We interrupt your regularly scheduled paper writing madness for this report . . .

This is really weird.  Okay, I've written fiction for youth Sunday School literature for a few seasons in advance (the next series penned by yours truly should be out this summer, so if you teach the Youth class and your church uses Word Aflame Press literature, be on the lookout!).

I wanted the very last series I wrote (due out Winter 2012-2013) before I declined future story writing ventures because of this PhD madness to be out of the box, if you will.  I've always had an affinity for sci-fi, so this time I wrote a futuristic series, filled with flying cars, androids, and all kinds of invented iGadgets.

Part of my story was about government sponsored android labor to minimize offshoring.  I was flipping out when I saw this story in the NYT last year: http://www.nytimes.com/2011/07/12/science/12robot.html?_r=1&src=dayp

But now, another one of my futuristic story features is an acutal phone app! I wrote a story about a girl who finally got what I called a Smartglass.  She would stand in front of it, it would scan her features, and it would give her an attractiveness rating.  Look at this!



Crazy.  Now back to the paper writing show.

Crazy Time

This is a poem 'bout Crazy Time.
For me it comes twice a year.
"What," you may ask, "is Crazy Time?"
The end of semester, my dear.

Papers half written
And hopelessly smitten
With visions of post-finals life.

Grades I'll be gettin
The books I'll be hittin
Dear God, let it more than suffice.

This is a poem 'bout Crazy Time.
The end, tantalizingly near.
Lord, help me get through this Crazy Time,
Gotta kick myself into gear!

Open Letter to a Future Suitor

Dear Future Suitor,

I chose to address this to you, in the singular as opposed to an imagining of a multiplicity of suitors, because ideally, the next person I allow into my lifespace in a significant manner will be it.

I know, that sounds kind of "do or die" or whatever you want to call it, but that's how I feel.  Not "do or die" necessarily, but I guess what I'm saying is that I'm not playing around with you and don't have the time or energy to deal with your indecisiveness.

I guess that sounds kind of mean, and maybe after reading what I just wrote you don't want to be my future suitor anymore, and that's cool.  If you're the indecisive type who needs someone to help you figure out what you want, I get it. I do.  I used to be the Indecisive One.  But now, it's kind of like, dude, figure it out first, and then we can talk.  Seriously, don't suck me into your existential guy issues.  I used to be the girl who was willing to help the guy figure out what he wanted.  In fact, I kind of relished the role.  It allowed me to be noble and I had ample opportunities to nourish the hope that I was what he really wanted.  All I had to do to try to convince him was to let my goodness shine.

But no more.  If you need convincing, you ain't about that life.  No, really.  If you need convincing, then I'm going to have to ask you to go sit back down.

I'm reasonable, Future Suitor, believe me.  I'm not saying don't even approach me unless you have a ring in your pocket, a date marked down in your day planner and the color for the cummerbunds already picked out.  If you did, that would be kind of creepy, not to mention a little presumptuous.  All I'm saying is, you need to already know what you want before you approach me and not assume that I would be available to you to help you figure it out.  If you do your homework like a good Future Suitor, it won't take you too long to know whether I fit the bill.  Because if I did fit the bill, (and, presupposing you even had a conception of what "the bill" even looked like) you wouldn't then begin to languidly mull me over as if you were trying to decide whether you were thirsty enough to take a swig of warm Gatorade.  You would pursue me as if you were a pizza connoisseur and I was a piping hot box of pepperoni made in Little Italy.  That's all I'm saying.

I want you to be clear and stick to it, Future Suitor, that's all.  If you think I'm ya girl, let's talk about it.  If you have doubts that I'm ya girl, then keep it moving.  Don't try to keep me in a no man's land of  "I don't think I really want you, but I don't necessarily want to completely close the door on you, either."  Naw, son.  That right there is what will especially prompt me to tell you to go SEET down.

So, just a few things to keep in mind, Future Suitor. I look forward to meeting you in the near future.

