Snob Cravings and The Last Dragon

I wanted sushi. It's not like I eat it all the time or am some sort of snobby sushi connoisseur. But I wanted hunks of raw salmon on mounds of rice. I wanted something vegetabley and seaweedy. And so I wandered into Publix and was also struck by a craving for Camembert cheese. I don't even eat it, but I did have it at a French Club meeting a few weeks back, and I had to have some.

Chocolate is a normal craving. But sushi and Camembert? Even I would tell myself to go SAT down.

In other news, I picked up my taekwondo uniform this afternoon. When I tried it on, I felt fierce. Like a female Last Dragon. I start next week and can't wait! For those unversed in The Last Dragon, I leave you with this youTube clip:

Here I sit,

basking in the glow of my triumph. Procrastination has always plagued me. It's always threatened to suck me under. But somehow, somewhere, when I dig deep enough, I chance upon a raw lode of drive buried deep beneath the surface. And once I hit it, it's a wrap.

I woke up this morning, donned my iPod, armed myself with a cup of coffee, unsheathed my red pen, and got to work. I've corrected all of my compositions. I've slain the dragon of procrastination once again.

But oh, it ain't over. I still have to grade the revisions. And my students just took their first exam yesterday. I didn't even bring them home with me because I was still battling the first drafts of the compositions. They'll get done too, I suppose.

Speaking of battles, I've decided to take taekwondo classes. I'm gonna learn how to whup some tail.

Letters From My Friend: Debut Response

And now, my response to the debut of Letters From My Friend. Enjoy!

Ah! Dearest K.,

As I sharpen my metaphorical quill to dip into my metaphorical inkwell to respond to you, I must admit that I am presently relishing one of the brownies I baked after our most recent conversation. Chocolate cravings arise suddenly and madly and often last for days, as you well know. A question now forms in my mind: Dear Heavens, what ever would I have done to satisfy such a craving were I living in Dorian's time, or worse, Uncle Tom's time? Brownies were quite non-existent, and I daresay chocolate were not altogether easy to come by. I would have been a woman undone. Undone, I say.

But to respond to your initial inquiry. I understand all too well the mental conflict that two antithetical characters in two books being read simultaneously can cause. Truly, Uncle Tom and Dorian oppose one another in almost every way. Let's examine the oppositions:

1. Uncle Tom = elderly, Dorian = prime of youth

2. Uncle Tom = swarthy and wrinkled, Dorian = rosy-cheeked and smooth

3. Uncle Tom = indigent, Dorian = wealthy

4. Uncle Tom = passive and gentle, Dorian = active and violent

5. Uncle Tom = hopeful realist, Dorian = hopeless romantic

The list can surely go on. More disturbing than their utter antithesis is their quite realistic possible responses to you. Uncle Tom's advice on remaining enslaved is just as intolerable as Dorian's apathy towards you due to your particular dusky orange hue. But may I be so bold as to suggest that an earlier Dorian may have looked past your sienna just as he looked past Sibyl Vane's class?

Notwithstanding, none of these postulations or observations resolves the war taking place in your cerebral cortex. Perhaps it would at least calm the war, if not completely end it, if you were to look at these two fictional chaps in their particular contexts. Perhaps it would help to have sympathy towards them if you viewed them both as victims of their time and circumstance. Uncle Tom's dependency and passivity are a result of his being brought up to believe that he is sub-human property as a part of an institution American society allowed to exist. Dorian's debauched state is a result of being a part of an indolent, self-obsessed, hedonistic aristocracy that English society allowed to exist. You see, were we in Uncle Tom's or Dorian's shoes would we have been the better?

And a bit of advice: Don't fling yourself too liberally on any divans or chaise lounges in the presence of Lord Henry. We've previously discussed his corruptive designs.

Yours truly,

Chantell

Letters From My Friend: Debut

Letters From My Friend is a new Where You Can Find Me feature. My friend, a dear kindred spirit, gifted in writing, will occasionally write letters to me. I will post them, and subsequently post a worthy response. I bring to you the first installment of Letters from My Friend. Enjoy!

Dearest Chantell,

I have been reading two books simultaneously, The Picture of Dorian Gray and Uncle Tom's Cabin. And one must admit that it is quite strange to be reading both! On another subject first though, and then back to the latter.

Often, I recall the line from a book being read in the movie Gone With the Wind, which reads like this: "To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I recall that I was born." I don't know why this strange line should occur to me so frequently, and why I should think on it. Now it brings to mind a time when I asked a group of second grade girls if they remember being born. They invariably answered yes, and flung themselves onto a slew of divans to tell me of it. They described hearing their mothers heartbeats, feeling themselves being pushed through the birth canal, and fighting to go back into the warmth of the womb. It makes me wonder if I fought. Did I really want to come into this world if the first thing I did was have a bowel movement? This is true, sadly. I was scared of the world, and rightly so. I hated everyone and everything except my mother.

But back to Dorian and Uncle Tom. What would Dorian say about my life? Wouldn't he only try to defile me if he came across me, or worse yet-- though more of a reality--ignore me because of the orange tones of my skin? And Uncle Tom, why, he would only beg me to read the Bible to him. And one does grow tired of reading to one who can read himself. The only purpose of reading to someone is so that one can change the content of what one is reading and the other will not be able to discover the lie because the other is altogether not capable of reading it for himself. Dorian would make me love him and then stab me behind the ear in a rush of passionate hate, all while holding yellow jessamins between his teeth. Uncle Tom would tell me to stay with my master and not ask for freedom until it is offered.

Both of these characters perplex me much, Chantell. They have affected my life and I am forever altered. I can never regain my existence before knowing either of them. They sit in my head, one on either side of my cerebral cortex, spitting fire or water onto my grey matter. What am I to do? I am writing because I am desperate. I am off to the opera, though first I am to dine with Lord Henry and who can know the outcome! Debauchery, to be sure.

Sincerely,

K.

Me Want Chocolate

Last night, after commiserating over a series of rainy days and analyzing characters and themes in The Picture of Dorian Gray with a dear friend, I was blindsided by a chocolate craving. Me wanted chocolate so badly. And nothing satisfies it more than brownies. Dark chocolate, fudgy, warm and gooey. Me wanted them. But, blast! We were out of eggs. And indeed, I braved the rainy night and the frigid Winn-Dixie air to get them.

But it was worth it. Oh, Lawd. After I took the first bite of that gooey, chocolatey concoction, it was a wrap.

And, no, I'm still not done with the compositions. (Grrrrrr . . . )

Scattered Thoughts Compiled as a Neat List

1. I can't worry about what other people think. Why am I wasting my brain energy? I have no import upon what goes on in other people's heads. Why am I concerned about something so utterly incontrollable?

2. I can't worry about what's going to happen next. There's always been a next step. God's always led me to one. So what makes me think that suddenly He won't?

3. Are the dreams that I fervently wish for nightmares in disguise?

4. I really don't want to grade these compositions. I really don't. There are so many of them. I'm teaching four classes! That's about 100 students. And they're going to be bad. Most of them will be. It's Elementary Spanish. They're supposed to be bad. And I hate grading, more than anything, error riddled compositions. It drains my lifeforce. But I'm getting paid for it. I'm getting paid for the draining of my lifeforce.

