I am trying not to freak out about the prospect of turning a quarter of a century. How in the universe did I get to be this old? Now, I know I'm not old. In the big scheme of things, I guess I could still be considered a spry little whippersnapper. But this snuck up on me.
When I look at old people, I mean, seriously old people, as in, bent over and toothless, I think, I will never get that old. Ever. I can't even fathom myself not like the way I am now. I've looked the same for a long time. Or, maybe I just think I look the same. When I look at my friends, they look the same. But maybe that's a mind thing too. What does one consider on the last day of twentyfourdom? Here are a few things rolling around in my mind . . .
To Move or Not to Move
I'm about to be twenty-stinking-five years old. I still live with my parents. It's been a lot more palatable since my little brothers have moved out (I love my bros, but I can't even begin to tell you about life sharing a bathroom with them), and my parents are generally pretty cool. They give me my space, they don't pry (pssh, as if I had any juicy business to pry into), and above all, we're pretty close. My mom and I are more like friends than mother and daughter. We shop and do lunch and share and all of that estrogen-laden stuff. And my dad is cool too. He's Mr. Fix-it, he's Comedy Central, he's Dr. Practical Advice, and we swap "You won't believe what my kids did at school today" stories. And despite my dad's complaints that I skyrocket the water bill with my luxurious shower habit, neither of them are exactly eager for me to go. And free rent? Hello-o?
But I'm old as dirt. And my quarters are not exactly spacious enough to accomodate the junk I've accumulated over 25 years. Money-wise, I could do it. No, I wouldn't get into teaching for the money, but it's adequate. And perhaps it's seriously time for me to be a big girl. I figure by getting an apartment I'd give myself space to see what it's like to be on my own. And I can finally get a dog and name him Marcus Antonius. But . . . I won't be able to save up money like I have been, and I'm afraid that I might be (dare I say it?) lonely on my own. I'm still on the fence about what to do.
I'm Mean
I never thought I could be this intentionally, but I've found that I can be. I don't like that. There is never any excuse to be outright mean to people who have not even given you a reason to be. This is out of character for me. But there is a reason. An uber dumb and stupid reason. And it is that I want to push someone away. I don't want someone to like me. So I've been a silly mean girl. How's that for about-to-be-25 maturity?
I Want to Go to Spain . . . Again
I've been wanting to go back for the longest, and I'm trying to figure out when and how. I do have some bucks saved up. But I can use it for less . . . leisurely causes. I have a friend who is going to be up there this summer studying abroad, and I have some other friends I've kept in touch with as well. And I still haven't been to Barcelona! What in the world? How can you go to Spain twice and not go to Barcelona? (sigh) But I can't do everything. And I've never been one to just blow my money. And I'm talking about taking summer classes and moving out? Can I please make up my mind?
I Want to Have a Baby . . . One Day
Everyone and their grandmother is having a baby. Seriously, everywhere I turn, they're flying out. I am not kidding. I know I'm in no position now to even fathom it, but it's been in my face so much lately, I can't help but think about it. I'm content with working in the church nursery my one Sunday a month, and getting slobber on me from holding other people's little ones and getting germ-filled hugs from my rascals at school for now, honest. It's just that I really, really don't want to be a 40-something first-time mom. For real. I don't want to have to pray for a Sarai-turned-Sarah miracle. Naw, dawg.
That's enough rambling for now. And just when I thought I couldn't decide between an iced chai tea latte and a frappucino, they went and invented a chai frappucino. What if all the decisions I had to make could be so conveniently combined? Off to Starbucks!
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Searching for God Knows What
is the name of the book I just finished reading by Don Miller. I devoured his earlier Blue Like Jazz, and equally loved this one. I wish I had it in front of me so that I could post some deep quotations from it, but honestly, what I gathered from all of it is that at the core, living for God is all about relationship. Relationship. Not formulas. Not "I'm right and you're not." Not a system for patting ourselves on the back because we're the good guys and for demonizing the bad guys. Relationship is all about knowing God and falling in love with Him.
The last chapter was especially cool. He gave very convincing (to me) analysis of how Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet is an allegory of salvation and true union with Christ. I never thought of it that way, but it made sense, especially now that I'm also reading Will in the World, and have an understanding of the crazy Catholic-Protestant pendulum that was swinging during the era which indelibly characterized Shakespeare's time.
