Another Non-Update

(sigh)

I'm still in NoDak. Tomorrow (well, today) is the bridal shower. It's a fiesta theme, and we're getting all this fun, festive, spicy stuff . . . I'm in charge of getting the games together. We're going to do a really interesting one dealing with candy bars. lol.

I talked to the guy that I'm getting to know today. (Well, yesterday.) And there was nothing radically different about talking to him this time than the other times I've talked to him. It's just that I'm all overly analytical and he's totally chill. That's comforting. Like, if he were also overly analytical, that would just be too much. That is all.

My Wedding Dress Story

As you know, weddings have been on the brain. I can't help it. On the eve of the bridesmaid dress alteration marathon I have to look forward to tomorrow (when my time comes, I am NOT ordering those bad boys online), my mind turns to the extraordinarily weird story of why I am having a wedding dress made for me despite the absence of some integral things that would elicit the need for a wedding dress . . . a groom-to-be, for starters.

(sigh.) Where shall I begin? The kind of wedding dress that I want is weird. It's not something from which you can get the hook up at David's Bridal. I want a medieval/Renaissance/Shakespearean kind of thing going on. I want a Maid Marian/Queen Guinevere look with draping sleeves, a bodice kind of tie up thing in the front. In fact, I have posted about it before, but it was in reference to a random guy that I met who happened to have had a whole medieval themed wedding.

Anyway, there's a lady at my church who's into sewing and stuff, and she was with another lady at my church looking at patterns and what not. They both saw a particular pattern and both said, "That's Chantell." She later told me this, and mentioned that I just had to see the pattern for this dress, and that she wanted to make it for me. I thought it was just some dress that I'd wear to church or whatever. Months passed, and she finally remembered to bring the pattern to church and showed it to me.

"This is a wedding dress," I said, wide-eyed. She nodded, smiling, and said that she wanted to make it for me. She always wanted to make a wedding dress. The scary thing is that it is exactly what I want. The draping sleeves. The bodice tie up thing in the front. The Renaissance look. The model in the picture on the pattern was even sporting a circlet of flowers on her head. Alas, fair maiden! How I have longed to finally rest mine eyes upon thee. I have traversed land and sea in pursuit of thee. I have braved many dangers, toils and snares. I have traveled many kingdoms near and far, scouring the earth for thee. And now, at long last, my weary soul hath found sweet relief. O, maiden! At long last, I have found thee. And dost thou have a blog? Where You Can Find Me? Aye, I have found thee.

So, anyway. Lady at my church brought swatches of material as well as trim for me to choose from, took my measurements, and is ordering everything to get to work. Weirdness! I mean, this is totally unsolicted. It's not like I came up to her and said, "Sister, by faith, I'm getting married, so I'm asking you to make me wedding dress. I claim a husband in Jesus' name!" lol. What was I supposed to do, tell her no? Like I said, it's exactly what I want. Maybe by the time she finishes it I'll need it. Who knows?

Fist Bump

Is it necessary for me to go on and on about how elated I am that my boy clinched the nomination? I didn't think so. I was going to go all out once it was announced, but, let's just say that the words have already been taken out of my mouth (well, I guess it depends on whose words they are.) But once I saw this on cnn.com, I had to break down and post a little something to give my boy props. It's hilarious!

Why Not Minot?

Freezin's the reason.

That's the proverbial Air Force joke about Minot, North Dakota. (More affectionately known as NoDak). Thank the Lord it's not freezing right now . . . I wouldn't be able to take it. I have heard horror stories of brutal winters here. Like, 30 below zero, a ridiculous number of inches of snow, people having to plug in their cars so the motors or whatever don't freeze. Yikes. Anyway, right now, the weather's super nice. A welcome reprieve from the sticky sweet torrid heat of Montgomery (more affectionately known as the Gump).

What have I been doing? Well, for starters I've been perfecting my Midwestern accent imitation. "Do you want your receipt or do you want it in the baeg?" Um, the bag? "I pledge allegiance to the flaeg . . . " Um, the flag? People also say "You betcha" a lot. I had a delightful conversation with the deliveryman who brought my friend's parents' new oven in. I had on my ancient "COLLEGE" t-shirt (a la "Animal House").

Deliveryman: Soo, you're in cahlege?

Me: No, I've been out for a while. I've just finished my third year teaching elementary and middle school kids.

Deliveryman: Ooh. Ya knoo, Iy've been tryna keep my son invahlved, ya knoo, with reeding and ahl oover the sahmmer, Iy would lahve fer sahmeone ta tooter em sahmtime, Iy'd pey ya a reesonable amount every week er soo . . .

Me: Oh, I'd love to help . . . I tutored kids in my extra time when I was teaching, but I'm leaving in about two weeks. I'm sorry!

This dude totally didn't know me from Adam and was trying to get me to tutor his kid. I guess the whole friendly, small town thing is for real.

Anyway, I've also been running around town doing stuff for wedding preparations, and having a devilish time buying a bunch of risque stuff to embarrass my friend for the shower. I'm pretty pleased with the way I wrapped her present:

Ay, ay, ay! :-)

The flower girl's mom wanted me to meet her since we'll be walking down together during the ceremony, and she wanted her daughter to get to know me so she'll be comfortable around me, etc. We hit it off right away. And she looked so darling in her flower girl dress!

And of course, the happy couple:

Yep. My fellow former military brat friend is settling down with a homegrown NoDak boy. They joke about the prospect of having Norweigan-Polish-black babies.

I'm overjoyed for my gul. She's such a godly, beautiful person and she deserves all the happiness in the world. The lucky groom is such a great guy. I know they're going to make each other happy.

(Sigh.) Weddings have SO been on the brain lately. This is the second summer in a row that I've been in one. It doesn't help matters that a lady at my church has taken it upon herself to make me a wedding dress. I realized that I haven't divulged that bit yet. Yeah, it's a crazy story. But what's cool is that it's EXACTLY what I want. It's scary. But that'll be for another day. You betcha.

Packing Procrastination

I always wait until the last minute to pack. Bad idea. My flight leaves at 6:40 a.m., which means that I have to be there 5:30ish . . . this is not looking good. I haven't even started yet. Boo.

Tomorrow, I'm heading off to the boonies of North Dakota to help out with and participate as the maid of honor in my gul's wedding. (The gul getting married is the cutie pie on the left in the picture in the sidebar above the caption "My guls.") The wedding isn't until June 14th, but I'm going two weeks early to help out with all of the stuff, wedding shower, dress fittings, song practicings, etc. I'm so excited and happy for my gul. She's taking the big plunge! (Will I be next?)

Anyway, I won't be incommunicado, but my postings will probably be less frequent for the next two weeks. Now, if I could just decide what to bring . . .

Ruggedly Handsome

Anyway, I just watched Things We Lost in the Fire. It was okay . . . a few elements of the plot were kind of unbelievable, but overall the acting was decent. Nevertheless, my Benicio del Toro crush was hopelessly revived. It's hard to find a good picture of Benicio because his handsomeness is mad rugged. Hard core rugged. Like if you ever met him in person, you'd be smothered in ruggedness. He's one of those guys who's definitely better appreciated in action.

(Added 5/30/08 @ 11:33 a.m.): An unlikely source has enlightened me as to the heart of Benicio's allure. He has presence. That's why a photo doesn't do him justice. You have to see him in action in order to get a feel of his presence.

The Update That Really Isn't an Update

(Sigh.) Will I regret this?

If I have to start out even asking that question, chances are that I will. Maybe.

I vowed not to give an update unless things had "radically and irrevocably" changed concerning "getting to know this guy." Being that this guy is a regular reader, there is only so much I can divulge without being unnecessarily transparent and/or inflating his ego (which has probably already happened because he's getting, albeit anonymous, air time. Er, blog time.)

So, do I fixedly blog around this guy as I have vowed to do, or do I sporadically give non-updates?

Non-update: I am still getting to know him. I will probably get to know him even more if I continue getting to know him.

