "accepting the hurt" and start saving up for Botox injections. C'mon, a girl's gotta have a backup plan.

Connecting the Dots of the Mind

But first, a little photo-op . . .
Here's me in my recently won 90&9.com t-shirt. Yeah, baby!












Anyway . . .

This little game I play
It's kind of like a mental, abstract connect-the-dots. Okay, I'm not one to believe that every single solitary coincidence in life is God speaking to me. But sometimes, oh, sometimes, if I happen to unfortunately become a tad preoccupied with some . . . concept, I begin to think that everything that presents itself to me, whether in word or deed, or in something I read or whatever that is in any way connected to the object of preoccupation, is some kind of positive "sign."

I hate when I begin to do this. The rational part of me knows it's not God, but rather me, picking out "signs" from ordinary happenstances because my mental perception is heightened and tuned towards that particular object of preoccupation. Things that would normally go unnoticed suddenly become uncanny "confirmations."

It's the weirdest thing in the world for your rational side to realize the irrationality of something even while you're continuing to indulge in it.

Part of me is like, "Girl, chill out. You could expend your brain's energy in much more productive ways." The other part is like, "Aw, c'mon. No harm done by an already-acknowledged-as-irrational element. It's not like you don't realize you're being irrational. If you didn't realize it, then maybe we'd have a problem. It's not like you really buy this 'connection' stuff anway."

But perhaps therein lies the crux of the matter. Though, rationally, I cannot allow myself to buy it, deep down inside, I want to buy it.

My analytical, just-the-facts-ma'am side is a frantic, sweating, placating servant, doing everything he can to keep the irrational, emotional mistress at bay. What a ridiculous metaphor. It's not entirely accurate, but it's kind of amusing nonetheless.

Though this be madness, yet there is method in it.
(Hamlet, Act II scene ii)

Minneapolis and Gilead

Minneapolis
Today (well, technically yesterday, since it's currently after 12 a.m.) we got back from our little excursion to Minneapolis. Tuesday night we spent a few hours at Mall of America. Wow. It's the biggest mall in the country. We had dinner at the Bubba Gump Shrimp Co, and I got more than my fill of crab-stuffed shrimp.

All day Wednesday we spent at Valleyfair. I think I rode all of the rollercoasters in the park at least once. Two of them I rode thrice—Wild Thing and Steel Venom. I hadn't been to an amusement park since my senior year in high school, so I was pumped. I had ADHD that day. I mean, I really felt like a kid that day. I wore myself out.

Thursday we went back to Mall of America. We spent a good part of the day spending our money there. Then, we hopped on over to Albertville, a small town right outside of Minneapolis that is filled with outlet stores. Now I really know what it means to shop 'till you drop! Shoes and skirts and sunglasses and shirts and more shoes . . . (sigh).

Gilead
In the midst of all of the hustle and bustle of travel and road trips, I've been reading a book called Gilead by Marilynne Robinson. She won the 2005 Pulitzer Prize in Fiction for it. It's not exactly an action-packed page-turner, but it's serene and profound. It's basically about the reflections of an old minister in a letter to his young son. One of the main themes is father-son relationships. It made me reflect on my relationship with my mom. I bought some huge sunglasses from New York & CO. Those sunglasses that are in style now that basically cover half of your face when you put them on, like exaggerated aviator glasses or something, that were in style in the 70s and such. When I tried them on in the mirror before I bought them, it reminded me of a 70s era picture of my mom girlishly posing, wearing the same kind of glasses. It was weird. It was like I was, in a small way, becoming more like her from wearing those glasses. Me in the prime of my youth. My mom in the prime of her youth in that picture. The two fusing together.

Another thing that Gilead is making me reflect on is the older guy thing. In the story, the old minister marries a woman about a generation younger than he is and he tells how his wife loves a novel called The Trail of the Lonesome Pine, which is partly a love story about a young woman and an older man. It brought the older guy thing up in my mind. Could I be with a guy who is several years older than I am? I've thought about this a lot, and I think the answer is yes.

I was one of those girls who had perpetual crushes on college professors. It seems that I've always had a penchant for the . . . pedagogical. I seem to want someone who can teach me something, show me something I don't already know, introduce me to that which is unfamiliar to me, who can intellectually engage and stimulate me. That is not to say that there aren't 24ish guys out there who could do that. But it just seems that for the whole "teaching me something" aspect about the kind of guy I think I want, an older one might fit the bill more than one of my peer group. I'm not saying this as like a certainty . . . it might just be my English major tendency (I double majored in Spanish and English, remember?) toward generalization and romanticism rising up and threatning to cloud my view.

I've Been Tagged!

This is a defining moment in a blogger's life. I've been tagged for the first time by ramblingrose to do one of these list things (as I call them) or memes, the proper blogosphere term for the "list things" (click here for more definitions of blog jargon). Here goes:

7 things that scare me
1. Not living up to my potential.

2. Being stuck in one place forever.

3. That presentation they showed us in Senior Camp back in the day about how rock music is satanic and they had like recordings of 80s rock with that backward masking stuff they would do. Like, that Queen song played forward would sing "another one bites the dust" but played backwards it sounded really freaky and said stuff like "try suicide, take a snort, take a snort" (like of cocaine or whatever). It scared the life out of me and brings tears to my eyes even now.

4. The thought of something traumatic happening to my teeth. I always have dreams of them being crushed because I bit down on something too hard or of them all falling out.