On that note, I'm supposed to be starting a book club with the youth at church, and I was previously charged with suggesting a book for the youth committee to read. I suggested Blue Like Jazz. So far, a guy in the committee I thought would love it was like, 'whatever' about it, and other people are like, "It's . . . interesting, " lol. We'll see. We're supposed to meet to discuss it next month. As far as the youth, I think my best bet will be to first see who is interested in joining the club, to ask what kinds of things they like to read then and go from there. It would be a disaster if I suggested something that everyone would be 'whatever' about.
On another note, God is awesome. He is so awesome, it's ridiculous. Many times I have prayed, written, and spoken aloud that I wish I could hear the audible voice of God so that He could tell me what in the world is going on, and it just dawned on me that God has spoken directly to me in an audible voice before. It was just that He used the voice of my pastor to say it.
Now, I'm not one of those who breathes, eats and sleeps my pastor. Perhaps my cynicism is showing, but those kinds of people bother me a little bit. It's like their whole modus operandi is receiving approval from the pastor; they're mentally and emotionally dependent upon it. They can't dig a glob of wax out of their ear unless they tell him about it and get the green light from him. Actually, more than being bothered by them, I feel sorry for them. But that's beside the point. I see my pastor as an instrument, and I am grateful that he allows himself to be used by God.
This past Sunday was not the first time God has used the preached word to speak directly and very specifically to me in certain situations to let me know that He has heard me. It is really scary the way this happens. What I mean is, it happens in such a way that there is absolutely no doubt that it is God. Instead of detailing everything, suffice it to say that it is such a comfort, such a relief, so amazing and marvellous that the Creator would deign to answer me.
The last chapter was especially cool. He gave very convincing (to me) analysis of how Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet is an allegory of salvation and true union with Christ. I never thought of it that way, but it made sense, especially now that I'm also reading Will in the World, and have an understanding of the crazy Catholic-Protestant pendulum that was swinging during the era which indelibly characterized Shakespeare's time.
On that note, I'm supposed to be starting a book club with the youth at church, and I was previously charged with suggesting a book for the youth committee to read. I suggested Blue Like Jazz. So far, a guy in the committee I thought would love it was like, 'whatever' about it, and other people are like, "It's . . . interesting, " lol. We'll see. We're supposed to meet to discuss it next month. As far as the youth, I think my best bet will be to first see who is interested in joining the club, to ask what kinds of things they like to read then and go from there. It would be a disaster if I suggested something that everyone would be 'whatever' about.
On another note, God is awesome. He is so awesome, it's ridiculous. Many times I have prayed, written, and spoken aloud that I wish I could hear the audible voice of God so that He could tell me what in the world is going on, and it just dawned on me that God has spoken directly to me in an audible voice before. It was just that He used the voice of my pastor to say it.
Now, I'm not one of those who breathes, eats and sleeps my pastor. Perhaps my cynicism is showing, but those kinds of people bother me a little bit. It's like their whole modus operandi is receiving approval from the pastor; they're mentally and emotionally dependent upon it. They can't dig a glob of wax out of their ear unless they tell him about it and get the green light from him. Actually, more than being bothered by them, I feel sorry for them. But that's beside the point. I see my pastor as an instrument, and I am grateful that he allows himself to be used by God.
This past Sunday was not the first time God has used the preached word to speak directly and very specifically to me in certain situations to let me know that He has heard me. It is really scary the way this happens. What I mean is, it happens in such a way that there is absolutely no doubt that it is God. Instead of detailing everything, suffice it to say that it is such a comfort, such a relief, so amazing and marvellous that the Creator would deign to answer me.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Yarmulke Man
I had a Spanish tutoring session with a Psychology major today. In the midst of my pedagogical utterances about the imperfect vs. the preterite, in walked a tall, striking, honey-skinned, smoky-eyed man. He had on a black fedora hat, and as he passed, cast a lingering glance my way. Adrenaline-jolted, I had to refocus, lest my psychologied pupil accuse me.
When he took off the hat, I saw that he wore a yarmulke. Jewish guy. Even more mysterious and interesting.