5. My iPod earbuds are broke down. To' up. It was a slow process of erosion.

6. I had the UN in my stomach Thursday night. Japanese, Chinese, Saudi Arabian, Turkish, Italian, Malian, Korean. The only thing American were my peanut butter brownies out of a box.

7. People keep postulating that I'll return from France with a Frenchman in tow. Bon chance with that happening.

8. I am procrastinating, egregiously and brazenly, on grading my compositions. Expect a few more procrastinatory posts in the near future.

Stuff Apostolics Like

I've been invited to contribute to a hilarious blog called Stuff Apostolics Like. (Modeled after the equally hilarious Stuff White People Like.) It gives a humorous and ironic glimpse into the rich, quirky and at times, contradictory world of Apostolic Pentecostals.

Flattered, I accepted. I've already submitted ideas that have been published, among them:

#9-Anne of Green Gables

#30-Watching TV Shows Online

#40-Compartmentalizing Your Prayer Requests

So, now, I'll be a regular blogger. Check it out.

P.S. - The funniest one so far to me is #31-Covering Ladies' Legs Who Are Slain in the Spirit with Suitcoats.

Gas Station Encounter

Me (Minding my own business pumping gas. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a figure walking towards me. At first I think he's going past me, but then he stops right in front of me. The figure turns out to be a blond-haired, freckle-faced teenager.)

Him: Hey, um, I just wanted to say that you look pretty good.

Me: (surprised, because I honestly thought he was going to ask me for money or try to sell me something) Oh, why, thank you.

Him: Yeah, you're looking pretty good. And um, I wanted to know if I could get your number.

Me: (even more surprised and somewhat amused at his audacity) Um, I'm sorry, but that's not going to happen.

Him: (embarrassed) Oh . . .

Me: (feeling like maybe I was a little too harsh) How old are you?

Him: 16 about to be 17.

Me: Well, add 10 years to your age, and that's how old I am. You see, it's impossible.

Him: Okay, well, you still look good . . . have a good night. (walking away)

(sigh.) I could start my own show called "The Cougar." Seriously.

I have a scary problem with days.

What I'm saying is that I'll wake up and think it's another day.

Case in point: Last month I woke up on a Sunday morning, and upon looking at my alarm clock and seeing it a little past 6 a.m. (the time I normally leave the house for my 45 min commute), I jumped up (more like tumbled out) and started feverishly brushing my teeth trying to whip up an acceptable-outfit-to-wear image in my head so that I wouldn't have to blindly rummage through my closet. Mid-spit, it dawned on me that it was Sunday morning, not Monday morning (I had a flashback of preparing snack for my Toddler Sunday School class the night before) and I angrily yet disorientedly tried (but failed) to go back to sleep.

Fast-forward to this past weekend. I just knew that a certain dinner party I had been invited to was Saturday night. I got all ready, bought a bottle of sparkling cider (for the teetotalers like myself) and a Publix-made Boston Creme Cake. You couldn't tell me that the party was not that night. Upon my arrival, the hostess greeted me in her jammies and regretfully informed me that the party was the night before.

Wait . . . come again? I'mmmmm sorry? ::perplexed blinking and head shake:: Then it dawned on me. The last minute invitation she emailed me which said "The party is tomorrow night" was sent on Thursday night. My weird self, not bothering to check the date, read the email on Friday morning and assumed that it was also sent Friday morning. So "tomorrow night" registered in my mind as Saturday night.

I felt like idiota of idiotas and could barely staunch the deluge of manic apologies that came flowing out of my mouth, but she ended up inviting me to stay and she whipped up some lovely pasta carbonara and a salad, we sipped sparkling cider and finished things off with Boston Creme Cake. Um, all's well that ends well?

Co-Author with Don Miller!

I know it's hard to believe, but Don Miller chose me to co-author his new book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. It really is a dream come true. I had to wait to announce it because it was being featured on the literary e-zine Top Selling Authors, and I couldn't break the non-disclosure agreement. Read about my exhilarating experience collaborating with my husband-in-my-mind here.

Why I'm Getting Old

A few weeks back, I was teaching food vocabulary in Spanish. Fruits, vegetables, all of that. One of the vocabulary words was rábano, otherwise known as a radish. I was trying to be funny and made a Fraggle Rock reference. You know, those little things that lived in caves and sang "Dance your cares away (clap, clap) worries for another day, let the music play (clap, clap), down at Fraggle Rock!" Anyway, the fraggles ate radishes. I loved that show when I was little.

My students stared back at me blankly. They had no idea what fraggles were. It was before their time! I could understand if my middle schoolers didn't get it. But these were college-aged kids. I'm not that much older than them, c'mon. But then I thought about it. Most of my students now are between the ages of 18-22. So, I'm at least 5 years older than the oldest. But this is 1st year Spanish and most of them are freshmen, so I'm about 8 or 9 years older than the majority. That's a generation gap. Yikes.

I'm baaaack!

I thought I had a long, silent road of recovery ahead of me. I saw myself a month, even two months from now, as a mere puddle of emotional meltdown soup, the primordial ooze from which I would painstakingly re-evolve into a shell of my former self. And once I did re-evolve, once my pseudopods hardened into actual legs, I questioned whether I would even be able to walk.

If all of that sounds melodramatic (if not pedantic), that's because it is. And once I realized that it was, that the sun still rises, and that I could still see rainbows after the rain, I also realized that I could still nourish my blog baby with the milk of my mind.

To commemorate my realizations, I'm pondering doing some new things with my blog baby. I'm considering having some guest bloggers throw their $0.02 in. I had a weekly "mindquote" going, (all of which were made up and from varying pseudonyms conjured from my own name. Can anyone guess why the present quotation is by "Chaniko Smitikami"?) and I think it might be fun to have readers submit their own quotations (real or imagined) for me to feature.

If you'd like to help me realize my realizations, leave a comment or shoot me an email (you can find the address if you click on "View my complete profile" to the right) if you think you're a good candidate for guest blogging or have any mindquote suggestions.

Hurray! May your days be full of sunflowers.

Blog Break

Dear Readers,

I'm taking a leave of absence from my blog baby for a while. I'm not sure for how long. It may be a month or two. I don't want to abandon the blog, but neither do I want to continue writing when I have other priorities that demand my attention right now. I need time to regroup and refocus. Blogging is a fun outlet, but it can also be a distraction. And distractions are what I need the least of at this point in time. So, never fear. This is not goodbye, it's just TTFN.

Sincerely,

Me

Pre-You

I am borrowing this concept from a dear friend of mine and shall expound upon it here. (I gave you credit upfront this time.) LOL. Ahem.

When we meet people, is the person we meet from the get-go really them, or are they, as my friend postulates, Pre-Them?

Think about it. The us that we put forward from the start is not usually the us that people come to know. Not that we're attempting to deceive, necessarily, but that most people are multi-layered and what we get from the get-go is the mere epidermis.