Sincerely,

Me

AWKwaaarrd

1. Talking to my Turkish friend about wedding customs.  Turkish women have henna parties, American women have bachelorette parties and lingerie showers.  Why did I have to bring that up?  And why did I have to offer the gift I gave my friend for her shower as an example?!  It was hilarious, so I thought it would be a good laugh as well as explanatory, but awkward me starts talking about it and I realize that I've just talked my way into weirdness.  Well, what was so funny about my gift?  Well, it was partly a gag gift that had, well . . . (Oh, great.)  Explaining why toy handcuffs and a "special" deck of cards are even fathomable gifts for a bride-to-be to someone who is not American, Christian or fluent in English is just . . . ugh, open mouth, insert foot.  And makes me look like a depraved weirdo.

2. Trying to find a gift for my buddy.  There's a hilarious book I read called How to Be Black by Baratunde Thurston.  It's part memoir, part satire, part political commentary.  I died the entire time I read it.  So I go to Barnes and Noble, go to the African-American section, and can't find it.  A book called How to Be Black HAS to be in the African-American section, right?  Where else would it be, right?  I wandered all over the store for a while, really not wanting to go to Customer Service to ask a Southern white lady about a book called How to Be Black.  But I was wasting time, and Customer Service is there for a reason, so I mulled over how I was going to approach it.  Of course, I chose the awkward route.

Me: Um, hi.  I'm looking for a book called, uh, the title of the book I'm looking for is, um, How to Be Black. (nervous laugh).  I looked in the African-American section, I mean, because a book with that title would surely be there, (nervous laugh), but I couldn't find it.  I was wondering if you could check for me?  (Ugh!  Was all that explanation even necessary?!)

Lady: (Looking it up in the database) Here it is.  How to Be Black by, uh, Bara . . tun . . de . . .?

Me: Yeah, Baratunde Thurston.

Lady: It's actually in the Humor section.  (She leads me over to it.)

Me: (sheepishly) Thanks.

Aaargh!  Awkward, clueless woman that I am!  Why did I not fathom that the book that was SO funny could possibly be in the HUMOR section?!  And the awful explanation I gave.  Ugh.  I really didn't want to ask her, but still, I could have done without the preamble of what section I thought it would be in (i.e. It's the section I think you would think it's in too, white Customer Service lady.)  SO awkward.

3. Driving home listening to Christian radio.  The radio station sponsors a Father/Daughter Date Night at Chick-fil-a or something.  When you think Father/Daughter Date Night, you think, "Awww," right? I'm a Daddy's Girl, aww, that's so sweet, Daddy's little girl.  Awww. But tonight the announcer was like, "We've had Father/Daughter Date Night, and now we're going to sponsor Mother/Son Date Night . . . " Um, record halt scratchingly awkward!  Why does Father/Daughter Date Night sound sweet and sentimental, but Mother/Son Date Night sound creepy and developmentally delayed?  LOL.  I could not stop laughing.  Mother/Son Date Night just sounds emasculating, Oedipal, and awkward.  I don't know why.  Maybe it's just me.

Desaparecido

During the 70s in Argentina and other countries in the Southern Cone, state-sponsored terrorism produced a group of people who suddenly, were “desaparecido.”  Disappeared.  Some of the people taken into custody were anti-government militants fighting against state repression, others simply held views of the opposition or were just suspected of having anti-government ties.  Some were even children, babies, who were kidnapped and either never seen again or even raised by those who had victimized others.  People who were kidnapped were interrogated, tortured and killed. 

Last semester, I took a Southern Cone course, and near the end the semester, we watched a movie called Garage Olimpo, which was based on one of the most notorious clandestine detention and torture centers.  Yesterday, I had the chance to meet one of the men who survived that center and many others.  In fact, one of the characters in the movie, a man forced to repair an instrument of torture, was based upon this real-life man’s experience. 

Some people would say Mario Villani was fortunate because most people were killed shortly after being taken into custody.  The main reason he was able to survive was because, as he had training in engineering, he was skilled in repairing electronics and he proved useful.

