Here I am, delivering fresh bloggery while chilling in Houston with time to spare! So far my time in this gignormous Texan town has been thumbs-up. In every big city I visit, I always make sure to make a stop by Hard Rock Cafe so that I can eat some overpriced food and get a t-shirt. Come on, sporting a Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt from any city is your quintessential "been there, done that" statement. Anyway . . .
I have been tagged before, and now I've been tagged again by fellow blogger Brian LePort. This time I've been tagged to mention 5 things people may not know about me. Here goes:
1. I was baptized in the Adriatic Sea. I was 11 years old, and my family was stationed in Italy. I waded out into the cold water in white pants, a white t-shirt, and with my hair in two french braids and was immersed in a rush of salty water in Jesus's name.
2. I was involved in a serious, life-threatening car accident almost 5 years ago. I was a sophomore in college, on my way home after staying up late cramming for final exams and packing my half of the dorm room into my car in sweltering heat. I fell asleep at the wheel and smashed into a telephone pole in the middle of nowhere. Not only did I escape with nothing more than a fractured pelvis and broken collarbone, 2 1/2 weeks afterward, I took a trip to Spain as if nothing had happened. See evidence of the miracle here.
3. I'm obsessed with Curious George. I don't know what it is about the guy. I've got a Curious George stuffed toy, I have Curious George pictures and calendars, I have a Curious George flashlight, I have Curious George as my computer wallpaper, and I have a collection of classic Curious George stories that perhaps I'll read to my kids someday.
4. I like loads of mayonnaise on sandwiches and burgers. If it doesn't have mayonnaise, it's just not good. I have to have it.
5. I met a celebrity in Spain. Well . . . sort of. I was obsessed with this game show that came on called "Madrid Reta." It was a Spanish version of "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire." I loved it because I could answer some of the questions and what not. Anyway, there was this dude on there who won zero money because the first question he attempted to answer he got wrong. But I remembered him because he had a very distinctive face and wore these very thick-rimmed glasses. Very geek-chic. Anyway, on my way back to Madrid from a side trip to Paris, I saw him at the airport. I nearly freaked! A guy who was on my fave Spanish show, in the flesh! (Even though he won zero money.) I mustered up the courage to ask him if he was on "Madrid Reta" and when he said yes, I got my roommate to take a picture of us. I was ecstatic. I'm weird. I know.
Okey dokey, I guess it's time to tag 5 other bloggers? Here ya go: Shana, Ramblingrose, Brittanie, Jewel, and C., have at it.
Thursday, December 28, 2006
Monday, December 25, 2006
Santa's Little Helper
Merry Christmas to all! The day after Christmas I'm heading out to visit one of my college buds in Houston. (Details upon my return.) Hope yours is a happy one!
Ho, ho, ho! Merry Christmas!
Thursday, December 21, 2006
It’s the Thought That Counts, Seriously
Beauty and the Beast
First things first. Beauty and the Beast was superb. Oh, it was so magical. Some of the ladies around me were shedding tears. (And I’m woman enough to admit I’ve shed my fair share of tears over the Disney cartoon version. Anyway . . . lol.) The Beast wasn’t as ferocious in the beginning as I would’ve liked for him to be, but I let that slide. Yet, I have to be for real and say that if I were Belle in that production I might have given in to Gaston and said forget the Beast. I’m sorry, but Gaston was hot. When the Beast had his little transformation in the end, I had hoped he’d look . . . I dunno, better. But of course, that’s the whole premise of Beauty and the Beast. Seeing the beauty within. But the beauty “without” ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at either, though, youknaamean? Ahem.
It’s The Thought That Counts, Seriously
As of about 2PM today, I had done zero Christmas shopping. I know I’m not alone. But I finally got off of my lazy derrière and went to contribute my humble part to the commercialized, capitalism-crazed madness of this time of year. Yeah, ‘tis the season.
As of about 6PM today, I finished 99% of my Christmas shopping, my pops being the only one I have yet to buy for. I just don’t understand why people get all in a tizzy over Christmas shopping. I have my girly moments, for sure. But when it comes to shopping, especially for other people, I can be really guy. I don’t agonize and comparison shop and wonder and fret do the mental equivalent of a Myers-Briggs Type Indicator on each potential gift to match the recipient. Let me back up and say that I don’t buy things without putting any thought, care, and selection into it; it’s just that I don’t make each purchase an event.