Hasn't this happened to you before? You get to know someone and they say, "You know, when I first met you, I thought you were _______, but now I know better!" What goes in the blank is not necessarily something negative, but rather just one of the characteristics of Pre-You. (What usually goes in the blank for me is "shy.")

Dealing with Pre-People isn't a bad thing. It's just that you have to allow time to go beyond Pre-Them before casting a definitive judgment. What's bad is All-Them from the get-go. I've come to the realization that I'd rather be ambivalent over Pre-Them than dazzled by All-Them. Why? Because once you've met All-Them, that's literally all there is. Sure, All-Them can be dashing and exciting and leave you breathless, but then what? Can All-Them, as my friend put it, "back that stuff up"? Is there any depth beyond the charming artifice?

Here's a hypothetical situation (what if there were no hypothetical situations?) to illustrate a layer of Pre-Them being shed:

Her: (Sitting at a cafe with WiFi, perusing news online waiting for him. She realizes too late that she's sat in the direct line of sight of a middle aged creeper. Fantastic. She tries to sink lower into her seat to allow her laptop screen to block his view. He finally arrives. They greet each other and he sits down.) Hey, would you mind moving over a little bit? No, this way. There's this man sitting over there staring at me, and I need you to block his view.

Him: (laughing) Sure.

Her: (After a bit of chit chat, she excuses herself to the ladies' room and comes back to find the creeper gone.) Thank God that man left. Even after you tried to block his view he still moved over to keep staring.

Him: Yeah, when you left, he came by and asked if I was with you. I was like "Naw, man," and I gave him your number. I even gave him some tips and told him you liked long walks in the park. So, be expecting a call pretty soon.

Her: (laughing uproariously) Whatever.

At first, she thought he was kind of reserved, but then she saw a funnier, more outgoing him beginning to emerge.

Letter from a Wannabe Matchmaker

From: Sister Wannabe Matchmaker

To: Me

Hey, sis,

I'm sorry you haven't heard from ______. My brother said that he thought _____ has been talking to someone else recently. Oh well. I tried. God has a wonderful plan for your life; so, hang in there and keep believing.

God Bless,

Sister Wannabe Matchmaker

From: Me

To: Sister Wannabe Matchmaker

Hey, sis!

No problem at all. You did try, and the Lord will reward your efforts. ;-)

God bless,

Me

Everything You Wanted

Sometimes you get so used to wanting what you want that when the possibility of it arises, it immobilizes you.

You're so used to wanting what you've wanted that you've gotten comfortable, almost to the point that you'd almost rather continue wanting than face deciding to accept it.

Not that . . . an offer has been made for me to accept (or reject), but the circumstances, taken at technical face value, are just short of bewildering.

However (isn't there always?), I cannot presently deny a reticence. Almost an ambivalence. While part of me demands "What is wrong with you?" the other part advocates self-patience instead of self-beratement. Perhaps a healthy reticence, for now, is not altogether a bad thing.

Bienvenidos to Instructor Life

Today was the first day of official instructordom.

It's nothing new, really. I taught in the Spring and this past summer. It's just that then, I was a lowly GTA. Now, I'm a part of the system. I have an office (albeit shared) and my box in the mailroom has been elevated to the more prestigious instructor row. I'm so special.

Class went well today. As first days go. A bit of drama with cancelling and recombining classes, and a young lady who has proven herself to be the beginnings of a headache (she came in late, and then greeted me with, "Yeah, like, buenos noches or whatever"), but all in all, I still give it an A.

And NPR. Ah. What a friend for the 45-minute commute. Morning Edition on the way up and All Things Considered on the way back.

One of the best things is that I teach Mon Wed Fri. Tues/Thurs I have to my little self. No classes. No papers (except for the ones I'll eventually have to grade, but we'll cross that bridge when we get there).

I can do this.

Passivity

There are downsides to being passive. There are downsides to being aggressive. But I'd take a little too aggressive over a little too passive any day.

Guys who are passive are just ugh. Having conversations with them is like swimming in a pool of coagulated grits. Spending time with them is like watching a French film in slow motion. Expecting them to take initiative is like waiting for Godot.

I'd much rather one brazenly escort me onto the dance floor without asking, risking my resistance, than to stand against the wall allowing song after song after song to slip by, like Hamlet, immobilized by the specter of action.

Ladies, let's have a talk.

Ahem. I'm writing this out of concern for certain of my fair sex kicking into e-stalker mode when it comes to members of the opposite sex.

Lord knows I have my fair share of quirks, but there are some things that deserve an utter status of FAIL. I have a few male friends (hasn't seemed to up my chances of Mr. Wonderful noticing me, but that's for another day), and occasionally, they confide in me. Keep this in mind:

1. E-stalking is initially flattering, but ultimately annoying.

2. Don't assume that any Internet-generated correspondence of any type is confidential.

And believe me, I've been through the school of hard knocks on number 2. My advice comes from a position of concern and experience, not of condescension.

I mean, you do you. Whatever floats your boat. But I'm of the persuasion that calm and coy triumphs over frenetic and forward.

Goodbyes

I've never been good at them.

After I helped one of my pals and his wife pack and put stuff in a moving truck today, I said goodbye to him and my other good grad school buddy who came to help. I despise saying goodbye. I know, things change, people move on, you begin new chapters in life, you can still keep in touch, it's part of life. I get it. But it still makes me melancholy and teary-eyed. It still depresses me to know that, despite the positive that can come from change, things from this point on will never be the same.

I feel like all my friends are moving away, getting married, starting new lives without me. I know, it sounds dramatic, maudlin and self-pitying. But it's how I felt standing there in the grass as they pulled down the door to the moving truck.

I have a lot to look forward to. I have a couple more orientation sessions before my life as an instructor begins next Monday. I'm blessed to even have this job because, frankly, people aren't getting hired in this economy, especially in academia, rife with budget cuts. I needed something temporary that would allow me to save a decent amount of money, and that's exactly what this is. After that, I'll experience 6 months abroad. I'm thankful for the opportunities God has given me.

Even so, there is a part of me which has a tendency to nurse the bittersweet. To cast a wistful glance behind me and long for the way things used to be.

Graduation

As soon as I took off my bridesmaid dress, I donned a cap and gown and walked across the stage. Today was the big day! I officially have a Master of Hispanic Studies. God is so good.

Wedding

My blog has been neglected for a beautiful reason.

I've been in the lovely town of Charleston, SC to be in the wedding of one of my very best friends. The wedding, in short, was a fairy tale. A fairy tale come true.

There are so many things to describe: a dinner cruise, watching the sunset over the water, getting whirled and dipped on the dance floor, meeting lots of interesting people, watching the bride and groom speed away on a boat at the end of the reception.

It was lovely. I wish my friend and her hubby the absolute best.

Yet Another One of My Snobby Musings

Okay, this is going to come out sounding like the words of a smarty-pants, high-maintenance, snobby girl. Perhaps there are some who would attest that those adjectives do accurately describe moi. Indeed, I've been accused of being each of those things at some point or another. But oh, well. I don't know what to do to convince the naysayers that I'm actually nice and down-to-earth and generally unpicky. Generally.

