I Sent a Handwritten Card to Cory Booker

I've already talked about my love for Cory Booker.

He is my fake future husband in my mind.  He's the mayor of Newark, New Jersey, and he really has captured my heart, so to speak.  He seems to really care about his constituents and is a genuine public servant, utilizing easy-to-access ways to communicate with his constituents and responding directly to people's concerns.  It's just rare and refreshing and rather charming.  He's a social media genius and has tapped in to the power of the Internet and the media to the benefit of his city on so many occasions.

I had a moment this weekend that kind of spurred me on to finally write him, and today, I did.  I have a whole box of blank note cards to write my heart out to people.  I believe there's something special about the handwritten word in this world of almost exclusively electronic communication.  To me, getting a handwritten card communicates something genuine, lasting.  It wasn't anything gushy and ridiculous.  It was heartfelt, yet formal and to the point.

Now, I'm having fantasies of him writing me back and inviting me to some formal governmental event.  I will be his escort to the mayoral ball.  Is there even such a thing?  The girlish 14-year-old in me really hopes he responds in some way.  He just seems like a nice guy who goes out of his way for the little things that make a big difference.  

Your Hair Blues Ain't Like Mine

Shall I go into the intricacies of doing stuff to my hair?  Nawl, ya'll aren't ready for that.  Let me just give you a few facts.

One of the main things that dries my hair straight (when I want it to be straight) after I wash it is a Conair 1875 Styler.  It comes with one of those volume brush attachments.  I don't use it at all.  It's just like, boo, I don't look at you, I don't need you unless I want to get my wet black girl hair all matted and knotted up in you.  No, ma'am.  It also comes with one of those wide-toothed detangling comb attachments.  That's what gets the wet hair dry.  And then there's the fine-toothed comb attachment.  The smoother and finisher of my hair faith.  It's what transforms the dry(ish) sponge/poof into sleek(ish).  Yezzir.  And this is where we have problems.

My attachment comb's fine-teeth keep getting knocked out.  It has constant fights with thickness and the thickness often wins.  A couple of missing teeth here or there doesn't stop the sleeking action.  But then my comb got bucktoothed.  Unacceptably so.  So, the search began.

Sally's Beauty Supply was like nawl.  I bought some non-Conair attachment combs out of desperation, praying in the name of Jaysus that they would miraculously fit.  Like I said, the answer was nawl.  But I refused to buy a new blowdryer just because of a bucktoothed fine-toothed comb.  So, I struck out into the magical world of the Internet.

I was getting desperate.  I even hit up Amazon.  When I went to the Conair site proper, its attachment accessories didn't include a fine-toothed comb for my blowdryer model.  But I did find an important number.  Conair customer service, son!  By golly, I was going to get my fine-toothed comb attachment.

Dial 1-800-WAIT-FOR-EVER.  I was going to listen to that loop of canned samba music interspersed with "All of our customer service representatives are busy.  Your call is very important to us, so please stay on the line and your call will be answered in the order it was received" until the cows came home.  I was going to go the distance.  I finally struck gold.  A saccharine sweet voice picked up, cheerily asked the right questions, and in the end, I paid $3.50 (S&H included) for the prize: a single fine-toothed comb attachment for a Conair 1875 Styler.

When I saw that little box sitting outside my apartment door days later, one thought scrolled through my mind: Somebody's hurr is 'bout to get did.

Another Rainy Day

This is the first Saturday in a while that I've slept in. What adds to the cuddle-in feeling is the rain.  Chai tea, plum-scented candle burning.

There are things I must do today.  Yes.  I've already made out my to-do list.  But the quiet, the calm, the birds.  Lazy in my leggings and robe and monkey slippers that have definitely seen better days.

Pensive, wondering, reviewing, reevaluating.  I have a personal journal.  It seems that I've only been writing in it once every two to three months.  I wrote in it today.

I bought a box of 50 blank note cards.  Well, one of my resolutions was to write an encouraging note to someone at least once a month.  I actually sent one the other day.  But in making my updated to-do list, I rediscovered an address that I had found and written down in a flight of fancy.  Mayor Cory Booker.  Should I really write him?  Then I turned on NPR and "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me" was on in the middle of a question about Cory Booker getting free Hot Pockets coupons to his constituents in the Hurricane Sandy aftermath.  I think I shall.