Just the thought that this man lived through all I had read and all I had seen in movies brought tears to my eyes.  It was just unbelievable.   I cannot even begin to explain how it made me feel. He questioned how far he should go in “helping” the torturers, he questioned whether there were really any side, he questioned why he survived.  I can’t even begin to understand the mental, aside from the physical anguish.

Here’s what he said that really got me though, he said that he believed that there was really no black and white.  That everyone, victimizers and victims, were in a sort of gray area.  He said what he realized through his experience that the same force that would motivate someone to torture another human being was in him as well.  That it's in all of us.  

When I went up to get my book signed, unable to hold back tears, I told him thank you for sharing his experiences.  He wrote: Para Chantell, con la esperanza de seguir compartiendo.  With the hope of continuing to share.

Tiny Baby

My friend has a tiny baby in her stomach!  That's all I can say.  I'm so excited!

I love you, friend, and I'm with you, 100%.

The Trouble with White Boys

Just because something is racial doesn't mean it's racist.
                                                    — L.L. Etnach

Humor me as I attempt to suss out exactly what it is about the lighter side of the guy spectrum that is giving me a particular kind of pause.

Because of how I've grown up and the paths I've gone down and the situations in which my life has placed me, I'm pretty much resigned to the grand possibility of marrying someone who might not be black.  When I say resigned, I don't mean it as a negative thing.  I just mean it as recognizing it as a not-unlikely reality.

It's just when I examine my interactions with the opposite sex throughout the years, I've found that the white boy instances have been rather awkward, troublesome or drama-laden, and I'm starting to wonder if they're more trouble than they're worth.  The age-old question: Causation or correlation?  To be fair, I must recognize that the overwhelming majority of people in the Deep South, where my post-pubescent years unfolded, didn't have the European military brat upbringing that I did, so that had something to do with the "trouble," I'm sure.  The fact that a vigilant, overprotective black father was (and still is) in the mix probably added to the "trouble" as well.  My dad's the greatest guy you'll ever meet, but it wouldn't be unfair to consider the possibility that whiteness was perhaps an added reason for wariness and heightened vigilance where guys were concerned.  And, I must add that in a few of these instances, there were other factors that didn't have to do with race directly that were a larger part of the "trouble."

Now, all of this is not to say that non-white guys haven't caused trouble as well.  Lord knows I'm a lie if I led anyone to believe that.  My utter disavowal of the phrase "It is what it is," is a direct result of a couple of black guys employing it to justify their flakiness.  Naw, son.  It ain't just what it is.  And we shall skip over discussion of other non-white nationalities and ethnicities who have needed to sit themselves down at various points in time as well. Ahem.

But back to the white boy question. I guess I've been pondering it lately because white guys have been a little ubiquitous as of late.  They're my mild-mannered professors with adorable nervous mannerisms, my guitar instructors, my buddies, my FB wall posters, my texters.  And concerning the last category in particular, I'm just asking myself, Do I really want to go there? I just don't know.

I mean, maybe it's just my past experiences that are making me feel iffy.  I used to be one of those "color doesn't matter, love is blind" people, but my idealism has been tempered with reality.  Maybe part of me feels like they're a maddening mixture of presumptuous and oblivious.  Sometimes people don't think about things or consider things not because they're horrible, apathetic people, but simply because they don't have to.

It just seems like it would be easier and less awkward to settle down with someone else of color.  Probably so.  As my former students would say, that's real talk, cuz.

But in the end, one thing is for sure: Whoever he is, whatever color he is, wherever he's from, however he grew up, God is going to have to be all up in it.

He's Alive!

So glad the ick of yesterday wore off.  I felt like I was swimming in molasses that day.  I was so happy when I got done with that paper proposal.  Took me forever to find sources.  

So, I got up this morning all bouncy.  Happy the paper proposal slavery was over (for now), happy that it was Easter, happy that I was going to wear my favorite color and put my hair up and was listening to my Ron Kenoly Easter song . . . got a phone call, chattering away while getting ready for church.  But then, sad news.

