Think Julie Andrews during Christmas time. Yeah, that song. Nothing exciting is going on, and I’m procrastinating as usual, so why not make it fun? These are in no way in order of importance, or favorability. (I just love making up words. Hey, Shakespeare did it, so why can’t I?):
1. Curious George. He is the cutest thing ever. I have a stuffed toy, a flashlight, various posters, a calendar, he even serves as my laptop’s wallpaper . . . it’s a bit on the juvenile side, I know, but I can’t help it. I guess he kind of reminds me of me: He wants to do the right thing, but somehow always ends up getting into trouble. lol. At least it all works out in the end.
2. Mary Higgins Clark. Her murder mysteries are must-reads. No, they’ll never win the Pulitzer Prize for literature, I know, but they’re so . . . classic. Her trademarks? A professional, single, beautiful woman who is the main character somehow gets mixed up in a murder investigation and becomes the next target. The killer is always 1. a surprise, 2. male, and 3. stalkerish and psychopathic. Gotta love ‘em.
3. Iced Chai Tea Lattes. We’ve gone there.
4. Shakespeare. He was simply brilliant. No facts to back it up, but he’s probably the most quoted man in history. He was also way before his time. Just read Othello, and you’ll know what I mean.
5. Lavender. It’s such a soft, feminine color that I’m always told compliments my skin. I have many lavender-colored articles of clothing, lavender journals, a lavender desk lamp, lavender note cards, lavender flip-flops, a lavender hole-punch and a lavender toothbrush. I would have it no other way.
6. Coldplay. We’ve gone there with them too, but I just have to brag on my favorite British blokes. There was an article about them in USA Weekend last Sunday, and this sentence pretty much sums them up: “The resulting album [their newest one, X&Y], filled with standard Coldplay themes of love, loss and longing, goes far in satisfying fans’ yearnings for understanding and empathy in the form of Martin’s haunting falsetto.”
7. Sunflowers. They’re so encouraging, bright, and lovely. I keep warning people that I’m going to have a sunflower wedding bouquet. Okay . . . maybe not like, sunflowers and nothing else, but at least have sunflowers in it. I don’t care what anybody says, a sunflowery wedding bouquet would be the bomb.
8. Spain and all things Spanish. I could go on and on and on, but just suffice it to say that Spain became my home away from home—studying abroad was a blast. I know I have to go back there someday, I will. I also love being able to enter into another culture because I have a command of the language. It’s one of the most awesome feelings in the world.
9. Glasses. I cannot and will not attempt to describe the fixation I have with them. There is just something intelligent, distinguished, and refined about them. I’m always fascinated when people who wear them go through the glasses-wearer ritual of taking them off, massaging the bridges of their noses, examining them, wiping them off, and putting them back on. Whooooa. (Said in a surfer dude voice.)
10. Sally Hansen’s Hard as Nails. I got tired of having chipped, pantyhose-snagging nails. And let me tell you, that stuff is the best nail hardener in town. Come on, the clear kind, of course!
Of course this isn’t it. You know, it’s just a little list of random favorites, not by any means all of the favorites that exist. If these 10 things suddenly ceased to exist, I wouldn’t die. No, I know I would make it somehow. But if they were to cease to exist, rest assured that the world would be a smaller, darker, colder place.
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
A Way with Words
Disclaimer: For those who do not care for Shakespeare and/or do not want to be further convinced that I am a hard-core nerd, read no further.
It was time for a change of scrolling screen saver quotation, so I gleaned from one of my most treasured pieces of literature, my favorite Shakespearean play of all time, Julius Caesar. You probably thought I was going to say Romeo and Juliet, what with all of the melancholia that’s been floating around in my blog lately. But no, it’s Julius Caesar, hands down.
What is it about such a seemingly stuffy play written in such archaic language that moves me so passionately? There’s no love story, very little comic relief. Much of the dialogue consists of speeches and soliloquies. A bunch of ancient Roman statesmen gang up on the play’s namesake and stab him to death. Whoopdie-doo.
But there’s one central element of the play that moves the whole plot and that simply fascinates me: Rhetoric and the power of language. How simple words can persuade great men to err, and incite the least of men to violent action. It’s so powerful. And the character that best embodies this central element (also my favorite literary character of all time—I will be naming my future dog after him) is none other than Marcus Antonius, more popularly known as Marc Antony.
I wrote my 11th grade research paper on his funeral oration. Nothing else. The whole paper was about Marc Antony’s speech over Caesar’s bloodied body. It’s the best part in the whole play. At first, the plebeians are pretty cool with the fact that Caesar was offed. But Antony is so smooth, he understands the mechanics and the power of language so well, that he takes the plebeians from thinking “good riddance, Caesar” to “let’s get the guys who killed Caesar!” Amazing.