I kind of get a general idea of the stores I want to hit and do a perfunctory browse. If I come across something that catches my eye, and that I think a person on my list may like . . . check! On to the next. “It’s the thought that counts” is like my mantra. Seriously. Are they going to care whether the gift perfectly fits every aspect of their being? (And I’m not advocating, like, expecting your grandmother to be happy with a Switchfoot CD. Come on.) I lean towards “no.” I think people are simply grateful that you remembered them. At least I am. Or is it that I’m just easy to please? Hmm . . . maybe I shouldn’t advertise that too readily.
In any event, if you’ve done all your shopping, good on ya, mate. And if you haven’t even thought about it yet, all’s not lost. You still have three more days! (Cue “Carol of the Bells.”) Ding-ding-a-ling, ding-ding-a-ling . . .
First things first. Beauty and the Beast was superb. Oh, it was so magical. Some of the ladies around me were shedding tears. (And I’m woman enough to admit I’ve shed my fair share of tears over the Disney cartoon version. Anyway . . . lol.) The Beast wasn’t as ferocious in the beginning as I would’ve liked for him to be, but I let that slide. Yet, I have to be for real and say that if I were Belle in that production I might have given in to Gaston and said forget the Beast. I’m sorry, but Gaston was hot. When the Beast had his little transformation in the end, I had hoped he’d look . . . I dunno, better. But of course, that’s the whole premise of Beauty and the Beast. Seeing the beauty within. But the beauty “without” ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at either, though, youknaamean? Ahem.
It’s The Thought That Counts, Seriously
As of about 2PM today, I had done zero Christmas shopping. I know I’m not alone. But I finally got off of my lazy derrière and went to contribute my humble part to the commercialized, capitalism-crazed madness of this time of year. Yeah, ‘tis the season.
As of about 6PM today, I finished 99% of my Christmas shopping, my pops being the only one I have yet to buy for. I just don’t understand why people get all in a tizzy over Christmas shopping. I have my girly moments, for sure. But when it comes to shopping, especially for other people, I can be really guy. I don’t agonize and comparison shop and wonder and fret do the mental equivalent of a Myers-Briggs Type Indicator on each potential gift to match the recipient. Let me back up and say that I don’t buy things without putting any thought, care, and selection into it; it’s just that I don’t make each purchase an event.
I kind of get a general idea of the stores I want to hit and do a perfunctory browse. If I come across something that catches my eye, and that I think a person on my list may like . . . check! On to the next. “It’s the thought that counts” is like my mantra. Seriously. Are they going to care whether the gift perfectly fits every aspect of their being? (And I’m not advocating, like, expecting your grandmother to be happy with a Switchfoot CD. Come on.) I lean towards “no.” I think people are simply grateful that you remembered them. At least I am. Or is it that I’m just easy to please? Hmm . . . maybe I shouldn’t advertise that too readily.
In any event, if you’ve done all your shopping, good on ya, mate. And if you haven’t even thought about it yet, all’s not lost. You still have three more days! (Cue “Carol of the Bells.”) Ding-ding-a-ling, ding-ding-a-ling . . .
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Hee, Hee, Hee . . . I'm an Elf!
Yesterday kicked off my two weeks of do-nothing bliss. This week is my bum week, and next week I'm going to visit a friend in Houston. Being that this is my bum week, I have time to do . . . well, stuff that you do when you have a lot of time on your hands. I've undergone an elfamorphosis. Check me out here.
Anyway, the Alabama Shakespeare Festival is putting on this huge budget production of Beauty and the Beast, and a bunch of gals from church are going to see it tonight. I cannot tell you how much I adore Beauty and the Beast. It's almost up there with Julius Caesar. Almost. Anyway, it's supposed to be superb, it's gotten rave reviews and all of that, so I'm really looking forward to it!
Anyway, the Alabama Shakespeare Festival is putting on this huge budget production of Beauty and the Beast, and a bunch of gals from church are going to see it tonight. I cannot tell you how much I adore Beauty and the Beast. It's almost up there with Julius Caesar. Almost. Anyway, it's supposed to be superb, it's gotten rave reviews and all of that, so I'm really looking forward to it!
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Christmas Banquet 2006
Saturday night was our church's annual Christmas banquet and guess what? The Banquet Babe is back! (The Banquet Babe's beginnings here, and the subsequent proof here.) Geez, I can't believe it's been a year already since her last appearance. Anyway . . .
The Pics
Catherine and me!
Me and Maurice (baby bro)!
Me and the Christmas tree!