Taxes.  Oh, taxes.  Today I will complete you.  For real.

And my potential veggie garden.  I have no idea what I'm doing.  (Planting a garden was another one of my resolutions.)  I staked out a spot, but in retrospect, I wonder if it's too shady of a spot.  I did a little bit of checking and growing veggies like tomatoes, peppers, and eggplant need lots and lots of sunshine.  I guess I should go out there when the rain slows and reconsider.

(sigh.)  Time to break out of my rainy Saturday slowness and get to it.

Ugly Cry

I'm feeling pretty buoyant and productive today.  Got all my reading done for tomorrow, finalizing Cuba plans.  Getting the student panel together for this semester.  Walking briskly across campus and hearing the staccato of my boot heels with every step I take.  I started the morning out with a free cup of coffee because I had 10 stamps on my Jittery Joe's card.  You better believe I wanted whipped cream on top.  I had a free Indian buffet lunch because the department had funds to treat a few students to lunch along with a potential PhD student to answer questions and share our experiences in the program and I was asked to join.  I'm back on that track.

But flashback to Monday morning.  I had the ugliest cry I'd had in a while.  I can say these things and look back with a smile because now, a couple of days removed from it, it seems absurd, how a particular moment can feel so incredibly despairing and absolute.  I am dramatic. I own up to it.  What adds another dynamic to these despairing moments is when they are shared with an equally dramatic person, my dear mother.  I love this woman so much.  But put the two of us together in a heightened emotional state, and you have an instant drama fest.  Me, crying like my soul was being wrenched from me.  At the same time, my mom, sitting beside me and reading out loud a letter she wrote to me in response to a little tiff we'd had the night before.  Me, wailing and snotting harder at hearing lines like, "I'm sorry if your rest through the night was not peaceful.  I know mine wasn't.  I chose to stay up and play Angry Birds until 2:30 a.m." and "Don't you know your father and I won't be here always?  In a moment's time, life changes can happen that would make us being here not a reason anymore except that we would be laid to rest here."  Really, mom?  A mother-daughter melodrama.

But somehow, once I started breathing evenly (instead of those sharp, hyperventilating breaths you take when you have an ugly cry), once the flow of fluids and other unsightly secretions slowed, I felt cleansed.  A calm washed over me.  A warm, maternal presence beside me, speaking soothing words, regardless of whether they were relevant or the "right" thing to say, was enough.

I am thankful for these cathartic moments.  I am thankful for my mother.  Unattractive and dramatic and absurd though they may be, I am thankful for cleansing, ugly cries.

One Man's Demur is Another Man's Blow Up or Boat Floating for Dummies

de·mur /diˈmər/ v. Raise doubts or objections or show reluctance.

versus . . .

blow·up v. [slang] Overwhelm with calls or messages, usu. in reference to phones or inboxes.

So, what can a girl do but lament the fact that she can't hit a reverse switch?  One guy must increase while another guy must decrease.  I mean, not really.  I've resigned myself to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.  I know what reality looks like.  Still, I'm constantly amazed at what floats some boats but not others.  How some boats are so easily and uncomprehendingly floated, while others remain resolutely unmoved.  I'm also baffled when the boat I thought I could float is like "nawl," and the boat I wasn't trying to float or even thought would think I was their floating type at all suddenly transformed into a speed boat.  Hombre, te lo digo de verdad.

Delay

I cried when I realized I was going to be stuck at the airport for two more hours.

I had a great time with friends this past week, but I was looking forward to seeing some other friends and then seeing my family.  The delay meant that I wouldn't be able to see my friends and that I wouldn't be seeing my family until much later.

For some reason, this particular flight delay made me start to think about other times when I felt stranded, thwarted, delayed without a true explanation.  What else is left to do but accept it, adjust your plans and wait?  Knowing the details does not change one single aspect about the fact that you will, regardless, have to wait.

I thought about things that I hope for that I have no control over.  No matter what I wished, what I desired, how badly my friends felt that we'd miss each other, it's nobody's fault.  It's beyond anyone's control.  And still, I have to wait.

Timing.  Is timing really everything?