“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears,” he begins. And in the end, he sits back with a satisfied smirk as the plebeians rush off to riot: “Now let it work: mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt!” Antony knew words, he loved words, and understood their power so that he accomplished his goal without lifting a finger. Though Antony was manipulative in his approach, I still admire him for his skill.
Marc Antony makes me think about why I couldn’t choose between Language Arts and Spanish. I was compelled to study both because they’re both about language. Language connects people, language allows you to understand culture and ways of life, and language is made up of words. There’s just something about people, literary or real-life, who have a way with words. They thrill me.
I tell you that which you yourselves do know;
Show you sweet Caesar’s wounds, poor poor dumb mouths,
And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Caesar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
--Marc Antony (Julius Caesar, Act III, scene ii)
It was time for a change of scrolling screen saver quotation, so I gleaned from one of my most treasured pieces of literature, my favorite Shakespearean play of all time, Julius Caesar. You probably thought I was going to say Romeo and Juliet, what with all of the melancholia that’s been floating around in my blog lately. But no, it’s Julius Caesar, hands down.
What is it about such a seemingly stuffy play written in such archaic language that moves me so passionately? There’s no love story, very little comic relief. Much of the dialogue consists of speeches and soliloquies. A bunch of ancient Roman statesmen gang up on the play’s namesake and stab him to death. Whoopdie-doo.
But there’s one central element of the play that moves the whole plot and that simply fascinates me: Rhetoric and the power of language. How simple words can persuade great men to err, and incite the least of men to violent action. It’s so powerful. And the character that best embodies this central element (also my favorite literary character of all time—I will be naming my future dog after him) is none other than Marcus Antonius, more popularly known as Marc Antony.
I wrote my 11th grade research paper on his funeral oration. Nothing else. The whole paper was about Marc Antony’s speech over Caesar’s bloodied body. It’s the best part in the whole play. At first, the plebeians are pretty cool with the fact that Caesar was offed. But Antony is so smooth, he understands the mechanics and the power of language so well, that he takes the plebeians from thinking “good riddance, Caesar” to “let’s get the guys who killed Caesar!” Amazing.
“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears,” he begins. And in the end, he sits back with a satisfied smirk as the plebeians rush off to riot: “Now let it work: mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt!” Antony knew words, he loved words, and understood their power so that he accomplished his goal without lifting a finger. Though Antony was manipulative in his approach, I still admire him for his skill.
Marc Antony makes me think about why I couldn’t choose between Language Arts and Spanish. I was compelled to study both because they’re both about language. Language connects people, language allows you to understand culture and ways of life, and language is made up of words. There’s just something about people, literary or real-life, who have a way with words. They thrill me.
I tell you that which you yourselves do know;
Show you sweet Caesar’s wounds, poor poor dumb mouths,
And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Caesar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.
--Marc Antony (Julius Caesar, Act III, scene ii)
Monday, July 25, 2005
Relapse
re·lapse vi. to slip back into a former state, esp. into illness after apparent recovery—n. a relapsing
I had a relapsing Saturday afternoon. And I state this fact with a slightly self-deprecatory snicker. I can always do that in retrospect.
It all started post-our church ladies’ hair seminar. Ladies’ hair seminar. I could almost say that phrase with a snicker, but I won’t because I will admit that I got some helpful hints. Anyway, there is a very nice church sister who is extremely encouraging and whom I love to death. She called the other day “to make sure I was okay,” but we didn’t get a chance to chat because I was out and about for most of the day. So, post-hair seminar we chatted a little bit, exchanged niceties and social apologies for not getting back with one another that day, and she mentioned that she was just “checking in on me.” She is privy to the demise of the cake, and I realize that I have been withdrawn and a little extra-weepy during altar call lately (not to mention my little tissue-filled moment during Thursday night prayer), so I thought I should give her a little reassurance that I was okay, or at least doing better.
Let’s go off on a tiny tangent and allow me to make a confession. I am a big fat crybaby. I wish I could explain the triggers that turn my eye-faucets on, but it happens. A lot. I’m one of those cry-when-you-laughers too. So I have avoided discussion of anything cake-related for those reasons.
So, back to the encouraging sister. I started out with a half-hearted, “I’m doing okay,” and progressed to a series of unfinished, broken explanations of why I still feel the way I do sometimes and then they started slipping. The throat constriction, the heightening of voice pitch, the facial heat and ocular stinging.
“See, that’s why I don’t really like to talk about it . . .” I trailed off, forcing a smile and quickly brushing the wetness away.
“Well, just know that I’m always here if you need to talk,” she smiled.