Bonus Features
My dad was the MC/joke-teller of the night, and he gave us a couple of "quotes to think about." Here's a pretty funny one:
"I was going to buy a copy of The Power of Positive Thinking, and then I thought: What good would that do?" -- Ronnie Shakes
But here's the one that had me rollin'. My laugh is very boisterous when something is downright hilarious and I sort of embarrassed myself after he said this one:
"I know that there are people in this world who do not love their fellow man, and I hate people like that!" -- Tom Lehrer
It was just so . . . oxymoronically amusing. Ah, well. I ate good food, had good laughs and simply had a good time. That's a wrap!
The Pics
Catherine and me!
Me and Maurice (baby bro)!
Me and the Christmas tree!
Bonus Features
My dad was the MC/joke-teller of the night, and he gave us a couple of "quotes to think about." Here's a pretty funny one:
"I was going to buy a copy of The Power of Positive Thinking, and then I thought: What good would that do?" -- Ronnie Shakes
But here's the one that had me rollin'. My laugh is very boisterous when something is downright hilarious and I sort of embarrassed myself after he said this one:
"I know that there are people in this world who do not love their fellow man, and I hate people like that!" -- Tom Lehrer
It was just so . . . oxymoronically amusing. Ah, well. I ate good food, had good laughs and simply had a good time. That's a wrap!
Friday, December 15, 2006
Broheem
I’m big sis. I have two younger brothers—a 20-year-old (baby bro), and a 22-year-old (“younger” bro). This time, I’m talking about my 22-year-old bro. My broheem. That’s how I answer my phone when I look at my caller ID and see it’s him. “Wassup, broheem!”
Growing up, my younger brother was the classic misunderstood middle child. He was worst antagonist of the two brothers and the hardest to get along with. He wasn’t just annoying, he was tricky and sneaky. He would turn the faucet on hot in my parents’ bathroom to make the water run cold while I would be taking a shower in the main bathroom. He would jump out of dark corners to scare the living daylights out of me for no reason at all. Indeed, I could go on. Once puberty hit and growth spurts and such sort of put a halt to my ability to push him around, it got even worse (for me, anyway). He developed a football player-like hulkiness and began to dominate and hog everything. When he finally moved out, I honestly breathed a sigh of relief.
But weird things happen between siblings once they hit their twenties and become more independent. (Both of my bros have since moved out.) They grow up. They begin to look at one another as adults rather than as rivals. It’s finally happening between my broheem and me. Like, today, I treated him to lunch. We sat down and had a civil, entertaining conversation, and actually had a nice time.
Despite the antagonism of our years growing up, now, he got my back. And I got his.
“We cool?”
“Yeah, we cool.”
Growing up, my younger brother was the classic misunderstood middle child. He was worst antagonist of the two brothers and the hardest to get along with. He wasn’t just annoying, he was tricky and sneaky. He would turn the faucet on hot in my parents’ bathroom to make the water run cold while I would be taking a shower in the main bathroom. He would jump out of dark corners to scare the living daylights out of me for no reason at all. Indeed, I could go on. Once puberty hit and growth spurts and such sort of put a halt to my ability to push him around, it got even worse (for me, anyway). He developed a football player-like hulkiness and began to dominate and hog everything. When he finally moved out, I honestly breathed a sigh of relief.
But weird things happen between siblings once they hit their twenties and become more independent. (Both of my bros have since moved out.) They grow up. They begin to look at one another as adults rather than as rivals. It’s finally happening between my broheem and me. Like, today, I treated him to lunch. We sat down and had a civil, entertaining conversation, and actually had a nice time.
Despite the antagonism of our years growing up, now, he got my back. And I got his.
“We cool?”
“Yeah, we cool.”
Thursday, December 14, 2006
On Bad Dreams
I had the worst dream last night. I woke up crying. I mean, I am a 24-year-old woman, and I woke up crying like a child.
My dreams are always really scattered. I mean, really scattered. But this is what I remember: There was some kind of . . . contest. Don't ask me. What I remember is that this huge, threatening, burly guy was going to crush little shrimpy me, but I somehow knocked him down. Then, while he was face down, I began to smash his face repeatedly onto the hard, marble floor. He became limp, and blood was just everywhere, but I didn't stop. Each time I brought his head down, I could hear a sickening thud. I killed him.
When I finally stopped, I looked up, and I heard gasps. Everyone around me was horrified. Like, they couldn't believe I was capable of doing that. But the worst part is that the next person up . . . to try to beat me in this contest, I guess . . . was my own brother. He tried to grab me, but like the other guy, I outsmarted him and knocked him, face-down, to the ground. Then, like I did the other guy, I began to smash his face onto the hard floor. But after maybe two or three times of smashing his face onto the ground, when I brought his head up to smash down again, I saw his face. It was bloodied and bruised, and he had a mouth full of blood. He said, "Chantell, please, my teeth are coming loose." He had this pleading look in his eyes, and I stopped and began to cry. How could I do this to my little brother over a contest? (Mind you, my "little" brother is a 20-year-old who could easily lay the smackdown on me, but I always think of him that way, and probably always will.) How could I do this? I'm a monster.