It Is Finished

I finally finished reading my Bible again.  I won't say how long it's taken me this time, but I'm glad I finally instituted consistent Bible reading in my life again.  It was off and on . . . usually according to my emotional and spiritual state and/or degree of "busyness" at the time, which is a very poor rationale for determining Bible reading habits.

I think another thing that has encouraged me this time around is that I started reading in the New Living Translation instead of the good old King James Version.  I think the King James will always be with me in some degree.  All the verses I have committed to memory are in majestic, archaic, Shakespearean English.  But reading in a version that is much more accessible, thereby helping to avoid misinterpretation, but still provides "literal" translations in footnotes has been a great idea.  There were so many things that stood out to me or made more sense to me reading the Word in the NLT.

So . . . it begins again.

A Good I Don't Know

Okay, so I made it through today despite my lethargy last night.  I got done what I had to get done, and I still have time to get done what I didn't get done.

There are things that are up in the air right now.  I was informed of the possibility of some things today that, frankly, sort of blew my mind.  Things I never imagined would be even a remote possibility.  It's exciting and frightening and exhilarating and overwhelming.

I can't divulge right now because it's still up in the air.  But I will know in a couple of weeks.

Regardless of the outcome, I know that God is showing me favor.  He is opening doors for me that no one but He could open.  And it is such a wonderful feeling to know that I have nothing to worry about.  Absolutely nothing.  He is 100% in control.

But I have to be honest and say I am scared.  I'm scared of being disappointed if it doesn't work out, and I'm scared of being in over my head if it does.  I feel like I'm in this swirling vortex of possibility and I'm being caught up in it, giddy with expectation yet terrified at the prospect of change, once again.

Oh, I don't know.  I don't know.  I don't know about a variety of things right now, to be honest.  But it's a good I don't know.  I'll have my answers soon enough.

Motivation. Lack thereof.

And it's only Monday.  Ugh.  

I have to get it together.  For real.  I can't just check out.  Why are you trippin' over writing a measly 2-3 page paper?  Are you insane?  And this book for my History class that I've barely started reading.  What is wrong with you?

You cannot do this.  You have a paper proposal (plus bibliography) due Thursday.  Have you even lifted a finger?  You have a presentation to give Friday.  Don't forget about that.  Friday's class is going to majorly suck.  Nobody is going to want to be there.  It is the worst class at the worst time ever.  Friday from 1:25-4:25.  That's bad enough.  But that same class at the same time the Friday before Spring Break?  Just forget about it.  Who's really going to be listening to me talk about Travestismos culturales?  Really.  Mestizaje is the last thing on people's minds when you're trying to get out of town.  

Ugh.  And that reminds me, traffic is going to majorly suck that day too.  ::shudders:: I don't even want to think about it.

You cannot afford to flake out right now.  You need to get your act together and not wait until the last minute.  Not this week. You can't.  You have to get stuff done as soon as possible.  

I just feel like a big, fat, already tired and energy-sapped, lazy, time-wasting complainer.  I want to roll up into a ball and sleep the rest of the day away, but I can't.  Get. Your. Life.

Shopping at New York & CO: A Parable

So, I still had money left on a New York & CO (my store of stores) gift card my little bro gave me for Christmas.  Something was leading my car to go to the mall after church instead of back to my apartment, so I followed.  I had in my head what I wanted, and I just knew I was going to find it: a black sweater with beige polka dots.  That's what was in my mind to get.  It had to be there waiting for me.

When I got there, I scoured the store, but did not find one black sweater with beige polka dots.  I was disappointed, to be honest.  I glumly went over to the clearance rack.  And then I found it.  No, not the polka-dotted sweater, but a beautiful beige and black lacy top.  It was originally $49.95.  It had been marked down to $16.99.  And now it was on a 50% off clearance rack, so I would only pay $8.50 for it.  When I picked it up, a wave of recognition washed over me.  A few months ago, I was in the same New York & CO.  And I remembered seeing that top.  I remembered wishing that I could get it because it was so stylish and versatile.  You could dress it up or dress it down.  You could wear a shirt underneath it or a cardigan or blazer over it.  And I remembered not being able to justify spending my money on it, because, at the time, it was $49.95.  So, I left it.