On the drive back home, I tried to keep a stiff upper lip. Suck it up, suck it up, suck it up. But, inevitably, I ended up sprawled across my bed, burying my face into a pillow, swelling my eyes up and giving myself a headache. I have nothing better to do on a Saturday but confine myself in my room and wallow in self-pity! Oh, boo-hoo-hoo. Boo-hoo-hoo. And nobody understands! Oh, boo-hoo-hoo. Boo-hoo-hoo. And I’m 23! Oh, boo-hoo-hoo. Boo-hoo-hoo.
It’s amazing how irrational the snowball effect really is. But despite my overly emotional and, at times, irrational ways of coping, I will not underestimate the power of having a good cry. It’s so releasing and cathartic. Even though I look like a monstrosity afterwards (or “lookin' like who done it and what for” as my brothers would say), I will admit that I do feel better. Afterwards, I can take a step back and start to look at things rationally. Start to reorder my thoughts and my outlook.
Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle:are they not in thy book? (Psalm 56:8)
I had a relapsing Saturday afternoon. And I state this fact with a slightly self-deprecatory snicker. I can always do that in retrospect.
It all started post-our church ladies’ hair seminar. Ladies’ hair seminar. I could almost say that phrase with a snicker, but I won’t because I will admit that I got some helpful hints. Anyway, there is a very nice church sister who is extremely encouraging and whom I love to death. She called the other day “to make sure I was okay,” but we didn’t get a chance to chat because I was out and about for most of the day. So, post-hair seminar we chatted a little bit, exchanged niceties and social apologies for not getting back with one another that day, and she mentioned that she was just “checking in on me.” She is privy to the demise of the cake, and I realize that I have been withdrawn and a little extra-weepy during altar call lately (not to mention my little tissue-filled moment during Thursday night prayer), so I thought I should give her a little reassurance that I was okay, or at least doing better.
Let’s go off on a tiny tangent and allow me to make a confession. I am a big fat crybaby. I wish I could explain the triggers that turn my eye-faucets on, but it happens. A lot. I’m one of those cry-when-you-laughers too. So I have avoided discussion of anything cake-related for those reasons.
So, back to the encouraging sister. I started out with a half-hearted, “I’m doing okay,” and progressed to a series of unfinished, broken explanations of why I still feel the way I do sometimes and then they started slipping. The throat constriction, the heightening of voice pitch, the facial heat and ocular stinging.
“See, that’s why I don’t really like to talk about it . . .” I trailed off, forcing a smile and quickly brushing the wetness away.
“Well, just know that I’m always here if you need to talk,” she smiled.
On the drive back home, I tried to keep a stiff upper lip. Suck it up, suck it up, suck it up. But, inevitably, I ended up sprawled across my bed, burying my face into a pillow, swelling my eyes up and giving myself a headache. I have nothing better to do on a Saturday but confine myself in my room and wallow in self-pity! Oh, boo-hoo-hoo. Boo-hoo-hoo. And nobody understands! Oh, boo-hoo-hoo. Boo-hoo-hoo. And I’m 23! Oh, boo-hoo-hoo. Boo-hoo-hoo.
It’s amazing how irrational the snowball effect really is. But despite my overly emotional and, at times, irrational ways of coping, I will not underestimate the power of having a good cry. It’s so releasing and cathartic. Even though I look like a monstrosity afterwards (or “lookin' like who done it and what for” as my brothers would say), I will admit that I do feel better. Afterwards, I can take a step back and start to look at things rationally. Start to reorder my thoughts and my outlook.
Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle:are they not in thy book? (Psalm 56:8)
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Change
is something I can almost smell. It’s like the wet earthiness of the air outside when it’s about to rain. I can tell when it’s about to happen; rather, I can feel when it already has and the beginning stages of its effects have already started to take place, though perhaps unnoticeably to others.
It’s not a negative thing, necessarily. More often than not, it’s a good thing. Life is wrapped up in it. It depends on it. If things were the same all the time, nothing would ever grow. But for some reason, it’s always bittersweet to me. It always gets me teary-eyed and unable to articulately express myself. It’s always an unexplainable feeling that possesses me, that inhabits the outside lining of my heart that just aches and yearns.
The feeling will pass—it always does—and I’ll begin to think about the newness and freshness that the future can bring. Not just the immediate future, but the future that’s a bit further off too: Starting a new job, taking on responsibilities that I’ve never had before, complete independence, maybe moving to a new city, traveling to places I’ve never been, meeting new people—who knows what the future holds for me? The possibilities are thrilling.