As we left, I stole another glance, and once again, smoldering eyes locked with mine. I smiled a smile one smiles when one feels a mixture of embarrassment and flattery, and demurely nodded in acknowledgement. This time, my psychologied Spanish pupil, being a Psychology major, took note of this particular brand of social interaction and sarcastically claimed I would scurry home to blog about my "mohel." Does one sense just the tiniest whiff of . . . hmm, perhaps I shan't say it, lest any eyes which just happen across my blog read it and think I think I'm better than everyone. ::laughing uproariously::
When he took off the hat, I saw that he wore a yarmulke. Jewish guy. Even more mysterious and interesting.
As we left, I stole another glance, and once again, smoldering eyes locked with mine. I smiled a smile one smiles when one feels a mixture of embarrassment and flattery, and demurely nodded in acknowledgement. This time, my psychologied Spanish pupil, being a Psychology major, took note of this particular brand of social interaction and sarcastically claimed I would scurry home to blog about my "mohel." Does one sense just the tiniest whiff of . . . hmm, perhaps I shan't say it, lest any eyes which just happen across my blog read it and think I think I'm better than everyone. ::laughing uproariously::
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Regroup
When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.
Lemons
Ugh. Rejection is bitter. And I question myself. Like, if my goal was to go to graduate school, get a change of scene, all of that, why did I fixate on one place, and one place only? Most people apply for at least 2 or 3 other places when considering graduate school. But the way I zeroed in on Wash U was almost obssessive-compulsive. There are certainly other quality schools in the St. Louis area. Why didn't I consider any others?
And when I get back to work, I'm going to have to explain over and over again that I didn't get in (I will feel especially crunchy doing so to BD), and graciously accept condolences and pats on the back while smiling when they say, "But at least we get to have you for at least one more year!" But the smile will be genuine. Honest. I'll just say, "Yeah, and I'll get to work with great people for at least one more year!" And I'll mean it.
Lemonade
My employers (and co-workers) really are great people. During my whole uncertainty stage, they assured me that no offers would be made until I let them know for sure what my plans were because their first choice was to have me stay. That really, really meant a lot. Many people do not have such reassurance when dealing with possible job changes. And it's a good thing when you're able to say that you love your job. I'm teaching what I love--Spanish, I have a variety of ages to keep me busy, I have a lot of freedom and flexibility in what I do, I have a very supportive administrative staff and parents to work with, the children allow me to be a teacher instead of a disciplinarian, and, unlike many teaching jobs, mine is highly unstressful. I know at times that I probably take that for granted, but I really am very thankful for my ideal position. (It's not a bad thing, either, that the school is a 2 minute drive down the street from where I live and I can super save on gas.)
The agonizing wait is over. I know something for sure. And though the answer was not what I hoped for or expected, it feels so great to be out of that unnerving state of limbo. Now my face can begin to recover from stress-induced breakouts. Ick.
I'm still in a place of familiarity, which is not always a bad thing. I won't be starting a brand new scary life (yet). I can use some of the money I was saving up to transfer to instead get out of my parents' house and be a big girl on my own.
When God closes one door, He opens another.
One door
Washington University in St. Louis. Perhaps they found that my interests didn't exactly line up with what they offered. Perhaps as you move on up the educational ladder, you find that people are more like you (i.e. "accomplishments" are the norm, not exceptional) and the playing field is a lot more level and more competitive. Perhaps God was just shaking His head, wagging his finger and going, "Uh-uh," as He closed the door.
Another
::cough::Auburn University::cough:: I know, sacrilege to a Bama grad, I know. But I doubt Bear Bryant will turn over in his grave or anything. Besides, I bought one of his trademark hats when I went to Tuscaloosa earlier this week. So, he should be appeased. It's the closest college (about a 45 minute drive away) that has a graduate program in Spanish.
I have a confession to make. God was pushing me towards an open Auburn door last year, and I wasn't too eager to go. (I vaguely posted about this as the 90&9 blogger back in May.) No, not because I'm a die-hard, foaming-at-the-mouth Bama fan, but because I didn't want to have to juggle job and school. I didn't want to have to teach, commute, go to class . . . I didn't want that whole rigamarole. And above all, I didn't want to be here! I wanted to quit work, move (far) away, and jump headlong into the thick of a program instead of taking a piecemeal approach. Even so, I began to look into it and chatted with the program director and he let me know they would be willing to work with me, and that it could be done, even with my job. God spoke, but after I went to STL, I became so starstruck that I tuned Him out. Now, I'm back to where I started. Lesson learned: Listen to God. Sheesh. Like you could somehow go wrong.
