My Cabinet Crush

Okay . . . I'm going to finish this abolitionist-feminist post-colonial Latin American novel in a minute. It's uber-Romantic. Not as in Valentine's Day, but as in the literary movement. Lots of sighs, melancholy, fits of passion, exclamations, rapturous obsession, self-absorption. Kind of reminds me of this blog. Har, har.

Anyway, as I am wont to do, I am briefly procrastinating at Panera Bread before getting down to business. (Free wi-fi. Heard you.) I'm trying to figure out what it is about Obama's Chief of Staff, Rahm Emanuel, that is so appealing to me. He's an incredibly sexy Chief of Staff, but why?

He's got rugged good-looks, distinguished-looking salt and pepper hair, and he's kind of a bad boy. You know, he has a reputation for being brusque and foul-mouthed and sort of thuggish in his approach. This NYT article may be proof that he's cleaning it up a little, which is fantastic, but still, it's got to be more than his hair and his bad boy edge. The power that he wields and the legend that surrounds him is intriguing.

Most of all, I think it's that, when I see a picture of him, something communicates that he's handling it. That he's got it under control, and that whatever he wants done WILL get done. That authoritativeness is what I find attractive about him.

God help the guy I end up with, but whoever he is and wherever he is, he must have a backbone. I want him to have a little bit of, "Honey, I'm handling this." But not too much. Naw.

My Boy Gets Testy

I'm very happy with my new president. I think he's doing the right thing to begin the process to close Guantanamo Bay. Whoever you voted for, I think most can agree that it wasn't exactly the paragon of American justice. I will admit that there is a bit of policy I'm not exactly jumping for joy about (I'm pro-life), but I knew that going in. Anyway, I was trying to think of something I didn't like about my boy specifically. Like if someone said, "Tell me what you don't like about Obama right now, or I'll slash your tires," I'd probably say my boy could work on not getting testy.

When reporters ask him questions that get under his skin, he gets a little testy.

Wanting to be left alone on his vacation:


(It's funny though. He says "just trying to be left alone" almost cheerily. I also think the way he says the word "scripture" is SO Obama.)

On asking about his "change of heart" concerning Hillary (about a minute into the clip):


(I would have hated to have been that reporter. "The fault, dear reporter, is not in your stars, but in yourself, that you are an underling. I dismiss your question with a presidential chuckle.")

On asking about filling Senate seat:


(I would have hated to have been this reporter too. My boy's basically just like "I'm not even gonna let you finish asking it. SEET down." Burn.)

I'll admit it makes me snicker, but ultimately, it's something he could stand to work on. I don't want him to lose his reputation for being cool under fire.

Delight

Just finished my lesson plans for Elementary Spanish II. When one of my students called me Miss Smith the other day, I had a flashback from my former life. The life where I made a little more money and lived in the "real world."

Out of the responses I got in trying to peg the moral of my coat story, the one that gave me the most hope was, "Delight thyself also in the LORD; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart" (Psalm 37:4). I hereby crown Jewel Queen of Spiritual Implicationdom. lol.

I've heard that promise all my life. It's something I do hold to dearly. It's something that has been fulfilled at various times in my life. And the fact that it has been fulfilled before gives me hope that it will continue to be.

Here I am in my present life. Lowly GTA, pressing towards the mark of the Masters degree, juggling laborious reading and teaching responsibilites, wondering what my next life will entail. I have a couple of ideas swimming around in my gray matter. Well, there's France. I doubt I will follow a classmate's advice to become an existentialist. But after that? I want a change of scene. I could go for the gold (the PhD) as many have suggested I do, and I've even considered going to seminary (UGST), hoping I'll figure something out there. There's so much I could do. But there's a part of me that is craving an ethereal beam of light to illuminate what it is that I should do.

(Points to anyone who can tell what that's a picture of! Hint: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.)

Happy New President Day!

I witnessed a piece of history today. Live. (Not in person, of course, but watching it live is close enough.) I'm glad that I didn't have class or any other commitments today during that time so that I would be able to.

My boy's speech was much more somber than I expected it to be. I suppose he felt it appropriate for his tone to match the gravity of some of the hardships our country is experiencing. I appreciate the fact that he emphasized responsibility and sacrifice, and I feel that he captured the seismic mindset shift of this era with the messages he had for other parts of the world:

"To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict or blame their society's ills on the West, know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy.

To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history, but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist.

To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds.

And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to the suffering outside our borders, nor can we consume the world's resources without regard to effect. For the world has changed, and we must change with it."

The world has changed, and we must change with it.

As a child of the postmodern, I have a tendency to connect the external with my personal experience. Obama's speech, more specifically, his reflection on our country's ideals accompanied with a call for a different approach, made me reflect on my faith.

The world has changed. But the principles that the United States of America was founded upon have remained the same. What it means to be an American has remained the same. The rights and reponsibilities of American citizens have remained the same. But, as Americans, the way in which we respond to the world must.

The world has changed. But the principles of the Word of God have remained the same. What it means to be a Christian has remained the same. The blessings and the responsibilities of being a member of the Body of Christ have remained the same. But, as Christians, the way in which we respond to the world must.

Changing with the world is not, as some fear, disturbing the solid foundations that define us as a people, be it as Americans or as people of faith. Changing with the world means adapting method and mindset without compromising message.

(P.S. To participate in a contest of "spiritual implications," scroll down or click here.)

Happy MLK Day!

An individual has not started living until he can rise above the narrow confines of his individualistic concerns to the broader concerns of all humanity.

--Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

(P.S. Scroll down to participate in a contest of . . . spiritual implications.)

Name That Spiritual Implication!

I'm not usually a person who thinks that every minute thing that happens has a spiritual implication. But in this case, I do. And I'm going to need your help.

The Story

I wanted this coat SO badly. (But in black.) I saw it at New York & CO and fell in love with it. But 1. I didn't need it because I have a couple of other coats, and 2. I need to save my money.

A few weeks later I was at the mall with my dear mom, and saw it again. This time it was 50% off. "Aw, mom," I gushed. "I loooove this coat." I tried it on. I sighed. "But I don't need it."

A few weeks later, I go home for the weekend, and I still have my mind set on that coat. I tell myself that if it's still there and in my size, I'm going to take it as a sign that it was meant to be. I go to both New York & CO's in town. All sold out. Dejected, I look online. None in the color I want in my size. I even called a couple of stores in Birmingham. "Sorry, we're all sold out." I wanted that coat! Waahh! I even cried to dear mom about it. (Not literally. Come on.)

After I finished pouting, I came to the mature, rational, spiritual revelation that I didn't need it. It's a material thing. How could you get upset about not being able to find a dumb coat? You already have more than enough coats. You don't need it. I let go.

Today, before I leave to go back to Auburn, Mom comes home from the mall. I walk in the living room to see The Coat lying on the sofa. In the color that I wanted. In my size. "Mom!" I cried, "How did you . . . where did you get this from?" She calmly replied that she got it from the mall. Apparently, someone had returned one. It was still 50% off, and she got it for an extra 10% off because it was missing a button. It had an extra attached, and she expertly sewed it on for me.

"I don't mean to spiritualize everything," Mom begins, "but I think this has a spiritual implication."

"Yeah, I know! I was thinking the same thing!" I exclaimed, and I began to relate what I thought the moral of the story was.

My Take

Okay, so I wanted this coat really badly. I went all over town, on the Internet, and even called stores in other cities to see if they had it. I realized the vanity of my desire and let it go. But God knows our needs and our wants and He cares. I was trying to do it on my own, but He wanted to show me that He cares so much that He can make things happen once I gave up trying to do it in my own might.