Okay, on with the snobby postulation. It has to do with guy deal breakers. I've always been clear about the fact that we must be in one accord on our beliefs. How can two walk together except they agree? Okay. I've also mused over age difference. I've been in some situations where I pondered the ramifications of cougardom. Age can definitely be a factor, especially if the age difference causes a disparity in maturity level, but I've come to the conclusion that it is not, by default, a deal breaker. I could probably write a dissertation about the ramifications of racial/cultural difference, but I'm gonna leave that can opener right where it is and just say that neither is that, by default, a deal breaker. There are a few preferences that I have: tall (or, at least taller than me) and bespectacled, but I know in the back of my mind that neither are the lack of these preferences deal breakers for me.

But the one that I haven't yet decided upon is educational level. Here's the snobby part: I don't know if I could be with someone who hasn't gone beyond a high school education. I'm just being honest. Let's be clear (channeling Obama here), I'm not in any way putting down anyone who has a high school education or less. Life leads people down a plethora of disparate paths. Fantastic. Many people that I look up to and love and admire who are much wiser than I could ever think about becoming haven't gone beyond a high school education. Honestly, college isn't for everyone. It just isn't. But that's okay. (Now that I've gotten my disclaimer out of the way . . . ) It's just that I don't think I could relate to Mr. Wonderful if he'd never gone to school. I don't think he could relate to me. I want someone (dare I say it?) on the same level as I am intellectually.

The college experience is a huge part of my formation as a person. For better or worse. And if he hasn't experienced it as well, there's a whole lexicon of commonality that would be missing from our discourse. Instead of being able to season our conversations and understanding of one another with spices like saffron, cumin, oregano, anise, thyme, rosemary and paprika, we'd be left with trying to get by on merely salt and pepper. And I don't know if salt and pepper is enough for me.

Like it or not, there's also the intimidation/inferiority complex factor. I don't want a guy who struggles with feelings of inferiority because his significant other has a more extensive curriculum vitae than he does. I don't want a dude who feels emasculated by my existence. There may be men out there who wouldn't be bothered by it. But I'd be willing to bet that many would have a problem with it.

I want to be able to be completely, nerdily me with Mr. Wonderful. I don't want him to stare blankly if I want to reminisce about my literary love affairs with Poe and Shakespeare. I want us to be able to accuse one another of having Freudian dysfunctions (i.e. anal-retentiveness, passive-aggressiveness, having Oedipal and Electra complexes, projecting) and laugh. I want us to be able to be each other's thesaurus.

Is that too much to ask?

Score!

1. Got served up a blue light special for speeding, but got off with a warning. Score!

2. Since I did well on my French exams and completed all other assignments, I was exempted from the final. Score!

3. I thought I owed rent for August and included a check along with my keys and check-out papers, but got a call today saying I didn't owe anything and they'd destroy the check for me. Score!

Three More Things That Have Made Me Cry Lately

and then we'll call a moratorium on the sappiness.

1. Reading a letter my brother wrote me while he was in basic training.

2. Examining a copy of my birth certificate.

3. Listening to a story about how a man's brother broke his neck in a swimming accident when they were teenagers and how the man's brother ended up paralyzed from the neck down. Then listening to him tell about the positive attitude his brother had towards life in spite of it all and how his brother even got married last year. He said it was the most emotional wedding he had ever attended.

I am now moved back in with the 'rents, my stuff is safely in storage, a lady I just met has plans to set me up with a "good looking guy," and this new chapter of my old life can officially begin.

Throwing Stuff Away

Grrrrr. I always agonize over throwing things away. But I might need this one day. But I might need this one day. I get so frustrated with that mental refrain that I eventually just tell myself, You know what? Tough. Even if I do need it one day, I'm so tired of looking at it take up space that it's going in the trash. For a year, my accent chair hasn't felt the weight of a single butt. Instead it's served as the depository for books, papers, folders, binders and file folders filled with class notes and copies of articles.

The guilt monster rises up in me and tries to come at me with righteous indignation at the thought of my throwing away two years worth of graduate study notes, syllabi, reading lists and articles. What if you decide to get your PhD one day? You'll wish you'd kept them! I hate you, guilt monster. I wish I could muster up every ounce of strength in my being and kick you in the gut. I don't want to keep them. I want to get rid of everything, do you hear me? Everything. I wish I had a firey furnace, Nebuchadnezzar style, that I could just chunk everything into. I mean, if something has sat around for a year and collected dust, how can I in my right mind think it's something I "need"? Besides, whatever work I've done, whatever papers I've written, whatever, is saved on my computer. Isn't that enough? It's not like I'm throwing away the books I've bought and used. Geez. Shut your guilt monstery mouth right now before I have to shut it for you.

Pepperoni Pizza

If I had to choose one thing to eat for the rest of my life, it would be pepperoni pizza. I would eat it every day, I wouldn't get tired of it, and I would love it. Each and every day.

Things That Made Me Cry This Week So Far

1. Watching the season finale of Kings. It was SUCH a good show. It was basically a modern retelling of the biblical David story. A modern-day monarchy. I'd almost do anything for NBC to bring it back for another season. The high quality shows with breadth and depth always get the axe. All that's usually left is reality show detritus.

2. Opening the door to see a beautiful friend of mine with a scraped face, slightly off-kilter glasses, a badly scraped elbow and torn and dirty clothes. She swerved on her bike to avoid getting hit by a truck which turned a little too wide and fell. What did me in is when she told me that she broke and lost a bracelet given to her by her mom which she vowed to never remove. She had worn it for several years.

3. Realizing that I had completely forgotten my aunt's birthday. Completely.

Move

There's something about preparing for a move that just sucks the life out of me. I'm listless, unmotivated. I sullenly lounge around my apartment, the weight of the realization that I'm going to have to either pack up or get rid of all this unnecessary stuff crushing me.

When I express these thoughts out loud, on paper, on computer screen and read back over them, they sound ludicrous. Absurd. Melodramatic. Why can't you be thankful that you even have stuff? Why can't you be happy that you're graduating and moving on to something else? I want to wrap myself in a comforter cocoon and never emerge. I want my stuff to pack itself. I have the boxes, the packing tape and the old newspaper to stuff in the crevices. All my stuff needs to do is get up and enclose itself accordingly.

Maybe part of it is that it's a move in name only. It's actually a tabling. A shelving. A displacement of articles in various niches scattered throughout. A dinette set with brother. Boxes of who knows what in my parents' attic. Heavy stuff in a storage room. Me? An adult-girl, once again at the mercy of mum n diddy. That's how they say it in these parts.

My circle of friends? It will disband with time and distance. I finally carved out a little niche at my little church only to have to abandon it. I'm haunted by the nebulous haze that I'm re-entering, and I curse the meticulous mind that serves to remind me of the many things that didn't work out.