Always have a Plan B.
Okay. ::sighs pensively:: This is my (still in formulation) plan. Get with Auburn ASAP and plan to start taking classes this summer. Take a class or 2 per semester while teaching during the upcoming school year as my schedule allows. After next year, quit, and go to Auburn full time to finish up the M.A. in Spanish. From there (who knows what my life will look like by that time, but anyway) make a more judicious choice about schools to apply to for a PhD.
For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the LORD, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end (Jeremiah 29:11).
Lemons
Ugh. Rejection is bitter. And I question myself. Like, if my goal was to go to graduate school, get a change of scene, all of that, why did I fixate on one place, and one place only? Most people apply for at least 2 or 3 other places when considering graduate school. But the way I zeroed in on Wash U was almost obssessive-compulsive. There are certainly other quality schools in the St. Louis area. Why didn't I consider any others?
And when I get back to work, I'm going to have to explain over and over again that I didn't get in (I will feel especially crunchy doing so to BD), and graciously accept condolences and pats on the back while smiling when they say, "But at least we get to have you for at least one more year!" But the smile will be genuine. Honest. I'll just say, "Yeah, and I'll get to work with great people for at least one more year!" And I'll mean it.
Lemonade
My employers (and co-workers) really are great people. During my whole uncertainty stage, they assured me that no offers would be made until I let them know for sure what my plans were because their first choice was to have me stay. That really, really meant a lot. Many people do not have such reassurance when dealing with possible job changes. And it's a good thing when you're able to say that you love your job. I'm teaching what I love--Spanish, I have a variety of ages to keep me busy, I have a lot of freedom and flexibility in what I do, I have a very supportive administrative staff and parents to work with, the children allow me to be a teacher instead of a disciplinarian, and, unlike many teaching jobs, mine is highly unstressful. I know at times that I probably take that for granted, but I really am very thankful for my ideal position. (It's not a bad thing, either, that the school is a 2 minute drive down the street from where I live and I can super save on gas.)
The agonizing wait is over. I know something for sure. And though the answer was not what I hoped for or expected, it feels so great to be out of that unnerving state of limbo. Now my face can begin to recover from stress-induced breakouts. Ick.
I'm still in a place of familiarity, which is not always a bad thing. I won't be starting a brand new scary life (yet). I can use some of the money I was saving up to transfer to instead get out of my parents' house and be a big girl on my own.
When God closes one door, He opens another.
One door
Washington University in St. Louis. Perhaps they found that my interests didn't exactly line up with what they offered. Perhaps as you move on up the educational ladder, you find that people are more like you (i.e. "accomplishments" are the norm, not exceptional) and the playing field is a lot more level and more competitive. Perhaps God was just shaking His head, wagging his finger and going, "Uh-uh," as He closed the door.
Another
::cough::Auburn University::cough:: I know, sacrilege to a Bama grad, I know. But I doubt Bear Bryant will turn over in his grave or anything. Besides, I bought one of his trademark hats when I went to Tuscaloosa earlier this week. So, he should be appeased. It's the closest college (about a 45 minute drive away) that has a graduate program in Spanish.
I have a confession to make. God was pushing me towards an open Auburn door last year, and I wasn't too eager to go. (I vaguely posted about this as the 90&9 blogger back in May.) No, not because I'm a die-hard, foaming-at-the-mouth Bama fan, but because I didn't want to have to juggle job and school. I didn't want to have to teach, commute, go to class . . . I didn't want that whole rigamarole. And above all, I didn't want to be here! I wanted to quit work, move (far) away, and jump headlong into the thick of a program instead of taking a piecemeal approach. Even so, I began to look into it and chatted with the program director and he let me know they would be willing to work with me, and that it could be done, even with my job. God spoke, but after I went to STL, I became so starstruck that I tuned Him out. Now, I'm back to where I started. Lesson learned: Listen to God. Sheesh. Like you could somehow go wrong.
Always have a Plan B.