Mom shook her head disapprovingly. She related what she thought the moral of the story was.

Mom's Take

I think it has to do with passion. You were so passionate about wanting to find that coat, weren't you? You went all over town, looked on the Internet and even called stores cities away to try to find one. Well, if you can get that passionate over a coat, you should be that and more over the things of God.

Dear Reader

Dear mom has a point, even though I like my version better. And this is where you come in, dear reader. I'm still convinced that this story has a spiritual implication. I'm less concerned with whose take makes more spiritual sense than I am with whether there is some other deeper interpretation that neither of us considered. (Although you may feel free to judge which one of the already givens makes the most sense if you'd like.)

If I happen to get some interesting responses, I will choose the most convincing and crown the winner King or Queen of Spiritual Implicationdom.

So, have at it. What is the moral of the story to you?

Obama et moi

Oui, nous pouvons!

Taking Care

Okay, this post may edge toward girliness. You've been forewarned.

My priest friend Padre is back in one of my classes this semester. He's really busy and has a bit of a drive to get to class. Our class starts at 6 p.m. and I know he probably doesn't have time to eat anything before getting to class, so I delight in bringing him stuff to eat.

Before class I was all in the kitchen, toasting bread to make a perfect sandwich for him. I also packed him a granola bar, some wheat crackers and a couple of cookies. I was so happy, because I knew he would probably welcome the snack.

I'm sitting here laughing at myself because it seems . . . I don't know, funny that I would be so happy at the prospect of bringing someone food. But I like it. I like doing little things like that. But really, I like the idea of taking care of someone.

Here's where the girly part comes in . . . one of these days, I'd like to have someone to take care of. To do little special things for them. And I suppose I'd like to be taken care of too. Awww. Warm Curious George lavender sunflower chai tea caramel snuggly chocolate chip cookie fuzzies.

What Kind of Muffin Are You?

I found this quiz over at, well . . ."What the Muffin?" How pleasantly appropriate. It turns out that I'm a chocolate chip muffin. Mmmmm . . . .

You Are a Chocolate Chip Muffin

You are an interesting set of contradictions. You are innocent yet bold. Funky yet predictable. You are a bit dramatic and showy. You love attention. And you know how to charm people into giving you what you want. You are very determined and ambitious... but you're also lazy. Success tends to come easily for you. You often "luck out".

What Kind of Muffin Are You?

Blessings (Thank ya)

1. First I was scheduled to teach Spanish 1010 at 8 a.m. I wanted to teach Spanish 1020, and I didn't want to teach that early! Before the semester started, I was switched to teaching Spanish 1020 at 2 p.m. Thank ya.

2. I had a gazillion books to buy for a particular class I'm taking. It just so happens that a classmate of mine who'd already taken that professor lent me all of the books I needed. Thank ya.

3. When stress abounds, my face retaliates unmercifully. This semester is even more stressful, work-wise (taking two classes and teaching one) and program-wise (comps!), but I wake up every morning and am pleased to see a zitless me. Thank ya.

4. My procrastinatory side has taken a backseat this time around. I'm keeping up with class reading and lesson plans, and I've got a good start with preparing for comps. Thank ya.

5. I have some direction about what I'm going to do with myself when this gig is up. I'm excited about the future rather than unsure. Thank ya.

6. The people in my program are so funny and supportive. I had one of the best laughs ever after Golden Age lit today. Tears were running down our cheeks. It's nice to be able to work with a great group of folks. Thank ya.

7. I'm not worried about things as much anymore. Thank ya.

8. Thanks to my little cousin, my Curious George now has a big brother. Thank ya.

I Felt Like Getting Ghetto or How I Can Relate to Rumpelstiltskin

Okay, I have a pretty little watch that has needed a battery for aeons, so I figured I'd handle it while on a random swing by Wal Mart.

I hereby dub the lady at the jewelry counter the most unhelpful jewelry counter lady EVER.

Lady: (mumbling, barely audible, and unconcerned) Canihelpyou.

Me: (Bright and cheery despite her nonchalance) Hi! May I get a new watch battery please?

Lady: (Takes my watch, looks at it briefly, then hands it back) You didn't get this here.

At this point, I'm not taken aback or anything. A while ago, I went to a Wal Mart for a watch battery change, and the person said she couldn't put it in herself, but sold me the battery and gave me the little pop-off tool to do so myself.

Me: Oh, okay. But can you give me something to help me so that I can do it myself?

Lady: No, 'cause you didn't buy yo' watch from here.

Me: (A little perplexed now) What? So, you can't even sell me a watch battery?

Lady: (rolls her eyes and sighs) What kind of battery you need?

Me: (starting to seethe inwardly, exasperatedly blinking) How long have you had this policy? I mean, I've bought a watch battery and had help changing it at a Wal Mart before.

Lady: (unblinking) We had this policy for a while now.

I begin to unsuccessfully pop off the back of my watch with my thumbnail to see what kind of battery I needed. I mean, how many different kinds of watch batteries are there? Fearing a broken nail (which would have increased my exasperation), I stop. I lost hope in unhelpful lady and walked off in search of the toilet paper aisle muttering "This is ridiculous."

I'm usually kind of like 'whatever' about stuff like that, but this time, for some reason, a part of me rose up and wanted to go off on old girl (sans profanity) and demand justice. I felt a rare tide of ghettoness rising up in me. What? I know you ain't talkin to me like you crazy. GIMme that watch battery pop-off thing 'fore I pop off on yo' head, must be crazy talkin' 'bout some "We had this policy for a while" like you can't sell me no watch battery and I'm at Wal Mart. Ol' UNHELPFUL behind.

Though I walked away calmly muttering, deep down inside, there was a teeny-tiny Rumpelstiltskin-esque miniature me stamping her feet, throwing a tantrum, sobbing hysterically, "I WANT MY WATCH BATTERY!"

Okay, it's over. I can officially move on now.

The First Semester of Spanish Spanish Love Song

This semester I'm teaching Elementary Spanish II. Basically, the second half of the Elementary Spanish textbook. After going over the syllabus and going through all of the preliminaries yesterday, I played this youtube clip for my students before they left and said, "I hope you guys learned more your first semester of Spanish than this poor guy." If you've ever taken any Spanish, you will completely relate, because this is actually the kind of stuff you learn to say first starting out. It's HILARIOUS. And his awful prounciation makes it even funnier. My favorite line is when he sings, "No remembro how to say eleven." Enjoy!

Don Miller: Speaking Something into Nothing

So, I'll add this blog post to the litany of reasons I love Don Miller. Here's an excerpt from the post that spoke to me the most:

I often find myself thinking complaints about life, about business or politics or relationships. Anymore, though, when I complain, I am starting to realize that, in part, every ounce of nothingness in life is my fault, because I always have the ability to speak something into it, to create a different reality. A theory that life is meaningless is just an excuse not to try. It’s safe. It’s risk free. It may end in ruin, but it is a ruin we can control, and we know with certainty what will happen. We will be bored. Or worse.

Reading this is such an encouragment to me on the day I head back to Auburn. The day I resettle into my grad student life, rife with work and stress and wondering. But it could be a life of productivity, learning, discovery and opportunity. It all depends on how I choose to view it.

Despite my procrastinatory nature, getting work done has always happened for me. Making the grade, acing the test, all the nerdy brick and mortar things that go along with being successful in school have happened for me. But the hardest thing for me to do is to change the way I think. It's confounding that mindpower has been one of my greatest assets, but also one of my greatest limitations.