5. The thought of being separated from God. Like if one day I woke up and realized that He wasn't on my side any more. That He was just going to leave me to go at it all alone.

6. Walking out into the ocean barefoot and possibly stepping on some kind of slimy sea creature, sharp stuff (like glass or a sea urchin) or a really textured creature, like a starfish.

7. Something terrible happening to people that I love or myself. More specifically, the thought that since I haven't undergone anything absolutely devestating in my life thus far, that it's on its way and might catch me unawares.

7 things I like (aw, this one is easy!)
1. Iced chai tea lattes.

2. Reading for pleasure.

3. Traveling.

4. Long, leisurely showers.

5. Attractive male attention.

6. Knocking everything off of a to-do list.

7. Feeling like I fit in.


7 things I plan/hope to do before I die
1. Learn another language fluently.

2. Learn to play the guitar.

3. Visit all of the continents of the world (so far I've only done North America and Europe).

4. Contribute significantly to the work of God.

5. Get married to a man who will cherish me and have at least 2, maybe 3, fat, laughing babies. I don't want any of those skinny, long babies. I want cute, fat ones.

6. See the California Redwoods and think, "What is man that thou art mindful of him?"

7. Maybe before I die, technology will have advanced enough for people to have jetpacks, and we could personally fly, instead of driving or catching flights, to get from place to place. I've always had dreams of flying over the city, and I'd like to do that before I die, if technology and the good Lord allow.

7 things I can do
1. Speak Spanish fluently.

2. Recite the general prologue to the Canterbury Tales in Old English. "Here begynneth the book . . ."

3. Make a pound cake from scratch.

4. Make an origami frog that jumps.

5. Laugh at myself.

6. Try weird looking food.

7. All things through Christ which strengthens me. (I couldn't resist!)


7 things I can't do
1. Be cool with people who look down on other people.

2. Cook. (Yet.)

3. Eat blood sausage. I like rare steak, and I usually have an open mind about trying weird food, but that stuff is hands-down nasty.

4. Completely forget about all the dumb things I've ever said and done.

5. Drive a stick.

6. Juggle.

7. Say "toy boat" 3 times fast. (Bet you can't either. Just try.)

7 things I say the most
1. Adding "or whatever" after a possible activity. Example: "We're probably going to go to the mall or whatever."

2. Adding "and such" and/or "and stuff" when trying to describe all included elements of something or trying to capture the essence of something or some action. Example: "I thought she was all about traveling the world and such."

3. "No, I didn't mean it like that!"

4. "Why?"

5. Using the phrase "for real" instead of "really." Example: "He didn't show up looking like that for real, did he?"

6. Saying "You know what?" before making a decisive statement. Example: "You know what? I'm just going to go ahead with my original plan and not worry about the extra stuff."

7. This is not really a phrase or anything, but I always give disclaimers when I'm explaining myself. It drives my friends nuts. It's like I have this need to cover all my bases and give this preamble before I get to what I'm actually trying to say.

7 books I love (I have to mention plays and short stories too.)
1. Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller

2. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen

3. Pepita Jimenez by Juan Valera

4. Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare

5. "The Cask of Amontillado" by Edgar Allan Poe

6. Cane by Jean Toomer

7. Blink by Malcolm Gladwell

7 people I want to tag
I don't really feel like tagging other people because honestly, most, if not all of the bloggers I know have already done this, if not something very similar. But if you read this, and you're a blogger, please feel free if you want to do this and leave a comment letting me know so I can read yours!

Travel Trauma

:sigh: I made it, finally. I'm comfortably at the home of one of my best friends in the world. When you're a military brat, it's hard to be friends with people as long as I've been friends with Mat (female).

But the journey to the abode of Mat and her family was not without event. I want to talk about it, but I don't want to get all involved. Let's just say that I missed my last connecting flight to NoDak because my previous flight was delayed. There I was at the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport, late at night, stranded. Oh, what to do?

The people I tried to get help from were really not helpful, and it was so frustrating. I know that people miss their flights all the time . . . it just happened to be me this time, but the unhelpfulness and rudeness of people whose job it is to help stranded travelers didn't make matters better. The conclusion: The next flight out to North Dakota wasn't until the following morning at 9 a.m. Was I going to have to spend the night at the airport?

But God, as usual, was lookin' out for his girl. A very pleasant lady who overheard my tearful conversation with Mat explaining my predicament smiled, let me know that she was in the same situation, and gave me the numbers to a nearby hotel complete with a shuttle that would pick me up and take me back to the airport the following morning. I thanked her profusely, made a couple of phone calls, and 15 minutes later, I was on my way to a place where I could lay my weary head for the night.

Before I left to catch the shuttle, I said, "Thank you so much! This was just what I needed. You are an absolute godsend."

She replied, "You're welcome. God's people always look out for each other, right?"

Then I turned around and she was gone. Just kidding. It just seemed like an appropriate ending. Maybe she wasn't a for real angel, but God placed her in my path at the moment I needed it the most. Thank you God, for lookin' out for your girl.

Today I Got My Socks Shocked Off

Usually, you think of old church ladies as these sweet people that might talk too much and try to get in your business, but tell you straight and exhort you unto good works and such. The elder shall teach the younger and all of that, right?

Well, tonight, an old lady at church shocked my socks off.