Okay. ::sighs pensively:: This is my (still in formulation) plan. Get with Auburn ASAP and plan to start taking classes this summer. Take a class or 2 per semester while teaching during the upcoming school year as my schedule allows. After next year, quit, and go to Auburn full time to finish up the M.A. in Spanish. From there (who knows what my life will look like by that time, but anyway) make a more judicious choice about schools to apply to for a PhD.
For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the LORD, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end (Jeremiah 29:11).
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
I'm Out
Remember this?
Well, strike three has been called.
I'm floored. I'm flabbergasted. I thought . . . well, you thought wrong.
I'm just at a loss. I don't even know how to react. I don't think it's really hit me yet, like a delayed reaction or something. I called a few friends to let them know. I'll have to let everyone at work know once we get back (we're on Spring Break now) so the rumors can be sufficiently doused.
I wanted so desperately to get out of here. I wanted to leave. I wanted to move away from this suffocating place and start over, independently afresh, in the grand somewhere else. But God (and Wash U) said no.
Maybe I had my priorities mixed up. Maybe I went about this all wrong. Maybe I shouldn't have put all my eggs in one basket. Maybe I shouldn't have been so singleminded. This is what I want, I want what I want, and I don't want anything else. Maybe God is doing His thing as usual, and I'm clueless as usual.
I know I am temporal, fallible, carnal, and self-absorbed. I know that I am a piece of microscopic dust compared to God. I know that His ways are higher than our ways. I know that making demands of an all-knowing, all-powerful, ever-present, eternal being is out of the human league. But I don't want to know the mysteries of the universe. I don't want to see the future. I just want to know what in the world I'm supposed to be doing, right here, right now. Because right now, I don't know. And right now, I'm back at square one. Directionless and unsure.
Well, strike three has been called.
Dear Chantell:
I am sorry to inform you that you have not been accepted to our graduate program in Spanish.
I'm floored. I'm flabbergasted. I thought . . . well, you thought wrong.
I'm just at a loss. I don't even know how to react. I don't think it's really hit me yet, like a delayed reaction or something. I called a few friends to let them know. I'll have to let everyone at work know once we get back (we're on Spring Break now) so the rumors can be sufficiently doused.
I wanted so desperately to get out of here. I wanted to leave. I wanted to move away from this suffocating place and start over, independently afresh, in the grand somewhere else. But God (and Wash U) said no.
Maybe I had my priorities mixed up. Maybe I went about this all wrong. Maybe I shouldn't have put all my eggs in one basket. Maybe I shouldn't have been so singleminded. This is what I want, I want what I want, and I don't want anything else. Maybe God is doing His thing as usual, and I'm clueless as usual.
I know I am temporal, fallible, carnal, and self-absorbed. I know that I am a piece of microscopic dust compared to God. I know that His ways are higher than our ways. I know that making demands of an all-knowing, all-powerful, ever-present, eternal being is out of the human league. But I don't want to know the mysteries of the universe. I don't want to see the future. I just want to know what in the world I'm supposed to be doing, right here, right now. Because right now, I don't know. And right now, I'm back at square one. Directionless and unsure.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Heedings to the Dire Warning
Like a dork, I texted "Beware the Ides of March!" to a few friends today. Some responses:
"lol"
"Why? What treachery have u planned?"
"Surely I am an honorable um, er, person . . . you are the best!"
"Lol thanks for that blast from the Chantellean archives"
And my personal favorite . . .
"What are ides?"
I had hoped something fate-deciding (as in, knowing the status of my application for admission!) would come to pass on such a fateful day, but alas, 'twas not to be. The Ides are just about gone. Et tu, Wash U? Then fall Channy.
"lol"
"Why? What treachery have u planned?"
"Surely I am an honorable um, er, person . . . you are the best!"
"Lol thanks for that blast from the Chantellean archives"
And my personal favorite . . .
"What are ides?"
I had hoped something fate-deciding (as in, knowing the status of my application for admission!) would come to pass on such a fateful day, but alas, 'twas not to be. The Ides are just about gone. Et tu, Wash U? Then fall Channy.