I knew it was just a dream (thank God), but it was just so violent and revolting. (And I'm one of those kinds of people who get squeamish around blood and seeing people get hurt. It took everything in me to stay composed when a 4-year-old had a bad nosebleed during class yesterday.) I was horrified because it was like, something was telling me, "You have this in you. You have the potential do to terrible things, even to people you love." And, in that weird stage between awake and asleep, the image of the pleading look in my brother's eyes stuck in my mind. Oh, it was awful. I began to really cry. Maybe crying helped bring me completely back to reality.
Where do things like this come from? I know we all have the potential to do evil, and I don't believe myself above wrongdoing, but I would hope I would be above committing such violence! I've been trying to think of things that may have contributed to this. You know how little snatches of our day will metamorphose into weird dreams at night? Maybe the 4-year-old's nosebleed was part of it. I recently read a book called The Ordeal of Running Standing, and in the very end, the main character scalps his antagonist. That's pretty violent. And last night I was watching (for the millionth time) Ben-Hur. I saw the chariot racing scene right before I went to bed, and that's pretty much a "contest" if there ever was one.
I'm hoping I just have an overactive imagination, and that there's not some more sinister, Freudian, "id rising up" kind of thing going on. Sheesh.
My dreams are always really scattered. I mean, really scattered. But this is what I remember: There was some kind of . . . contest. Don't ask me. What I remember is that this huge, threatening, burly guy was going to crush little shrimpy me, but I somehow knocked him down. Then, while he was face down, I began to smash his face repeatedly onto the hard, marble floor. He became limp, and blood was just everywhere, but I didn't stop. Each time I brought his head down, I could hear a sickening thud. I killed him.
When I finally stopped, I looked up, and I heard gasps. Everyone around me was horrified. Like, they couldn't believe I was capable of doing that. But the worst part is that the next person up . . . to try to beat me in this contest, I guess . . . was my own brother. He tried to grab me, but like the other guy, I outsmarted him and knocked him, face-down, to the ground. Then, like I did the other guy, I began to smash his face onto the hard floor. But after maybe two or three times of smashing his face onto the ground, when I brought his head up to smash down again, I saw his face. It was bloodied and bruised, and he had a mouth full of blood. He said, "Chantell, please, my teeth are coming loose." He had this pleading look in his eyes, and I stopped and began to cry. How could I do this to my little brother over a contest? (Mind you, my "little" brother is a 20-year-old who could easily lay the smackdown on me, but I always think of him that way, and probably always will.) How could I do this? I'm a monster.
I knew it was just a dream (thank God), but it was just so violent and revolting. (And I'm one of those kinds of people who get squeamish around blood and seeing people get hurt. It took everything in me to stay composed when a 4-year-old had a bad nosebleed during class yesterday.) I was horrified because it was like, something was telling me, "You have this in you. You have the potential do to terrible things, even to people you love." And, in that weird stage between awake and asleep, the image of the pleading look in my brother's eyes stuck in my mind. Oh, it was awful. I began to really cry. Maybe crying helped bring me completely back to reality.
Where do things like this come from? I know we all have the potential to do evil, and I don't believe myself above wrongdoing, but I would hope I would be above committing such violence! I've been trying to think of things that may have contributed to this. You know how little snatches of our day will metamorphose into weird dreams at night? Maybe the 4-year-old's nosebleed was part of it. I recently read a book called The Ordeal of Running Standing, and in the very end, the main character scalps his antagonist. That's pretty violent. And last night I was watching (for the millionth time) Ben-Hur. I saw the chariot racing scene right before I went to bed, and that's pretty much a "contest" if there ever was one.
I'm hoping I just have an overactive imagination, and that there's not some more sinister, Freudian, "id rising up" kind of thing going on. Sheesh.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
It's Done!
I have officially submitted my application for admission to Washington University. I was waiting for one more letter of recommendation from a professor, and she sent it in today. I have since sent everything else in, including two applications for fellowships. I have also inquired into receipt of my GRE scores and official transcripts, and now, all that is left to do is wait. And wait.
I still haven't revealed to folks at work my intentions. I figured it would be wise to wait until I got an acceptance letter and/or confirmation that I've gotten financial support before I go announcing I'm not planning on returning next year. Just the thought of possibly having to announce it eventually, though, is a tad unsettling. I know people are going to be surprised, but not only that, I know my position may be difficult to fill because of my unconventional schedule and range of ages that I teach.