I was wearing a long denim dress and Sis. Old Lady comes up to me and says,"Darlin' you lookin' just as purty as you always do. But let me tell you something, you look better in short skirts and dresses than you do in long ones. Now, that dress looks nice, but I remember seeing you in somethin' a little shorter not too long ago. Now, not nothin' too short, but you know . . . and I thought my, you look 100% better in short things. Just let them legs show, honey. Let them legs show!" It wasn't until after she gave me an old church lady hug and walked away that I did a mental double take.

I laughed. Incredulously and flabbergastedly, I laughed.

Novels and Travels

I just finished reading The High Window, a 1940s era detective novel by Raymond Chandler.

“Is all this on the level—or are you just being smart?”

“That straight goods about you owing Morny twelve grand?”

I was charmed by all the Dick Tracy-esque slang, (referring to women as “dames” and all of that), the fast-talking, wise-cracking banter. But what was nice is that Chandler used a lot of creative simile and metaphor, which is usually unconventional for this type of novel.

I also finished Blue Like Jazz by Donald Miller last week. Non-religious thoughts on Christian spirituality. It was one of the most enlightening books I’ve ever read; it articulated a lot of my struggle with the paradoxes of faith.

His tone was so honest, down-to-earth, and humorous in sort of a self-deprecatory way. I really liked what he had to say about love. It should be given unconditionally, not parceled out as a commodity to only those who measure up to our expectations. He also hit on what I truly see as the central element to all sin—self-absorption. Satisfying number one above all else and at all costs is part of the twistedness of human nature. Reversing it is what we need to work on—putting others before ourselves. Jesus did that very thing for us to the ultimate degree on the cross. It’s so simple, yet so true.

In other news, on Thursday I’m leaving to visit some friends in Macon, GA and from there I’ll leave out of Atlanta on Friday to visit some friends in the cold, cold land of North Dakota. Or, No-Dak, as they affectionately refer to it. I’m looking forward to our upcoming Minneapolis, Minn. side trip, too. Which reminds me . . . I’d better check on the weather because I’m 100% sure that Midwestern summer weather is nothing like it is in the South, and this cold-natured girl is not going to be taken by surprise!

Singles Mingle

Just say that out loud to yourself. When I say ‘singles mingle’ it simply turns my gut. Just the sound of it makes it seem like an event that I don’t want to attend. What kinds of images converge in your head? It gives me the image of odiferous, undesirable juices slowly trickling and flowing together to mingle and form some even more odiferous and undesirable byproduct.

I know, I’m being dramatic. Maybe I’m a little cranky and hormonal too. This whole week we’ve been having our District Camp Meetings and Thursday night (tonight) has been designated as the Singles Mingle. Tonight after service at Ruby Tuesday. On a Thursday.

Maybe I’m being frivolous, but I just can’t bring myself to do the singles thing. You know, up to about . . . hmmm, 21 or so, you’re churchly defined by your age. Children’s church. Teen’s class. Youth service. But then, once you’re like good and settled in your twenties, you become defined by your marital status. Single.

Now, I don’t mind being single too much. Really, I know it’s all good. I’m 24, I’m handling my business. I’m not freaking out about it. And I hope I never get to the point that I do. But for some reason, I have this aversion to doing “singles” stuff. I’ve never been to a singles conference. I have this notion that if I gave in and resigned myself to doing the singles thing that I would place myself into an environment where I’d just be breathing in all this desperation-filled air. That I would be putting myself out into the meat market, freshly cut from the cow. Pentecostally selling myself. Putting myself up for grabs. “Look, guys, no ring!” The very thought is so icky to me. As unattractive as force feeding yourself a bowl of cold, lumpy grits.

Now, I know times have changed. People do the “college and career” thing now, and I’m really down with that. But it hasn’t really caught on here yet. Right now I feel like it’s “Poor old sad single folks. Let’s let ‘em mingle and maybe a few here and there will get together and be happy.”

A million people must’ve asked me if I were going to the Singles Mingle tonight. Sample conversation:

Person: Are you going to the Singles Mingle tonight?
Me: No.
Person: Aww, you really ought to. It’s just for fellowship. They’re going to have some really nice door prizes.
Me: I know, but . . . I’m not going.
Person: Come on, why?
Me: Because I don’t want to.
Person: (after an awkward pause) Party pooper.

I know, I know, I’m being cranky and a party pooper and maybe even a little snobby. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be. I know the Singles Mingle is not by virtue going to be a desperation-filled meat market. How unfair of me to categorize it as such. But I can’t help it.

List

1. I finished reading The English Patient. Such lyrical, haunting prose. It spoke to something in me, but I can't put my finger on exactly what. Though I understood it, there was something about it that was just beyond my grasp.

2. I’ve begun to read Donald Miller’s Blue Like Jazz. “I used to not like God because God didn’t resolve. But that was before any of this happened.” It’s a man’s honest look at his Christian spiritual journey.

3. I finally, for the first time, watched Anne of Green Gables. Isn’t it like a Pentecostal female cult classic? The assistant pastor’s wife gasped when I confessed I had never seen any of them and she let me borrow the DVDs of the series. So far I’ve watched the first one and the sequel. Now I can sleep knowing that Anne and Gilbert finally got together.

4. Today my odometer read 123,456 miles. It was only going to stay that way for a mile more of driving, so I pulled over to the side of the road, dug out a disposable camera that I happened to have, and took two pictures of it. I just have this irresistible urge to memorialize unique moments, regardless of how small. There will only be one time in my car’s life that the odometer will read that unique series of numbers, and that moment has been immortalized in film.

5. I recently began a new personal journal. The cover of this one features one of Van Gogh’s sunflower paintings. This is the first journal since the last three that I’ve filled up that is not lavender. Sometimes you just have to get out of the routine.