I know that I sound like The Writer. Like a moody teenager whose world has come crashing down around her because of a zit. There are times when I'm speaking Spanish and I know the words are wrong as they leave my mouth, but I'm powerless to correct them because of the immediacy of conversation. There are times when I know the answer's wrong as I'm writing it, but I write it anyway because I'd rather hope that it's right than leave it blank. But when will I get over the unfounded embarrassment of being myself?

Choices, choices . . .

After the French test today, my pal and I were thinking up metaphors of how we did:

"We kicked it in the head, yo."

"It was like we said, 'Hey, French test, c'mere' and then we're like, WHAP!" (gesturing with an imaginary club).

Now, I'm left with the conundrum of figuring out what to do with myself for the rest of the day. I could:

a. Do a few more Rosetta Stone Level 2 French lessons. (When am I ever going to have to tell anyone "The cat is on top of the table"?)

b. Read a few more chapters of Northanger Abbey (Will Catherine Morland ever rid herself of the horrid John Thorpe and discover Mr. Tilney's whereabouts?)

c. Go home and start putting stuff in boxes and throwing stuff away (Will I be able to part with a dusty cordless phone I haven't used in eons? What about copies of articles about the essence of the Spanish Baroque?)

d. Watch a melodramatic French film (Disappearing spouses, existential crises, longing melancholic gazes, basking in ennui)

e. Obsess over whether I should still try to write a theology paper (I checked out too many books to turn back now vs. I'm an easily excitable yet shameless procrastinating bum)

Choices, choices . . .

The Sea of Undesirable Propositions

Ever had those conversations where there's an urgent, spidey-like sense tingling a warning that the longer the conversation lasts the closer you edge towards a precipice of awkwardness which overlooks a murky Sea of Undesirable Propositions?

Yeah.

Me, outside of the Haley Center, notorious for its bad reception, observing my surroundings from a drab concrete and steel balcony, arranging a possible Starbucks outing with pals.

Him, looking like a former member of Rascal Flatts complete with spiky hair, tight shirt, jeans, cowboy boots and a Southern drawl, yet not particularly attractive and of doubtful musical talent.

Backstory: He used to virtually stalk a colleague of mine who was his instructor before class every day. He always had some excuse or issue to discuss = He was a slacker. Since we taught at the same time, I was always in the office either before or at the same time she was = I saw him toujours.

The conversation began (on my end) as a simple exchange of banal pleasantries. But then it progressed to him telling me parts of his life story and then a series of questions as to my particulars.

Where am I from? (harmless enough) "Well, my dad was in the Air Force, so we moved around a little."

What do I plan to do after I graduate? (typical, but why do you care?) "Umm, I'm teaching for a while here, going to France, and then after that, I don't know."

Where do I live? (creeper alert!) "Err . . . near the post office."

How much longer do I plan to be around? (edging closer to the precipice!) "Well, actually, I'm leaving pretty soon. Moving out. Moving to another place. Yep."

The spidey sense subsides a little as he rattles on a bit more about his future plans. Meanwhile, I'm planning my escape. But then he yanks me back to the very edge of the precipice when he ends his spiel by saying that the only thing he needs now is a girlfriend. Spidey sense explosion!

(Trying out my condescending, "I'm older than you" tactic) "Oh, that'll come in time."

He doesn't take the hint. He compliments me. Cheesily. My body is dangling off the cliff. I'm grasping the edge of the precipice with one hand. The Sea of Undesirable Propositions churns menacingly below me. Stomach acid levels are dangerously rising. I have no choice but to execute my hastily arranged escape plan and mentally whisper a prayer for its success:

"Hey, it was nice talking to you, but I've gotta run back to the language lab."

Never before has a liberal been so fond of these words: Mission Accomplished.

Joke of the Day

I love those Laffy Taffy wrapper jokes. Apparently, so does my mom. She called sometime around 12 a.m. to tell me this joke. I was in dreamland and when I listened to the message she left I could barely understand it because she was laughing so hard:

Q: What kind of teeth can you buy for a dollar?

A: Buck teeth.

I dreamt. I thought.

Those bizarre images and situations of dreams. Those curious moments right after awaking from a dream.

I dreamt that when I opened the refrigerator and lifted the aluminum foil which covered a watermelon half, I found it coated in thick white mold.

I dreamt that a bespectacled young man in my French class accused me of ignoring him because he had been going to my church for several weeks and I hadn't noticed him.

I thought about why people commonly have the last names Black, White, Brown, Green and Gray, but never Red, Yellow, Orange, Blue or Purple?

I thought of absolutely horrible poems and one cringingly embarrassing short story I had written in a Creative Writing class as a sophomore. I then thought of the crush I had on the dorky instructor. Once I addressed him as Mr. and his last name and he insisted that I call him by his first name because Mr. and his last name made him think someone's talking to his father. He also called William Shakespeare "Willy the Shake." I also wrote him a letter of recommendation for him to receive a teaching award in the department, and he won. I also realize now that he used my obvious crush on him to his advantage.

Ambiguous Breakfasts

You both know you're friends and nothing more. And you both know that, in the end, you really wouldn't want anything more. But the idea, rather than the possibility, still hangs in the air. The possibility would be impossible. But the idea is amusing, something you want to play with like bubbles or playdoh.

You could press a thumb into doughy curious glances. You could pop translucent thoughts. You could roll a snake out of common stories and blow floating orbs of easy laughter. And then you split the check, shake hands and toss farewells over your smugly retreating shoulders.

Obama's NAACP Speech

I listened to this and just teared up when he launched into the "personal responsibility" part of the speech. It was heartfelt and not condescending: "Your destiny is in your hands, and don't you forget that."

It was a laudatory speech, paying homage to people who came before him, to people who helped him get to where he is now. It was also an honest speech that called for self-reflection and a new mindset. But more than a speech, it was a sermon. Replete with scripture, call-and-response and Amens. Like him or not, you gotta give it to my boy for having some church up in there.

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Upcoming

Graduation

I just got the envelope in the mail. Here's where to park, here's where to be, here's your name card, here's where to get your diploma. At first, I didn't really care. I wasn't even going to walk in the ceremony. Ah, degree, schmegree. Really. Even though I'm glad I've had the chance to further my education, I was feeling kind of whatever about it. Getting all Ecclesiastes about everything. But now, as the day approaches, the thought that I'll have my Master's in a matter of weeks is kind of sobering.

Even though I suppose I'm still relatively wet behind the ears, I'm starting to feel the weight of years. Not in a bad way. What I mean is, I'm actually starting to feel experience amassing under my belt. One of my colleagues is thinking of going into Education and she asked me what was the best way to go about looking for a job. All of this stuff started flying out of my mouth. Advice, resources, contacts. Sometimes I almost forget I spent three years teaching after undergrad. And now this.

Move

Ugh. I despise moving with a passion. It's just a gargantuan hassle. And as annoying as it is to accumulate junk, it tears my heart out to throw junk away. And my stuff. I was going to put it in storage, but the more I think about it, the more sense I think it might make to sell it. By the time I finish living with Mom and Pops for a few months, go to live in France for a few months and get back, I'll have paid some storage place at least half of what my stuff is worth. And God knows what my life will look like by the time I get back.