I'm an Official Traitor

Today I went up to Auburn to get all the GTA (graduate teaching assistant) paperwork done, and since I was in the area, I stopped by the campus bookstore to get an official t-shirt since they're asking all Spain trip participants to wear one to the airport so that we're easily identifiable as part of the same group.

I found the one that suited my tastes the most: Auburn orange with navy blue letters outlined in white that says, simply, "Auburn."

I was so pleased with my purchase that I slipped into the ladies room and put it on. As soon as I looked at myself in the mirror, I felt the gravity of what I had done. I hope the Bear isn't turning over in his grave. I still have one of his hats . . . I just can't wear it with the shirt.

Sunflower Day

If you haven't noticed, I am wild about sunflowers. They're just so bright, spunky, happy, energetic and beautiful. To me, sunflowers represent all the good there is in the world. They're floral encarnations of rays of sunshine that enliven your life and make you feel happy to be alive.

Today is a sunflower day. I woke up bathed in sunshine that filtered through my windows. I spent time with people that I love. I laughed with carefree abandon. I went to the park and got on the swings. I felt the welcome breeze as the sun beat down on me.

I know it's a bad idea to romanticize life. I know there's a danger in looking at everything through rose colored glasses. I know that simply ignoring pain, horror and sadness is naive. It's audacious to think you can somehow escape reality.

Though I know things will inevitably change about my present mood and situation, I just have to say that today, everything is beautiful.

Confessions of a Blogger

This article is a little long, but engrossing. In a scary way, I could identify with the author's feelings concerning blogging about her life. Granted, blogging is not a part of my job, neither does my blogging even come close to the big time stuff she was involved in, but the general thrust of her narrative has striking similarities to some stories I could tell that all revolve around sharing thoughts and details of life with pairs of eyes around the world. Check it out here.

What is up with my generation's impulse towards self-exposure? The positive consequences can be delightful and solidarity-building. But the negative consequences can be devestating and disastrous. Why do I continue to do it? I guess in some part because I've strived to keep the purpose of my blog at the forefront of my mind: creative outlet as opposed to no holds barred auto-expose. That is not to say that revealing the personal hasn't put me in some awkward, even demoralizing predicaments. But I think that I've learned from my mistakes and that overall, I've been pretty balanced about it. Secondly, I continue to blog because, at least for me, the positive consequences have far outweighed the negative.

Like many things in life, I guess blogging is one more item that falls under the bittersweet category.

The Last Debate

NYT columnist Maureen Dowd wrote a hilarious imagined conversation between Hillary and Barack. Check it out here.

My Smoke Detector Does Its Job

I had this sexy idea that I was going to light a couple of scented candles in my bathroom so that I could shower by fragrant, sultry candlelight. (sigh) Me and my borderline pyromania.

It didn't go over without a hitch. No sooner had I lit the things than my ear-splitting smoke detector started going off. Spacy me forgot to take into account the proximity of the smoke detector to the bathroom. Talk about killing the mood! Even taking the battery out didn't shut it up. I'm sure I lost a few percentage points of my hearing. My smoke detector is hard core. Nothing can be done but allow it to run its incessant, annoying, shrill course. At least I can take comfort in knowing that if something seriously fire related went down, I would be abundantly alerted. I guess that's kind of the smoke detector's job.

Commencement

Today was commencement at my place of employment. It's a small private school and all of the teachers participate. The whole faculty dons cap and gown and those little stoles that nearly choke you which display the colors representing your alma mater. I'm so schizophrenic. I graduated from Alabama and now I'm going to Auburn for grad school. All of my UA grad co-workers are telling me, "Don't forget where you've come from," and all of my AU grad co-workers are telling me, "You've finally made the right choice! War Eagle!"

It finally started to sink in that this was the last time I'd be participating in commencement at the place I've called home for 3 years. This was my first real job. Though I'm ready to move on, I know I'm going to miss it.

It's amazing how things change. It's amazing how worries that once heartwrenchingly consumed you are so easily forgotten. How something unheard of can transform into the familiar. How hesitation can give way to embrace. Even though I'm going through this weird, transitional period, somehow, the prospect of the future doesn't trouble me as it has done in the past. Instead, it makes me giddy with expectation.

What Is That Smell?

That's what I'd been asking myself for the past couple of days of my apartment.

I hate bad smells. (I mean, who likes them?) And I despise it when I cannot find the source to eradicate them. I finally realized that it was a container of broccoli, cauliflower and carrots gone bad in my refrigerator. I mean, it was wretched. It was not just a garbagey, nasty smell, it was kind of tangy, too. Like an incredibly foul tang. How did something so healthy turn into something so God awful? Neglect and procrastination. I kept telling myself I was going to eat it one day, but never did. Now I never will. Thank goodness this is just broccoli, cauliflower and carrots we're dealing with here.

I have an array of scented candles that I've never burned in my apartment. But I've recently bought a gignormous box of matches. There's something about about striking a match and watching things burn that is so attractive to me. I may be a borderline pyromaniac. So, I used eradicating the tangy smell of rotten veggies as an excuse to light every single scented candle I own. Ah! Now my apartment smells divine. If not suffocatingly sweet.

Obamamania

Things are looking up for my boy. He's blown Hillary out of the water recently, and though she trounced him in West Virginia, it didn't make a dent. At this point, there's really nothing homegirl can do to bolster her weak case for the nomination. Plus she's $20 million in the hole. And on top of that, the Edwards endorsement. Aw, man, both of them were madly feenin for Edwards to swing their way after he dropped out. Not counting Bill Richardson's act of treachery, lol, that's got to be the sting the smarts the most.

In a way, I feel sorry for her. She was the assumed nominee when this thing got started. I believe she worked hard to get where she did. Then a young, scrappy, upstart with a funny name turned it upside down. The more I think about it, the more amazing Obama's rise really is. I know there are legitimate doubts about him, but I really believe he's ushered in a new kind of politics. Instead of the usual hardball, he plays smartball. And it's working. Just look at the way he's raised record amounts of money online. An overwhelming majority of his donors are not old-money, machine-invested, big-time donors. They're small $25 donors culled from ordinary Americans who want to be a part of the political process and his success.

But like I said, there are legitimate concerns about him. Let's see if I can address a few that were brought to my attention:

1. Rev. Wright and 20 years of association. Why did he only recently disavow him?

When Obama first began his association with Rev. Wright, he was a man in search of identity. He was trying to connect with a community that he was a part of by virtue of having a black father, but that he wasn't a part of through experience. Associating with Rev. Wright and the church and being a community organizer in that area helped him gain that experience, identity and maybe even sense of belonging. Perhaps Obama knew Wright was incendiary. But his incendiary tendencies, though they cannot be excused or affirmed, must be understood in context. I don't need to give a recap of American history for anyone to have an idea of where the anger that fuels Wright's most controversial statements comes from. I think, in the end, that Obama decided the good Wright had done concerning his family and bettering his community outweighed the bad surrounding his extreme stances. If Obama had've categorically disavowed him and cut off all ties upon entering the political arena, that would have been purely politically motivated. He still cared about the man even though he repudiated his statements. I could say the same thing for many people I care about. I guess that's why, though unfortunate, the Wright fiasco isn't a reason for me to discount Obama. In addition, I think Obama did an awesome job explaining his ties with Wright during his speech on race in March in Philadelphia.

2. His wife, Michelle. What was her Princeton thesis all about?

Granted, I haven't read the entire document, but she basically stated that as an African-American at a predominantly white institution, she was made to feel like an outsider and not really allowed complete social access in that environment because of her race. I know that idea may make some people bristle, but, um, it's not something she made up. I, too am an African-American woman who attended a predominantly white institution. Heck, had I tried to go a few decades earlier, George Wallace would've (tried to have) stopped me. Sometimes experience is the best explanation. Ever been the only black person in an honors class and were made to be the spokesperson for your entire race? Ever sat staring at a t-shirt featuring Nathan Bedford Forrest (founder of the KKK) worn by someone at a meeting for a social organization? Ever had to hear a tirade from a parent "concerned for her daughter's safety" because of a potential black roomate (I was the Resident Assistant, not the potential roomate.)? Those are just a few examples.