Oh, Baby

Today I saw a baby being born. I won’t get too graphic, but I saw everything. I saw the little guy come out, I saw what came out after the little guy came out, I saw the cord being cut . . . I mean, I had front row seats to a live birth.

It was amazing on one hand, but a tad unsettling on the other. Maybe ‘unsettling’ isn’t the right word. ‘Raw’ maybe? I was just like, “Whoa. This is real life.” It was sobering, a lot to take in, but at the same time, miraculous and beautiful.

I’m going to be honest and say that the circumstances surrounding the birth were difficult. A young, unmarried girl with mental challenges. An uninvolved, non-existent father. The new grandma, a co-worker, and I became family.

Will this be me one day? Before the birth, one of Grandma’s co-workers dropped by to visit. She looked at my 5’6, 110-pound frame, my girlish denim skirt and flip-flops and said, “Could you even imagine Chantell having a baby? Her little self?”

I don’t think it’s really my size; I think, perhaps, especially when I’m out of my professional teacher wear, that I still give off somewhat of an adolescent air. Sometimes I look in the mirror and think, “I’m 24?” I suppose I'll be thankful when I'm older.

Anyway, I hope when that time comes that my mom will be there, comforting me, waiting on me, giving me all the little bits of motherly advice. (Perhaps my pops will be chilling in the waiting room). I hope that I will be supported and loved by an amazing man who will be by my side and who will be determined to help raise our child in a godly, loving home.

I hope that I will look into my child’s eyes and realize that I am holding a part of myself.

Back in the Atmosphere

Now that she's back in the atmosphere
With drops of Jupiter in her hair, hey, hey
She acts like summer and walks like rain
Reminds me that there's time to change, hey, hey
Since the return from her stay on the moon
She listens like spring and she talks like June, hey, hey

CHORUS 1
Tell me, did you sail across the sun?
Did you make it to the Milky Way to see the lights all faded
And that heaven is overrated?
Tell me, did you fall for a shooting star?
One without a permanent scar
And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?

Now that she's back from that soul vacation
Tracing her way through the constellation, hey, hey
She checks out Mozart while she does tae-bo
Reminds me that there's time to grow, hey, hey
Now that she's back in the atmosphere
I'm afraid that she might think of me as plain ol jane
Told a story about a man who is too afraid to fly so he never did land

CHORUS 2
Tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet?
Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day
And head back to the Milky Way?
And tell me, did Venus blow your mind?
Was it everything you wanted to find?
And did you miss me while you were looking for yourself out there?

BRIDGE
Can you imagine no love, pride, deep-fried chicken
Your best friend always sticking up for you even when I know you're wrong
Can you imagine no first dance, freeze dried romance five-hour phone conversation
The best soy latte that you ever had . . . and me
Tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet?
Did you finally get the chance to dance along the light of day
And head back toward the Milky Way?
(Repeat 1st chorus)

"Drops of Jupiter" by Train

I'm Baaack!
I know the above is a "secular" song, but I love it and it describes kind of how I feel right now (the only exception being that I'm 100% sure that heaven is not overrated!). I took a hiatus from "Where You Can Find Me" blogging on "A Month in My Life" on 90&9, and it was a blast. (One of my fellow classmates from UGST is the new blogger for June.) I'll be honest and say there were some flare-ups of controversy here and there, but in the end, it was all good. Sometimes a little controversy spices things up and brings things out into the open that we don't ordinarily want to deal with, but that we need to deal with.

I also returned from St. Louis from my stint at UGST doing the Paul class yesterday. Like the song says, it was a "soul vacation." I learned so much, and it was so refreshing to get away, get a change of scene, meet like-minded people, gain some direction, and make lasting connections. I have a feeling that St. Louis and/or UGST is in my future . . . I don't claim to know the mind of God by any means, but if it is in my future, I know that I have a network of support already established.

Now, once all the Jupiter drops fall out of my hair and once I can get over my brushes with shooting stars, perhaps I can settle down and get focused on the 20-pager about the historical Paul that is due mid-August. (sigh) Back to the real world.

Upcoming . . .
In a couple of weeks, I'll be headed away again, but this time to the cold, cold land of North Dakota. (I'm desperately hoping that summer time will make the weather at least bearable.) North Dakota as summer vacation? "You're crazed!" some might say. But to make a long story short, I have some fellow military brat friends up there whom I haven't seen in eons, and we're taking a trip with their youth group to close-by Minneapolis to do Mall of America and the like. Yay!

For Now
I'm going to knock some things off my never ending to-do list, and get real with researching for the Paul paper. My topic is the centrality of the Antioch experience to Paul's ministry. (Remember the "ghetto Paul" entry where he "withstood Peter to the face"?) Maybe I can sort of sneak Paul's ancient ghettofabulousness into the mix of the paper somewhere . . . if only I could find some Bible scholars' writings to back me up!

TTFN

Well, the time has come to say goodbye . . . temporarily. I've been installed as the new blogger for "A Month in My Life" at ninetyandnine.com. It's a blog that features a new person every month and for the month of May, I'm it. So, I'm taking a temporary "Where You Can Find Me" hiatus. Never fear, though, just click here to catch up on daily Chantellian musings. I'll be back. (Insert your own Arnold accent.)