I realize that there are many circumstances beyond our control. But I'm tired of letting those things be my excuse to sit idly in resignation. I'm tired of letting them be my excuse to not even try. I can't_____, because I'll just end up being disappointed. That's garbage. Like Don Miller said, that type of thinking is safe and risk-free which = controllable and certain. Even if it sucks, it's a suckiness you're comfortable with. I don't want to be that way anymore.

I have the ability to speak something into nothing and to create a different reality.

New Year

2009. Newly waltzed into my life, ladened with great expectations, promising a sharper sense of direction, intoxicating all in its path with the romance of beginning. Of starting. Afresh. Anew.

Have you ever been presented with a word or a phrase or an image repeatedly in random contexts and wondered if there was any greater meaning behind it? Take, for instance, "argyle sweaters." The first time, I was laughing heartily at my having conjured the image of a leering old man donning an argyle sweater in my lament over attracting weirdos. Next, I was presented with a description of a college classmate wearing an argyle sweater in Barack Obama's memoir, Dreams from My Father. Then, a rather stylish lady from church comes over in a sweater quite similar to one I own, and even though the brand was different from mine, "It's the pattern," she said. "Argyle. It's that argyle pattern." Argyle. Why has the image of argyle sweaters dominated my mindscape lately? Is there some kind of cryptic, celestial, spiritual message behind which I will uncover my ultimate destiny? Must I crack the argyle sweater code to get a glimpse of what 2009 will bring?

I've settled on a New Year's Resolution. I used to be hardcore and would draw up a dutiful list, but in recent years, I've slimmed it down and turned the focus from checklist/task-oriented to big picture/state of mind-oriented.

I will trust God.

Simply put, yet deceptively difficult to do. Or is it actually deceptively simple? Why is it so hard to convince myself that God knows what He's doing? It seems like a no-brainer. Omnipresent, omniscient, omnipotent being versus a temporal conglomeration of cells. Which would you rather trust? Common sense says go for the being. But the conglomeration is exasperatingly stubborn.

Maybe this is it: I'm used to seeing Him through my life. Good things happen = Good God. Bad things happen = Mean God. I don't know what's happening = Silent God. I have to switch that around and starting seeing my life through Him.

I need God. I'm reminded daily in whispering ways of my insurmountable need for Him. My need for Him has never changed. But my point of view must.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Tours

In the swirling tide of uncertainty that is my life, there has been a rare emergence of certainty which, I must admit, is quite thrilling.

I'm going to France.

I got an email today detailing my assignment at a language institute in a city called Tours. I did a quick Internet search (with the ubiquity of Google, it's impossible not to) and found that it's an hour by train from Paris, and that the French spoken in that region is widely considered the purest, devoid of any distinguishable accent. Like "Walter Cronkite" English, but French.

I'm excited, but why is there is still a niggling worrywart in my brain that, despite my most earnest pleas, won't shut up? There's the question of when I'll go . . . right after graduation or work for a few months, and then go next January? The romantic in me wants to go ASAP. Carpe diem, my twenties are slipping through my fingers like sand, all that jazz. Go west, young woman! But the pragmatist in me is rolling my eyes, reminding me that I don't want to go there broke and neither do I want to come back broke. It might do me some good to move back in with the rents after graduation, find a fair-to-middlin job for a few months, and save some money while paying off some graduate school-induced debts. It basically comes down to a question of whether I want to spend Christmas 2009 or my 28th birthday in France. (My 27th is coming around the mountain. At least I look 10 years younger, according to some.)

I have a sinking feeling the pragmatist will win. She usually does. The romantic gets her hopes dashed too easily. C'est la vie.

There are a litany of other things concerning next semester that the worrywart keeps rattling on about, but I'm learning that my best bet is to ignore it, trust God, and keep it movin.

Christmas was fabulous, my little cousins are darling, and I forgot my blasted USB cord to upload pics. Ah, well. I shall enjoy my last week of freedom before the new semester descends.

Thanks, Old Crazy Man

I've posted previously about how I attract weirdos.

I've decided that instead of lamenting it, I should embrace it. When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.

Today, while wandering around the porcelain/dinnerware section of JCPenney, I saw a middle-aged man giving me the eye. Oh, brother.

A few minutes later, he approached me, staring at me the whole time. He stopped right beside me. I acknowledged him with a curt "Hello."

He smiled and said, "You sure are beautiful," and then walked away.

Aw, thanks, old crazy man. That was sweet.

I Would've Voted for Colin Powell

What I especially like about Powell's remarks is his critique of his party's tendency towards polarization during the latter part of the election.

Of course, the tendency towards polarization is not somehow limited to the GOP--else, some Dems wouldn't have flipped out over Obama's choice of Rick Warren to lead the invocation at his inauguration.

My point is that "us-versus-them" is tired, antiquated, and resonates with few in the 21st century. And this goes beyond politics. It impacts the Body of Christ as well.

What do I mean? This article does a wonderful job of explaining how politics impact church:

The Future of the Apostolic Movement: The People of (Political) Principles

Attention Tension

There's usually disappointing yet entertaining tension present between who I'd like to notice me and who actually does.

Who I'd like to be noticed by
Good-looking guys
Professorial-looking guys
Philosophical-looking guys
Tall, bespectacled guys with Colgate smiles
Dashing older guys
Intelligent, bookish, witty guys

Who notices me
Grizzled, lewd garbage men
Old Mexican waiters who have the audacity to ask for my number
Way-too-young boys who have no clue how old I really am
Weird guys with glazed over eyes who stare and make awkward jokes
Guys who must think "Pssst, ey gul" is actually going to make me stop and walk up to them
Crusty guys in argyle sweaters hunched over a latte, leering from a solitary table

I wonder: Is it in my stars or in myself?

My Boy and Rick Warren

My political commentary always comes a few days late. I guess I do it so that I don't have to give an involved recap of what the hubbub is all about. I can just assume everyone's heard it over and over already so that I can just calmly place my $0.02 in the can without too much ado.

So, yeah, Obama chose Rick Warren of mega-church, The Purpose Driven Life fame to deliver the invocation at his inauguration. (Okay, okay, I'll include a link to the left-leaning Huffington Post just in case you missed out, here. It's worth the read because it covers how seriously people are flipping out, and provides other links afterward that offer a variety of points of view on the issue.) Ultra liberals are pitching hissy fits (or if you were a Southerner, you might say "conniption fits") because of controversial stuff Warren has said about gays, and how DARE Obama choose such a bigot to lead a prayer at the inauguration!?

This is why I am head over heels for my boy. He is not afraid to take heat from his base. He is down with reaching out to people whose views are contrary to his own. He knows that alienating evangelicals is political suicide, no matter what the most liberal wings of his base say. He understands the value of dialogue and recognizes the emptiness of rhetoric.

There are more shrewd, less idealistic observers who say that Obama's move is nothing but a bit of calculated political theater. Okay, granted. I won't count that out as a part of his motivation. He is a politician, after all. It's not like Rick Warren saying a prayer at the inauguration is some sort of conservative Christian victory. I'm sure Obama's peeps have got Rick on lock—he won't be able to go one millimeter off script. I understand all of that.

But what's giving me the warm fuzzies is the fact that Obama signals an openness to foster relationships with those outside of his bubble. What makes me swoon is the fact that Obama represents a break from the old guard, us-versus-them politico. What gives me butterflies in my stomach is that he's not afraid to push the envelope with his own folks.

The poor guy can't win for losing can he? To some, he's the most liberal incarnation of humankind with shady associations and a dearth of experience, and to others he's now a panderer to bigots and wing-nuts. But you know what? My boy remains unfazed.

