I love Don Miller. I love Don Miller. I love Don Miller!And now he has a new blog! ::shrieks girlishly::
Check it out, not only under my "Other Blogs of Interest" links, but also here.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Thursday, August 28, 2008
From Me to Self
Dear Self,
I've been wondering about you lately. Seriously, what's going on? What makes me think something's up? Well, for starters, you thought yesterday was Monday. That's messed up. After a discussion concerning changing the class schedule, you asked, "Dr. Such-and-Such, since we're having class today, it will be cancelled Wednesday, right?" Dr. Such-and-Such looked at you quizzically and said, "Um, Chantell, today is Wednesday." Yikes.
Your driving skills have seemed to have diminished as well. Since when couldn't you back out of a driveway without scraping the side of your car against a mailbox? Coughing up a $500 deductible to patch it up is a wee bit beyond your means now, don't you think?
And as much time as you spend blogging and sending introspective, stream-of-consciousness emails hither and yon, you'd think you'd at least check online ahead of time for your notoriously anal professor's posted assignments. You had to skip French to write an article summary! Ça ne va pas.
Okay, Self, okay. I know you're trying to get back into the school groove after three years of being a working woman. I got that. But for the love of God, like, get some sleep. You can watch the highlights of the Democratic National Convention later. And calm the heck down! Hyperventilating and giving your tear ducts a workout is only going to leave you breathless and wet-faced. Also, please stop complaining that "everything is up in the air." Yeah, there's a lot of uncertainty going on in your life right now. Newsflash: It's okay. You have to learn to take it as it comes.
Perhaps I'm being a little hard on you. Forgive me. But you have to realize that you can only do what you can do. Plan accordingly, and give it your best shot. You'll get through this. You might even have fun while you're getting through it if you'd lighten up a little. Atta girl!
Sincerely,
Me
I've been wondering about you lately. Seriously, what's going on? What makes me think something's up? Well, for starters, you thought yesterday was Monday. That's messed up. After a discussion concerning changing the class schedule, you asked, "Dr. Such-and-Such, since we're having class today, it will be cancelled Wednesday, right?" Dr. Such-and-Such looked at you quizzically and said, "Um, Chantell, today is Wednesday." Yikes.
Your driving skills have seemed to have diminished as well. Since when couldn't you back out of a driveway without scraping the side of your car against a mailbox? Coughing up a $500 deductible to patch it up is a wee bit beyond your means now, don't you think?
And as much time as you spend blogging and sending introspective, stream-of-consciousness emails hither and yon, you'd think you'd at least check online ahead of time for your notoriously anal professor's posted assignments. You had to skip French to write an article summary! Ça ne va pas.
Okay, Self, okay. I know you're trying to get back into the school groove after three years of being a working woman. I got that. But for the love of God, like, get some sleep. You can watch the highlights of the Democratic National Convention later. And calm the heck down! Hyperventilating and giving your tear ducts a workout is only going to leave you breathless and wet-faced. Also, please stop complaining that "everything is up in the air." Yeah, there's a lot of uncertainty going on in your life right now. Newsflash: It's okay. You have to learn to take it as it comes.
Perhaps I'm being a little hard on you. Forgive me. But you have to realize that you can only do what you can do. Plan accordingly, and give it your best shot. You'll get through this. You might even have fun while you're getting through it if you'd lighten up a little. Atta girl!
Sincerely,
Me
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Don Miller Prays at the DNC!
I haven't blogged politically for a little bit. I was going to go on and on about why Obama's choice of Biden as his veep running mate was a good one. But I didn't. I spared you.
Like a good Obamamaniac, I stayed up watching the Democratic National Convention, really only to hear Michelle. I lost a little bit of steam and started nodding off, (I'll watch Michelle on Obama's website later), but then bolted awake when they announced Don Miller would be doing the benediction! I nearly went nuts. If you're a faithful reader, you know how I am about Don Miller. Enjoy!