Love, Chemically

There’s this song that’s been coming on Christian radio by a group called Hyperstatic Union called “Praying for Sunny Days.” It’s been going through my head all day, and it won’t get out. There’s a part during the chorus where the lead singer’s voice goes up in a really high, sweet sounding falsetto, and I just love it. There’s just something about hearing a sweet, warm, fluid falsetto that gives me a bit of an adrenaline rush. Some things cannot be explained. They just are.

I had a little break from the 6th graders yesterday—they had some activity or another—International Day, it was. So, since I’m what they call an “exploratory” teacher—those classes which go in 7 week rotations—I’m one of the guys they cut out when they have a special program or whatever. But, psshhh, I’m not complaining.

Well, anyway, during my break, I was reading the February edition of National Geographic and I was enthralled by the feature they had on the chemistry of love. Like, it explained the chemicals and processes that go on in our brains when we feel like we’re in love. It went on to say that studies were done and that the level of seretonin in the blood of someone “madly” in love (for this particular study, someone who had fallen in love within the past 6 months and obsessed about the love object for at least 4 hours a day) is not dissimilar the level of seretonin in the blood of someone who is suffering from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. So, love and mental illness could be difficult to tell apart.

But then it talked about how “studies around the world confirm that passion usually ends.” Our neurons become desensitized to the surges of dopamine that gives us that romantic high. And, as the article states, like cocaine users, we need more and more of the “drug” to produce the high. So it fizzles. That part kind of made me feel a twinge of sadness because it’s scientifically proven that the stars inevitably fade.

But then, there’s another hormone called oxytocin. “It’s a hormone that promotes a feeling of connection, bonding. It is released when we hug our long-term spouses, or our children. It is released when a mother nurses her infant.” So, after we’ve been burnt out on dopamine, if the relationship is to last, both partners have to sustain enough oxytocin levels to keep things going for the long haul.

I don’t know why this article fascinated me so much. I mean, as of late, I haven’t been blown away by any dopamine surges. But I guess it’s just like a scientific breakdown of one of my inner debates: What’s more important—the excitement of attraction (that will eventually fade), or the less exciting “good qualities” (that will need to be present to make things operate in the long run)? What’s more important—dopamine or oxytocin?

In the end, I know dopamine isn’t everything, but how can oxytocin even enter the equation if there’s never any dopamine to get things going in the first place? You knaamean?

Blogfast of Champions

I’m baaaack . . .

Blogfast?
‘Breakfast,’ the word from which ‘blogfast’ has been derived, is a compound word made up of ‘break’ and ‘fast.’ When we get up in the morning and eat a bowl of Wheaties, we are breaking our “fast” of not eating since dinner the previous night. Okay, what does this have to do with blogging? I went on a blogfast this past week. Actually, an Internet fast. (See what these modern times have brought us to?) I realized that I was spending too much time on the net—emailing, blogging, reading other blogs, and other stuff that was basically just wasting a bunch of time. And I felt a tad bit on the, uh, hypocritical side because I have this little conviction going on about not owning a TV and yet here I am being sucked into the net and, again, wasting time that could be spent doing much more productive and fruitful things. (Though, to my credit, I will admit I was not blowing nearly the amount of time I was pre-TV conviction.) I hadn’t been reading my Bible every day, but you can bet your bottom dollar that I checked my Gmail every day (more than once a day). The perfect opportunity to remedy this imbalance came last Sunday night when the pastor reminded us that we can fast things other than food and issued a challenge for us to fast something this week we really like and that perhaps we spend a lot of time doing, and the Internet was one of the things he mentioned. Gaaa! Conviction struck my heart. I resolved to fast the Internet. No blogging. No checking personal email. No Everyone’s Connected. No Facebook. No ninetyandnine. No anything Internet related until the following Sunday. Of course, the exception being for work-related tasks such as checking my Outlook mail at work and posting grades and assignments online. I had to show myself that it’s something I could do without, and I’m glad that I did. I refuse to let the Internet dominate my time. Let your moderation be known unto all men (Philipians 4:5).

Treading Softly over Spilled Beans
Once beans of any type, be they black beans, navy beans, pork n’ beans, whatever, have been spilled, there’s really no way to clean them up. Of course, you can try, but the beaniness is still going to be there, and there’s no way of getting around it. (sigh) Let’s just say a quite . . . unsuitable (if you knew the situation, believe me, you’d agree) spilling happened this week, and it’s gotten to me a little. How can someone just bare their entire heart and soul to you, beans spilling over in quite an untimely and confessional manner, and then afterward, after they’ve gotten it off their chest, regardless of your response, expect things to continue business as usual? Don’t you realize that I now know how you feel and I know that you know that the feeling is not mutual? It makes me feel weird, a little bad even. Don’t you think it might make me feel a wee bit uncomfortable talking to you for a while? Yes, you are a human being; we all have our weaknesses. But I’m human too. Ahem.

Getting Snatched Up
My mostly middle-aged, mostly female co-workers are starting to get to me too just a tad—with this whole “have you met the new band director yet” business and such like. I guess they just can’t help themselves seeing a fresh little young’un like me existing completely unattached. “I can’t believe no one’s come by and just snatched you up yet.” I get an image of myself walking peacefully along at the park or something, and then this huge hand swoops down out of nowhere and jerks me up off the ground by the collar, snapping my head back and leaving my little arms and legs flailing. “What happened to Chantell?” “Oh, she finally got snatched up.” I’m starting to wonder, am I snatchable? At the rate I’m going, I might have to be carefully coaxed. Like a trapped kitten being persuaded to come down from a tree.