My experience at UA was grand. I wouldn't change it for the world. They were great, memorable times. The Man didn't grab hold of me and pin me down, preventing my progress in society. But I know what Michelle Obama was talking about.

3. Obama seems to have trouble delineating policy beyond "hopefulness." Is that a concern?

I would like to hear more policy-specific ideas from my boy as well. But maybe he's being smart by not offering concrete plans that he may not be able to deliver on if elected. People forget that there's a process to enacting policy. You can propose to do everything under the sun, but the question is, will Congress pass it? Maybe he does need to speak to policy more in his stump speeches. But his website gives a treasure trove of policy specifics in his Blueprint for Change.

I think Obama has shown himself to be an imperfect candidate in a lot of ways. I think he knows he could have done things better concerning the issues that raise legitimate doubts about him. But he's resilient and I think he's learned from them. That's what we need in a president. Someone who can learn from mistakes instead of one who blusteringly forges on in mistakes.

Edwards to Endorse Obama!

Omg! This is big! I still have some questions that I plan to answer about my boy, but really quickly, I had to post about this . . . this is AWESOME.

http://politicalticker.blogs.cnn.com/2008/05/14/obama-to-make-major-announcement/

See for yourself.

Turtle

This is the 2nd Sunday in a row that I've cried on the way to church.

A day or so ago, I saw a turtle crawling in the road. My apartment complex has a few man-made "lakes" around it, and it's near a park with bigger lakes where turtles abound. I guess one made its way over. It was a huge, slow turtle. I was astonished to see it, and very easily swerved around it as I passed it on my way out of the complex.

This morning, on my way to church, I saw the turtle smashed in the road. I became so angry that I cried. Not because I'm a covert member of PETA, but because that was pure carelessness. I could understand a dead squirrel. Those things move fast and often dart out into the street. It's easy to hit a squirrel. But a huge, slow moving turtle? That was just callous disregard. Probably someone on their cell phone or whatever, enveloped in their world, who couldn't care less about some slow-moving reptile. What's a dead turtle to them?

My Poor Little Baby

My poor blog baby has felt the sting of neglect. "Update me! Update me!" it's been crying out. But I haven't heeded its cries for help. Until now.

1. I'm still going to answer some Barack Obama questions. I haven't forgotten.

2. I did graduation stuff with some friends this weekend, and now I'm dog tired. Hopefully it'll be me getting my Master's next year.

3. I have been silent on any relational dealings because this blog has proven itself to be the stinking window to my soul, and I can't afford to put myself out there in a significant way concerning these matters anymore. But I realize that by even saying this, I have already shown my hand, in a manner of speaking. Transparency is not all it's cracked up to be. Sort of. All I can say is that I am getting to know this guy. That will be the only update that will ever be given unless something radically and irrevocably changes concerning, simply, getting to know this guy.

4. I almost forgot that tomorrow is Mother's Day! Wow. I need more sleep. And writing this post is not helping me achieve that . . .

I almost . . .

lost my patience with the kids today! I don't know what is going on. I feel awful because I've never felt that way before. It seemed like no matter what bothersome things they did, I always had reserves of patience. But today they almost ran dry.

I'm not high strung. I never yell. I never expect them to sit like little perfect robots and follow my every instruction. They're kids. I fully expect them to act like kids. I've always been able to handle it and even have fun with their kiddiness. But I don't know what's going on. Today, I wished I had a magic mute button. I think I'm just tired, and I think spring fever is in full force.

And in a little while, this parent at the middle school wants to have a conference with ALL of his kid's teachers. (Sigh.) We're going to be all crammed in the principal's office . . . yeah, totally not looking forward to it. Oh, well.

The Empire Strikes Barack

This is SO funny.

Go, Michelle!

I was a little disheartened about what's been going on lately with my boy Barack's campaign. I don't need to go into it . . . Rev. Wright's self-aggrandizing tour hasn't been helpful. We'll just put it that way.

But future first lady Michelle Obama . . . awww, shucks! Stand by yo' man, gul. Stand by yo' man! She can definitely hold her own. Thank you, Michelle, for putting it in the media's face that it's time to move on. Repeatedly rehashing Rev. Wright ain't gonna lower gas prices, help the economy, give job security, ensure that people have decent health care or allow kids to get a decent education. Observe these recent interviews and news clips. Oh, I can SO see her as first lady.

Here's one with Michelle and Caroline Kennedy:
http://www.cnn.com/2008/POLITICS/04/30/michelle.obama.interview/index.html?eref=rss_topstories#cnnSTCVideo

Here's another with Michelle and Barack with additional commentary by Eugene Robinson:
http://youtube.com/watch?v=GBRZQT7DIFw

Beauty or Brains?

I must say that being complimented on intellect is somehow better than being complimented on looks.

Or . . . maybe it's just me.

Okay, I'm not saying that being told you look nice isn't flattering. I'm just saying that it's nice to be noticed for things beneath the surface.

Heightism

There are many evils in the world with the suffix -ism. There's racism, sexism, classism, and even that with which my boy Barack has been maligned, elitism. (And I've got to post on the state of my boy's campaign . . . good Lord. Another day, another day.) But it's with horror that I've realized that I've been a perpetuator of another insidious, probably less-heard of -ism. Heightism.

How did I realize that I was a heightist? I was discussing past dealings with a friend, and we both kept unconsciously hating on shortness. When my friend once again offhandedly and ever so slightly deragatorily mentioned, "Yeah, he was short, too," it hit me. We were being heightist! We were perpetuating our society's preference for tallness and feeding into the ideology that gives tallness a position of privilege. Somehow, in the recesses of our feminine minds we accepted and embraced the mantra that "taller is better."

The first step to overcoming heightism is to acknowledge that there is a problem. To acknowledge that heightism even persists in our society. Some people say that heightism is a thing of the past. They even say things like, "I'm height-blind," or to convince you of their open-mindedness, "My best friend is short." Nevertheless, if faced with a tall guy and a short guy, all other things being equal, who is most likely to be chosen?

I openly admit my heightism. I'm trying to deal with it. I must admit, however, that hotness is a trump card of sorts, and would definitely rid me of my heightist ideology.

P.S. (added 4/30/08 @ 2:04 p.m.): I must also add that it's easier to rid oneself of heightism if a guy is allowed to "grow" on you. Har, har.

I have fought the good fight . . .

I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.

The 10 pager has been done, and an all nighter was not pulled.

I could have waited until tomorrow to do the nitpicky works cited, but naw. I wanted that sucker done and sent off tonight so I wouldn't even have to THINK about it tomorrow.

Thank you, thank you. No, no, get up off of your knees, now . . . worshipping me is not necessary . . . I know, I know . . . but you can't be me! ;-)

Hot shower, and cozy bed. Perhaps I'll sneak some warm chocolate chip cookies in there too.

Nearing the Halfway Mark of Page 3 . . .

A little bit of work, a little bit of blogcrastination . . . hey, whatever it takes to get the job done.

I just had to share this random thought as I started talking about how level of education factors into an individual's attachment to the nation-state:

I was thinking about how thus far, my interactions with members of the opposite sex on relational terms have been on extreme ends of the spectrum. Either they've been darn near wanting to marry me (or actually telling me that they did) or almost blase about me. Either mad intensity or so unintense I wonder why they even bothered. Burning out of control or tepid. Feast or famine. Decadent double fudge caramel chocolate brownie coconut pecan raspberry swirl or fat-free vanilla frozen yogurt. Can a girl get some strawberry cheesecake? Sheesh.

On the Verge of Page 3 . . .

Observe my progress:

Observe my relative contentment:

Another Procrastinatory Post

I'm starting to question myself: Why am I doing this? If it takes every ounce of me to work up enough nerve to even START a paper, what makes me think I'm going to be able to write a hunkin thesis before next Spring?

It took me forever to read articles galore, highlight the points I want to bring out, and to make an outline of my scattered ideas. That's right. I haven't even started yet.