It knocked the wind out of me.  I feel bad for my mom because when she called me, she knew all along she was going to have to deliver the sad news and she knew how I was going to react, but had to tell me anyway.  Ah, well.  I started flipping out a little because I didn't get a chance to see her . . . the last time we went to the hospital we didn't make it for visiting hours.  It's okay, we'll come next time.  But you don't always get a next time.  My mom is so sweet.  She reminded me that I did get a chance to see her . . . that time a group of us went over to her house when she got out of the hospital the first time.  I brought my guitar and we sang some worship songs and she had enough strength to go over to the piano and play herself.  "You ministered to her that day."  She was basically everybody's grandmother and she had already overcome SO much.  Why wouldn't she pull through again?  You just think people will always be around.  But it was her time.  Rest in peace, Sis. Geraldine.

It's so bittersweet to reflect on death on Easter.  We're human and eventually succumb to death.  Jesus Himself died.  Willingly.  For us.  But he overcame it.  Every time I think about it, I'm encouraged.  He conquered death.  Here's an Easter thought that I'd never heard before until this morning: When the stone was rolled away, it wasn't to let Jesus out of the tomb.  It was to show the Marys who showed up that morning that he was already gone.  In Matthew, the angel was just like, "He is not here."  When God rolls away the stone, it's not to show you what He's doing, but what He's already done.  I have a tendency to work myself up over what I'm going to do about whatever, how whatever is going to work out, and all the while, God's like, "Girl, I've already handled that."  Like we're praying, "God, just tell me what You're going to do, show me how it's going to happen," and when He pulls back the curtain, it's already done. 

Happy Easter!

Me and My Contradictions

God, help me finish writing this paper proposal.  I've been hit with a wave of sluggishness.  I need to sleep better/eat better/start working out/not procrastinate/start taking vitamins.  The usual.  If I could bundle these things into a gelcap, pop it, wash it down with some Italian creme-laced coffee, let it work, and then miraculously spring into action, would it be enough?  Or would the blame lie yet somewhere else afterward?

What springs tears to my eyes is this thought, unfruitful as it may be: If I brought someone from church to one of my classes, they wouldn't believe how I could tolerate such liberal, academese-laced "agendas."  And if I brought one of my classmates to church, they wouldn't believe how I could tolerate such rigid, dogmatic "intolerance."  This seeming contradiction feels at the heart of me, and on those Saturday afternoons, bewailing my procrastinating ways, seeing the world thorough hormone-colored glasses (knowing it, but being unable to stop myself), it feels lively, tender and fresh.

The self-fulfilling prophecy of you-don't-wanna-get-too-close. I mean, I get along with everybody but I haven't really connected with anybody.  Because you-don't-wanna-get-too-close.  Excited your professor invited you to lunch on your birthday.  A genius/mentor who, at 33, an established professor, scholar and dedicated mother, is impressed with you.  The thinly veiled nervousness under the surface because in reality, you-don't-wanna-get-too-close.  You play the guitar!  Why don't you start coming to worship practice?  We'd love to have you with the worship team to play along. Flattered, but hesitant about the prospect of getting up there.  Because then you'd be exposed.  You'd suck inquiry and scrutiny into you like a vacuum, and in reality, you-don't-wanna-get-too-close.

It's not that the sunshine in me isn't real.  I laugh the same shameless laugh no matter where I am.  That much is true.  If you want a grasp of me, I can offer you funny and bright.  I can self-deprecatingly laugh my way through it and around it.  Sure, we can continue class discussions and talk about other stuff after class over coffee or dinner, sure.  Sure, we can talk about my awkward guy/fatherly overprotectiveness stories after church over pizza, sure. But I'm stuck with you-don't-wanna-get-too-close.  I'm stuck with the tension of that seeming contradiction.  And I know that I'm going to have to deal with it.  Resolving it is out of my hands, I guess.  But the realization that dealing with it will be constant.  The feeling that being put in the position of having to constantly deal with it seems somehow unfair.  Wondering if anyone will ever be up for the challenge of getting close enough to understand, and if they do, wondering if they'll be able to value what I have to offer.  Love me and my contradictions.