Like a good Obamamaniac, I stayed up watching the Democratic National Convention, really only to hear Michelle. I lost a little bit of steam and started nodding off, (I'll watch Michelle on Obama's website later), but then bolted awake when they announced Don Miller would be doing the benediction! I nearly went nuts. If you're a faithful reader, you know how I am about Don Miller. Enjoy!
Monday, August 25, 2008
My Bespectacled Debut, Foiled!
Okay, I have already talked at length about my attachment to spectacles.
Though I tentatively experimented with my prescriptionless glasses upon buying them, I still hadn't made a debut in them, as it were. I never presented myself in them in the eye of the general public. My reasons for this hesitation are understandable. For starters, what would I say when someone who's only known me glasses-less remarks, "I didn't know you wore glasses"? I wouldn't want to lie and make people think that I actually need glasses, neither would I want to answer in a way that would prompt a follow-up question about contacts, since I don't use those either. I was trying to think of a way to answer any inquiries about the spectacles that wouldn't have to end in my admitting that I don't really need them and that I just have a fixation with wearing them. I pondered it for a while and thought I'd say something like, "Oh, I just wear them every once in a while. Whenever the mood strikes me," and hope that there would be no further inquiries.
So, I was all ready to go. I imagined myself monitoring the communication activities during the Spanish 1020 class I observe, smartly pushing my glasses up over the bridge of my nose as I slowly walked around the class, answering questions and nodding encouragingly to the various conversation groups. But it wasn't to be.
After a call from a classmate, I received an email alerting all students that classes were cancelled as of 11 a.m. today due to inclement weather. I was happy about not having class and having more time to read the stuff I should have read this weekend, but I was kind of bummed about the foiling of my bespectacled debut. Ah, well. Tomorrow, I guess.
Back to reading El Cid.
Though I tentatively experimented with my prescriptionless glasses upon buying them, I still hadn't made a debut in them, as it were. I never presented myself in them in the eye of the general public. My reasons for this hesitation are understandable. For starters, what would I say when someone who's only known me glasses-less remarks, "I didn't know you wore glasses"? I wouldn't want to lie and make people think that I actually need glasses, neither would I want to answer in a way that would prompt a follow-up question about contacts, since I don't use those either. I was trying to think of a way to answer any inquiries about the spectacles that wouldn't have to end in my admitting that I don't really need them and that I just have a fixation with wearing them. I pondered it for a while and thought I'd say something like, "Oh, I just wear them every once in a while. Whenever the mood strikes me," and hope that there would be no further inquiries.
So, I was all ready to go. I imagined myself monitoring the communication activities during the Spanish 1020 class I observe, smartly pushing my glasses up over the bridge of my nose as I slowly walked around the class, answering questions and nodding encouragingly to the various conversation groups. But it wasn't to be.
After a call from a classmate, I received an email alerting all students that classes were cancelled as of 11 a.m. today due to inclement weather. I was happy about not having class and having more time to read the stuff I should have read this weekend, but I was kind of bummed about the foiling of my bespectacled debut. Ah, well. Tomorrow, I guess.
Back to reading El Cid.
Friday, August 22, 2008
How to Make the Best Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwich Ever
1. The bread has to be soft white bread. Stale bread or wheat bread . . . boo! (Sidenote: I have nothing against wheat bread in and of itself, in fact, I like wheat bread, just not for a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.) 2. You have to have a lot of peanut butter. In fact, the perfectly made sandwich has a peanut butter to jelly ratio of about 3:1.
3. You have to use jam. Jam spreads so beautifully. Jelly is just chunky and gelatinous. (Sidenote: it's still called a peanut butter and jelly sandwich even though jam is used.)
4. Not only do you have to use jam, but you have to use grape jam. Any other flavor . . . it's just not right.
5. You have to lay a superthick layer of peanut butter on one slice, and a more thin layer of jam on the other slice. It won't do to try to spread the jam over the peanut butter on the same slice. (Or worse, try to spread peanut butter over the jam on the same slice.)