But then the feeling washes over me again—it always does—and I begin to think about the fact that change always involves a loss of some sort. A tadpole loses its gills on its way to becoming a frog. The members of a married couple lose their sense of complete individuality on their way to becoming one. A person who moves will lose the closeness to the people he or she leaves behind. The feelings flood me when I wake up in the morning, while I’m driving, while I’m watching a beautiful little boy that I’m caring for eat spaghetti.
I’m not a bona fide pack rat, but I do have piles of sentimental junk that I just can’t seem to let go of. I save letters and notes and cards and pictures and newspaper articles and napkins embossed with my name from my 16th birthday party and old yearbooks and address books with outdated contact information and graded papers from when I studied abroad. I always have a tendency to want to revisit the past. Walk down memory lane. Ah, the memories.
Sometimes I wish I could rid myself of that . . . tendency. To dwell on things, to turn them over and over in my mind. To wonder about the what ifs and whys. To wish to live in that time again. Would I have done things differently? Even while I’m doing it, I know it’s purposeless. Similar to the feeling I get when I’m speaking Spanish and I can hear my own American accent.
But when all is said and done, I resign myself to the fact that God is in control. No matter what. “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28).
Would the day be as sweet
If it had no end?
If you never knew an enemy
Oh, could you understand
The worth of a friend?
--from “Beautiful Broken World” by Warren Barfield
It’s not a negative thing, necessarily. More often than not, it’s a good thing. Life is wrapped up in it. It depends on it. If things were the same all the time, nothing would ever grow. But for some reason, it’s always bittersweet to me. It always gets me teary-eyed and unable to articulately express myself. It’s always an unexplainable feeling that possesses me, that inhabits the outside lining of my heart that just aches and yearns.
The feeling will pass—it always does—and I’ll begin to think about the newness and freshness that the future can bring. Not just the immediate future, but the future that’s a bit further off too: Starting a new job, taking on responsibilities that I’ve never had before, complete independence, maybe moving to a new city, traveling to places I’ve never been, meeting new people—who knows what the future holds for me? The possibilities are thrilling.
But then the feeling washes over me again—it always does—and I begin to think about the fact that change always involves a loss of some sort. A tadpole loses its gills on its way to becoming a frog. The members of a married couple lose their sense of complete individuality on their way to becoming one. A person who moves will lose the closeness to the people he or she leaves behind. The feelings flood me when I wake up in the morning, while I’m driving, while I’m watching a beautiful little boy that I’m caring for eat spaghetti.
I’m not a bona fide pack rat, but I do have piles of sentimental junk that I just can’t seem to let go of. I save letters and notes and cards and pictures and newspaper articles and napkins embossed with my name from my 16th birthday party and old yearbooks and address books with outdated contact information and graded papers from when I studied abroad. I always have a tendency to want to revisit the past. Walk down memory lane. Ah, the memories.
Sometimes I wish I could rid myself of that . . . tendency. To dwell on things, to turn them over and over in my mind. To wonder about the what ifs and whys. To wish to live in that time again. Would I have done things differently? Even while I’m doing it, I know it’s purposeless. Similar to the feeling I get when I’m speaking Spanish and I can hear my own American accent.
But when all is said and done, I resign myself to the fact that God is in control. No matter what. “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28).
Would the day be as sweet
If it had no end?
If you never knew an enemy
Oh, could you understand
The worth of a friend?
--from “Beautiful Broken World” by Warren Barfield
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Red Shoes, Cakelessness, and Bustin’ a 185
As much as I claim to love shoes and shopping as much as any other red-blooded girl, (well, of those red-blooded girls that like shoes and going shopping . . . I know there are some of us that don’t, oh, and there are guys out there who like shoes and shopping too—see what these politically correct times have reduced me to?) there is one article of the essential that I have always lacked until today—a red pair of heels.
The other day I got this awesome red suit on sale. I mean, it was crazily on sale. 75 percent off. It ended up being only $30. And thanks to my mother’s graciously relinquishing to me her 20-something-dollar Dillard’s credit that she was going to use to buy something else after she took something back, but didn’t use because she couldn’t find anything else, I only ended up spending 10 of my own dollars to get it. Awwwright!
I was excited about it. But since this was the first article of red clothing to ever grace my closet’s presence (well, with the exception of a red Alabama Crimson Tide t-shirt), there was a teeny-tiny problem. No red shoes to match.
How could I have gone this long without ever owning red shoes? Beats me. For the longest time I just thought that red wasn’t my color. Maybe after reading The Scarlet Letter back in the day, I developed a subconscious aversion to red. But, today, armed with a late graduation gift of a $20 gift certificate to Eastdale Mall, I was determined to break the color barrier. Of my already owned shoes, that is. Heh, heh.