On top of that, I have a final to contend with even after I pack this sucker away. Maybe I'll fare better when I don't have a full-time job that dominates most of my time.

Oh, well. Let me at least get to page 2 before tonight is over . . .

The Young and the Restless

Tonight, I tried to duplicate the sticktoitiveness that produced my previously completed 5-page weenie paper. Why is it a weenie paper? Because 5 pages ain't jack. Especially in grad school. Unfortunately, similar results were not observed tonight.

I thought, well, maybe if I go to that same Starbucks, that same I-must-get-my-work-done spirit will infuse me and I'll get to it. Not so. First, I was thrown off by the subtly flirtatious baristas, and then made a wrong move by deciding to sit outside to commence my reading. I should have known better. Being outside is my mind's number 1 prompter to wandering. At least I came up with an official, smartypants sounding title for my looming 10-pager: "Inclusivity vs. Exclusivity: Identity in Contemporary Spain." I highlighted maybe 3 lines of scholarly article before I decided that a change of venue was needed.

Books-a-Million didn't snap me out of it, either. Blast me for stowing away that Newsweek in my tote bag before leaving home! Identity in Spain or Barack vs. Hillary? I chose the latter. I just couldn't seem to get with it. I kept zoning, even on Newsweek.

Then instead of taking notes on my articles and formulating paper points, I started making a list of stuff I like. I'm trying to figure out what I want to do with the rest of my life. My list:

Spanish
foreign language and culture

travel

reading

politics

race relations

writing (esp. personal, reflective writing)

art (anything involving creativity)

helping other people

I know lots of careers could fit into that. I mean, teaching fits into that. But I don't know if I want to make a long-term career out of it. I don't know if I want to make a career out of academia either. Just the thought of publish or perish makes me want to cry. Becoming a travel writer or a book reviewess would be more logical if I had a background in journalism, which I don't. Become an interpreter for the UN, some have urged. Yeah, after I master like, 5 more languages.

How did I go from being an anal, focused, energetic overachiever to a spacy, restless, undecided limbo-lurker?

I cannot believe this is my 3rd year teaching. It's ridiculous. Dude, I JUST graduated from college. I cannot believe I am 26. I mean, I was just 20 yesterday. And now I'm supposed to be graduating with a Master's in a year? (Sigh.)

BTW, my Peruvian friend scored my position. I knew she would. I still can't get over how completely God that whole process was. I went to a bookstore I didn't normally frequent, just happened to sit by a certain couple, I just happened to be wearing some cute Sketchers, and my friend just happened to have an accent to compliment them in, and she just happened to have a background in Education and just happened to be looking for a teaching job. Bam. If God can do all of that, then I know He can at least give me some direction for the rest of my life.

I'm taking a shower and then snuggling up in my sunflower covers. "Identity in Spain" can wait. Hmph.

Typical

I think one way that I can make myself write papers is to go to Starbucks where there is no free WiFi, sit in an uncomfortable chair, and get my work done. I did my five-pager in one sitting, and that's near miraculous for me. I got there at about 5:30 or so, maybe closer to 6 and left at about 9. That's pretty good time, even with my little zoning breaks. If you knew me, you'd know that I have a bad zoning habit.

As much as I whine about being atypical, today I realized I could have fit perfectly into a box. There I was at Starbucks, ears stuffed with iPod buds, wearing a "Barack The Vote" t-shirt and flip-flops, typing away at my little Dell, sipping a latte. All I lacked was a pair of black-rimmed glasses. I also left my "I heard it on NPR" bag at home. That would have also given me street cred, in a manner of speaking.

I Think, Therefore I Smile

These are just a few of many things that make me smile just thinking about them. A few make me laugh out loud. I could be in the middle of class teaching, but then something will make me think about one of these super funny things, and I have to control an overwhelming urge to laugh. Mind you, I laugh at weird things, and many of them are "you had to be there":

1. I was driving around downtown Atlanta with a friend over Spring Break. We came to a stoplight, and there was a man dancing on the corner. It was around 9:00 a.m, and there was no music. There he was, in his corner, in his own world, doing 80s moves. What topped it off is that this other guy jogged by unfazed, like the crazy corner dancing man was just part of the routine. And I guess that's what set me off. Like, the absurdity of what was going on with the dancing man juxtaposed with the normalcy of everything else going on around him.

2. My aunt started a new job. I'm so proud of her. She works for the State at one of the unemployment offices . I nearly collapsed when she told me that she read that someone had gotten fired from McDonald's for eating "unauthorized" apple pies. LOLOL. Tell me that's not funny! I mean, number 1, getting fired from McDonald's in and of itself for some reason sounds hilarious, and then on top of that, for eating "unauthorized" apple pies?! I mean, that put me over the top.

3. I laugh when I think about the prospect of which instructor I'm going to be paired with during my assistantship. There's a possibility that I could be paired with this really cute Spaniard who was actually in one of my classes last summer. He was finishing up classes to graduate and I was just starting. He's got this curly hair, wears glasses, and has that lovely Spanish lisp. I just laugh thinking about how funny it would be if I actually did get him, and how I would be the best teaching assistant ever if I were paired with him.

4. I laugh when I think about this red-haired 1st grader I see every week. He's so cute, but has the mischievous smile of a little troublemaker. He has both front teeth out and when he comes into my class he has one finger over his lips and his other hand with two fingers up (the quiet signal) like he's going to be so good. And most of the time, he isn't.

5. At the end of my Spain trip this summer, we're taking a tour of Paris before we go back to the States. I laugh thinking what if I run into that dreamy tour guide I met 4 years ago? That would be seriously funny.

Third-Wave Senioritis

It's the end of the school day. There are word searches, boxes of markers, erasers and pencils scattered over each table. I'm exhausted. Thank God it's Friday.

I think I've been infected for the third time with senioritis. Of a different strain, of course.

The first time, I was a senior in high school. I was graduating, I had a full ride lined up for me at a major university, I was excited and ready to embark on a new chapter of life, but apprehensive at the same time. In those last days of high school life, I didn't feel like doing anything. I got lazy. It was almost all over . . .

Fast forward five years. I was a senior in college. I was graduating, I had a teaching job at a prestigious private school lined up for me back home, I was burned out from school and ready to embark on a new chapter of life, but apprehensive at the same time. In those last days of college life, I didn't feel like doing anything. I got lazy. It was almost all over . . .

Fast forward three years. I am a third-year elementary and middle school Spanish teacher. I'm resigining, I have a graduate teaching assistantship lined up for me at my undergraduate alma mater's biggest rival school, I'm excited and ready to go back to school, finish my Master's and embark on a new chapter of life, but apprehensive at the same time. In these last days of teacherly life, I don't feel like doing anything. I'm getting lazy and sluggish. It's getting harder to even get to work on time. My spark has definitely fizzled. My verve has undoubtedly waned. It's almost all over . . .

It's like déjà vu that self-aggrandizes each go round. The only conclusion that I can draw from this third wave of senioritis is that it's never over. Old chapters end and new ones begin. I'll never wake up in the epilogue.

Nothing's really different. It's just the same in a different way. There's no new thing under the sun. There's nothing depressing about that. It's just that I'm finally beginning to wake up from the irrational fantasy that one day I'll have arrived in some bright, transformed tomorrow. I know that sounds negative, but it's not. It's just reality. The postive thing is that I have the will to go on and strive for improvement. That I have the space and desire to change and grow. Even if I am a little lazier than usual between chapters.

I think I'm going to the park to soak up the sun. Maybe I'll even get some reading done.

Political Phone Call Satire

One of the great things about this blog is that it makes for an oh, so handy way to put off reading Iberia and boring as bricks Spanish Civilization textbooks.

Anyway, you've got to read this Slate piece on how phone calls from the Obama, Clinton and McCain campaigns might go. Hilarious.

Oh, and Obama's gaffe as "bittergate" is laughable. Sorry, but nothing beats Hillary's Bosnia-gate.