6. Align the slices perfectly and gently place slices together. If you squish down on it, it'll get unnecessarily gooey.
7. Cut the sandwich diagonally. It's not right if you cut it straight down the middle.
8. You must have 2% milk to accompany your sandwich. Otherwise, forget it.
Enjoy!
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Guy Friends
My assessment of grad school as of today: so far so good. I only have one class Tues/Thurs. Medieval Spanish Lit. Just imagine the Old English of Canterbury Tales, but in Spanish. Argh! But my professor is extremely cool and puts everything in total context and we go through parts of the work together so that he can check our comprehension.
But I arrived home super tired because I stayed up pretty late the night before. No, not partying hardy, but discussing topics like race, religion, faith and relationships with a couple of guy friends at a 24-hour Starbucks. I didn't know such a thing as a 24-hour Starbucks existed, but there you go.
I dearly cherish my girl friends. Girl friends are important because you have to have people with whom you can share girly stuff. People who are there with you because, among other things, you share the unique, at times bittersweet experience of being a woman. People with whom you can build sisterly solidarity. It's empowering, comforting, encouraging.
But there's something different about hanging with the guys. Mind you, guys who have proven themselves to have your best interests at heart and who have brotherly intentions. It's nice to have big brothers to intellectually engage with and with whom you can be yourself. It's nice to have people who are friends but that take care of you like a sister. It's interesting (and hilarious) to get honest glimpses into the male mind. (By the way, I don't mean to imply that I don't intellectually engage with my girls. Of course I do!)
When my brothers and I were younger we had an array of regular babysitters my mom would rely on. But our favorites were the two guys. They were just more fun. The girls would sit around and read. Or expect us to just sit still and watch TV. But the guys would do stuff with us. Play games with us. Let us jump on them and try to wrestle them to the floor.
In a weird way, that partly explains the difference I feel hanging with the guys. Verbally wrestling each other to the floor, so to speak, isn't negatively combative. There's no offense taken, it's just part of the game, in a manner of speaking.
Maybe this is it . . . girl conversation, usually, is agreeable exchange. Empathetic sharing. Usually, we avoid conflict-causing conversation. But the guys seem to embrace it . . . they want to explore conflict. That, to me, is the fun part. But it's not argument for argument's sake. Just like empathetic sharing, it's a way to come to an understanding of each other.
But I arrived home super tired because I stayed up pretty late the night before. No, not partying hardy, but discussing topics like race, religion, faith and relationships with a couple of guy friends at a 24-hour Starbucks. I didn't know such a thing as a 24-hour Starbucks existed, but there you go.
I dearly cherish my girl friends. Girl friends are important because you have to have people with whom you can share girly stuff. People who are there with you because, among other things, you share the unique, at times bittersweet experience of being a woman. People with whom you can build sisterly solidarity. It's empowering, comforting, encouraging.
But there's something different about hanging with the guys. Mind you, guys who have proven themselves to have your best interests at heart and who have brotherly intentions. It's nice to have big brothers to intellectually engage with and with whom you can be yourself. It's nice to have people who are friends but that take care of you like a sister. It's interesting (and hilarious) to get honest glimpses into the male mind. (By the way, I don't mean to imply that I don't intellectually engage with my girls. Of course I do!)
When my brothers and I were younger we had an array of regular babysitters my mom would rely on. But our favorites were the two guys. They were just more fun. The girls would sit around and read. Or expect us to just sit still and watch TV. But the guys would do stuff with us. Play games with us. Let us jump on them and try to wrestle them to the floor.
In a weird way, that partly explains the difference I feel hanging with the guys. Verbally wrestling each other to the floor, so to speak, isn't negatively combative. There's no offense taken, it's just part of the game, in a manner of speaking.
Maybe this is it . . . girl conversation, usually, is agreeable exchange. Empathetic sharing. Usually, we avoid conflict-causing conversation. But the guys seem to embrace it . . . they want to explore conflict. That, to me, is the fun part. But it's not argument for argument's sake. Just like empathetic sharing, it's a way to come to an understanding of each other.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Yippee!