And moving back. Not just back in with parents, but back. A retrograde. Too much history. Too much familiarity. History and familiarity are definitely bittersweet. I think of it every time I go to the park. I know and love this place vs. This place reminds me of too much. Funny how a person who laments having no roots also laments the dogged sameness of what she's come to call home. Funny how a person depressed by sameness is also depressed by change. Make up your contradictory, irreconcilable mind.

Bonus musing

I say I want to have a "reason" for doing what I do. I don't just want to do it for myself. By myself. I waxed eloquent one day divulging my usual misgivings. But last Sunday, while singing "All My Life" with the praise band, a reply in the lyrics fell over me:

And I will love You all my life / For You are my reason/ The one that I live for . . .

Obama's Surgeon General Pick

Wow. Homegirl's from my neck of the woods. And her resume seems pretty impressive. Check the CNN article out here. Check the NYT article out here.

Hey, friend

Me: May I have a half a pound of white American cheese, a quarter pound of smoked turkey and a quarter pound of honey ham, please?

Lady: You gonna make yo' self a sandwich?

Me: (laughing nervously) Um, yes ma'am.

Lady: What grade you in, honey?

Me: Um, I'm in college. In grad school.

Lady: You about 18 or something?

Me: No ma'am. I'm 27 years old.

Lady: (bewildered) But you look so young!

Me: (laughing nervously) Yeah . . . people tell me that. I'm graduating with my Master's in August.

Lady: (with a serious, proud look in her eye) You go 'head girl.

It's okay friend, you can come crash anytime. We took care of those invitations, didn't we? Hey, remember this song by Third Eye Blind? It's "cut ties," not "capsize." Let's listen to it again. Wow, I guess that No Doubt song takes you back, huh?

Hey, friend, I haven't seen you in months, girl! Yeah, Jason's Deli. I love their salad bar. I heard you're engaged. I keep telling my friends I'm going to have the simplest wedding ever. Drama free . . . probably impossible.

Hey, why don't you come over for lunch? Can you explain the conflict between Han Chinese and Uighurs? You mean Mandarin and Changshounese are mutually unintelligible? So when you speak Changshounese you have a Mandarin accent? Yeah, if you're 18 you have the right to vote. No, you aren't required to vote. I know, the Electoral College sounds unfair. I used to think the same thing, but let me tell you why I think it's okay.

Hey, friend. Starbucks? 8ish? I got an iced white chocolate mocha. Have you ever read The Picture of Dorian Gray? See if you can figure out what language they're speaking. I'm trying not to look. So, you're telling me the day of the test she said, "So what is the difference between the preterite and . . . what's that other weird one called?" Yikes. At that point, it's a wrap, right?

The Running of the Bulls

I was surprised to read that it was a Spaniard this time.

I don't mean to trivialize what happened. It's brutal and tragic. But I must admit that I was slightly relieved that it wasn't the usual clueless, drunken American.

En colère

Me: I'm just so taken with French pronunciation! It's just so cool sounding. I mean, even the word for "angry" sounds beautiful. En colère. I just feel like going around saying "Je suis en colère avec toi" to random people. I mean, I know it means "I'm angry with you," but it just sounds so beautiful.

Classmate: Okay, you say that now, but when you get to France and you've ticked someone off and they say "Je suis en colère avec toi" to you filled with French wrath and really mean it, you aren't going to think it sounds so pretty anymore.

Me: (laughs out loud) I guess you're right. (sighing, in my head) Why does everyone have to burst my bubble of romanticism?

I'm Nice, Really

I just went through and deleted a few Facebook contacts whose friendships I accepted on an "oh, what the heck" basis. Meaning I barely remember you and/or never had any interaction with you. Or you are a former student who tried to suck up to me. Is that mean?

Live Your Life

Fireworks. A friend from China. Where fireworks were invented. But I've never seen fireworks this beautiful in China. Sitting under a sky with starbursts of color, I drifted back to a different fireworked sky in a different time celebrating a different holiday in a different country with a different person under a different circumstance—a fleeting romance. A college friend soon to have a different last name. I composed a song when I was 11. It improved with maturity and formal training. "Here Comes the Bride"? Nope. My song. Wow, you must be really good friends! What an honor! And it is. And to think that a student handed in a comparison/contrast paper to her that was a mere two-columned list of the characteristics of different car brands. I wouldn't have been able to keep my composure! Every time I think about it, I laugh. It must've been surreal, like, how could someone living in this century think that that's an acceptable paper? It definitely topped my suck up email. The Picture of Dorian Gray. My current bedside reading. It was one of college friend's frequent mentions. I've always been intrigued by the posture of the 19th century dandy. A gentleman, all the time in the world on his hands, polished, moneyed, decadent, fanciful, world-weary, apathetic, hedonistic, erudite and cynical, and always tinged with latent homoeroticism. Pizza. Veggie with wheat crust. Can you handle it? We just saw Food, Inc. Yeah, I can handle it. Laughing with abandon. Testing out our elementary French. Ruminating over our post-graduation plans. So live your life, ay ay ay/ You steady chasing that paper/ Just live your life (Oh!) ay ay ay/ You got no time for no haters.

J'aime le français!

The following is a nerd PSA brought to you by smartgirl:

Learning a foreign language is really a lot of fun. It can be frustrating and embarrassing, especially in the beginning, but there eventually comes a point where you break through an invisible barrier. You don't know it the moment it happens, but one day it will dawn on you that you are thinking in a language other than your own. Once you break through that barrier, yes, you will still lose some sharpness if you don't practice. But so much is instilled in you at that point that it will always be with you.

Teaching Spanish, for now, is over. I am now taking the last class I have to ever take in order to get my Masters in Spanish. A French class. One of the program requirements is to have at least a year of a foreign language other than Spanish (or English, of course). I took my first semester of French last Fall, and I'm taking my last semester (or minimester in this case) now.

I'm super excited and super motivated. I'm not taking or teaching any other classes, so I'm able to focus completely on French. I'm going to France in January, so I'm really doing my best to try to get as much practice as I can before I go abroad. The language lab here has Rosetta Stone software for free, and I have plenty of time to do that for extra practice as well.

But here's the most exciting part for me. Spanish and French are both Romance languages. They have basically the same grammatical concepts and structures. Since I'm already fluent in Spanish, it's like I already have pre-programmed slots in my brain for a Romance language. Now, I just fill those same slots with French.

I must admit that French is a little pickier, though, especially where pronunciation is concerned. Spanish is completely straightforward. What you see written is what you pronounce (with the exception of 'h'). With French . . . not so much. Half the letters aren't pronounced and there's a bunch of nasal stuff going on which affects meaning. I guess trilling the 'r' is to Spanish what knowing what to pronounce and how is to French. Also, the numbers are wild. Ninety-nine = noventa y nueve. Simple. But ninety-nine = quatre-vingt-dix neuf? Really?

Still it's cool. I love how each language has a different personality. Spanish is very melodic and rhythmic. Every word has a ring to it. Every sentence is a poem. French has sharper sounds. Broken apart, each word can sound unpleasant. But altogether, it has an air of sophistication. The simplest statement sounds like a masterpiece.