Beware the Ides of March
I cannot even explain how ecstatic I am that one of my bestest buddies reminded me that tomorrow is the Ides of March. And you would have no idea why I would be so overjoyed to be reminded about so fateful a day if you didn't know that I am a William Shakespeare's Julius Caesar addict. It's classic, and it has so many classic lines. Seriously, there are so many quotations from Julius Caesar that people use commonly, and they don't even realize it came from that play! "It was Greek to me"? From JC. "There is a tide in the affairs of men"? From JC. "The fault [dear Brutus] is not in our stars but in ourselves that we are underlings"? From JC. Okay, maybe they're not used that commonly. But you've got to love the play's grandeur. All the Roman statesmen and rhetoric and honor, and Marc Antony! (He's my favorite literary character of all time.) "Friends, Romans, countrymen; lend me your ears." (sigh) The stuff of legend.Though Antony is my favorite character, I have a favorite conspirator as well: Metellus Cimber. Why, out of all of them, would I like him the most? I think he has like, two lines in the whole play. I think the only significant part he has is when, just before the assassination, he asks Caesar to repeal his brother's banishment, and Caesar is like 'whatever' when he responds, "I am constant as the Northern star." But Metellus Cimber is awesome. I mean, just his name rolls off of your tongue so stately, so crisply and gallantly. In fact, the bestest buddy I referred to earlier calls me Chantellus Cimber (or just Chantellus) due to my idiosyncratic attachment. I even said I was going to make a t-shirt that said 'Chantellus Cimber' just to throw people. I haven't done it yet.
But I LOVE these lines:
Caesar (flippantly says to the soothsayer after not heeding his warnings): The Ides of March are come.
Soothsayer: Aye, Caesar, but not gone.
They just send chills up and down my spine. It's like, Caesar, dawg, wake up! You 'bout to get murked, yo! He's so oblivious, even up until the moment he's killed.
So, dear ones, heed the dire warning. The Ides of March shall come on the morrow, but do not cease to be wary 'til they are gone. Aye, forsooth.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Three Strikes, I'm Out?
Okay, so I’ve been praying, hoping, waiting, whatever, over this whole Wash U thing. To recap, there are three things I’ve applied for. Number one: admission to the Spanish graduate program. Number two: a fellowship designed for minorities. Number three: a fellowship designed for women.
As posted earlier, I called admissions and mid-March was the time frame I was given to receive notice of whether I’ve been accepted. So, checking the mailbox lately has been an adrenaline-laden event each time. And my knees literally start to go weak if I see a Washington University envelope present. That has happened twice. And twice, they’ve been rejection letters.
The first was a letter informing me that I didn’t win the women’s fellowship. I wasn’t too worried about that because I applied for that one just because. The minority fellowship was the really nice one that I was banking on. And besides, what I cared about above all is whether I’ve been accepted.
The second was a letter informing me that I didn’t win the minority fellowship. That was a bit of a blow because it would have been nice. But, I understand that I’m only entering a Master’s program. Both of the fellowships I applied for are designed for people who are entering a full-blown doctoral program. And with the way that the Spanish program is set up, I must first earn a Master’s and be approved before I can even go on to the doctoral stage. However, I was told in an email from the minority fellowship program director that a fellowship had been awarded to an applicant who had only a Bachelor’s before. He was eligible because his ultimate goal was a PhD. So, based on precedent, I was encouraged to apply. But I’m sure that people who are officially entering a doctoral program had priority.
I’m not used to rejection. Perhaps that’s an egocentric admission, but it’s an honest admission nonetheless. I’ve always excelled academically, and I’ve become accustomed to getting recognition because of it. I used to think that my 4.0, summa cum laude, 1340 GRE score, studied-abroad-in-Spain, fluent-in-Spanish, filled-with college-extracurricular-activities, scholarly-article-published detailed resume was my ticket to whatever I wanted to do. I used to think that intelligence was the ace up my sleeve; the card I could play that would bail me out every time. In the past, it has. Now, I’m not so sure.
I know that everything’s not set in stone yet. As of now, I still don’t know whether I’ve actually been accepted. And until I know one way or the other, I’m kind of at a standstill. If it happens that I am accepted, there are other ways I can finance my education, although it will be more difficult. But this is what is bugging me:
1. The rumor that I could possibly be leaving is blazing around my place of employment like wildfire. I can’t go a day without at least three people cornering me with “Is it true?” I. Don’t. Know.
2. The possibility that I am irrationally placing my entire reason of being on whether I get accepted into an obscenely expensive private university is gnawing at me. Is that what I’m doing?