Take That, You Standardized Test Villains!
I broke down and took the GRE last Saturday. It’s one of the hurdles you have to jump before applying to grad school. It was the computer-based version, so you get your scores on the verbal and quantitative parts as soon as you finish. (There’s a little writing part and they send the results later.) I was freaking out about the quantitative, because I’m so not a math and reasoning person. I was so much more confident about the verbal—reading comp, analogies and sentence completion are my strengths, I thought. Language Arts major, hello? But whaddya know, the scores flash up on the screen and I did 20 pts better on the quantitative than I did on the verbal. How’d I manage that one? The verdict: Verbal—660, Quantitative—680. Score!

UGST
I’m working overtime to finish the readings and papers for the Paul class this summer. I cannot believe it’s like a month away. I must do it. I refuse to be unprepared.

By the way . . .
Next month there will be a little surprise. Your friendly neighborhood blogger will be introduced into another realm of the blogosphere. Stay tuned!

Alive

Every day is a new day
I’m thankful for every breath I take
I won’t take it for granted (I won’t take it for granted)
So I learn from my mistakes
It’s beyond my control
Sometimes it’s best to let go
Whatever happens in this lifetime
So I trust in love (so I trust in love)
You have given me peace of mind

I, I feel so alive
For the very first time
I can’t deny You (I feel so alive)
I, I feel so alive
For the very first time (for the very first time)
And I think I can fly

That’s the first verse and chorus of a song called “Alive” that was really popular a few years ago by a crossover “rap core” group called POD. The music’s a little edgy, but the lyrics are pretty inspiring, and kind of give voice to how I’ve been feeling lately.

For the first time in a while, I’ve gone without falling back on my characteristic “moodiness.” I feel like I’ve progressed, like I’ve gotten over a little hump that I’ve been trying to get over for a while. I’ve realized that, for the first time in a while, I actually feel good about myself and that God is leading me toward an “expected end” (Jeremiah 29:11).

I just finished reading a book that I mentioned previously entitled Revelations of a Single Woman: Loving the Life I Didn’t Expect by Connally Gilliam. The book itself, indeed, was something I didn’t expect. It wasn’t a much-despised-in-my-eyes-waiting-on-a-man book. Neither was it a keep-a-stiff-upper-lip-and-get-on-with-your-life-without-a-man-all-you-need-is-Jesus book. It was an honest, insightful, almost memoir, of a single, Christian lady navigating through life. It was the Aristotelian Golden Mean between the two extremes I mentioned above. It spoke to something I was having a bit of an inner struggle with (see post entitled “Uh-oh”).

I feel like I’m on the brink of making some big decisions. It’s probably come to the forefront in light of the fact that I’m taking the Graduate Record Exam (GRE) tomorrow—a must before entering graduate school. A part of me was tempted to . . . well, the only way to explain it is to say to sit on my talents. To resist going for the gold for fear that I might miss out. To wonder if I’d get so caught up in “doing” that potential whatevers would get left in the dust, and that once I’d reached the pinnacle, there I’d remain—accomplished, successful, victorious, and alone. But something in this book spoke to me. The author speaks of her experience in this same struggle:

“So what does a woman do when her British boss and her aunt Bonnie from Texas, whom she barely ever sees, can smell her issues a mile away? when she realizes that, like the servant who hid his talent in the ground for fear that the master was a tyrant, she too has buried her talents for fear that God is perhaps a little twisted? when she faces her suspicion that God is someone who might give her gifts in communication, spiritual leadership, and vision that, if she were to use them fully, would sabotage the very desires of her heart for marriage and possibly a family? [ . . .]

Sitting behind my computer in my windowless office, staring at unfiled papers and a keyboard with dust in its crevices, I repented. God, I’ve buried the talents you’ve given me because I’ve feared how my life might go if I use them. I’ve been wrong. Please forgive me. Then—hoping no one would barge into my office while tears dribbled onto my keyboard, I laid that big pile of strengths and weaknesses, dreams and fears, down before him. Okay, God, my talents—and my desires—are yours. You gave them to me; now I’m giving them back to you, for you to do with them what you’d like. No more ineffective strategic hoarding and stingy distribution for my own purposes. [ . . . ]

Perhaps, though, whether we’re talent smushers or talent celebrators or somewhere in between, finding the answer to the question, How much of myself—my time, my energy, my abilities, my heart—do I give to a career? begins at the same place for all of us: acknowledging that we can’t control an unpredictable work or relational future. We can only face what’s real in the present, offer our talents back to the Talent Giver, and move forward with the best wisdom we have.”

She goes on to mention in the subsequent chapter how those who are the most satisfied in their work are those who “are using their strengths for something or someone greater than themselves.” Something clicked in my mind. The assurance that I’m where I need to be flooded over me. Teaching, the profession in which I’m engaged now, is something that is deeper to me than a job. It’s a calling. Investing in young minds is something greater than me. The potential my current students have is more than I am. And participating in increasing that potential satisfies me. God has given me the ability to speak another language fluently. I feel that I’m giving back to Him what He's given to me through translating during church services, teaching a Bible study in Spanish, and by teaching a free beginning Spanish class sponsored by the church.

In the end, I know that God has also given me the ability and the opportunity to progress using the talents He’s given me, and right now, the choice of whether I’m going to celebrate them or sit on them has to do with furthering my education. I cannot be afraid of the unknown and the unpredictable. I cannot be afraid of taking what I consider risky steps if those steps are ordered by God.