Now, why is it that when I’m just kind of looking around, purposelessly buying stuff, I can find everything under the sun, but when I’m determinedly bent on finding a specific item, it becomes some sort of commercially endangered species? It’s like every size 8½ wearer in the city had conspired to raid Eastdale Mall and buy out every style of red shoe in existence. Ah, but lucky for me, the conspirators failed to raid one store—JCPenney.
Now I’m not like a diehard JCPenney fanatic, but as soon as I found the shoe department, I spotted them. Classically red. Stylish yet tasteful. Nice heel, but not so high that I would risk breaking my neck if I attempted to walk in them. On sale. Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!
In other news, I am learning to cope with my cakeless state. Yesterday evening, feeling restless, I ventured out to the park. I sat under a little covering affectionately known as ‘the house’ and wrote in my journal while listening to Hootie and the Blowfish on my Discman. It started raining, and it was cool watching the rain hit the water (‘the house’ sits over a man-made lake). I started seeing little turtle heads pop up and wrote, “The turtles are bathing their aged faces in the raindrops.” I laughed to myself and then I remembered an email that McDougal had sent me a while ago. Feeling pensive, he had come to the same spot and watched the rain fall on the water, too. I just sat there watching, listening to Hootie’s distinctive crooning: “Time, why you punish me?” It was a sublime moment.
That moment reminded me of an entry in another blog that I frequent that tells a beautiful and heartfelt story about dancing in the rain. “The pain is worth the dance in the rain,” she says. Another way of saying “‘Tis better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all,” I guess. And I agree.
But no, I shan’t be classically Channy and end this sucker on a melancholy note. No ma’am and no sir. There is cause for a bit of celebration! Remember the Praxis II test that I ranted and raved about having to take? Well, I took the Spanish Content Knowledge one earlier last month, and I finally got my scores back. The highest possible score was 200. Homegirl made a 185. ::high fives buddies:: I was very pleased. But only because I felt like I did horrifically after taking the test. Now I must take the Language Arts Content Knowledge test next month. I just had to be a nerd and double major, didn’t I?
The other day I got this awesome red suit on sale. I mean, it was crazily on sale. 75 percent off. It ended up being only $30. And thanks to my mother’s graciously relinquishing to me her 20-something-dollar Dillard’s credit that she was going to use to buy something else after she took something back, but didn’t use because she couldn’t find anything else, I only ended up spending 10 of my own dollars to get it. Awwwright!
I was excited about it. But since this was the first article of red clothing to ever grace my closet’s presence (well, with the exception of a red Alabama Crimson Tide t-shirt), there was a teeny-tiny problem. No red shoes to match.
How could I have gone this long without ever owning red shoes? Beats me. For the longest time I just thought that red wasn’t my color. Maybe after reading The Scarlet Letter back in the day, I developed a subconscious aversion to red. But, today, armed with a late graduation gift of a $20 gift certificate to Eastdale Mall, I was determined to break the color barrier. Of my already owned shoes, that is. Heh, heh.
Now, why is it that when I’m just kind of looking around, purposelessly buying stuff, I can find everything under the sun, but when I’m determinedly bent on finding a specific item, it becomes some sort of commercially endangered species? It’s like every size 8½ wearer in the city had conspired to raid Eastdale Mall and buy out every style of red shoe in existence. Ah, but lucky for me, the conspirators failed to raid one store—JCPenney.
Now I’m not like a diehard JCPenney fanatic, but as soon as I found the shoe department, I spotted them. Classically red. Stylish yet tasteful. Nice heel, but not so high that I would risk breaking my neck if I attempted to walk in them. On sale. Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!
In other news, I am learning to cope with my cakeless state. Yesterday evening, feeling restless, I ventured out to the park. I sat under a little covering affectionately known as ‘the house’ and wrote in my journal while listening to Hootie and the Blowfish on my Discman. It started raining, and it was cool watching the rain hit the water (‘the house’ sits over a man-made lake). I started seeing little turtle heads pop up and wrote, “The turtles are bathing their aged faces in the raindrops.” I laughed to myself and then I remembered an email that McDougal had sent me a while ago. Feeling pensive, he had come to the same spot and watched the rain fall on the water, too. I just sat there watching, listening to Hootie’s distinctive crooning: “Time, why you punish me?” It was a sublime moment.
That moment reminded me of an entry in another blog that I frequent that tells a beautiful and heartfelt story about dancing in the rain. “The pain is worth the dance in the rain,” she says. Another way of saying “‘Tis better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all,” I guess. And I agree.