3. I know we don’t always get to do what we want, but people’s reminding me that “Jesus didn’t want to go to Calvary” is unnerving. I know that my Lord and Savior went against His human will to save all of humanity. But how can you compare that to a girl just wanting to move on with her life?
So far, two out of the three pieces of proverbial bread I’ve cast out upon the waters have returned unto me with “We regret to inform you.” But, even with two strikes against me, I can’t give up until I know the last bit of crucial info that will help me make any subsequent decisions—have I been accepted?
As posted earlier, I called admissions and mid-March was the time frame I was given to receive notice of whether I’ve been accepted. So, checking the mailbox lately has been an adrenaline-laden event each time. And my knees literally start to go weak if I see a Washington University envelope present. That has happened twice. And twice, they’ve been rejection letters.
The first was a letter informing me that I didn’t win the women’s fellowship. I wasn’t too worried about that because I applied for that one just because. The minority fellowship was the really nice one that I was banking on. And besides, what I cared about above all is whether I’ve been accepted.
The second was a letter informing me that I didn’t win the minority fellowship. That was a bit of a blow because it would have been nice. But, I understand that I’m only entering a Master’s program. Both of the fellowships I applied for are designed for people who are entering a full-blown doctoral program. And with the way that the Spanish program is set up, I must first earn a Master’s and be approved before I can even go on to the doctoral stage. However, I was told in an email from the minority fellowship program director that a fellowship had been awarded to an applicant who had only a Bachelor’s before. He was eligible because his ultimate goal was a PhD. So, based on precedent, I was encouraged to apply. But I’m sure that people who are officially entering a doctoral program had priority.
I’m not used to rejection. Perhaps that’s an egocentric admission, but it’s an honest admission nonetheless. I’ve always excelled academically, and I’ve become accustomed to getting recognition because of it. I used to think that my 4.0, summa cum laude, 1340 GRE score, studied-abroad-in-Spain, fluent-in-Spanish, filled-with college-extracurricular-activities, scholarly-article-published detailed resume was my ticket to whatever I wanted to do. I used to think that intelligence was the ace up my sleeve; the card I could play that would bail me out every time. In the past, it has. Now, I’m not so sure.
I know that everything’s not set in stone yet. As of now, I still don’t know whether I’ve actually been accepted. And until I know one way or the other, I’m kind of at a standstill. If it happens that I am accepted, there are other ways I can finance my education, although it will be more difficult. But this is what is bugging me:
1. The rumor that I could possibly be leaving is blazing around my place of employment like wildfire. I can’t go a day without at least three people cornering me with “Is it true?” I. Don’t. Know.
2. The possibility that I am irrationally placing my entire reason of being on whether I get accepted into an obscenely expensive private university is gnawing at me. Is that what I’m doing?
3. I know we don’t always get to do what we want, but people’s reminding me that “Jesus didn’t want to go to Calvary” is unnerving. I know that my Lord and Savior went against His human will to save all of humanity. But how can you compare that to a girl just wanting to move on with her life?
So far, two out of the three pieces of proverbial bread I’ve cast out upon the waters have returned unto me with “We regret to inform you.” But, even with two strikes against me, I can’t give up until I know the last bit of crucial info that will help me make any subsequent decisions—have I been accepted?
Sunday, March 04, 2007
Pancakes, Picasso, Pedicure
Pancakes
Today was the Band Booster's Annual Pancake Breakfast fundraiser at Applebees. I will not be untruthful and say that band director's (other BD related posts: here, here, and here) possible presence at the event was not a motivator. Ahem. But who doesn't want pancakes on a Saturday morning? Anyway, as soon as I come in, Mom in tow, dimpled smile, perfect teeth, long lashes and just everything in the world exuding cuteness and gorgeousness rounds the corner and says, "Congratulations on going back to school!" Aw, even HE knows. And I don't even know if I am for sure. Blast you, unsent acceptance letter! But rumor has it he is skipping out too. And as he confirmed, to finish his degree in Microbiology. What? Okay, not only are you deliriously musically talented, but you also have the smarts to fight epidemics in Africa with the World Health Organization? (I kid you not, that's what he wants to do.) ::sigh:: Golden boy, indeed. Still, I couldn't keep that silly grin from spreading all over my face when he asked me to let him know as soon as I hear back from my school.