Plan-less

I was pondering today (something I tend to do when papers loom menacingly over me), and I realized that for the first time in my entire life, I have no long-term goals or plans.

I want it to sink in how utterly un-me that is.

I am Miss I-Have-My-Life-Planned-Out. I am a member of Checklist-Makers Anonymous. I always know what I'm going to do. And even if I don't have the details worked out, I usually have a ballpark figure of where I'm heading.

But this time, I have ni idea. You know how when people thought the Earth was flat and if they kept going, they'd fall off the edge into a bunch of monsters or whatever? Like, I feel like right now, I'm traveling on the flat Earth: 1. Go to graduate school. 2. Graduate. But then, 3. ??? (off the edge!)

I'm not afraid of monsters. In fact, I'm scaring myself with how unperturbed I am that I don't have a little mapped-out post-graduation life. I have six weeks left of teaching. Isn't that insane? Six weeks! How did that happen? It's ridiculous how fast this school year went by. And I know my year of graduate school is going to clip by at the same pace.

But like I said, I'm uncannily unperturbed. People constantly ask, "So, what are you going to do when you graduate?" And I just shrug my shoulders, goofily smile, and say, "I have no idea." Then I follow up with, "Well, whatever I decide to do, I'll get paid more," which in turn elicits polite laughter. Har, har, har.

Seriously, though, I wonder if I'm going to have this awakening and fly into panic mode. Or perhaps I'll acquire a comforting hunch that what really awaits me beyond the edge of my flat Earth aren't monsters at all.

Saturday

Saturday is the day I can wake up whenever I want.

I can cook myself a late breakfast (further honing my future breakfast-making skills).

I can assess the disaster that is my room, my kitchen and my hair, and can contemplate what I'm going to do about it over a mug of chai tea latte.

Saturday is my day to regroup, balance my checkbook, and buy stamps to send off hand-written cards. (I like my handwriting and I like sending cards.)

Saturday is when I can lounge on my pear green couch, laptop on my lap, to catch up on all the political banter and blog.

I can think about starting one of two papers. One is a five-pager and one is a ten-pager. I think I'll tackle the five-pager first. (Sigh.) I also have to at least start researching for the ten-pager. Saturday keeps flipping the switch on me. It starts out all shiny and golden with a velvet, soothing voice saying, You have all the time in the world. Enjoy me. But before I know it, Saturday turns into this drill sargeant barking, You have a million and one things to do! Get up off your derriere!

But, but Saturday . . . there's a lot I want to think about. I just want to go to the park and feed the ducks and stare out into space and wander around and have "realizations" about things that I can then blog about. But you have to watch your online class! You don't have time to indulge in spaciness. Okay, Saturday, you win. But I refuse to let you bully me out of a brunch of biscuits, bacon and eggs. Naw. Before "Saturday guilt" gets the best of me, let's recap:

1. One of my main girls is getting married and I'm the maid of honor. Right after that, I'm going to Spain. In other words, I'm really excited and I'm going to be hemorrhaging US dollars. (And with our wretched economy, it takes $1.58 of them to make up 1 euro. Which will bode very suckily for me while abroad.)

2. Oh, and right after that, I'm moving to Auburn. I really wish I had a rich uncle right about now.

3. I'm nearly 100% sure that my friend from Peru is going to get my position. She's taught a class of 1st graders and a class of 6th graders while being observed by administrators, and she did an awesome job.

4. My heart has been a lot less heavy as of late, and my tear ducts are really enjoying their time off.

5. I'm starting to look at the swirling tide of events ahead of me with anticipation instead of fear. Yes, I know that when August rolls around I'm going to have to hit the ground running. Yes, I know that I have zero idea of what I'm going to do after I graduate. But instead of feeling like, "God, what in the world is going on?!" I'm starting to feel like, "God, I can't wait to see where You're going to take me."

Unconventional/Tensions

There's something in me that won't let me start without a disclaimer. It's a bad habit. My friends hate it. But I just have to say that this post is not meant as "woe is me." It's not a lament at all. It's more of an observation and recognition of where I've come from, where I am, and who I am.

Sometimes it's exhilirating to be different. Sometimes it's maddening. Sometimes it's frustrating. Sometimes it's hilarious. Sometimes it just is.

Okay, what the heck am I talking about? I guess just me and my uncategorizable nature. There are things that set me apart. Then there are even things that set me apart within that set-apart-ness.

1. I grew up in different places. I was a military brat. I hate how after so much time, not having a hometown or roots to speak of still makes me slightly sad. I say Montgomery is my home since I've had a home base here for going on 14 years, but I'm still not a native. All I have to do is open my mouth to confirm my non-native status.

2. I am a minority. I mean, in the traditional, racial sense. And that's cool. I'm glad I am who I am, and I was raised to be proud of it. But I'm not "black" in the traditional (read: stereotypical) sense. I was not raised in a majority black environment. So, after moving back to the States and to the South, and being placed in situations where I was in a majority black environment, I was (and many times, still am) woefully out of place. (Opening up my mouth did me in then, too.) It's something that still bothers me in weird ways. Though I'm thankful for my diverse upbringing, I sometimes feel that I've missed something from not being enveloped in an expected identity. When you are a minority in the traditional, racial sense, certain things are expected of you from black and white alike, and I found myself cringing in the middle. It's something I quixotically hope to rescue my future children from.

3. My faith takes me completely off the map of convention. If you know anything about being Apostolic, you'd know that "conventional" and many times even "orthodox" is foreign. I don't complain. I am thankful God has led me where He has. My faith is strong, and I hold it dear. Being led by God requires being set apart, and that's fantastic. But what occasionally gnaws at me is the fact that within this circle of unconvention (within the huge globe of the conventional), I am unconventional. My political views are skewed. My goals are unorthodox. My existence as a single 26-year-old who hasn't "made a mistake" (and no judgment passed on those who have--God is merciful, and I'm certainly not perfect) puts me in a rarely visited niche, even within the church. Though I believe that God has placed me where I am for a reason and I have no desire to leave that place, I am not an amen corner. I am down with what I (and definitely the majority) consider the fundamentals, but I am not down with a few ideas that flutter about them (and that puts me in the minority). My oddity and discomfort within the conventional globe as well as my oddity and discomfort within the unconventional circle makes for some interesting, sometimes agonizing tension.

I'm always doing stuff no one else does. Memories of being a library aide. Wearing "glorified shorts" in PE. Being the only one to take 5th year Spanish in high school. Reading Billy Budd instead of The Things They Carried. Going to an academic magnet school and not taking any AP tests. Being the only double major in my Education cohort ("Well, it's different for Chantell, but for the rest of you . . . "). Staying home and watching Spanish gossip shows on Friday and Saturday nights with Blanca instead of barhopping in downtown Madrid. Driving 9 hours to St. Louis by myself for a conference no other Alabamian attends. Traveling to Minot, North Dakota for fun. Being a non-Latino black person who speaks Spanish. (The double takes I get while speaking it in public are hilarious.)

I know this sounds slightly melancholy, and it kind of is. Maybe bittersweet is a better word. But before I get too sentimental, I have to say that I know I'm not the only one who experiences this. I'm not some kind of anomaly. I know. But writing this has helped me recognize that my "tensions" make up who I am. I can't wish it to be otherwise without wishing not to be me. I can appreciate the joys and amusement of non-conformism, unconventionality (yes, I made that up) and uncategorizibility (that one, too) as well as bear the loneliness of it all. I know that my "tensions" are what make me happy to be alive and overjoyed to be where I am at times and so disillusioned at others that I feel my only recourse is to join the Peace Corps and spend the rest of my days relentlessly pouring myself out in a third world country to feel I belong. Tensions are a part of life. I suppose life would be kind of boring without them.

Grrrrrrrr . . .

Okay, who in their right mind would send me this link?

It's not thought provoking. It's an old, tired, and annoying argument. "You wanna be an educated, successful woman? Be my guest. But don't act surprised when you don't get a man. In fact, the more education you get, the less likely you'll be able to get one. You wanna intimidate them all away? Men want someone who doesn't make them feel insecure."