I Just Wanna Help

Here's an excerpt of an email I sent a friend:

I just wanted to say that I'm very sorry for bringing things up that you don't want to talk about. I say that my intention is to "help" and I sometimes have a twisted sense that I'm supposed to be the helper of all and convince everybody that everything is going to be okay. However, that is NOT my job, and in fact it's kind of arrogant to believe that a bit of supposedly well-reasoned arguments from me is going to convince anybody of anything. It's arrogant to believe that it's my place to "help" and that whatever I say or do would be some kind of a cure-all.

As you know, I'm an analytical person, and despite having a very emotional side as well, my doubts are usually kept at bay, or at least some what helped, with sound logic. But everyone doesn't think the same way I do, and sometimes it's easy to forget that.

I hope you accept my apology, and I hope you realize that I love you and value you very much as a friend. It was brought to my attention just a few moments ago that the best way to "help" is to pray for you, and I ask that you do the same for me.

I really do want to help people. I want to "be there" for people. I want to be the encourager. The person that convinces you that it's going to be okay. I want to change everyone's pessimistic points of view about themselves and where God has them in their lives. It bothers me when people are comfortable in their dissatisfaction. It frustrates me when people stubbornly refuse to hope. (I'm speaking generally here, not referring to this particular friend's situation.)

All right. I have my days when things are "wretched." But even then I know it's not over. I have my days where I give myself over to literally heartrending sobs and I will unashamedly cry until my eyes are puffy, my throat is raw and my head throbs. But even then, in the end, I know it's not over. I don't give myself over to a permanent false reality of hopelessness. It's not that I'm so noble that I wouldn't. It's that I can't. God has done too many crazy it's-GOT-to-be-God things for me not to be convinced that ultimately, He's got me.

But back to my need to "help." Sometimes optimistic arguments are nothing but optimistic arguments. The belief that if only I could convince someone to look on the bright side, everything will be okay and to follow it up with a back-patting reminder that God knows best is misguided, naive and self-important. Sometimes the best way to "help" is to lay aside the need to be a savior and leave it in the hands of the One who is.

Fantabulous

is one of my favorite words. Well, one of my favorite words to describe something positive. 'Fantastic' and 'fabulous' rolled into one! What could be better than that? And it's actually recognized as a word, not just a made up one! (My favorite word for describing something negative is 'wretched,' but that's beside the point.)

Anyway, Rotary scholarship orientation went well. I met a bunch of like-minded, idealistic, multilingual world travelers. I still don't know whether I'm going to Belgium or France, though. I should find out within the next week. I found that when I'm leaving is pretty flexible, so . . . I've got a lot to consider.

Finals are over and done with! I got the final grades on the papers I procrastinated over and subsequently slaved over. The one la Gloriosa helped me with: 92. The one Juan Moreira helped me with: 95. On the Juan Moreira one, my professor wrote that she'd like me to polish it for publication and presentation!

The only sucky thing that mars the fantabulousness I'm presently experiencing is that my lovely laptop is having some technical difficulties and that the Geek Squad is going to charge me out of my eyeballs to get it fixed. The funny thing is that the guy who ran the diagnostic test really was a quintessential geek. He had the jovial yet smug air of the same kinds of nerds I went to high school with. He even had a nasal, high-pitched voice. Only true geeks have the gift of being at once self-deprecating and arrogant. Not in a narcissistic way, but in a matter-of-fact, I-have-superior-knowledge way.

On a random note, I found that I have the former-military brat's gift of sniffing out other military affiliates. At Starbucks, a pack of young, clean-shaven guys with close haircuts sauntered in. Anyone without the military brat antennae could have guessed that they were probably military. But my radar immediately pegged them as not just military, but as Air Force officers-in-training. I couldn't resist testing the accuracy of my radar, so I struck up a conversation with them and found that I was right on the money. Shouldn't I get some kind of monetary compensation for that?

I should be spending this break doing reading for the comprehensive exams I have to contend with next semester, but I can't resist getting a smidgen of pleasure reading in, too. For classic, I plan to tackle Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey (one of the few Austens I haven't yet tackled). For contemporary, Toni Morrison's A Mercy. I've been dying to get my hands on it. Her lyric, haunting prose is addictive.

I shall enjoy my break, indeed. Here's my Christmas jam, "This Christmas" by Donny Hathaway. Enjoy!

Me Want Chicken Biscuit

Whew! Medieval lit is over. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, which is good. Now all that's left is my theater take home final and I can kiss this semester adios.

So, medieval lit was at 8:00 am. Gross. During the test my stomach kept growling and when I finished at about 9:45, I was ravenous. Freudian references are amusing to me (Freudian slips, projection, anal retentiveness, etc.), so let's just say my id started taking over. It kept repeating, "Me want chicken biscuit," over and over, and it got progressively louder as time went on. My ego started calculating: "Okay, it's 9:45 now, you might be able to catch the transit at 10:00 and get back to your apartment in enough time to get your car and go back out to pick up a chicken biscuit combo before they stop serving breakfast at 10:30."

On the way home, my id's cry was deafening. I got to my car. Ten after. Me want chicken biscuit! Okay, okay. Pull out of my apartment. Me want chicken biscuit! All right, all right. Stop light. Me want chicken biscuit! But . . . what? Cop car with lights on behind me? Craptastic. Then super-ego springs up out of nowhere and starts freaking out and feeling guilty. What did I do? I can't afford a ticket! Nooooo! Meanwhile my id is still raging, and I'm slightly blocking traffic. My freak-out-ing-ness was a mixture of really not wanting to get a ticket, feeling really badly that I broke some traffic law, but still really wanting to get to Chick-fil-a before 10:30. Hmm. I guess the cop had reason to keep telling me to calm down. I ran a stop sign? Blast you, id! Me: fumbling in the glove compartment to find my insurance info, "Oh, my gosh! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!" Cop: "Calm down, Miss Smith. Most people, when they're not paying attention, don't mean to." He took pity on me and let me off with a warning since I didn't have any outstanding warrants or anything to my name.

I got to Chick-fil-a in time, praise the Lord. My heart (and my id) was really set on a chicken biscuit.

Encouraging Words

French final is over! Oui, oui. Next on the list is medieval lit and my theater take home final.

I just wanted to share a letter someone wrote about an article I wrote for 90&9.com entitled Trapped Between Worlds. In short, my article is about tolerance for different points of view within the Body of Christ. A female missionary to the Middle East read my article, and wrote the first letter on this page in response.

It's not something that was just addressed to me, though. It's really to all young women and those who want to reach out to others in our twenty-first century world. It's very encouraging and worth the read.

Life on the Pampas

Setting: The windswept pampas in rural Argentina. Cattle graze the fields. A group of gauchos are sitting around a campfire, playing melancholy tunes on their guitars. Women sit on the porch of the dilapidated house, sipping strong cups of mate, humming folk songs. Suddenly, the tallest, most handsome gaucho gets up and strides over to the women. He's rugged, has a roguish smile, and his eyes gleam like a sharpened facon.

Juan: Oye, Chantellita. You wrote the paper about me, no?

Chantellita: (sighs) Sí, Juan. (smiles shyly) I procrastinated a little bit, but I finally got it done. Thanks for helping me.

Juan: De nada. You did not know about this . . . academic side of the gaucho before, did you?

Chantellita: Well, I guess not. I suppose I thought you guys were just kind of rogue Latin American cowboys who rode roughshod over the pampas, lashing out because of your marginalized status.