Picasso
My mom and I love the Jewish Food Festival a local synagogue puts on every year. Latkes and challah bread (Sabbath bread) are the bomb. They also have a flea market-type "Treasure Market," and I got a Picasso reproduction of The Three Musicians for $16. Definitely not one of the stolen originals! I couldn't help but get some hamantaschen, fruit-filled Haman hat cookies, common pastries during the upcoming Jewish celebration Purim, commemorated because Queen Esther's bravery saved her people. (Yes, I'm still obsessed with the movie.)
Pedicure
There are some things I don't like about myself that I can't do anything about (aside from surgery. And um, no). But there are some things I don't like about myself that I can do something about. Two of those things are my feet. And a pedicure is a lovely solution. These things should be prescribed as therapy, no joke. But I have to really try hard not to twitch/laugh when they scrub with the little pumice thing. It tickles! Now that the weather is starting to warm up, I can display my little hot dogs with confidence. Another burden eased from my mind.
Today was the Band Booster's Annual Pancake Breakfast fundraiser at Applebees. I will not be untruthful and say that band director's (other BD related posts: here, here, and here) possible presence at the event was not a motivator. Ahem. But who doesn't want pancakes on a Saturday morning? Anyway, as soon as I come in, Mom in tow, dimpled smile, perfect teeth, long lashes and just everything in the world exuding cuteness and gorgeousness rounds the corner and says, "Congratulations on going back to school!" Aw, even HE knows. And I don't even know if I am for sure. Blast you, unsent acceptance letter! But rumor has it he is skipping out too. And as he confirmed, to finish his degree in Microbiology. What? Okay, not only are you deliriously musically talented, but you also have the smarts to fight epidemics in Africa with the World Health Organization? (I kid you not, that's what he wants to do.) ::sigh:: Golden boy, indeed. Still, I couldn't keep that silly grin from spreading all over my face when he asked me to let him know as soon as I hear back from my school.
Picasso
My mom and I love the Jewish Food Festival a local synagogue puts on every year. Latkes and challah bread (Sabbath bread) are the bomb. They also have a flea market-type "Treasure Market," and I got a Picasso reproduction of The Three Musicians for $16. Definitely not one of the stolen originals! I couldn't help but get some hamantaschen, fruit-filled Haman hat cookies, common pastries during the upcoming Jewish celebration Purim, commemorated because Queen Esther's bravery saved her people. (Yes, I'm still obsessed with the movie.)
Pedicure
There are some things I don't like about myself that I can't do anything about (aside from surgery. And um, no). But there are some things I don't like about myself that I can do something about. Two of those things are my feet. And a pedicure is a lovely solution. These things should be prescribed as therapy, no joke. But I have to really try hard not to twitch/laugh when they scrub with the little pumice thing. It tickles! Now that the weather is starting to warm up, I can display my little hot dogs with confidence. Another burden eased from my mind.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
"Dumb Blonde" jokes usually annoy me
because they're stereotypical, played out, and typically not that funny. And plus the "Dumb Blonde" in the joke is always a woman. If having blonde hair gave one a predisposition for spaciness, why aren't there any jokes being forwarded about some airheaded blonde dude's judgemental errors? Anyway, having said all of that, I shall share a joke that, IMHO, is an exception. No, seriously, I don't normally laugh out loud at forwarded jokes but this one was so funny to me. Man, I nearly busted a gut:
A blonde calls her boyfriend and says, "Please come over here and help me. I have a killer jigsaw puzzle, and I can't figure out how to get it started." Her boyfriend asks, What is it supposed to be when it's finished?" The blonde says, "According to the picture on the box, it's a tiger." Her boyfriend decides to go over and help with the puzzle. She lets him in and shows him where she has the puzzle spread all over the table. He studies the pieces for a moment, then looks at the box, then turns to her and says, "First of all, no matter what we do, we're not going to be able to assemble these pieces into anything resembling a tiger." He takes her hand and says, "Second, I want you to relax. Let's have a nice cup of tea, and then . . ." He sighed . . . "Let's put all the Frosted Flakes back in the box . . ."
And oh, the subject line was "This is Grrrrreat!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)