1. If the thought of being with me makes you feel insecure, I don't want you anyway. Go ahead and scurry away from the blinding beams of intimidation that emanate from me. You'd be doing us both a favor.

2. Trying to get a reaction out of a woman by presenting her with scary "statistics" and/or by wondering if (hoping that?) she'll see herself in it all does not endear you to her. It makes her grab a hammer and gives her all the strength she needs to wallop that nail down into the coffin of your delusions of grandeur.

3. My existence defies statistics. So does God. That's enough.

4. Cállate. (Sounds meaner in English.)

That is all.

Quote of the Day. Amen.

"Never allow someone to be your priority while allowing yourself to be their option."

Can I get an amen? Y'all don't hear me!

I Am Not Old! (I Don't Care What You Say)

Yes, today is my birthday. Yes, I am one year older. Yes, I'm inching towards "late twenties" at head spinning speed.

But let's get something straight. I am NOT old.

Don't give me that yang-yang claptrap. Naw. I said I am NOT old.

No, really. Give me a break. 26 is NOT old. I don't care what you say.

Okay, okay. If I lived in the Old Testament or something, yeah. I'd also probably have been married off to some old crusty guy and have a myriad of kids by now, too.

But, newsflash: I live in the 21st century. And in the 21st century, 26 is NOT old. In the 21st century, 26 is the age where you're in the midst of what has so conveniently been called the quarterlife crisis. 26 is the age where you are handlin' dat business while silently (or not so silently) wondering whether dat business you're handlin' is the business you were meant to handle. 26 is the age where you experience the ups and downs of apartment life (ups: freedom! downs: bills!). 26 is the age where you say, I've always wanted to go back to school full time and knock this Master's degree out, and you're resilient enough (and unburdened enough) to quit your job and do it. 26 is the age where you seize every opportunity to travel the world. 26 is the age where you face reality but aren't so tainted by world-weary cynicism that you don't still hope. 26 is the age where you finally realize what you want and aren't afraid to wait for it when going after it proves futile.

Por favor. 26 is NOT old. Like I said, I live in the 21st century, and in this unique moment in history, I am NOT old. And if you had a mug like mine that shines, "I'm still 19!" you would feel even more un-old.

Oh, uh-uh. Don't even think it. 26 is not even CLOSE to being old. I don't care what you say.

Night

The only Holocaust literature I've ever read would probably be classified as Young Adult. The Diary of Anne Frank, Number the Stars. I recently read Night by Elie Wiesel. It's a harrowing account of his time in Nazi concentration camps.

I guess maybe I fall into the trap of staying away from "depressing" stuff because I know how easily my mood is affected. I have to make sure I'm in a really good, resilient mood before I attempt anything by Haruki Murakami. I don't even listen to Coldplay anymore, despite how much I really love the band. I take advantage of every sunny day and brace myself for every rainy one. That's just me.

But sometimes we have to face the reality and even the horror of things because it is truth. We have to allow ourselves to come to terms with evil. Maybe we have to force ourselves to see how low humanity can go.

Something that scares me about being human (as if I could be anything else) is the recognition that we all have the capacity to commit atrocities. It's so easy to think, especially when you have made the choice to resist evil and surround yourself with positive, godly examples, that you are above sinking so low. But the fact is that we are all made of the same stuff. Given the right cocktail of circumstances, victim or victimizer, how can you say how you would react? How could you say that you'd never throw another human being into an incinerator if you were made to believe that you were superior and that you were completely justified in doing so? How could you say that you'd never kill another human being over a piece of bread if you were nothing more than a starving shell of what you used to be and your only impulse was the basic will to survive? How could you say that your faith would stay intact despite bombardment with demoralizing and dehumanizing images and situations: being jam packed into train cars without room to move or breathe, seeing babies thrown into fire pits, smelling the stench of burning human flesh, living in constant fear and being stripped of everything you love and hope for?

On the flip side, once seeing examples of the horror that humanity is capable is creating, in the end, I realize that even though I can't do anything about history, I still have a choice now. I can choose to rise above evil. I can choose not to sit idly by when I see evil being committed. I can do everything in my power to never allow the Holocaust to ever happen again.

I Want Laser Resurfacing Surgery

I can't believe I'm writing about this, but I must because it's about something that has bothered me for a long time.

From the time I was about 14 till I was a sophomore in college I had a horrendous and relentless struggle with acne. (It metamorphosed into inconceivably severe acne once I entered college.) The dermatologist prescribed everything under the sun. Seriously, if I were ever on a game show and one of the question categories were "Acne Medications" I could rack up some serious points. I finally arrived at the drug of last resort, the super-strong, use-only-if-all-options-have-been-exhausted, Accutane.

If you've ever read anything about it, you'd know it is not some stuff you mess with. Because there is a slight chance Accutane can mess up your liver, I had to get blood work done every month to make sure my whatever-it-is-that-can-mess-up-your-liver levels were normal. Since I'm female, I also had to take a pregnancy test every month because if a fetus were to ingest Accutane, it would turn into an awful-looking creature with an enlarged, misshapen head along with various and sundry other deformities. (They included a little drawing of one in the little pamphlet that accompanied each package to discourage the Accutane-dependent from putting themselves at risk to turn up preggers.) All of that to say that you have to be pretty badly off before a dermatologist recommends Accutane.

They say it's a wonder drug. And it pretty much was. They also say that once a round of it has been completed, 75% of people never have problems with acne ever again. I was one of the 25% that had to take another round of it to exorcise the acne demon from my pores once and for all.

Needless to say, the whole ordeal, from initial acne consumption to eventual Accutane cleansing, left my self-esteem in shreds. I must admit that I am still hyper-sensitive about my complexion, even though it looks better than it ever has post-treatment. Though I am so thankful that I don't suffer from it as I did before, here's my problem: The emotional scars left behind aren't noticeable, but the physical ones are.

Again, I know I have a lot to be thankful for. There are no huge, gaping holes, no deep, pitted craters. I know. But like I said, what is there is noticeable. And as much as I've tried to shrug it off and say, "Oh, well, I'll never have perfect skin, so I just have to live with it," something just won't let me leave it at that.

I have done a little bit of research into cosmetic procedures to smooth out scars. There's dermabrasion, microdermabrasion, chemical peels and laser resurfacing. One problem is that all of these procedures have additional risks for people like me who were born with tans (as I jokingly tell students of mine who moan, "Omigawd, I'm so pale! I'm, like, SO going to the tanning bed!"). Laser resurfacing seems to be the most successful with what I want done, and there are even lasers that can be used on all skin types. The key is to find a doctor who is experienced in working with ethnic skin.

Another big problem is that most of this stuff is crazily expensive, and homegirl ain't rich. In fact, I'm about to become really poor since I'm going back to school full-time in the Fall. This is awful, but sometimes I think I won't be completely happy with myself until I can somehow do whatever I can to remedy this lingering thing that has always bothered me. So, I'll either somehow strike it rich and go for it, or continue to go with the less expensive option of sucking it up.

The End of the Guy 2 Chronicles

Due to circumstances too mortifying to even begin to recount, there will be absolutely no more Guy 2 musings on this blog. I'm tempted to go as far as to delete everything on here I've written that has anything even remotely to do with Guy 2 (or any of his previous incarnations, which shall remain un-divulged), but, in the end, I look at it as, hey, what's done is done. Trying to artificially (and tardily) undo it would be utterly inauthentic. Somehow not true to myself. The reality is that once it's out there, it's out there, and no matter how much you'd like to, you cannot take it back.

Sometimes me forgets that this is the WORLD WIDE WEB we're dealing with here, baby. If you dish it out, you've got to be able to take it.

Meet the Sister

I really am sorry for this endless Guy 2 cataloging. But the best place to talk about it is in a place where nobody (with a few miniscule exceptions) knows who I'm talking about.

Today his little sister came in town to visit and he wanted me to meet her. Awwww. She was a cutie pie. The way he treated her made me wish I had an older brother. It's no fun being slapped with the "bossy big sister" stigma. I guess it has been well-earned, though. I won't lie.