I get excited over small things. Like finding shower curtain rods. Now I know that is probably the most inane thing ever, and how weird that I've been obsessing over a thing as random as a shower curtain rod, right? But no, listen. I've been trying to hunt one down since I moved in Saturday. So today after class, I prayed and said, "God, please lead me to a shower curtain rod that fits. Amen."So I drive down the road towards a little city right outside of Auburn, see a Sears, pull in and park. I know my shower curtain rod has got to be there. I just happen to park at the little home furnishings/appliances entrance. I walk down two or three aisles, and there it is. There is only one left, and it's the right size. That was MY shower curtain rod, youknaaimsayin?
Next time, I'm going to pray, "God, please lead me to 50 G's of cold, hard cash. Amen."
Monday, August 18, 2008
I Need to Calm Down
Okay, I survived day one of grad school. I can do this.
What I'm learning, more than teaching methodology, more than Spanish American Theater, more than Elementary French, is that I need to breathe.
For me, it's really hard to do. I always have to have it worked out. I always have to know. I have to know what the next three steps are before I can feel comfortable and secure.
But it seems that God is smiling a mischievous little smile, because He knows what He's doing. He's trying to get me to trust Him more. And He's doing it in a such a way that I have no choice but to do just that. And it is indeed very uncomfortable. I'm making less money than I've made in three years—yeah, a lowly grad student assistant's salary is not exactly comparable to that of a full-time teacher (puny as it is). I'm going to have to ride out the French pedicure I got a few weeks ago for as long as I can.
And do you know what it's like to take a shower without a shower curtain? College towns have an uncanny way of making all suitably-sized shower curtain rods disappear from WalMart's trusty shelves. My cute little shower curtain sits patiently folded up, awaiting the day that it will hang securely from the perfectly-sized shower curtain rod. Meanwhile, I'll try not to splash too much water on the bathroom floor.
I exist, in the unique mix of discomfort and expectation that only grad school produces, amidst unopened boxes and cluttered tables in my little apartment/nest. I stare, amused, at the garishly yellow, too long curtains I've had to tack up over my bedroom window and one living room window because of their lack of mini blinds. Don't want the good ol' boys across the way to see what they oughtn't, now do we? Why are they garishly yellow? I couldn't get a straight answer out of their donor, mommy dearest. Yard sale prize? Poorly conceived gift? A dyeing project gone bad? One of the mysteries of motherhood.
And lastly, the laugh of my French professor. Even though he's bespectacled, his laugh cancels out any possibility of my going ga-ga. It's like a nervous, sudden, gasping laugh. And he does it every time he says something that was supposed to be funny. Comment ça va? Terrible.
(Sigh.) I'm sure it'll get better. One step at a time. One step at a time.
What I'm learning, more than teaching methodology, more than Spanish American Theater, more than Elementary French, is that I need to breathe.
For me, it's really hard to do. I always have to have it worked out. I always have to know. I have to know what the next three steps are before I can feel comfortable and secure.
But it seems that God is smiling a mischievous little smile, because He knows what He's doing. He's trying to get me to trust Him more. And He's doing it in a such a way that I have no choice but to do just that. And it is indeed very uncomfortable. I'm making less money than I've made in three years—yeah, a lowly grad student assistant's salary is not exactly comparable to that of a full-time teacher (puny as it is). I'm going to have to ride out the French pedicure I got a few weeks ago for as long as I can.
And do you know what it's like to take a shower without a shower curtain? College towns have an uncanny way of making all suitably-sized shower curtain rods disappear from WalMart's trusty shelves. My cute little shower curtain sits patiently folded up, awaiting the day that it will hang securely from the perfectly-sized shower curtain rod. Meanwhile, I'll try not to splash too much water on the bathroom floor.
I exist, in the unique mix of discomfort and expectation that only grad school produces, amidst unopened boxes and cluttered tables in my little apartment/nest. I stare, amused, at the garishly yellow, too long curtains I've had to tack up over my bedroom window and one living room window because of their lack of mini blinds. Don't want the good ol' boys across the way to see what they oughtn't, now do we? Why are they garishly yellow? I couldn't get a straight answer out of their donor, mommy dearest. Yard sale prize? Poorly conceived gift? A dyeing project gone bad? One of the mysteries of motherhood.