But no, I shan’t be classically Channy and end this sucker on a melancholy note. No ma’am and no sir. There is cause for a bit of celebration! Remember the Praxis II test that I ranted and raved about having to take? Well, I took the Spanish Content Knowledge one earlier last month, and I finally got my scores back. The highest possible score was 200. Homegirl made a 185. ::high fives buddies:: I was very pleased. But only because I felt like I did horrifically after taking the test. Now I must take the Language Arts Content Knowledge test next month. I just had to be a nerd and double major, didn’t I?
Friday, July 15, 2005
The Iced Chai Tea Latte
is one of the best consumable things known to man. The Caramel Frappucino used to reign in the kingdom of my favorites, but I’m afraid it has met its match. I know, to some, the Iced Chai Tea Latte says nothing but cold, milky tea. But to me it speaks volumes. It tells the wonders of how such seemingly unfamiliar elements such as ice, milk, water, tea, sugar, and a bunch of Indian spices can come together in a plastic cup and bond, and somehow, inexplicably, become delicious best friends.
This is not to say that the Caramel Frapp has been altogether dethroned. Not at all. It just means that I’ve found another café drink that moves me. But each drink moves me in a different way. Each has its own particular effect upon me.
When I’m feeling upbeat, when I’m longing for the shock of a caffeine buzz, spiced up with some caramel and whipped cream action, the Frapp is my friend. The Frapp is for those days when I’m on cloud nine. The days when my life is spread before me like a new and exciting waiting-to-be-lived adventure. The days when I wake up and the sun is shining and I bound out of bed screaming, “Bring it on, life! Bring it on!”
The Chai Tea, on the other hand, has more of a calming, consoling purpose. I need it in times of feeling chill and of feeling pensive. It’s the kind of drink that’s my companion during long café conversations. The milky, cinnamony sweetness is a gustatory reminder that everything is going to be okay. The mellow spiciness is a good friend giving me a big hug. It’s for the rainy, cloudy days when I know my hair is going to fall and that if it’s windy as well as rainy, my flimsy, travel-sized umbrella just might get blown inside out.
Now, I am certainly over-generalizing the feelings and images I associate with these café creations. It would perhaps be closer to the truth to say that sometimes I just feel like a Frapp and other times I simply feel like a Chai. It’s just that I’ve been on a Chai kick lately and I wanted to pay it homage. But at the same time, I didn’t want the Frapp to be left hanging. We go way back. Way before the Chai ever entered the picture. Even so, the Chai still gets major props. I don’t care what anybody says, Chai. I don’t care that you are at times rejected for your exotic coldness. You are somebody. Say it with me: I am somebody!
This is not to say that the Caramel Frapp has been altogether dethroned. Not at all. It just means that I’ve found another café drink that moves me. But each drink moves me in a different way. Each has its own particular effect upon me.
When I’m feeling upbeat, when I’m longing for the shock of a caffeine buzz, spiced up with some caramel and whipped cream action, the Frapp is my friend. The Frapp is for those days when I’m on cloud nine. The days when my life is spread before me like a new and exciting waiting-to-be-lived adventure. The days when I wake up and the sun is shining and I bound out of bed screaming, “Bring it on, life! Bring it on!”
The Chai Tea, on the other hand, has more of a calming, consoling purpose. I need it in times of feeling chill and of feeling pensive. It’s the kind of drink that’s my companion during long café conversations. The milky, cinnamony sweetness is a gustatory reminder that everything is going to be okay. The mellow spiciness is a good friend giving me a big hug. It’s for the rainy, cloudy days when I know my hair is going to fall and that if it’s windy as well as rainy, my flimsy, travel-sized umbrella just might get blown inside out.
Now, I am certainly over-generalizing the feelings and images I associate with these café creations. It would perhaps be closer to the truth to say that sometimes I just feel like a Frapp and other times I simply feel like a Chai. It’s just that I’ve been on a Chai kick lately and I wanted to pay it homage. But at the same time, I didn’t want the Frapp to be left hanging. We go way back. Way before the Chai ever entered the picture. Even so, the Chai still gets major props. I don’t care what anybody says, Chai. I don’t care that you are at times rejected for your exotic coldness. You are somebody. Say it with me: I am somebody!
Tuesday, July 12, 2005
Song from Back in the Day
There are very few Christian artists today whose careers outlast the “new artist” buzz. Whatever happened to Big Tent Revival? What about that swing/ska group called The W’s? I could name many, many more who got their equivalent of 15 minutes of fame and then went on to join the rest of Contemporary Christian Music’s has-beens.