Odds n' Ends

We all know the devestating feeling of unrequited love--you're really feelin' someone, but they just ain't feelin' you. They want to be "just friends." Oh, and then to have to see them with someone else. Ouch. Well, this devotion on ninetyandnine makes a parallel between that feeling, and how Jesus might feel when we relegate Him to "just friends" status. Check it out here.

And now, for some hearty laughs. I got this forward and nearly busted a gut:

You a Ghetto Christian If . . .
1. You lie on an application to get a job and then get up and testify that "God made a way out of no way"
2. You get mad at a visitor and call them out for sitting in your seat.
3. You tell the preacher to baptize you from the neck down because you just got your hair did!
4. You take 2 hours to get ready for church, get there late, and leave early!!!
5. You open your Bible & cough from the dust that flies out.
6. Your wedding song is 'Secret Lovers'.
7. You do not lift your hand during worship because your acrylic nail is broken.
8. The only time you like to sing in the choir is when they let you sing "your" song.
9. You do not tithe because you say, "the preacher might be crooked and stealing the Lord's money, so I don't want to give it to him."
10. After you've done wrong and someone has rebuked you, you don't repent but you say, "Well the Lord knows my heart."
11. If you have ever said, "show me in the Bible where it says, thou shall not smoke."
12. Your favorite part of the service is the benediction.
13. You buy "hot" merchandise and testify the Lord blessed me with a TV, jewelry, clothes, etc.
14. You overheard someone say, "We got fed today at service" and you asked if they served chicken.
15. You finish smoking on the outside of the church and then try to lead a song, get choked up, holding your throat and say to the congregation, "The devil don't want me to sing this song!"

Catharsis

ca•thar•sis n. 1. a purging 2. a relieving of the emotions

It is said that a true tragedy, as in a Shakespearean tragedy, should not inspire sadness, but rather a feeling of awe, of wonder, of catharsis. Awe at how far the tragic hero fell, wonder at his potential, his greatness, in spite of the fall, and catharsis because the fall, though tragic, allows us a vicarious release because we recognize the human elements of the tragic hero in ourselves and are reminded that if such a great one could fall as a result of human frailty, so much more easily could we.

I had one of the most cathartic experiences in my life tonight. (It had nothing to do with the likes of Hamlet or Othello, just so you know.) Okay . . . I’m not going to do that “hypothetical” thing again, I’ll just be straightforwardly vague.

There was a situation that occurred which caused me to harbor resentment against another. No matter how hard I tried to force myself to get over it, or to convince myself that I was over it, it always popped back up—the discomfort in their presence, forced smiles, silent avoidance, and the mental monologue that began “How could this person behave the way they did then, and expect everything to be fine now?” I was hoping the pop-ups would become less frequent and eventually go away. But they never did. After all this time, still . . . POP! I’d try to placate myself with “Well, it’s not like I’m bitter,” and then . . . POP! Yet again.

I’m so not a confrontational person, that was part of the difficulty, and the other was pride. Something we all need a little less of. But tonight, God had my number. As soon as the pastor opened up his mouth, I knew. All of the scriptures he talked about had to do with how people with servant attitudes humbled themselves, and a common ritual to demonstrate that in the Biblical times was that of foot washing. Abraham was hospitable to and washed the feet of the three strangers that came to visit him. The unnamed harlot in John washed the feet of Jesus with her tears and dried them with her hair. I knew. Tonight was the night the air would be cleared once and for all or the resentment would turn into bitterness. It was up to me. We had a time of pseudo-foot washing during service tonight. We simply got tissues and wiped the feet of our brothers and sisters in the Lord to symbolically demonstrate humbling ourselves one to another.

I was so overwhelmed. I was seized with the knowing of what I had to do. I was compelled to make my way to the person who I harbored resentment against, and to humble myself to them. My humanness did not want to. And the situation was such that I had to sort of go out of my way to do it. (Another person began symbolically washing my feet, and the person I harbored resentment against was symbolically washing the feet of another.) But God wouldn’t leave me alone. Eventually, I sobbingly stumbled over to where the person was sitting, and swallowed my pride as I began to wipe their feet with a tissue.

It happened. A purging. A release. Catharsis. We both knew why, and we both cried a cleansing cry together. Though it was still unspoken at that point, it was enough. I was finally able to give it all to God.

After service, we were finally able to talk about it. Finally acknowledged, finally out in the open, finally explanations, finally apologies offered and accepted. It was a good, honest talk. Not like the forced smiles of before.

My heart is able to breathe and beat a little easier now. The seeds of resentment that the devil tried to nourish into roots of bitterness have been done away with, and it’s all because of a great and awesome God.

Uh-oh . . .

That what my heart says when my brain is thinking about making a paradigm shift. Out loud, I say "Oh, great. So, where does this put me now?" (sigh.)

I can't seem to escape it. Ever since I graduated from college I moved from "young adult" to "single" status. Now this whole "single" thing keeps popping out from behind corners trying to blindside me. Okay, it's not like that for real. lol. But understand--after reading these articles, my brain starting doing that thing, and now "uh-oh" is echoing around in my chest cavity. Wait until you have a little bit of time so you can sit down and read these. They're from a Christian webzine called Boundless that I assume is targeted toward the twentysomething crowd (akin to ninetyandnine).