Fast forward to today.  I went into New York & CO today not even thinking about that top.  I had something else completely different in mind.  But it was only until I accepted the fact that my original desire, what I thought I wanted, was not to be that I was prompted to explore the clearance rack.  And once my attention was directed to the lacy black and beige top, I realized that it was actually what I wanted all along.  It was a hope I had given up on because when I was first introduced to it, it was too expensive.  It was too soon.  But today, the timing was just right.  What I truly wanted was indeed there waiting for me. I only paid $8.50 for it, with a gift card at that, and I still had money left.

Busyness. Business.

Can some one gallop up on a white horse and save me?

Whisk me away to that far away land, where papers, readings, meetings, panels, presentations are all irrelevant.  Where the very idea of them melt away like a lone snowflake on my outstretched tongue.

I want to wake up as a queen on a canopy bed, well-rested, enveloped in the decadence of silken sheets.

I want to look in the mirror and find my eyebrows perfectly tweezed, my skin flawless and glowing.

I want to open my door and look outside to see a field of bright, wild sunflowers.

I want to take my guitar out of that gig bag and let every chord I strum be perfect, melodious, sonorous.

I would like to be able to speed read, no, even better, just place my hand on a book, close my eyes and telekinetically soak in the contents in a matter of seconds.  I want Microsoft Word to be a mind reader.  I can just lean my forehead against my laptop screen, and Word will write my papers in professional, academic, grammatically impeccable Spanish by absorbing my thoughts.

I want to do everything, get it all done, but I can't.  I have to blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, and then I have to yadda, yadda, yadda, yadda, after that I'll still have this and that and the other left to do. It's not even worth enumerating.

Last.  Semester.  Of.  Coursework.

And don't let me get dengue fever if a mosquito bites me in Cuba.  And don't let a sinewy, rum drinking, cigar smoking, cafe con leche, curly-haired Cuban with fire in his dark eyes and sugar cane sweet words seduce me.

Tomorrow (well, seeing that it is after 12:00 a.m., today) let me see my life with a cherry on top even if it's rainy and cold.

Healing Is Here

Sickness can't stay any longer

Your perfect love is casting out fear

You are the God of all power

And it is your will that my life is healed

I'm in the choir and every time we get to the bridge in "Healing is Here" I just get overwhelmed with the presence of God.  I guess it's because "sickness" is not just physical sickness.  You have to get to a point where you really believe that whatever your sickness is cannot stay any longer.  It's God's will that our lives are healed.  Not that we live in fear, not that we live in sickness, not that we live believing that we have to shoulder the burden.  If you really believe God, not just in God, then you know He has all power.  And you know that there is nothing too big for Him.

Those Days Where You Take Too Long of a Nap Therefore You Can't Get to Sleep at Night

I deserved a nap though, for real.  Well, kind of.  It was my fault.  Conference presentation Saturday morning in Atlanta, didn't finish self-translating (since I originally wrote the paper in Spanish and planned on presenting it in English) until late, late Friday night.  Well, early Saturday morning.  So late, that I got chained into the parking lot.  I had to honk down the campus police to unchain it when I saw one of them roll by.  I should really put their number into my phone.

So, presentation went okay.  My major professor even came, which was very sweet of her.  I need to get better at answering questions afterward, though. Ugh.  It brings out the nervous rambler in me.  Don't ask me a question that it would take me writing a paper to answer.  Dude.  And then this girl gonna come up after it's all over and begin a "question" she had for me by telling me, in sum, that she wanted to ask it during question/answer, but didn't because she didn't want to call me out.  As if to say, "I could have embarrassed you, but I didn't."  I get it.  How could I say that a character in a Peruvian novel followed a Yoruba herbalist tradition when there is such a strong herbalist tradition in indigenous culture, particularly in a country like Peru with a strong indigenous element?  Point well taken.  However, the purpose of the novel, written by an Afro-Peruvian writer, was to highlight the African element in Peruvian identity that is often overlooked.  If we're talking about Peru, the indigenous thing is kind of a given, isn't it?  The things I don't think of to say until afterward.

There was a young professor who presented in the panel with me, who, in retrospect, I think was trying to holla at me.  I was honestly intrigued by his presentation and we were chatting about it afterward and I mentioned I was going to Cuba this summer.  He went to Cuba as well and gave me his card to contact him if I needed any info on researching, places to check out, etc., in Cuba.  His interests include Jewish identity, but when discussing my presentation he mentioned that he was also interested in black female sexuality (part of my paper talked about sexual exploitation of female slaves).  Really?  Is that like a nerdy way of telling a black girl you wanna see what's up?