Juan: Bueno, just because an hombre is exploited and gets his land taken away doesn't necessarily mean he is ignorant of the, eh . . . how do you say . . . MLA format?

Chantellita: (giggles) Oh, Juan. (She gets up, sidles up to him and whispers) Are all the stories they tell about you really true?

Juan: Ay, sí, mujer. Believe it. A man once owed me 10 thousand pesos and I brought him to court over it. The judge was a crook and called me a liar! Caramba! I swore vengance on the judge and told my debtor that if I ever caught him I would stab him for each peso he owed me! (Juan takes out his facon and stabs the air, reenacting his bloody deed.)

Chantellita: Ay, Juan! You are so valiente!

Just as Juan takes Chantellita into his arms for a kiss, shots ring out. Horses' hooves thunder onto the pampas, disrupting the bucolic calm.

Don Francisco: Juan Moreira! Sí, señor. Did you think you would escape the law after such a heinous deed? Seize him!

Men surround him on horseback. Juan draws out his facon, ready for a fight even though he is outnumbered.

Don Francisco: Juan, put down the facon, and no one gets hurt.

Juan: (still brandishing the facon) Cowards die many times before their deaths, the valiant never taste of death but once. Aiiiiiiii!

Juan rushes blindly towards the surrounding men with his facon. Shots ring out once again, but this time the target is Juan. When the smoke clears, his bullet-ridden body lies lifeless on the ground.

Chantellita: (sobbing violently, screaming) Didn't you hear him, you fools? He quoted Shakespeare! How can you shoot a man who just quoted Julius Caesar? He helped me with my paper! He knows about parenthetical documentation, for the love of God! How could you be so cruel?

Don Francisco: Pues, señorita . . . I hate to break it to you, but your dear Juanito was a bandido and a murderer.

Chantellita grabs the cup of mate she left sitting on the porch and splashes the remnant of it into Don Francisco's face. Don Francisco wipes his face with a handkerchief and he and his men gallop off. The men around the campfire get up and take Juan's body away. One of the men remains and plays a mournful tribute to Juan. The sun sets. THE END.

The Third Time's the Charm?

Well, well, well. I've been elected once again to the honored role of bridesmaid.

I'm not being sarcastic. I really do accept it as an honor. I love my friend to death and am elated to share in her happiness. This will be my third time as a bridesmaid, and my second time as maid of honor. It will also be my third summer in a row being in a wedding! I kinda have this thing down.

Now, I know that although this is a happy time, this is also a time for mommy-worry. Mommy-worry arises in many forms, more than my dear one would probably care to admit, but this particular mommy-worry is "Oh, no, my daughter is feeling super pressure now that all her closest friends are married or about to be!"

It's not an irrational mommy-worry. It's not unfounded. But to this mommy-worry, I want to say, "It's okay." Though there are many things that inspire me to think oh-poor-me thoughts, the thought of my friends getting married isn't one of them. First of all, I love my friends so much that their getting married makes me happy because they're happy. Second of all, my friends' getting married makes me hopeful that one day I will too.

In reality, what makes me feel sorry for myself sometimes is the thought that I'm such a different person on so many levels that no one is up to the challenge of dealing with me and relating to me. lol. Okay, what do I mean?

1. I'm Apostolic, and I'm pretty insistent on the man that I marry and myself sharing the same set of core beliefs. Not because I'm hard core and he must agree with me on all counts, but because I want to be in one accord on the way we raise our kids. The Bible is also pretty clear on that one for me. How can two walk together except they agree? That knocks a significant number of fellas out of the game from the get go.

2. I'm educated and opinionated. This gives some of the fellas left some definite pause.

3. My views are non-conventional. How many Apostolics do you know who voted for Barack Obama? See what I mean? And my political views are just the tip of the iceberg. I'm not saying the poor guy has to check all of the same ideological checkboxes I do. But I would really like him to be at least sympathetic and not get all Sean Hannity on me over the views I hold. And the existence of undogmatic non-ideologues willing to be with a "liberal" girl like me seems rare.

4. My race and the way I've been brought up makes for some interesting, sometimes appalling tension. Let me throw a disclaimer in there and make it absolutely clear that I am proud of my heritage and would have it no other way. And I'm not so naive not to see that the "tension" is partly borne of my own perception. My blackness is peachy for Apostolic brothas who are looking for an Apostolic sista. But even that can be problematic because of how I am sometimes perceived. I had a black guy tell me I wasn't what he was looking for because he felt I didn't have a heart to reach out to other black folks. Like, seriously? However, for some fellas of other ethnic persuasions, my blackness is a liability. You're a nice girl, but. You're a nice girl, but my parents would go bananas. You're a nice girl, but word on the street is that you would hurt my ministry. It's nuts, but this type of thinking exists.

Wow. Anyway, the original purpose of this post was to say that I'm excited about being the maid of honor once again, and that it isn't the prospect of my friends getting married that gets me down. I'm hopeful despite my self-pitiful worries. I'm looking forward to the day when they're proven wrong. As I mentioned, it'll be the third summer in a row I'll have been in a wedding. They say the third time's the charm, right?

I LOVE Gyros

Omg. I am craving a gyro like nobody's business. They are so good. If you've never had one, you haven't truly lived. Oh, lucky me, there's a Mediterranean place down the street. I get mine with extra tzatziki sauce. Mmmmmm. And I'm about to tear one up. Let's go!

Argh. I wanna Zzzzzzz.

It was hard to get up this morning.

This weekend's going to be a tough, cold one. I still have that wretched paper to contend with. Yep, the same one of last week, except this time, the final, polished, "perfect" version is due. At least I'm on page 5. Of 10.

I have a French oral exam today. Ah, that reminds me. I have to email my professor because I have to take my final early because I have to drive to Tennessee next Friday for my Rotary Club orientation. Ah, that reminds me. I need to call the Rotary Club orientation guy to make sure they've got all my registration info. Ah, that reminds me. I have to call the Montgomery Rotary Club sponsor for possible reimbursement info. Ah, that reminds me. I need to call the apartments I moved out of over 4 months ago to see if they'd sent my security deposit check to the right place.

In a matter of minutes I have to put on a smiley face and introduce a "verb wheel"activity to the freshmen. Each person rolls a dice and whatever number you get, choose the correct panel on the corresponding verb wheel and use each bit of info to create a sentence with the correct verb in the correct tense. Hip-hip-hooray!

I have been trying to go to bed earlier. I really have. Early to bed and early to rise makes a woman healthy, wealthy and wise. But no matter what, I still wake up feeling sleep deprived. Boo. Finals are next week. I can make it. I can make it . . .

How Thanksgiving Dinner Could Be Considered Weird

There's a Chinese guy who lives in my apartment complex that I talk to sometimes while waiting for the transit in the mornings. The first reason I'm fascinated by Asian culture is because people's names mean something. Not to say that American names have no significance. Most traditional names mean something in the language they originate from, and many times our names are chosen out of a family tribute (my middle name is my paternal grandmother's first name), but many times our names are chosen because they sound nice. I just think it's awesome that many Asian names have a direct meaning in their own language.

It's also fascinating to me how much is sacrificed in order for a foreign student from a country like China to go to school in the United States. He has no family here. He is the only one out of his family who has ever traveled to the US, and many people are counting on him back home. Failure is not an option. Can you imagine not being able to see your family for years at a time? He can't just go home for Christmas break. Like, I can't fathom that. The longest I've been on my own in a foreign country is a few months.

He had only studied English for a little over a year before coming, and speaks extremely well, seems to understand easily, gives presentations in class. Imagine if I had to do the same thing in Chinese after only about a year. Caramba. French is hard enough, and Spanish took years to master.