I was just short of flabbergasted that he called me again today. Didn't he just see me yesterday? He told me his little sis was coming, but I figured they'd want some sibling time. I thought it was sort of sweet that he wanted to include me. I brought another friend along, and we all had a nice time. It was a beautiful day today.

Yet Another One for the Team

See this post for the title to make any sense.

Okay, obviously Guy 2 still wants to hang out. Obviously, I still do too.

The question is, when am I going to be "too busy" so that I don't slide back into emotional limbo?

This time it was ice cream and Books-a-Million.

We talked about Barack Obama, racial identity, what we each plan to do after we get our Master's, books we've read, books we plan to read, French and how it compares to Spanish, and yes, what we really "want." I gave him a recap of this. (I left out the "beyond my reach" part.) He initiated that whole question, so I answered it according to what I'd pondered. Whether he was smart enough (or presumptuous enough) for it to dawn on him, I dunno.

He's shorter than average (around 5'7), and I'm slightly taller than average (around 5'6), and he commented more than once on our heights. Like, he seemed relieved to know that he's actually taller than I am. Okay . . . I guess other times I'd worn shoes with somewhat of a heel, and this time I had on flip-flops. Why does it slightly intrigue me that he seems to care about being taller than me?

Why doesn't God just wrap this thing up? I've come to terms with the position we're both in, but what will it take for there to be some kind of closure and finality to everything? There are only three options:

1. He meets someone else.

2. I meet someone else.

3. God works a miracle and we end up together.

God, please do one of the three (or a combination of 1 and 2) so that I can know without a shadow of a doubt. Thank you.

Pinpoint

“I don’t know what I want” has been my mantra for a long time. In retrospect, being unsure of what I really wanted was a major player in the demise of my last (and only) serious relationship. The entire time, I questioned myself: How can he be so totally sure while I’m so totally not? I was the poster child of indecisiveness. The quintessence of vacillating, fickle hesitance. I couldn’t make up my mind. He was patient. It wasn’t fair. I bailed. (He later found a more decisive girl. He got married. He lives happily ever after.)

In addition to “I don’t know what I want,” I adopted a shoulder-shrugging, “Well, at least I know what I don’t want” philosophy and applied it liberally. Maybe even bordering on unfairly. But at least I realized that I could be decisive . . . although in the negative sense.

Recently, I’ve had the bittersweet realization that for the first time I recognize what it is that I want. It’s sweet because it’s not a lofty ideal. It’s not a disassociated, theoretical, irrationally idealistic concept. It exists in living, breathing, flesh and blood reality. On the other hand, it’s bitter because now that I can finally pinpoint it, it exists beyond my reach.

I guess it might do me (and the unlucky few who attempt to understand me through reading this stuff) well to explain what “it” is. A big part of it is drive. It isn’t type A, aggressive, anal-retentive, CEO drive. It’s altruistic, big picture drive. The kind of drive which always has the forest in mind despite the trees. It’s the kind of drive that can multitask, not the kind that single-mindedly plows ahead. It’s a flexible kind of drive that doesn’t reel and hemorrhage if it hits a snag. There’s a hunger in this type of drive that isn’t satisfied by accomplishing a quantifiable goal. In fact, the appeal to this drive is that it’s always seeking to learn, improve, augment. There’s no, “I have arrived. Time to turn it in, shut it down, cash out and settle into flat, status-quo existence.” This kind of drive continually seeks and yearns.

Another part of it is insight. It’s the ability to take the complexities, ambiguities, and contradictions of human beings into account. It’s the kind of insight that stunts reactionary responses to people’s actions. This kind of insight can view a humiliating, demoralizing experience as a genuine learning experience. This kind of insight is fitted with observant eyes and ears. The kind of insight that can even decipher my womanspeak! (Aside: I have a habit of unconsciously beating around the bush when trying to explain myself. It’s speech rife with disclaimers and euphemism, and simply trying to spit it out while grasping at words. This insight can take all of that, and turn it into pared-down, concrete statements that are exactly it.)

The drive and insight I described are at the heart of what I want. These are the essentials. The rest, as far as makeup is concerned, are details and, for lack of a better word, negotiable. But outside of makeup, “How can two walk together except they agree?”

Now that I can finally pinpoint it, it exists beyond my reach.

Go, Barack!

After watching his speech on race relations that he gave in Philadelphia this morning, I am even more convinced that Barack Obama is the man for the job.

So many times, Americans would rather sweep questions of race under the rug. It makes us uncomfortable to talk about it. We'd rather ignore things and hope they'll eventually go away and work themselves out, or worse, convince ourselves that race isn't an issue anymore.

Though I know people mean well when they say it, it bothers me when people profess to be colorblind. "I just don't see color." I know they're trying to say that they don't judge people based on color (and no matter what you say, we all do subconsciously), and that's admirable. But telling me that you don't see color is another way of telling me that you'd rather look past who I am so that we can all get along. Hold up. Don't look past me. Look at me. I want you to see me for who I am. Instead of focusing on minimalizing differences into watered-down, inauthentic generalities, we should recognize differences, do our best to understand differences, and embrace them.

In his speech today, Obama tackled some issues head on, and I highly admire him for the tact, balance and eloquence with which he pulled it off. It's almost 40 minutes, but once you start watching, it will be hard to turn away. If you have some time, stop, press play, and hear the man out. (The story in the end might bring tears to your eyes, so if you're a crybaby like me, be prepared!)

Another One for the Team

See this post for the title to make any sense.

Tonight is the first time in about a month I've hung out with Guy 2. "Do you want to grab something to eat later?" he texted. Oh, so off-the-cuff, just-friends, no-strings-attached. I hadn't seen him since the, um, fireball. No, not true, I randomly ran into him earlier this week.

It wasn't awkward or anything, we laughed, had fun and enjoyed each other's company as expected. No weird pregnant pauses, no rehashing of the fireball. It was fine.

I hate reporting this like it's some kind of breaking news. Teryaki chicken and Starbucks. Big whoop.

I mean, I feel alright about Guy 2. My hopes concerning him have changed, though. Though my mind still plays The Game, in all seriousness, I'm not hoping for things to change for my sake anymore. I'm primarily hoping things change for his. It may very well be that whatever God has for him has zero to do with me. And I'll have to be okay with that.

A Totally Unrelated Addendum

Today a flaxen-haired 6th grader innocently looked up at me while I was bent over helping her look up a word in a Spanish-English dictionary and asked, "How do you get your hair that way?"

I stepped back and blinked a few times, flummoxed. What way? I laughed nervously. Why did that question unsettle me? "I um, er . . . "

"I mean, it looks so smooth. Do you use hairspray?"

T'yeah. That and a lot of other stuff you've never heard of. "Yeah. Well, I straighten my hair, um, with a chemical that would burn your hair out if you used it and use a lot of other stuff. Um, hairspray, curling irons, moisturizers . . . "

"Well, all I have to do is wash my hair in the shower and blowdry it when I get out."

I just smiled, nodded and gave her a little teacherly pat on the head.

The Insane Game

I hate when my mind starts to play The Game.

It's ridiculous and a total and utter waste of mental energy. But The Game plays on. The rules are kind of fuzzy, but this is the gist of it:

1. Before The Game can start, I have to be experiencing some kind of maddening mix of uncertainty and hope about something.

2. There are two . . . okay, in sticking with the game analogy, goals. One goal is called "Why It's Totally Unreasonable and Never Going to Happen." The other goal is called "Why It's Okay to Think That in Spite of Everything, It Will Still Happen."

3. Then the whistle blows, and what would ordinarily be considered likely happenstances or mundane coincidences turn into little soccer-like balls that go hurtling into the direction of the "Why It's Okay to Think That in Spite of Everything, It Will Still Happen" goal. The goalie guarding it gets mercilessly pelted, and the balls that don't blindside him go whizzing past him into the goal with superhuman speed. The goalie guarding "Why It's Totally Unreasonable and Never Going to Happen" just kind of stands there. He's just chillin. He's examining his fingernails. His job is pretty much done even though The Game is going on, because (I forgot to mention this part of The Game) before the whistle blew to signal the start of the game, a big, firey, gignormous monster of a soccer-like ball tore past him into the goal and burned right through the net. It's now lying there abandoned, smoking on the ground.