However, one such artist has always occupied a little special corner of my heart, and that is Nikki Leonti. “Who?” some may respond. That’s okay. Sometimes, the more unknown, the more special . . . or something like that. Anyway, the song that I think she is (or was) most well known for was titled “Everlasting Place.” Don’t you wanna come with me/ To an everlasting place?/ No tears, no pain, forever we’ll remain . . . okay. But anyway, the song that always stuck with me was one that was not as popular, called “It Will Come to You.” Not only does she have a nice voice, but also the lyrics to the song have always uplifted me and warmed my heart when I’ve been feeling like I have been lately. In fact, I had this crazy idea that I was going to get online and hunt down the soundtrack so that I could sing it at church or something one day. I got desperate and emailed one of the representatives of her label, Pamplin Records, asking if there were any soundtracks available of that particular song. I got a reply, and the person told me that there never was a soundtrack made of “It Will Come to You” and that all of Leonti’s stuff was being sold out and discontinued, etc., but that they did have a book left over of all the sheet music (piano, voice, and guitar) of all of her songs. They sent it to me for free. I still haven’t sat down to pick out the piano part, and that was several years ago, but oh, well. I still have the song downloaded and I just finished listening to it, and I know things are going to be okay.
Verse: I know you’re waiting/ For the light at the end/ Of this tunnel that you’re going through/ Anticipating/ What lies round the bend/ Wondering what he has in store for you/ Rest in His will/ Keep the faith in prayer until you see what He provides.
Chorus: It will come to you/ Like a beacon into view/ There’s a light that will shine through/ It will come to you/ Seek Him first in all you do/ And when you least expect it to, it will come to you.
Verse: Looking back through/ The pages of your past/ There’s a story of His faithfulness/ When you come to/ The chapter’s end at last/ You will see it turn out for the best/ It will be alright/ Even in the darkest night, just hold out for the dawn. Chorus a couple more times. End.
However, one such artist has always occupied a little special corner of my heart, and that is Nikki Leonti. “Who?” some may respond. That’s okay. Sometimes, the more unknown, the more special . . . or something like that. Anyway, the song that I think she is (or was) most well known for was titled “Everlasting Place.” Don’t you wanna come with me/ To an everlasting place?/ No tears, no pain, forever we’ll remain . . . okay. But anyway, the song that always stuck with me was one that was not as popular, called “It Will Come to You.” Not only does she have a nice voice, but also the lyrics to the song have always uplifted me and warmed my heart when I’ve been feeling like I have been lately. In fact, I had this crazy idea that I was going to get online and hunt down the soundtrack so that I could sing it at church or something one day. I got desperate and emailed one of the representatives of her label, Pamplin Records, asking if there were any soundtracks available of that particular song. I got a reply, and the person told me that there never was a soundtrack made of “It Will Come to You” and that all of Leonti’s stuff was being sold out and discontinued, etc., but that they did have a book left over of all the sheet music (piano, voice, and guitar) of all of her songs. They sent it to me for free. I still haven’t sat down to pick out the piano part, and that was several years ago, but oh, well. I still have the song downloaded and I just finished listening to it, and I know things are going to be okay.
Verse: I know you’re waiting/ For the light at the end/ Of this tunnel that you’re going through/ Anticipating/ What lies round the bend/ Wondering what he has in store for you/ Rest in His will/ Keep the faith in prayer until you see what He provides.
Chorus: It will come to you/ Like a beacon into view/ There’s a light that will shine through/ It will come to you/ Seek Him first in all you do/ And when you least expect it to, it will come to you.
Verse: Looking back through/ The pages of your past/ There’s a story of His faithfulness/ When you come to/ The chapter’s end at last/ You will see it turn out for the best/ It will be alright/ Even in the darkest night, just hold out for the dawn. Chorus a couple more times. End.
Saturday, July 09, 2005
The Cake
I wish there were one word in the English language that could describe how I’m feeling right now, but there isn’t. So why not do what many so-called writers do and explain it to you on metaphorical terms.
Imagine something that you and someone else have painstakingly made. Okay, let’s say that you and your mom worked together to make a pound cake (the only thing I can make, as I’ve mentioned many times before). You both wanted it to be good. But your mom was especially cautious; making sure you put exactly the right amount of sugar and vanilla in it. She personally creamed the eggs and butter together before you added the other stuff in. Your mom wanted this to be the best cake you’ve ever made. She wanted this cake to be the one. You, on the other hand, though you wanted the cake to come out great too, were more caught up in the experience of making the cake itself. You liked the whirring sound the mixer made when you blended everything together. You liked getting your hands all powdery when you greased and floured the pan. You wanted to lick the bowl and spoon and mixer things clean of the sweet pound cake batter.