I asked him what he did for Thanksgiving, and he said he had dinner with an American family. I asked if he liked the food, and he was pretty much like . . . "It was okay." He said he liked the turkey. lol. He said that any meal without rice as a significant part of the meal is weird to him. Like, to us, rice is an occasional side dish. But to the Chinese, it's eaten with everything, all day, every day. That was so amusing to me. For Thanksgiving food to be completely out of cultural context and foreign because of the decentrality of rice.

Paper Procrastination Post # 9873835: Nicknames

My name has never been one to facilitate a nickname. Like a serious one. I guess I prefer it that way.

But I have a few playful ones.

My dad used to call me "Chawny." Aww.

One of my friends calls me "Chantellus." It comes from my preoccupation with one of the conspirators in Julius Caesar named Metellus Cimber. I LOVE that name. So she started calling me "Chantellus Cimber" and eventually just "Chantellus."

Another one of my friends calls me "Channy," well, a lot of people do, playfully, but she says it with an Old South accent, in a raspy, dirty-old-man imitation. The story that goes along with that one is hilarious, and that's probably about all that needs to be said. lol.

One my classmates, a balding, hilarious guy with a roguish charm calls me "Chanty."

Another one of my classmates, Pic, calls me "Chanteezy." But he usually says it in this context: "Chanteezy, in the heezy, keepin' it greasy, what's your situation?"

Paper Procrastination Post # 9873834: Can I get you a coffee?

(sigh.) Back at it. After Jesus's kind intervention yesterday, I know I have to get with it. I was good. I packed myself a lunch last night so that after class this morning I could head straight to the library and get on the ball. I'm sure I'll come up with some imaginary screenplay starring the brave yet misunderstood and marginalized gaucho Juan Moreira and me as his lady love depicting some snippet of our rustic, tumultuous life on the Argentine pampas. But I have to get to at least page 5 or 7 or so before I'll allow my brain to take another procrastinatory break.

Anyway, before getting down to business, I wanted to reflect on kindness. It's amazing to me how rare it must be for someone to just do something even marginally nice for someone else these days. What I mean is, why do some people act shocked in the face of kindness, and why is it hard for some people to accept? This morning after a classmate came to do her language lab time right after mine, I decided I needed a latte to perk me up before medieval lit. I asked her if she wanted a coffee too. She said that sounded like a good idea and immediately began digging in her purse for money after I asked her what she wanted. She started freaking out after I told her not to worry about it, that it was on me. She couldn't fathom the idea that I simply wanted to get her a coffee without any expectation of anything in return. "But, but, a cup of Starbucks coffee is like five dollars!" she protested. "Please don't worry about it, it's your Christmas present," I joked. She finally relented.

I didn't think of it as any big deal at all. It wasn't like I had offered to do some kind of heroic deed. A cup of coffee? Come on. But we've become so hardened that we automatically assume that lurking behind even a small token of kindness is an expectation of something in return. I can honestly say I don't think that way. If you give expecting something back, I don't think that's giving in love. When I came back with the two lattes, we spent the 30 minutes before my medieval lit class chatting about our families and what we want to do after we graduate. She's not someone I normally interact with much, and she's usually kind of withdrawn. But something said just offer to get her a coffee too, so I did. And I'm glad I did.

Why I Feel Fabulous

1. In spite of my lazy, wretched, procrastinatory ways, Jesus came through for me. I had this paper I kept putting off (surprise, surprise), and my professor had the genius idea to make the rough draft due the Monday after Thanksgiving break. That's inhumane. Anyway, Sunday rolled around and I had zilch. Nada. Bupkis. It took the energy out of every cell in my body to produce an outline, an intro and a few highlighted lines of sources I hadn't gotten around to reading yet. I dragged my carcass out of bed early this morning and could only squeeze out three pages. Of a ten page paper. Caramba. I arrived to the GTA office to find that a couple of my OCD classmates had finished theirs. Grrr. But upon my sheepish admission to others that I had only eked out three (in the end, three and a half) pages, I got: "Aw, I'm so glad you've only done that much!" Uh, yeah . . . you're welcome. Anyway, it turns out I wasn't the only one with a struggle. Mind you, today was not the day that we had to have it finished and polished. It was rough draft/peer editing day. Professor would evaluate us also, though, and I prayed that my measly three pages (the extra half was a bit of detailed outlining of the rest of my paper + conclusion) wouldn't besmirch my grade. In the end, I got docked a little for my lack of, er, completion, but my "inhumane" professor wrote, "Three and a half pages, but well thought out." I ended up with a 91 for my overall evaluation. Let's go!

2. I made the most gorgeous salad you could ever conceive of. It was beautiful. It was like an uber-chef's salad. Baby spinach greens, sauteed bell pepper and onions, real bacon bits, bits of ham and cheese, slices of boiled egg, almond slices and topped off with raspberry vinaigrette. It was really divine. And I broiled a piece of salmon to go with it. I wanted to immortalize my dinner tonight.

3. I bought a book of all of Don Miller's greatest hits—Blue Like Jazz, Searching for God Knows What, and Through Painted Deserts—rolled into one on sale! (I'd given away my previous originals). It was originally $24.99, was reduced to $12.79, and on top of that I had a 25% off coupon. Let's go!

4. I'm going to sleep good tonight. Gooood.

Advice from a Soul Brother

"Don't force the fit. If you do, your feet will hurt after a while."

Priceless!

Home

Instead of working on my paper, I've spent a good part of my break reading a fabulous book suggested by my go-to book guy. Every single book he's suggested has been well worth the read. What was the book? Home by Marilynne Robinson.

She won the Pulitzer Prize for a book I read and blogged about a long time ago, Gilead. Home is sort of the sequel, but only in that it was written after Gilead. It actually takes place during the same time frame of the first, but from a different perspective.

The novel is set in the late 50s. Basically, there's a ne'er do well son, Jack, who comes home to rural Iowa town Gilead where he reunites with his youngest sister Glory and ailing father after a 20-year absence. It's bittersweet. The sweet joy of the prodigal's return intermingled with the bitter regret and resentment and longing of the silent years of his absence.

Whenever I read a book, a good book, I put myself in it somehow. At some points I imagined myself as Glory. I recognized the mixed emotions she had towards Jack. I identified with her fears and feelings of vulnerability when she pondered her past experiences and her future. At others, I imagined myself as Jack's distant love, Della. Though she wasn't a main character, I could imagine her inner conflict as her loyalty to family was tested.

Good books make me think. This one made me think about what it means to love. Though I certainly don't consider myself an expert on the topic, I've heard lots of definitions and theories. But Home made me think this: That loving someone is giving someone permission. Permission to do two very powerful things. You give them permission to bring you joy while at the same time giving them permission to bring you pain. Allowing someone to make you wildly happy is accompanied by allowing them to possibly hurt you profoundly. The only reason Jack was able to cause his family so much pain was because they loved him so much. He continued to hurt them with his actions and eventually his absence because they wouldn't give up on him. But when he returned, he caused considerable joy and relief. A letter or a phone call from Della was the world to Jack. But returned letters and silence? An unbearable blow.

Loving someone is giving them power. It's not some fluffy, sappy game. It's relinquishing control. The prospect is at once scary and wonderful.

Thanksgiving 2008 Pics

Awww!

I don't care who you voted for, anyone with a heart must admit that this picture is criminally cute:

cnn.com

Thanksgiving Texts from a Wannabe Revolutionary

First: "Happy mass turkey consumption day!"