Afterward, I met up with a friend who now goes to the university where I gave the presentation who I met when we were both studying abroad in France.  It's always so good to see her.  When you go through the experience of being foreigners together in another country, there's something about it that makes you feel like family.

There was something about the dreary drive back that made me want something comforting.  Something like home.  Something akin to an Italian panini sandwich with olive oil.  (Yes, the paninis at Panera Bread are fake.)  I realized something.  What we used to call prosciutto piccante is actually sopressata.  It's like salami, but isn't.  It looked close enough, so I bought some along with a baguette and cheese.  When I got home and opened up the package and smelled it, I knew it.  That was it.  It almost brought tears to my eyes because it was a part of that idealized life on Via Mare.  That life when I used to go across the street and order from the deli at the alimentari in Italian.

Three Scriptures

1. I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvellous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well (Psalm 139:14).

2. Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding (Proverbs 3:5).

3. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths (Proverbs 3:6).

Focus, ol' gal. Focus.

Okay, ridiculous things are needing to come together, stat.  What am I thinking?  Monday started out so well.  I knocked out so many things on my to-do list.  Passport renewal off in the mail . . . can you believe I've had a passport so long that that bad boy is expired?  It was issued in 2002.  Right before I went to Spain for the first time.  It expired in 2012.  I don't want to think about the amount of time between those two dates.  If I had had a baby before I went to Spain, that baby would be in 4th grade right now.  No . . . I can't . . . the oldness . . .

Then I got stuff cooking for applying for one more grant that's due Monday.  Narrative with budget, check. Transcripts sent off (with that 4.0 GPA in yo' face, son!), check.  Letter of rec from my illustrious major professor on the way, check.  Language verification, check.  Tomorrow, I'mma scan that application cover sheet and send it in.  Bam.  You know you wanna give your girl some plane ticket money to go to Cuba.  Did I mention that I was awarded $1000 from a previous grant?

On top of that, I attended and set up meetings to start gearing up for comps.  Which I'm supposed to take in the fall!  And then I read an article right quick and got enough coherent thoughts together to write a response paper.  I rocked it on Monday.

But today?  Productivity has gone back down to 0%.  I have to self-translate and slash down a paper I'm presenting this weekend, and I need to read so that I can write another response paper, and I don't want to wait till the last minute.  Oh, plus I have to finish this article on blogging that's being published in a ladies' magazine.  Ahem.  In other words, I need to get my life together.

But my brain is traveling. It won't stop doing it's own thing.  Here I am like, Brain . . . come on back down to Earth . . . I need you, and my brain is like, Psshhh.  You on your own.

Every time I look at my calendar my stomach screams.  I can't believe this month is almost over and next month is almost here! Not only will I be on the other side of 30 at the end of next month, but in-between now and the other side of 30, I'm, well, I'll just say that I'm embarking on an adventure of sorts.  And the prospect of this adventure is turning my stomach into an adrenaline-laced acrobat.  It's turning my brain into the winner of the Indy 500.

There are times when you need to just take a chill pill and bring it all back.  Take it all down a thousand.  Breathe.  Do what you gotta do.  That's what I'm trying to do.

Another Difference Between Then and Now

Then, I used to despise going into a store by myself to buy feminine products.  Especially when the cashier was a guy.  I used to hate it.  It was the most mortifying experience ever.  But my mom used to make me do it.  I guess she thought it was like, character-building or something.

Now, I can't even express how much I do not care.  It's like dude, you work here, I need this, thanks, goodbye.

I guess that's how it always was, but I was too young and self-conscious to realize it.

Things Making Me Want to Cry This Weekend

Every darn thing is making me tear up.  I'll get over it.

1. A classmate invited me and two other classmates over to his place for dinner last night.  It was really nice.  We were sitting there talking and having a great, open, honest conversation, and it made me want to cry.  It made me feel like I was a part of a sincere moment that would only exist in that moment.  And then, before we left, our host gave us each a pretty little post-Valentine's Day gift of chocolate.  It was very sweet and made me feel like I was a part of something special.