"The Cost of Delaying Marriage"

"Defending 'The Cost of Delaying Marriage'"

"Rethinking the Gift of Singleness"

Ay, caramba, does this mean that . . . am I like . . . is my thinking like . . . is our popular Christian culture's thinking like . . . you see what I mean? 'Cuz first I thought that the seemingly prevalent A/P thinking was warped, a la "get married when you're 12." (and, for the record, I still do.) But now I'm afraid that the new and improved "singleness as gift" might be off. What's a girl to do?

The New Band Director

Everyone’s been abuzz about the new band director at school. Everyone’s been coming up to me, telling me how I “have to meet him.”

“Have you met the new band director yet? Well, you really need to.”

“Oh, he’s so nice . . . he’s adorable.”

“Oh, you’d just love him.”

I’m like, why do I have to meet the new band director? Teachers (all female, of course) have been literally stopping me in the hallway and peeping into my room during my breaks to tell me about the new band director.

Okay, I’m a young single girl, and I guess my older co-workers have this motherly instinct to try to set me up. I suppose this elusive new band director (I still haven’t met him. Right now, he’s like the ghost of Hamlet’s father—rarely seen, but driving all the action of the play) and I have a few things in common. Both young, both fresh out of college, and both . . .

“He's very highly qualified. Great guy. He’s African-American, and . . .”

Ding ding ding ding ding! I knew it. I knew it.

As soon as someone mentioned him to me, deep down inside, I just knew that was the reason I had to meet him. He’s a young black guy. I’m a young black girl. With so much in common, something’s bound to happen, right? Clunk. That was the sound of me stepping up onto my hollow, wooden soapbox.

This is not the first time I’ve been “destined” to be with someone in the eyes of others because of a simple, if not superficial, commonality. This little phenomenon has proven itself to be especially true among my dear brothers and sisters in the Lord. Black guy with the Holy Ghost = Chantell’s soul mate. Forget about the fact that we have little in common outside of our race. Forget about the fact that he's 15 years older than I am. Forget about the fact that I’m just plain not attracted to him. (And if there are local folks reading this, please believe me when I say that I promise I am not referring to anyone in particular—it’s a combination of instances.)

Okay, let me backtrack. I know that people who try to match me up with another single of the opposite sex have good intentions. I know they mean well, really. Perhaps the new band director is a great guy who I'd "just love." And perhaps my soul mate (even though I don’t really buy the whole soul mate idea, but that’s for another day) will be whatever guy people have in mind for me by default—I wouldn’t care, then, because I’d be crazy about him and whatever people thought (on that wise) would be of no import to me. But on the other hand, the seeming idea that two people of similar genetic make-up are somehow automatically compatible is ludicrous. Imagine this: “Hey, I really think you ought to talk to that guy. You both have clefts in your chins!” or “Ooh, girl, you see that guy giving you the eye? I heard he’s got a birthmark on his upper arm too—you should really get to know him” or “Looks like the new guy has curly red hair just like you do—you guys are perfect for one another!” Come on.

My examples are a bit silly, I know, but you get my point. I wish more people realized the superficiality of how we group ourselves together—and how we set ourselves apart.

Mid-Twenties

Thursday, I officially entered the world of the mid-twenties. Technically. I mean, usually 20-23 is considered “early twenties,” 24-26 is “mid” and then 27-29 is “late,” right? Or maybe I can sort of hang on to early twenties just for this year. I’m not yet on the other side of 25, which is the true midpoint, I guess.

It was fun. I taught my Spanish class, and afterward my family and a few friends accompanied me to my favorite Mexican restaurant. My parents got me a digital camera, which is something I wanted for a while, and my brother got me a couple of t-shirts from one of my favorite movies, Napoleon Dynamite. One said “Pedro’s Got Your Back” underneath an outline of Pedro’s cousins in their ghetto ride. The other one said “I Voted for Pedro” underneath a dopey looking picture of President Bush. I had a really good laugh. And those of you who have heard my laugh know what that means . . .

Speaking of good laughs, earlier that day I was listening to my students’ final project presentations. They have to choose a Spanish-speaking country, create a travel brochure (with specific info included that I’ve outlined for them) and then give a presentation about it—I try to let them have fun with it, give them a chance to bring food, etc., so it’s something the kids look forward to. One particular student, an 8th grader, chose the Spanish-speaking country in Africa, Equatorial Guinea. (I didn’t even know there was a Spanish-speaking country in Africa until pretty recently.) Anyway, some of their main foods, she explained, are plantains and dried fish. “And speaking of dried fish, well, I brought something.” All the kids were expecting this, I suppose. It must have been the talk of the day. “Well, see, my pet fish died a few days ago. His name was Rainbow.” Apparently, instead of disposing of him, she set him outside to dry. I refused to believe she had actually done this until she produced him out of the plastic cup she had for the class to see. There he was, dried, perfectly preserved, and eyeless. (Yeah, she had even gone as far as to remove the deceased fishie’s eyes.) The whole class erupted. I know I’m supposed to be the teacher and in control and everything, but that was too much—I lost it. For several minutes straight we just all had a belly-shaking, tear-jerking laugh. I mean, that’s dedication. To dry out your dead former pet, take out his eyes, and bring him to school in a cup, all for a Spanish presentation. Wow. She also brought banana nut bread to share (they eat bananas and nuts in Equatorial Guinea as a main food source also), and before she could lift the little covering she had over the plate of banana nut bread, kids in the class yelled, “Wash your hands!” Dried fish germs. Yeah.

I want to give a shout out and a thank you to all of those friends who remembered me on my birthday. You guys sure made me feel special. ¡Muchas gracias!