I'm Pontius Pilate. I've washed my hands of it. It's in His hands now. Here's hoping my plan goes according to plan!
I still haven't revealed to folks at work my intentions. I figured it would be wise to wait until I got an acceptance letter and/or confirmation that I've gotten financial support before I go announcing I'm not planning on returning next year. Just the thought of possibly having to announce it eventually, though, is a tad unsettling. I know people are going to be surprised, but not only that, I know my position may be difficult to fill because of my unconventional schedule and range of ages that I teach.
I'm Pontius Pilate. I've washed my hands of it. It's in His hands now. Here's hoping my plan goes according to plan!
Monday, December 11, 2006
On Self-Absorption
I think I’ve hit upon something. And I can only speak for myself, but I think I’ve finally nailed it: When I think too much about myself is when I get down. Self-absorption becomes depression.
This epiphany happened when I was in a depressed slump yesterday. Someone said something to me that I normally would have laughed off; in fact, it was about something that I often joke about myself—my single status. I bought one ticket to the annual church Christmas banquet and the sister selling them said, “Only one? You’re not coming with a beau?” It was so innocuous. Ordinarily, I would have had a cute quick comeback. But for some reason, that particular time, it threw me into a funk. The “poor me” credits began to roll.
It was all me. Everyone tells me “I can’t believe no one has just snatched you up yet.” Everyone always asks me “Why?” when I tell them I don’t have a boyfriend. When I broke off the last relationship because I thought I was doing the right thing, why did I remain alone? If I’m as pretty, intelligent, fill-in-the-blank, as people say, why am I unnoticed while all my friends are either dating, married, or about to be? I’m 24 and still living at home and clueless about what I’m really supposed to be doing. I feel like I’m not doing enough at my job, I feel inadequate, I feel unsure, I feel insecure, I feel immature . . . I, I, I, I, me, me, me, me. What I’m doing. What I’m feeling. How I measure up to others. My issues. It was all ME.
I had a “wait a minute” moment. I was sitting there, wallowing in pure, unadulterated self. When I realized it, it was so repulsive. I began to think about the other things that are okay to care about, but disastrous if cared too much about: my appearance, what others opinions are of me, being successful, this blog . . . the list goes on. Also, it's never cool to compare yourself to others. I should know better.
I never did finish reading The Purpose Driven Life, but the opening sentence of the book is so true, it’s almost become legendary: “It’s not about you.” I think if I really grasped that, I would feel down a whole lot less. I have a long way to go, I guess, but at least I realized something I need to work on.
This epiphany happened when I was in a depressed slump yesterday. Someone said something to me that I normally would have laughed off; in fact, it was about something that I often joke about myself—my single status. I bought one ticket to the annual church Christmas banquet and the sister selling them said, “Only one? You’re not coming with a beau?” It was so innocuous. Ordinarily, I would have had a cute quick comeback. But for some reason, that particular time, it threw me into a funk. The “poor me” credits began to roll.
It was all me. Everyone tells me “I can’t believe no one has just snatched you up yet.” Everyone always asks me “Why?” when I tell them I don’t have a boyfriend. When I broke off the last relationship because I thought I was doing the right thing, why did I remain alone? If I’m as pretty, intelligent, fill-in-the-blank, as people say, why am I unnoticed while all my friends are either dating, married, or about to be? I’m 24 and still living at home and clueless about what I’m really supposed to be doing. I feel like I’m not doing enough at my job, I feel inadequate, I feel unsure, I feel insecure, I feel immature . . . I, I, I, I, me, me, me, me. What I’m doing. What I’m feeling. How I measure up to others. My issues. It was all ME.
I had a “wait a minute” moment. I was sitting there, wallowing in pure, unadulterated self. When I realized it, it was so repulsive. I began to think about the other things that are okay to care about, but disastrous if cared too much about: my appearance, what others opinions are of me, being successful, this blog . . . the list goes on. Also, it's never cool to compare yourself to others. I should know better.
I never did finish reading The Purpose Driven Life, but the opening sentence of the book is so true, it’s almost become legendary: “It’s not about you.” I think if I really grasped that, I would feel down a whole lot less. I have a long way to go, I guess, but at least I realized something I need to work on.
Friday, December 01, 2006
A Week in My Life
So, I've been tapped for A Month in My Life again for 90&9 (I did a stint before in May), except that it's just a week this time. In December, readers get a sampling of several former 90&9 bloggers, and this week, it's me! So, never fear, bloglings, just click here for Chantellian musings until I return.
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