2. My brain crush invited the class over today for empanadas and class discussion.  In the middle of sitting in that circle of colleagues/friends, a wave of longing washed over me.  I wished that one day I could be a married professor with a cute little girl and a nice place with enough room to invite my students over for a meal and casual conversation.  I was just sitting there, soaking in the conversation and suddenly struck with how beautiful a scene it was, how thankful I was to be a part of it, and how I would like to re-create it one day.

3. I've been working on a manuscript for another professor, the same professor who asked me to co-author an article with her, and the same one whose little boy I babysit twice a week.  There was a little problem with the manuscript, so I went over to show her how to fix it.  Just coming over, seeing her son's face light up  when he saw me and giving him hugs and kisses when he jumped into my arms almost brought me to the brink again.  He likes to spin things on top of his little plastic table . . . little balls, wooden beads, anything that spins.  While the toy is spinning around, we place our hands around it to make a casita, a little house for it, so that it will be happy.

Valentine's Day or Super Duper Day

First of all, I was cute today.  I was.  At least, people told me that I was.  I did a little som'n som'n to my hair, wore red and polka dots and had a flower in my hair.  It's Valentine's Day.  I wanted to look Valentiney.  I had a presentation in class and plus, well, it's Valentine's Day, so I brought cupcakes and chocolate.  But then I got a call that I had a delivery, but the delivery man wasn't able to find my apartment!  Who was the mystery Valentine's Day gift-giver?  I ended up going to the place, Edible Arrangements.  And I had a box of chocolate covered strawberries, a balloon and a teddy bear.

I read the card and saw that they were from this handsome guy right here . . . my brother.  Awww!  He really made my day.

And then I got a call from my professor.  The amazing one that I wish I could be like.  She didn't have time to talk to me after class, she said, but she wanted to tell me that I did a good job on my presentation.  Then, to make a long story short, she asked if I wanted to co-author an article with her!  I was so overwhelmed that I started to cry!  If you're in academia and can get an article published before you finish grad school, it's a huge deal.  But not even that . . . just the fact that she asked me.  That she thinks I'm a good enough scholar to want to attach her name to something that I would be partly responsible for.  That she would even consider me.  I'm excited. And today has been a super duper day.

I Hate WalMart

I only shop there out of poor graduate student necessity.  I hate it.  It takes forever, it's always mad crowded, I always end up going in circles trying to find stuff, wasting time, always dodging people in the aisles, trying to avoid the ogling of dirty old men, getting lost by the non-advice from people who work there.  No ma'am, matches are not with groceries, and those little long neck lighters are not just between registers 15 and 16 with all of the last-minute junk.  Matches AND long neck lighters are with the kitchen utensils in housewares.  Yes, ma'am.  I found that out after I wandered the store struggling with a bootleg cart that wouldn't stay on course, full of groceries.  I was NOT leaving without my long neck lighter.  A girl has candles and a girl will light them and smell them.

Don't look at me crazy if I ask you to slice my honey cured ham thinly, neither.  Lady, it's what you do.  Sir, I know you're just a lost middle-aged man, I'm not annoyed, but if you're looking for cranberry sauce, um, it might be with canned fruit, you know what I'm saying?

It's just so tiring.  And this is just for ONE person!  I mean, I guess for that reason, I only go what I call "big shopping" once a month.  And I talk about wanting bundles of kids.  How you think them kids are gonna be getting fed?  If thou hast run with the footmen and they have wearied thee, then how canst thou contend with horses?

I, having no free tickets to the moon, / I'd love you

It's a line of poetry (well, two lines, actually) written by my poetic friend.  It's one of those things that reminds me of those undergrad days.  It's one of those things that reminds me of the headiness of possibility.

I have no free tickets to the moon.  This is not some splashy, flashy, ostentatious bling-bling of an offering.  This is not some jackpot-winning, Lamborghini-driving pass abroad.  I have no free tickets to the moon.  All I have to give is myself.  And my love.

It doesn't say "I love you."  No.  It's not a fact.  Not a sure declaration.  It says "I'd love you."  I would love you.  If you only knew how capable I was of loving you.  If you only knew what I had to offer and could appreciate it.  If you only opened yourself up and allowed me to, I'd love you.