Then: "I've received a lot of backlash. It can hurt fighting the man. Especially on the holidays. But I'm on the Native American's side. I don't understand why we celebrate breaking bread with them when we later performed mass genocide to steal their land. The first winter at Plymouth marks the rise of the evil empire!"

This kid is great. His idealism and bright-eyed desire to stick it to the man are priceless.

Thanksgiving Eve

I usually take this day to, whilst fulfilling my usual duties of baker's assistant, make a list of the things I'm thankful for:

1. A family who loves me: brothers who make me laugh, a mother who is also a friend, and a dad who reminds me of my value.

2. Having a relationship with God such that I can speak to Him and I know that He hears me.

3. Children: their hugs, smiles and innocence.

4. The opportunity to pursue an education.

5. The chances I've had in the past and the chances I'll have in the future to travel the world.

6. Having the ability to speak a foreign language.

7. Reliable friends.

8. A car that gets awesome gas mileage.

9. Straight teeth.

10. The hereditary gift of not having to watch my weight (yet).

11. My health.

12. Sunflowers.

13. Scarves.

14. Chai tea lattes.

15. Good books.

16. Lively, intelligent conversation.

17. Genuine, all-encompassing hugs.

18. My boy winning the presidency.

19. People that make me belly laugh.

20. My youth and having my whole life ahead of me.

Brothers

Aww, my middle bro is so sweet. He took me out to lunch today. He's basically a hulk. Like, he could effortlessly snap me in half like a toothpick. And imagine, I used to be able to push him around.

Sometimes I'm glad I had brothers and no sisters. We never competed with one another, never got jealous of one another, never argued over borrowing each others' stuff. (I'm not saying that stuff never happened between my brothers themselves, it just never happened between us.) The only fights we got into were literal. Not prissy "I'm not talking to you anymore" fights.

While having brothers toughened me up, it also spoiled me. I didn't have to share. I existed in my own category. But at the same time, it made life harder, especially since I'm also the oldest. Boys will be boys, but girls will be good (and the oldest will be responsible). And not allowed to do anything.

Oh, well. Things are different now that we're older. My brothers are cool and got my back and would beat anybody up for me. That's what brothers are for.

Future Mocha Mom?

Okay, I wrote this yesterday, and then I read this today on cnn.com. Weirdness!

Update @5:50 PM: Yikes, I just read some of the comments on this article and am kind of weirded out. Maybe "Mocha Moms" is corny (certainly not "racist"), and perhaps heralding the idea of Michelle Obama as a stay-at-home mom is exaggerated, but I liked it simply because I like the idea of a woman pursuing education and using it to raise her children.

My Babies!

(sigh.) I miss my job.

I'm back in my hometown (well, as much of a hometown as I'll ever have) for Thanksgiving break. One fabulous thing about Auburn is that they give us the entire week off. Not just rinky dink Wednesday through Friday. The downside? I still have a wretched paper to contend with. So instead of procrastinatory imaginations about la Gloriosa coming down, I'll regale you with procrastinatory imaginations of rugged Argentine gauchos and their romantically rustic lives on the pampas.

Anyway, I'm here and I have the week off. I couldn't resist the temptation to go by my old place of employment and visit my babies. The truth is, I super miss my job. I miss being around children. Since going back to school, I deal with big people all day. I deal with big people things all day—research, scholarly journals and MLA style, papers, the specter of comprehensive exams, methodologies and approaches . . . I miss the innocence and simplicity and hilarity of working with kids.

I felt like a celebrity today. Seeing my awkwardly sweet middle schoolers' faces light up and the bright, gap-toothed smiles of the little ones upon seeing me never got old. It almost made me cry to see how happy everyone was to see me and how much everyone had grown. One 3rd grader wrapped her arms around me, buried her face in my sweater and said, "I miss your sweet smell." lol! That is ridiculously priceless.

I was swarmed with hordes of kids at church this Sunday, too. I guess it comes with being a former children's church teacher and occasional Sunday school teacher substitute. "Have you been good?" I ask. I always get vigorous affirmative nods in response, knowing that they've most likely been the opposite. Those darling rogues. Those human incarnations of Curious George. Children. I do want some of my own one day. I can't help but think that my various experiences—studying, teaching, traveling, etc.—will help me be a good future mom to my future kids. [Cue sappy, overblown, sentimental score. Cut to scenes of a 30something me teaching my 3-year old to say "leche" and "lait" while handing him a sippy cup of milk, reading Curious George stories, making finger paintings of animals we saw at the zoo, and lastly saying prayers together before turning on the radio to NPR's "Evening Jazz" to lull him to sleep.]

From a Classmate

I thought my little poem about the Glorious One coming down and finishing my paper for me was pretty clever, so I sent the link to one of my fellow classmates in medieval lit who I knew would get a kick out of it. He's also taking Latin American modernist poetry and this was his reply:

"Je je, nice one Chantell! I will now be asking for her assistance in my paper for Dr. _____. Does she help with modernist, feminist suicidal Uruguayan poets, too? ;-)"

Priceless!

I Like David Brooks

He's a New York Times columnist who makes me think of an intellectual Mr. Rogers. Mild-mannered, thoughtful, right-of-center. He's conservative but not hawkish. He can praise without fawning. He can criticize without condemning.

But today he invented a word that made the logophile in me go ga-ga. In describing with a tongue-in-cheek air the intellectual prowess of members of Obama's cabinet he writes:

"Even more than past administrations, this will be a valedictocracy — rule by those who graduate first in their high school classes."

'Valedictocracy' is the best word ever! I don't know why I like it so much. It's a word that's funny in a rib-poking sort of way, but at the same time a word that admires the way that Obama is valuing intellect in putting together his cabinet.

Read the whole column here. His articles are always well-written and he's one of the ones I always read. I have to say my all-time favorite is Maureen Dowd, though. Even though sometimes she's a little more hit-and-miss. But she is SO funny, I forgive her.

Oh, and I discovered a new feature on NYT that made me cry with pure delight. If you highlight a word, a little question mark pops up and when you click it, a window will pop up with definitions! Almost as nifty as Google's "define" feature.

The Last Milagro

There once was a girl going out of her mind

wondering if ever of this paper the end she'd find.

She was tired as heck, for sleep she pined,

because on the morrow, back to the daily grind.

"Oh, Glorious One," she cried, "will you have mercy

on a poor grad student as tired as me?

I've been writing about your milagros, you see

So why not do another, cuz this junk ain't easy."

Then, like a flash, a miraculous sight!

The Glorious One appeared bathed in radiant light!

She said to the girl, "Never fear, all wrongs I make right,

what would you like me to do for you tonight?"

The girl blinked and said, "I must be delirious.

The Virgin? That's crazy! This can't be serious!"
She had to admit, though, she was kind of curious . . .

if the Glorious One finished her paper, she wouldn't be furious.

"Hail, Mary, umm, if you're so full of grace

would you mind finishing my paper at a more rapid pace?

Besides, you were the one who made the milagros take place.

I figured I'd ask, you know, just in case."

The Glorious One sighed, "Girl, you're lazy as all.

And you're not even Catholic, yet I answered your call.

I'll have mercy this once but, I declare, what gall!

Next time you have a paper, you better get on the ball."

She made the sign of the cross, the sign of her Son

over my laptop then said, "Ha, that was fun!"

The Glorious one then disappeared, the victory won.

I looked at the screen. My paper was done!

Paper Procrastination Post # 9873833: 20somethings

(sigh.) I'm almost done with page 2. Look, some progress is better than none, okay?

You know your 20something years are slipping through your fingers like sand when you find yourself as big sister to another 20something.