Letter to B+

Dear B+,

I don't get you.  No, seriously, I don't get grades like you.  Last semester you thought you were being slick by showing up on a response paper.  You know, it didn't count for that much of my final grade, you thought maybe I wouldn't notice or that I wouldn't care as much.  Oh, I noticed all right, and I certainly did care.  I just didn't say anything.  Not to you, anyway.

But now, this semester, you've gone too far.  This time you had the brazen audacity to show up on a midterm!  A midterm!  Naw, son.  Am I going to have to file a restraining order against your behind?

How else can I express to you that you are NOT WELCOME on my papers?  What, you think because you have a "plus" attached that I should be cool with you?  Psshh!  You're still a B.  And I don't get Bs.  That plus don't change a thing.  Get ya head right, B+!  You are NOT the business, you are mad unattractive, there is nothing about you that would make me want you, and there is nothing you can do to change my mind.  Stay AWAY from my papers.

I seriously can't stand you.  What made you think that appearing on a midterm was going to endear you to me? Get outta my life. You are rebuked from ever entering my lifespace ever again.  Go bother someone else who thinks your "plus" schtick is cute.  There are plenty of students out there who would gladly have you, I'm sure.

But not me, honey.  My standards are pretty high.  Call me picky, but there you have it.  It doesn't take that much more effort to transform into at least an A-, if my papers are what you think you want.  Come back as an A of any variety, and then we can talk.  Otherwise, stay the heck away.

Sincerely,

Me

Post-Birthday Musings

So, the big 3-0 has arrived.

I'm so glad that I feel good about it.  God knew what He had to do so that I could arrive at this point in my life and be content.

The me that I was before I moved to Georgia (well, let's say the me that I was post-graduation from Auburn, during and after France right up until the beginning of the summer before I moved) would have had such a problem with it.  Now that I can see some things in retrospect, I see more clearly than ever how I nearly let fear ruin my life.  Thank God I was able to refuse to let it dictate to me anymore.

It's such garbage.  Or rather, giving into fear gives you a tolerance for garbage.  It's like an ugly, self-fulfilling prophecy.  You make a decision based on fear, which then produces consequences which prompt you to make additional fear-based decisions.  Every step you take to try to get out of the hole is superficial, ineffective, counterproductive and insecure.  It's the flimsiest cover-up.  The saddest lie that you work tirelessly to convince yourself of in vain.

I promised myself never to go back to that place ever again.  I thank God for new days.

My birthday was a reminder that there are people who care about me, support me, and wish the best for me.  I'm encouraged and grateful.

The Last Day of the Last Twenty

This is it.  The last day I can consider myself a twentysomething.  I have to suck up every second I have left of my twentyness before it all slips away.  Every second that passes is one less second I have in this epoch of my life.

But tomorrow, (cue swelling music) marks the beginning of an era.  A new day dawns. Tomorrow, the sunflowers of the world will lift their heavy heads to the golden effervescence that emanates from the heavens and will bask in its glory.  Tomorrow, prisms will be shot through with shimmering rays that will bathe every wistful soul in all the colors of the rainbow.  Tomorrow, the songs of a thousand sweet-throated swallows will resound in a hopeful, ephemeral chorus.  Tomorrow, I will awake with the wings of the morning which will usher me into a new way of being.

Tomorrow, I will be 30.  And I will wear a sunflower in my hair.

Another Poignant Excerpt from The Big Sea

I won't rehash my current literary crush on Langston Hughes.  I was reading a little more of his autobiography last night and I was left with a beautifully bittersweet feeling right after I read this.  Just a little context, Langston gets a new job as a sailor and the ship sails to Africa.  There, he meets a young man and his mother:

The boy's name was Edward.  He spoke very good English, and he liked to come down to the boat often to talk with us during the week we were there.  He took me one day to his house, a very modest house, much like the other African huts, and I was introduced to his mother, who did not speak English.  She was young and not unbeautiful, in African clothing, a flowered cloth wrapped about her body.  She offered me coconut juice to drink and the only chair. 