4. Mind you, there are no teams per se, just balls that go flying in one direction except for the monster fireball that burned straight through the net on the other side. The score is always disconcertingly lopsided. 50 million-1. Something like that.

Okay, I've already reported on the huge fireball (albeit in hazy terms) concerning Guy 2. Now begins the onslaught of millions of little balls that go whizzing past at superhuman speed. And my goalie can do nothing to stop them.

• He called the other night!---GOOOOAL!
  
• I failed to mention to him I was going to Auburn for my Spain orientation thing the next day but still just happened to run into him on the way to the meeting!---GOOOOAALL!


• At the orientation meeting, I asked a girl next to me something about the forms we were filling out, and I when I looked over at her form while she was answering my question, I noticed that she had the same (uncommon) last name as Guy 2!---GOOOAAALLLL!

And these are just the most recent soccer-like speed balls. The irony of it all is that the winner of The Game is rarely the winner in real life. "Why It's Totally and Unreasonable and Never Going to Happen" often comes out on top despite the insanely lopsided score. There must be something about the sound of the speed balls whistling past that keeps my hopes, even if a mere millimeter, above ground.

In the end, I have faith that God can do anything, no, more than that, He's proven to me that He can on several occasions. But there's a difference between having faith and leaving things in God's hands and obsessively and irrationally clinging to an absurd, selfish wish. More than anything else, I pray that I don't pitch head first into the latter.

Kinda Cool How It Happened

I really need to get back to work on the dreaded midterm.

I will. After I write.

I totally forgot to mention a really cool thing that happened.

I'm definitely leaving my place of employment this time, and I've felt a little worried because I knew that it would be hard to find someone to take my place. Not because I'm this irreplaceable perfect person, please. It's just that many people either aren't willing to work with both elementary and middle school aged children, or aren't experienced in doing so, and on top of that, proficient in Spanish, which is kind of a must-have for my position.

Last week, I sought quiet refuge at Barnes and Noble at around 9 pm, fully expecting to have a people-less place to get some serious reading done. Whatever, the place was packed! I finally settled on sitting at one chair out of a 4-chair grouping. A 30-ish couple occupied two of them already. When the lady complimented my new Sketchers out of the blue, I noticed she had an accent and I asked where she was from. Peru. Well, then we started chatting up a storm in Spanish. Even weirder was that it turns out hubby knew a bunch of people I knew from an A/P church he used to attend in another city. The voluptuous denim skirt kinda gave me away, I guess. Anyway, Peruvian lady and I hit it off really well and we met for coffee later on that week. She told me all about her life in Peru, and how she met her American hubby. It turns out that after a degree and career in Business, she realized teaching was her calling and went back to school and majored in what we'd consider Early Childhood Education. She's had experience teaching little ones, and she also had experience teaching older kids English as a Second Language (her English is fabulous because she grew up learning it and went to a British high school in Peru).

Anyway, that night it dawned on me that she would be perfect to take my place if she were interested: she has experience working with younger and older kids, she's well-traveled and can bring that experience into the classroom, and she's naturally fluent in Spanish. The next day I called her up and asked her if she'd be interested, and she said she'd love to because she was wanting to get back into teaching. I emailed Headmaster about it today and he said he'd call her this week!

I really felt a relief because I think she's a great candidate for the job and I feel confident about her being able to handle it, and to be creative and have fun with it. I don't feel like I'll be leaving my place of employment high and dry to try to scramble to find someone.

God is so weird. I mean, in a good way. He places people in our paths and He handles things in His own way. The way I met Peruvian lady and her husband was so random . . . but things just sort of slid into place. It makes me feel more secure about what I'm doing because everything concerning my upcoming transition is doing just that--sliding into place. It gives me hope that other unresolved issues concerning this transition will follow suit.

In the Meantime

I finally got the reading done that I wanted to get done this weekend. Now, it's time to embark on the midterm. Which, naturally, I don't feel like doing.

In the meantime, I'm trying not to wonder so much.

I thought I came to terms with it. I mean, I did. Didn't I?

You know when you're trying not to think about something, and the fact that you're trying not to think about it is what brings it even closer to the forefront of your mind?

Is there a fine line between being resolute and being in denial?

I have placed things in God's hands and I can honestly say that I don't intend to take them back out again. It's just that I wish I didn't care. I hate the fact that every time my phone rings and it isn't him, my heart sinks. I really do. I wish there were some magical way to snap out of it. To just suck it up and move on. I mean, life is moving on whether I want it to or not, so why not make a noble effort to keep up?

However, I realize my wish to not care is akin to wishing I weren't myself. And the reality of it is, I'm going to be me for the rest of my life. Whether that's great news or disappointing news is totally up to me.

Political Name Calling

This morning, I read that an Obama aide resigned because she told a Scottish newspaper that Hillary is a "monster."

Again, I'm easily amused, but that's funny. I guess it was heightened by all of these mental images I got of Hillary arising out of Loch Ness. Or of a giant Hillary breathing fire and wreaking havoc on New York.

I mean, if you're going to make a snarky comment, make a snarky comment, but a "monster"? LOLOLOLOL. Homegirl was kidding herself if she thought they were going to let a little pearl like that stay "off the record."

Obama's still my man, but his peeps keep inadvertently shoving him under the bus. First the way overblown "NAFTA-gate," now this. Obama peeps really need to realize that any little slip up is going to be mercilessly pounced on in an attempt to sift my guy as wheat.

Laugh-Cry Addendum

I stumbled across this gem doing a Google search for "McCain hugging Bush." I'm telling you, every time I look at the picture it's funny. But here's an even funnier addendum. Click here to see an even bigger and higher quality picture replete with gut-busting comments and caption suggestions. My fave? "Heal this man!" LOLOL.

I'm Sorry, but This Is Hilarious

Some people get sick of hearing about politics, especially during an election year where the primaries (well, the Democratic one) has been so prolonged. But I thrive on it. I love it. Here's a still from an ad run by anti-war group Campaign to Defend America that I saw on cnn.com's political ticker. It made me laugh-cry:



Instead of McCain, "McSame"! And look at the way McCain looks hugging Bush! And look at Bush! Omg, it's too much, too much . . .

Come on, whether you're a Rep or a Dem or an independent somewhere in the middle, you have to admit that the picture and "McSame" are hilarious.

Scallop Fettuccine

(sigh) There's a million things I could be doing other than this. There's always something to do. (sigh) I have a midterm due soon and I still have a class to watch and a billion and one pages to read before I can even think about attempting it. Professor is really cool and posted it online and it's open book and everything, but still. Open book is not awfully useful with essayish questions and I'm not keen on, well, for lack of a better term, BSing my way through it. That may work in high school and in undergrad, well . . . okay, it did work in high school and undergrad during those desperate times when it was a procrastinator's last resort. But not this time, baby. Uh-uh.

Nevertheless, here I sit with a baby oil-drenched scalp (a precursor to chemically straightening my hair), and I figured I'd share a few photos of my latest culinary creation. I had a taste for seafood. And I love pasta, so I concocted this idea: I would boil some fettuccine, whip up one of those wonderfully seasoned garlic and herb alfredo sauce packets, sautee some scallops, add some crumbled bacon and see what resulted. And, surprisingly, the results were oh, so good:


Mmmm.

Mmmmmmmmmm!

The good thing about cooking for one is that there are ample leftovers--which means tomorrow morning I can dump some in a plastic container, stuff it in my teacherly lunch bag and skip out the door. No frantically searching for something worthy of human consumption to throw in there in my rush out of the door only to realize what a crummy lunch I have when lunch time rolls around and my stomach wants something substantive. Naw. I got me a good lunch tomorrow, youknaaimsayin?

Okay. On to my monthly chemistry project.