So, you bake the cake and it comes out really nice. Your mom even dusts it with powdered sugar to give it a special touch. Your dear mother then instructs you to take the cake to the new neighbor across the street. To be honest, you’re sort of hesitant about going across the street; you’ve never actually met this new neighbor, and aren’t sure if you really want to. But you’re still in la-la land over the whole experience of making the cake in the first place, that you kind of push your hesitancy aside and you’re not so careful as you start your journey across the street. In fact, you’re so careless that you accidentally tip the plate over too far and the cake slides off and plops squarely in the dust of your front yard. You’re left there, transfixed, staring at the wasted cake. All of the hard work and emotional energy you and your mom both put into making that cake was all for naught, it seems. And it was your fault. You should have been more careful. You should have remembered that the purpose of making the cake was to take it across the street to the neighbor, not just for you to feel all warm and gooey inside while you licked the cake batter out of the bowl. You know that you can’t scoop it up off the ground and put it back on the plate and continue your journey across the street. So, you slowly go back inside and let your mom know what happened.
In real life, but still using my metaphor, I just got finished “letting mom know what happened” not too long ago.
The little girl = me.
The mom = McDougal.
The cake = our relationship.
The neighbor = the point in the relationship where I didn’t really want to go.
Letting mom know = breaking up.
This metaphor may seem lighthearted, but it is only a feeble attempt to get out of such a wretched mood. Of course, this metaphor is not exact by any means. McDougal never formally asked me to take the cake across the street. We talked about taking the cake sometimes, but he, in fact, always let me know that if I decided that I didn’t want to take the cake, to let him know and that he wouldn’t hold it against me.
But the part about my being preoccupied with making the cake itself is true—hearing the whir of the mixer, licking the cake batter, smelling the sweet goodness that makes a pound cake what it is. But those aren’t valid reasons to decide to make a cake with someone. Neither is the fact that you’ve never actually made a cake before but always wanted to.
I suppose I could try to explain myself more, but it is no matter. I am sorry for my carelessness. I am sorry for my immaturity. I am sorry for my selfishness. It hurts. And I feel ugly inside to know that I’ve caused someone else to hurt too.
Imagine something that you and someone else have painstakingly made. Okay, let’s say that you and your mom worked together to make a pound cake (the only thing I can make, as I’ve mentioned many times before). You both wanted it to be good. But your mom was especially cautious; making sure you put exactly the right amount of sugar and vanilla in it. She personally creamed the eggs and butter together before you added the other stuff in. Your mom wanted this to be the best cake you’ve ever made. She wanted this cake to be the one. You, on the other hand, though you wanted the cake to come out great too, were more caught up in the experience of making the cake itself. You liked the whirring sound the mixer made when you blended everything together. You liked getting your hands all powdery when you greased and floured the pan. You wanted to lick the bowl and spoon and mixer things clean of the sweet pound cake batter.
So, you bake the cake and it comes out really nice. Your mom even dusts it with powdered sugar to give it a special touch. Your dear mother then instructs you to take the cake to the new neighbor across the street. To be honest, you’re sort of hesitant about going across the street; you’ve never actually met this new neighbor, and aren’t sure if you really want to. But you’re still in la-la land over the whole experience of making the cake in the first place, that you kind of push your hesitancy aside and you’re not so careful as you start your journey across the street. In fact, you’re so careless that you accidentally tip the plate over too far and the cake slides off and plops squarely in the dust of your front yard. You’re left there, transfixed, staring at the wasted cake. All of the hard work and emotional energy you and your mom both put into making that cake was all for naught, it seems. And it was your fault. You should have been more careful. You should have remembered that the purpose of making the cake was to take it across the street to the neighbor, not just for you to feel all warm and gooey inside while you licked the cake batter out of the bowl. You know that you can’t scoop it up off the ground and put it back on the plate and continue your journey across the street. So, you slowly go back inside and let your mom know what happened.
In real life, but still using my metaphor, I just got finished “letting mom know what happened” not too long ago.
The little girl = me.
The mom = McDougal.
The cake = our relationship.
The neighbor = the point in the relationship where I didn’t really want to go.
Letting mom know = breaking up.
This metaphor may seem lighthearted, but it is only a feeble attempt to get out of such a wretched mood. Of course, this metaphor is not exact by any means. McDougal never formally asked me to take the cake across the street. We talked about taking the cake sometimes, but he, in fact, always let me know that if I decided that I didn’t want to take the cake, to let him know and that he wouldn’t hold it against me.
But the part about my being preoccupied with making the cake itself is true—hearing the whir of the mixer, licking the cake batter, smelling the sweet goodness that makes a pound cake what it is. But those aren’t valid reasons to decide to make a cake with someone. Neither is the fact that you’ve never actually made a cake before but always wanted to.
I suppose I could try to explain myself more, but it is no matter. I am sorry for my carelessness. I am sorry for my immaturity. I am sorry for my selfishness. It hurts. And I feel ugly inside to know that I’ve caused someone else to hurt too.
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