Edward's father was an Englishman, I learned, who had been in charge of the bank at this far-flung post of the British Empire.  He had lived inside a kind of compound, where the bank and the various government officials' homes were located.  Four years ago, Edward had lived inside that compound, too, for a while with his mother, the house servant.  But his father had retired and gone back to England.  And now Edward and his mother lived outside the compound.  His father had left a small allowance for them and occasionally wrote them a letter from London.  But he would not permit the boy or his mother to come to England. 

Edward said that it was very lonely for them there.  The whites inside the compound naturally would have nothing to do with them, nor would they give him a job, and the Negroes did not like his mother, because she had lived for years with a white man, so Edward had no friends in the village and almost nobody to talk to.  Was our boat going to England?  Could we take him away with us?  Was it true that in America the black people were friendly to the mulatto people?  But the white people were bad to them all?  Were the white people generally bad to colored people everywhere?  Edward said his own father was not bad, but now his father had gone away to England and left him there alone with his mother.  What could he do? 

Poor kid!  He looked very lonely, as he stood on the dock the day our ship hauled anchor.  He had taken my address to write me in America, and once, a year later, I had a letter from him, but only one, because I have a way of not answering letters when I don't know what to say.

But I Say

I just finished a long excerpt (is that an oxymoron?) of the epic poem La Araucana.  One little check mark box checked off.  Yay, me.

This is something that stuck with me today at church.  After giving the Beatitudes, Jesus goes on this whole, "You have heard ____, but I say_____" riff throughout the rest of Matthew 5.

Again, I've heard this stuff time and time again, but today, something really stayed with me.  "You have heard" so many things: What the Law said, what the facts are, what the statistics say, what someone else is doing, how everybody else is living . . . just fill in the blank.

"But I say" is such a powerful counterstatement.   What really matters are His words.  What has He declared?  What is He telling you to do?

It's easy for me to believe what I hear from others.  It's easy for me to trust in what the facts and statistics say.  It's easy for me to rely on my logic.  It's easy for me to compare myself to others and feel that I'm lacking.

"But I say."  Whose words hold weight here?  Who am I going to choose to listen to?  Whose words are going to determine my actions?  Whose words determine my worth?  What did I say?

Why I Am Content Right Now

1. It is Friday.
2. All the things I should have done over Spring Break got done.
3. My grad student panel presentation went over well.
4. I'm about to make some Swedish meatballs.

Psalm 143:8

Cause me to hear thy lovingkindness in the morning;
for in thee do I trust:
cause me to know the way wherein I should walk;
for I lift up my soul unto thee.

The Ides of March Are Come

For the past couple of years, I've taken on the nerdy task of warning my friends of the ides of March via text message on March 15.

It's just so funny to me.  I amuse myself extremely easily, and this is one of the ways.  I'm a huge Julius Caesar fan (as any longtime readers will know), and I usually post something about Caesar's Shakespearean demise on this fateful day.  (Here and here for example.)

But this year I was sort of reflecting on my nerdy task.  How do I decide to whom to send a "Beware the ides of March!" text?  I realized that March 15 is kind of my contact reflection day.  What I mean is, as I scroll through the list of my contacts, I think about the people I've come into contact with throughout the years in such a manner that I have their numbers in my phone.  Some of the people made it on sort of a situational basis.  We're at some event together and hey, let me get your number so I can tell you when we arrive at such and such.  After the event was over, we never stayed in touch.  But I still have their numbers.  Some of the people I used to talk to on a frequent basis, but now due to time, distance and/or a change in relationship dynamics, I never hear from them now.  And, admittedly, I never call them, either.  But I still have their numbers.  Some people are people I don't usually talk to, but we're still really cool.  What I mean is, we don't have frequent phone conversations at all, but when we do, we just pick up where we left off.  There's no awkwardness due to the fact that we haven't talked or seen each other in however long.  Then there are the frequent friends.  No explanation needed there.  But lastly, and leastly, there are the people I don't even remember.  That's pretty bad.  If I don't even remember how I met them or who they are, maybe it's probably time to delete them, right?