I had every intention of making a big dent in my paper when I'm visited by an intense, uber-idealistic kid who's spearheading a Bible study group along with me and another young lady from church. The other young lady wasn't able to make it, but he still wanted to meet.

He whirs through roommate problems, spills ideas he has for the Bible study, and spouts his views that are scattered across the socio-political and theological spectrum. He's a human Energizer bunny, fidgety, teeming with ideas and plans and insight.

I want to pat him on the head. Pinch his cherubic cheeks. He reminds me of the old days when I wanted to save the world. When I wanted to be a vegetarian and join the PeaceCorps and thought Communism wasn't such a bad idea.

I pleaded with him . . . "I have a paper to write."

"When's it due?" he countered.

"Thursday."

He gasped. "You shouldn't even be started on it yet!"

I sighed a wise, world-weary sigh. "Graduate school is different. You'll learn one day."

Paper Procrastination Post # 9873832

(sigh) There's something about having to write a paper that makes me incredibly prolific on this blog.

Me: Who wants to know what I'm writing about?

Everybody: Meeee!!

Me: All right, everyone, gather round. Let Mama Channy tell you all about a lovely medieval Spanish novel, Los Milagros de Nuestra Señora. Okay?

Everybody: Yay! We love medieval Spanish stories!

Me: Oh, goody. Now, there was a man born around 1196 named Gonzalo de Berceo. Can everybody say that? Gonzalo de Berceo.

Everybody: Gonzaaalooo de Berceeeooo.

Me: Very good, everyone. Mama Channy is so proud of you. Now, Gonzalo de Berceo had the novel idea of putting together a collection of stories of miracles that the Virgin Mary did. Some of them included some downright scandalous characters. There are tales of fornicating clerics, drunken monks, and even pregnant abbesses!

Everybody: Ooh! That's bad, Mama Channy.

Me: Yes, I know. But the important thing is that nobody is perfect, and according to Berceo, as long as you're faithful to the Virgin, she'll come down and help you out even if you've been naughty.

Someone from the group: The Virgin is nicer than Santa. If you're naughty, Santa puts you on his bad list and gives you nothing but coal for Christmas.

Me: Err . . . that's one way to look at it. Anyway, Mama Channy is writing about the intended audience of Berceo's tales. So she's including evidence of orality, references that would have appealed to laymen making pilgrimages, as well as references that would have appealed to church leaders without formal training or education. She's also going to provide evidence that overall, Berceo's work had didactic purposes.

Everyone: What's 'didactic'?

Me: Oh, well, it just means that it was meant to teach something.

Someone from the group: So, then, why not just say that instead of using that funny word?

Me: Oh, you sweet dears, Mama Channy is in graduate school, and no graduate student worth her salt gets by without peppering her papers with funny words. Using funny words in papers is a graduate student rite of passage. And Mama Channy has to use big words in Spanish, on top of that.

Everyone: Wooooww!

Me: (smiling) That's right.

Someone else from the group: But, Mama Channy, aren't you supposed to be writing your paper? It's due Thursday, isn't it?

Me: (nervously laughing) Well, aren't you an observant one? Ahem. Mama Channy better be getting along now.

Everyone: Awwww!

Me: Now, now. We'll have a chance to procrastinate together again soon. Don't worry. Ta ta for now, dear ones.

Everyone: Bye, Mama Channy!

I Hate Complaining

I hate complaining. I especially hate writing down my complaints because when I read back over them later, I sound like a petulant child.

But I have to be honest. Writing a ten-page paper about Los milagros de Nuestra Señora is the most unattractive thing in the world. Unless you were my medieval lit professor who gets excited over obscure latinate words that aren't even used in modern Spanish anymore. But see, the thing is, he's passionate about it. Though I'm not excited at all about medieval Spanish literature, and especially not about the prospect about having to write a ten-page paper about miracles performed by the Virgin Mary, I'm glad that I'm taking this class from my particular professor because he loves it.

I, too, want to do something that I love. There's nothing more satisfying than being completely enveloped in a world of doing what you're passionate about. But the bratty little kid in me throws a tantrum at the idea of having to do things you frankly detest in order to possibly do what you love. The romantic in me rebels against the idea of something being a mere means to an end.

I want to love whatever I end up doing. I want to love what I'm doing now. I wish I had the spirit of one who tackles every task with gusto. I wish I had more faith, that I had a steelier spine, that I had a sharper sense of purpose. Because right now, I'm just a sulky twentysomething pouting over a lot in life that many would love to exchange with me for their own.

15 Things I'm Not Afraid to Admit

I've been tagged by Sis. Jewel to do one of these nifty little memes, so here goes . . .

I'm not afraid to admit . . .

1. that I want to get married and have kids (preferably while Barack Obama's president, and a second term is not guaranteed, so, Mr. Wonderful, get on the ball!).

2. that I have songs downloaded from the first High School Musical on my iPod.

3. that I bring my Curious George doll on trips with me. He's like my traveling companion.

4. that I floss my teeth every day. I'm obsessed with flossing. When I run out of dental floss, I go mad.

5. that I make to-do lists and get profound satisfaction from crossing things off of it. In fact, if I finish a task that I forgot to put on my to-do list, I'll write it down so that I can then cross it off.

6. that I think Barack Obama and his newly-appointed chief of staff Rahm Emanuel are both kinda hot.

7. that I often say "Blast!" with slightly raised fist if something doesn't go my way.

8. that I'm a borderline pyromaniac. I get a gleam in my eye every time I light my scented candles.

9. that when I was little, I hated Shaggy from Scooby Doo. He was SO annoying with his whiny voice and cowardly demeanor. He was also extremely greedy and useless and never helped to solve the crime. He just got in the way. And he was never funny either.

10. that I don't know how to drive a stick shift.

11. that I'm a sucker for intriguing accents.

12. that I laugh when people trip.

13. that my current ringtone is "Unwritten" by Natasha Beddingfield.

14. that I like using big words.

15. that I have a weakness for the underdog.

You know you're in Alabama when . . .

you can unashamedly walk around barefoot at the main university library. C'mon, its a nasty, rainy day and my ballet flats got soaked! The only thing worse than barefeet is wet feet, and there's nothing more annoying than producing moist squishy sounds while trying to be inconspicuous walking amongst the silent stacks.

One of My Fleeting Fears

I was afraid that everyone would be communicating in exegetical hermeneutical theologo-speak and that I would be left behind, coughing in their Holy Ghost-filled academic dust.

This is all I want to know . . .

Has anyone ever worn their glasses for you?

I'm being contracted out

My blogging abilities are being contracted out (on a volunteer basis, of course) to my favorite webzine, Ninetyandnine.com.

I'm currently talking about election stuff over at A Month in the Life, and I'll be liveblogging the upcoming UGST Symposium in St. Louis this coming Thursday and Friday at Collideoscope.

Enjoy!

P.S.-Don't forget to vote today!

This is horrible!

Omg, this is awful. Obama's grandmother passed away. His father died in a fatal car accident, his mother died of ovarian cancer at a relatively young age, his grandfather has long since passed and now his grandmother, the last living one who raised him, on the day before Election Day.

This is so horrible. Imagine the stress he must be under right now. I cannot even imagine. Regardless of your political affiliation, our prayers need to be with this man right now.

http://www.cnn.com/2008/POLITICS/11/03/obama.grandma/index.html

Par-tay!

Yeah, I know, I've dressed up as a cowgirl in the past. But in economic times like these, a girl's gotta work with what she's got and costume recycling is definitely in order. The peeps in my program are a pretty cool bunch. Enjoy!