Don Miller Is Coming, Don Miller Is Coming!

I can't believe it! My future husband is coming South-ward in November! And right in my neck of the woods: November 18th he'll be in Montgomery, and if I can't make that date, November 21st he'll be in Atlanta! Oh, Don, we'll be together at last. We'll finally get a chance to meet. And then we'll get married, have lots of fat, happy babies, I'll make you pancakes every morning and we'll live in eternal bliss happily ever after.

Suckup 101

Excerpt from the greatest student-to-teacher suckup email ever:

Hey what's up? Well I'm sitting here at the house enjoying a post finals cocktail, attempting to drown my sorrows after screwing myself academically on the final tonight lol. I knew that I had to do well on it to be able to maintain the GPA I have to have to come back in the Fall and finish, but for some reason, I started getting test anxiety and blanked like I always do when I couldn't translate half of what it was saying/asking. Just remember what Jesus said during His sermon on the mount when you're grading the tests and figuring the final averages, "blessed are the merciful..."

The rest was actually very sweet and flattering, but it didn't elicit any sympathy because old dude was a slacker. But it was sort of amusant.

So, What Are Your Plans After That?

It's like the adult version of the little kids' infamous "Why?" No matter how many times you answer it, it can always be asked again.

Person: So, how much more of school do you have to go?

Me: Actually, I'm graduating with my Master's this coming August. I can't wait!

Person: So, what are your plans after that?

Me: Well, in the Fall I'm going to be subbing as an instructor while a couple of colleagues are on maternity leave.

Person: So, what are your plans after that?

Me: Well, in January, I'm going to France for 6 months. I'm excited. I'll be living with a family, attending a language institute . . .

Person: So, what are your plans after that?

Me: I dunno. Maybe something will come to me while I'm eating crepes walking down cobblestone streets.

Person: I mean, like what do you want to do? What is your overall goal?

Me: Uh, well, there's lots I could do. I could go back into teaching at the secondary level, I could teach at the university level, there's plenty I could do with Spanish if I didn't want to teach, adding on French would give me even more possibilities, I could start a doctoral program somewhere. I have a lot of options.

Person: You just want to be a professional student, don't you? (smirking)

Me: (in my mind) You smug little ignorant busybody. You wouldn't know what a professional student was if it backhanded your mother across the face. You haven't 1/8th of an idea of what I've had to go through to get to this point. If someone drilled a hole through your skull in an attempt to shove this morsel of information through the aperture you still wouldn't get it, but I believe miracles still happen today, so I'll just say that I don't know what my plans are because I don't have to know right now. The fact of the matter is I can do whatever I want, while you will be left to a life of deciding whether to go to Denny's or CiCi's Sunday after Sunday.

(spoken) Um, not exactly.

The King of Pop

Fan or no fan, you must admit that Michael Jackson was a pop icon of international fame whose death sent shockwaves throughout the world.

One of my earliest memories is singing "Say, Say, Say" by Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney as a 2-year-old. It was immortalized on tape. Not even videotape. That was even before camcorders. Cassette tape.

More than feeling shocked, I felt sad. Imagine living the majority of your life under the glare of the public eye. He will be missed. I present to you my 2-year-old jam. All alone, I sit home by the phone, waiting for you, baby, baby.

US Beats Spain in the Confederations Cup!

I'm not much of a sports fan, but this is unheard of.

Spain is ranked number one in the world in soccer. The US, frankly, sucks. We don't even care about soccer on this side of the pond. And everywhere else, they call it football. Our football they call 'American football.' Anyway.

My super Spaniard professor was getting soccer updates via his laptop while a few classmates gave their final presentations. Way to multitask.

I have a special little place in my heart for soccer because the first time I studied abroad in Spain, my host brother would let us watch nothing but soccer on TV. I learned to appreciate it and fell in love with the goalie for Real Madrid, who is also the goalie for the Spain team, Iker Casillas. He's quite a looker, but I know he's got to feel bad for not being able to block a couple of American shots.

The last time I was in Spain, last summer, Spain had just won the Euro Cup. And it was an astronomical deal. My first day there I wore my España t-shirt around town, and I elicited random chants of "España!" from folks on the street because people were that stoked.

But now, ay, ay, ay. The US is like the worst team to get beaten by. Here's to underdogs!

This is what happens.

I'll just be sitting there, or just standing there, when suddenly, the weight of things that have happened in the past, their implications, my position at the time, the awkwardness, the embarrassment, the wondering what I was doing in that situation, the disbelief that I actually existed there, will all come collapsing into the pit of my stomach at once. And I'll sit there, or stand there, transfixed, mentally wishing it away but being oddly drawn to ponder it at the same time. I relive it while wishing it never happened. But do I really wish that? You can't cherry pick. It's an interconnected web. If you wish one thing didn't happen, you'd have to be willing to unlive all the causes and effects connected to it. Like when you pull a thread. I don't like that thread sticking out. I wanna get rid of it. But pull it, and it undoes more than just itself.

Reaching into my brain . . .

Awaking from a hard-slept post 4 o'clock nap to a 9:30 world. Amazed that the helium balloon from my birthday still exists. It used to float around, but now it just hides under my dinette set. Father's Day. Oh, Father's Day. And to realize I lack the least of things, a card. I'm envisioning a nearly empty, picked over WalMart card section. Last-minute Father's Day card buyers as the vultures to the Father's Day card carrion. Obsessed with Beyonce's "Halo": It's like I've been awakened / Every rule I had you breakin' / It's the risk that I'm takin' / I ain't never gonna shut you out . . . I guess that's to my undiscovered angel. I can see his halo, halo. I can see his halo, haloooo. The cynic in me would rather "nonexistent angel," but I'm telling it to shut up. And my heart sinks when I'm reminded of the mean-eyed compositions that lie dormant, ungraded in my NPR bag. Ah, who cares that you listen to NPR? They're just a buncha liberals. Did you know that Obama's a secret Muslim Islamo-fascist-Marxist who wants to gay marry baby killing trees? Right. And that brings me to my red pen. Yes, that's why my compositions remain ungraded. My red pen needs a break after massacring the last exams. Friending me on Facebook does not get you extra credit, buddy. And leaving quasi-flattering messages on my wall in semi-grammatical Spanish doesn't do the trick either. And I love the funky clogs you bought me, Auntie. It's just that one of them creaks when I walk. It's one of those things you don't discover until you're walking down a long, silent hall.

Email Chatter

Wednesday - June 17, 2009 10:51 AM

From: The Boss

To: Grad students

Subject: Meeting today canceled

Dear all,

Today's meeting is canceled. But I still need blah, blah, blah . . . .

Wednesday - June 17, 2009 11:00 AM

From: me

To: My hilarious Buddhist/Jewish/semi-agnostic buddy

Subject: RE: Meeting today canceled

Buddy, why are you shouting hallelujah and dancing? I didn't know you converted to Pentecostalism!