But back to my text selection process.  I don't send the text to people solely based on the above categories.  It's also a matter of who I think will get it and/or appreciate it.  Even if someone falls into the used-to-be-frequent-but-never-hear-from-now category, I will include them if they are a similar brand of nerd as I am and would appreciate it. But I can't say that getting it or appreciating it is a big criterion either, because sometimes I send it to people knowing they would probably not get it.  In these cases, my purposes are slightly pedagogical, as in, I feel that they need to know.  These are usually friends of mine who are college kids or to whom I've given academics-related advice.  They're the ones who respond "What are ides?"  much to my amusement.

Points always go to the one who texts back the wittiest response.  "Et tu, Brute?" is kind of played out, to be honest.  My favorite this year is "Thanks, I went ahead and sprayed for them this year.  They tend to get in the house and make such a mess."  LOL!

And of course, I must end with my favorite lines in Julius Caesar (not counting Mark Antony's funeral oration, of course, which is the off the chain):

Caesar: The ides of March are come.
Soothsayer: Aye, Caesar, but not gone.

So, beware!  Seriously, try not to get assassinated today.  That's not good for anyone.

Snobby, Sensitive, Persnickety Rant

The title is warning enough, I guess.

I hate when people ask me how long my PhD program is going to take.

Okay, let me qualify that a little.  I don't mind at all if someone just purely wants to know how long getting a PhD takes.  I'm not such a snob that I expect everyone to know.  It generally takes at least 4 years.  Two years of coursework, a year to prepare for and pass comprehensive/qualifying exams, and a year (usually more) to write the dissertation.  I plan to finish ASAP.  I want to finish in 4 if at all possible.

But back to my rant.  I guess what I hate is not the simple asking, but the reactions after I answer.  Example:

Person: So, how long is this PhD going to take?

Me: At least four years.

Person: FOUR YEARS??  Wow!  That's a really long time!! Oh, my gosh!!  (Continues with other expressions of bewilderment and freaking out and nearly fainting because of the exorbitantly, inordinately long amount of time of four years.)

I cannot express how annoying that is.  My God, shut up.  You aren't the one getting your PhD, so why are you flipping out about how long it's going to take me?  Four years is definitely a commitment, but in the big scheme of things, it really isn't that long.  At least it doesn't seem that way to me.  I'm already nearing the end of my first year . . . it really has flown by.  You're acting like I'm going to be on my deathbed by the time I finish.  Please, have some foresight.

Here's what really bugs me, though:  When the question of how long it's going to take is followed by an absurd guess.  Example:

Person: So, how much longer do you have in school?  A year?

Me: (struggling to not let my voice take on an annoyed tone) Noooo.  It's a PhD.  It'll take at least 4.  I'm at the end of my 1st year, so I have at least 3 more to go.

Person: (if I failed to hold back the annoyance enough) Oh.  I didn't know.

Dude, do you know what a PhD is?  A year?  I know, I'm being a sensitive snob, but really?  A year?  You have zero idea of how much time and work and effort it takes to get an education.  I know what you think about me . . . a single, school-obsessed, liberal, snobby weirdo, maybe.  But can I help that? You're probably thinking, Why the heck are you going back to school for that long? You're not getting any younger!  Don't you want to get married and have kids?  I know, I know.  But I can't help that.  I have to do what I have to do to take care of myself.  Do you expect me to wait around for a husband and kids to drop in my lap?  It's not going to happen that way, honey.  The Lord literally directed me onto this path, and I have no choice but to follow it.  And it's going to take longer than a freakin' year.

I don't know how else to express that I'm cool with where I am right now.  I'm doing really well.  After a rough patch of instability, I've leveled off and I feel like I've hit my stride again.  I can rest assured in the fact that I know I'm where He wants me to be right now.  I'm not going to say that I never, ever have doubts.  It's a constant process of waking up every day and choosing to believe that He has it under control.  I know I could stand to readjust my attitude.  I can be a snarky little snob sometimes.  I just wish people wouldn't react in alarm when I tell them how long this leg of my journey is going to take.

I/ 'm/ 've ______ing/en/ed

I'm wondering
where my shaved off facial growth is now.  Probably in a bio-hazard bag or something.  Maybe even on its way to a bio-hazardous waste treatment facility.  Maybe it's already been incinerated.

I've eaten
a dolma, a piece of baklava, a dried fig, pickled carrots, a couple of Turkish dumplings, and a piece of Turkish delight.  International Coffee Hour hosted by the Turkish Student Association.  I must admit, though, I can't eat Turkish delight without thinking about the White Witch.

I've learned
"I Will Worship" on my guitar.  Such an awesome sounding set of chords.  I think I've improved since my guitar debut.  (Plus I have a new guitar.)

I've managed
to get my car's CD player working again.  Truth be told, I rebuked it in the name of Jesus out of desperation, totally not wanting to listen to 90s hits or static-filled NPR the whole way.  I must've cast out the non-functioning demon or something.  Whatever works.  I realized that I hadn't listened to my Steven Curtis Chapman Signs of Life CD (Yes, that's right.  I refuse to be ashamed.)  since I started learning the guitar.   Now I super want to get all the sheet music to that CD and learn every song.

I've resolved
not to rest until I get 500 points on Fruit Ninja.  My highest score is 472.  I'm so close.  I feel like if I can get 500 points on this game, then I can do anything.  I'm already going to have to do a million things over the break . . . paper proposal + annotated bibliography, finish reading this Afro-Ecuadorian novel and outline my share of a presentation, translate and edit down a paper I'm presenting . . . ugh.  But if I can meet or surpass my Fruit Ninja goal, I know I'll be able to knock the rest of these babies out.

TMI or A Piece of Me

I said I wasn't going to write about this, but I have to.

To make a long story short, I developed a little . . . I don't know what to call it, moleish looking thing on my cheek.  My skin has never been baby's butt quality and never will, so I kind of shrugged it off as just another one of those bad skin things. It was minimal at first, but then it became kind of raised and started bothering me.  I became concerned, and I wanted it to go away.

So, I went in and got it checked out and the Dr. was like, we can do this quick little procedure where we inject it with this stuff to numb it and then just shave it off.  I was repulsed yet intrigued.  He didn't think it was malignant, but would send it to the lab anyway just to be on the safe side.  He expected any scarring to be minimal (as if an additional little facial imperfection could jack up my swag) and said we could take care of it right then.  "It takes longer to talk about it than to actually do it."  I said let's do it.

I've always been one to be skittish about needles and blood, so I'll spare you the particulars of the procedure. But here's the disgusting yet magnetically attractive thing: That little moley skin growth they shaved off was deposited into a little liquid-filled jar to be taken to the lab.  As much as I wanted that yucky thing off of my face, and as easily as I'm grossed out by things, I still had to see it.  There it was.  A former piece of my face floating around in a little solution.  I almost felt sad.  Bye, little guy.

As unattractive and undesirable as it was . . . well, it was a piece of me.  Literally.  Ey, you wanna piece of me?  You don't really wanna piece of me, buddy.

Now, I'm sporting a circular band-aid on my cheek for a little while.  A little awkward for now, perhaps.  (As I'm typing this, I'm already trying to think of graceful ways to explain it to curious questioners.) But I cannot express how happy I am that this thing is off my face.  It's refreshing.  Like I can breathe again and not have to look in the mirror and grapple with the existence of an unwelcome moley addition to my visage.

I will admit, however, that there is a small, morbid, weird part of me, the same part of me that was obsessed with Edgar Allan Poe in 7th grade, perhaps, that is still kind of taken with the image of that tiny piece of my flesh floating around in a glass jar.