Wednesday - June 17, 2009 12:15 PM

From: My buddy

To: me

Subject: RE: Meeting today canceled

HA HA HA . . . How did you know?! I was on the floor writhing in joy.

Simple Math

Name: Smartgirl Procrastinatus Date: June 16, 2009

Math Quiz

Solve the following equations using the correct order of operations.

1. shower + new razor = legs that would make a baby's butt proud

2. taking a class + teaching / five week minimester = 0.0patience

3. wheat crackers * spinach and artichoke cream cheese = delicious²

4. 2/5(book I was supposed to read) + 2(pg.paper) - desire to do it = forehead smack

5. single girl - suitable guys who exist in her vicinity = helpless shoulder shrug

6. 15(exams)(ungraded) + red pen = ink bloodbath

7. 8 o'clock class - sleep = trainwreck

8. (cap + gown)(stage + diploma) = 10August + 2Excited

This Is What I Wish . . .

Oh, boy. Brace yourselves. If this post were a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, let's just say a lot of peanut butter and jelly may come squishing out of the sides once you bite down on it.

I wish someone would work for me. Jacob style (Gen. 29:20). Someone that wouldn't give up even if something sucky happened (like Jacob getting the switch flipped on him a la Gen. 29:21-28).

I guess I can be kind of too much for folks. It's not that I'm mean and demanding or anything. Actually, I'm pretty nice. I'm generally conciliatory and willing to give most decent guys a chance. But I think some combination of the following usually ends up happening (that is, if I haven't already abandoned ship or not even allowed the ship to dock in the first place):

1. Aw, she's a nice girl. Got a good head on her shoulders and all of that.

2. Uh, oh. She freaks out a little too easily for my taste. Will she just relax?

3. Oh, great. She's crying profusely over something like this? Yikes.

4. Hmm. She's kind of particular about stuff . . . Who does she think she is?

5. Ouch. That really deflated my ego. I don't know how much more of this I can take.

6. (Sigh.) And now she can't make up her mind. Why did I even bother?

It's enough to make some guys say "deuces" and call it a day.

I need someone to work through my idiosyncrasies, indecisiveness, contradictions, emotional nature and overblown expectations (think: Rugby player vs. Bird watcher). Someone who is willing to take abuse from my dad (because, let's face it, even though I'm almost looking 30 in the eye, only daughters aren't easily given up). Someone who knows what he wants (think: Signing the check for a down payment vs. Window shopping). Someone who's got his stuff together (think: Teacher who already has lesson plan done and copies made in plenty of time vs. Teacher who is fumbling around trying to find some activities to do and class is in 5 minutes). Someone who isn't intimidated by me (think: Asking to speak to the manager vs. Pulling two hairs out of your tacos, shrugging, and commencing to eat them). Someone who is willing to do whatever it takes to win me.

My grad school buddies would probably think that last sentence sounds medieval. People who don't know me well may think it sounds rather haughty. But I'm just being for real. I need a brave, persistent dude.

Sweetly Odd Compliment of the Day

Walking down the militaristic, bleak halls of the Haley Center, I try to brighten things up by at least saying hi to people. I said hi to a lady, walked past her, and then on my way back to the office, ran into her again.

Lady: My, you have such beautiful posture! Are you a dancer?

Me: (flattered, but slightly thrown by the randomness) Um . . . no ma'am.

Lady: Well, you sure look like one.

Me: Oh, well, thank you!

I mean, it was sweet and brightened up by day, but kind of odd and random.

How to Shut an Arrogant Guy Up

Smartgirl had already made plans to have lunch with a friend after church. Arrogantguy waltzes in, unannounced (Smartgirl hadn't heard from him for the longest. He had been "busy."), and after church demands that she join him for lunch.

Arrogantguy: Hey, do you wanna join me and Otherpeople for lunch? We're going to Aplace.

Smartgirl: Aw, sorry, Arrogantguy, I already have plans.

Arrogantguy: (sighs) Are you going with Afriend? Just have dinner with her later!

Smartgirl: I can't. I already told her I couldn't last night because I had to get some stuff done, and she's doing something later on today.

Arrogantguy: No, you're coming to Aplace with us. Just tell her church got out late and you forgot.

Smartgirl: Um, that would be lying. (To others.) Listen to this guy! He's so arrogant. Just expecting people to drop their plans to accomodate his. (To him.) How dare you ask me to lie? And in church? With a suit and tie on?

Arrogantguy: Just come! Just tell her you can't. You're coming.

Smartgirl: (teasingly) So, are you saying you won't have fun without me?

Arrogantguy: (flustered, trying to maintain his macho facade) Um, er, no . . . I . . .

Smartgirl: All right, then. You don't need me to come.

Arrogantguy: (speechless)

Hair looking like ____________.

The video store guy saw me at my worst today when I went to return the movie. Part of me wanted him to be there because I think he's cute, but the other part of me didn't want him to be there because today my hair was looking like whodunit n' whut fo'.

I furtively tried to slip the movie in the slot and leave unnoticed, but as soon as he saw me he lit up with a megawatt smile. I sheepishly smiled back and immediately deuced out. No small talk. My hair!

Aww, I love you, video store guy. You smiled at me despite my hair looking like it resisted arrest and got tasered.

Taken

When I get off the plane in Paris and a cute guy asks if I'd like to share a taxi to save money, I'm going to say NO. Think I wanna end up kidnapped by Albanian gangsters? Shoooot . . . muss be kerzy.

Hiromi

I like jazz, but I don't claim to be an aficionado or anything. However, I am simply mesmerized by the performance of this young lady. To say she's passionate is an understatement. The expression of absolute bliss and complete rapture on her face while she plays grows to a nearly religious fervor when she finishes off this song with her solo. She's in precise, skillful control yet completely untethered at the same time. She and the piano have become an organic whole.



Strangely, her performance reminds me or what happens each time the Spirit of God completely washes over me. I'm completely in control, yet completely given over in ecstasy to Something greater, more profound and more complex than my mind can conceive. And the ability of my mortal, temporal, finite, limited existence to come into contact with Infinity is dynamic.

We cannot grasp God. We can't hold His essence in our hands. But He gives us conceivable things like music, that, in bewildering ways, symbolizes His nature. Who He is. How He functions. How we are a part of His symphony. Or His jazz band.

Say What?

What did the girl who just submitted an abstract and a working bibliography for a yet to be written paper to possibly be presented at a theological symposium if she finishes it who just put a pan of Toll House Ultimate Peanut Butter Cups, Chocolate Chips and Chunks cookies in to bake say?

"In tha buildin!  Yezzir."

I Love the Video Store Guy

I think the video store guy is cute.

Every time I go in there and he's in there, we have a smile fest. And one of the first things I notice is people's teeth. His are quite straight.

This time I got Taken (since I'm going to le France très bientôt). I said "Helluuu" again when I walked up, and when he saw my selection he said, "This one is really goo-oood." I giggled.

Then he said, "Did you find everything you were looking for?" Mmhmm. I just smiled and nodded. Then he asked if I needed a bag. Really? For one DVD? I declined.

'Til we meet again, O video store guy.

I'm such a nerd.