And lastly, the laugh of my French professor. Even though he's bespectacled, his laugh cancels out any possibility of my going ga-ga. It's like a nervous, sudden, gasping laugh. And he does it every time he says something that was supposed to be funny. Comment ça va? Terrible.
(Sigh.) I'm sure it'll get better. One step at a time. One step at a time.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Tragic Flaw
For whatever reason, I'm intrigued by the concept of tragic heroes and their flaws, especially in Shakespeare. Brutus's tragic flaw was faulty judgment—he trusted Cassius as a friend when in reality Cassius was manipulating him, and he underestimated Marc Antony's prowess. Othello's tragic flaw was jealousy—he became so blinded by it that he killed his faithful wife. Hamlet's was inaction—he was so pensive and deliberating about everything that by the time he decided to heed the ghost of his father and do something to avenge him, it was too late.
I feel like Hamlet right about now. The ghost of my murdered father that is trying to push me into action is the fact that I have a move hanging over my head. However, as of right now, I haven't placed a single, solitary article in a single, solitary box. Inaction shall be my downfall.
It's just that I can't believe I have orientation Friday, moving on Saturday and classes starting Monday. It doesn't seem true. It feels like I'm going to continue my little mundane, routine life. I'm not going anywhere new. I'm not doing anything new. Oh, but I am.
Change scares and excites me. I guess kind of like rollercoasters do. Indeed, I went to Six Flags last week, and my little brother had the pleasure of sitting next to me on a few rides. One particular instance, as the rollercoaster made its long, slow ascent before plummeting, I began shrieking wildly. "What is the matter with you?" he asked, annoyed. "It hasn't even started yet." But that's the thing—the buildup to the wild ride to me is often more anxiety-causing than the actual wild ride itself. The most intense part of the rollercoaster ride for me are those few seconds after you reach the top, right before the first big drop.
But anyway, here I am, struggling to overcome a massive, pensive inertia. To Hamlet: Snap out of it! Claudius killed your dad. Take care of him! "To be or not to be" is SO not going to get the job done. To me: Snap out of it! You're moving to another place and you're supposed to be taking some stuff up tomorrow before the big day Saturday. Get to it! Spacing out and relentlessly grinding your mental wheels are SO not going to get the job done.
I feel like Hamlet right about now. The ghost of my murdered father that is trying to push me into action is the fact that I have a move hanging over my head. However, as of right now, I haven't placed a single, solitary article in a single, solitary box. Inaction shall be my downfall.
It's just that I can't believe I have orientation Friday, moving on Saturday and classes starting Monday. It doesn't seem true. It feels like I'm going to continue my little mundane, routine life. I'm not going anywhere new. I'm not doing anything new. Oh, but I am.
Change scares and excites me. I guess kind of like rollercoasters do. Indeed, I went to Six Flags last week, and my little brother had the pleasure of sitting next to me on a few rides. One particular instance, as the rollercoaster made its long, slow ascent before plummeting, I began shrieking wildly. "What is the matter with you?" he asked, annoyed. "It hasn't even started yet." But that's the thing—the buildup to the wild ride to me is often more anxiety-causing than the actual wild ride itself. The most intense part of the rollercoaster ride for me are those few seconds after you reach the top, right before the first big drop.
But anyway, here I am, struggling to overcome a massive, pensive inertia. To Hamlet: Snap out of it! Claudius killed your dad. Take care of him! "To be or not to be" is SO not going to get the job done. To me: Snap out of it! You're moving to another place and you're supposed to be taking some stuff up tomorrow before the big day Saturday. Get to it! Spacing out and relentlessly grinding your mental wheels are SO not going to get the job done.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Ken Doll's Antics
Maureen Dowd is my favorite columnist for the New York Times. The lady is hilarious. This time she skewers John Edwards for what she calls a "narcissistic" confession. When Edwards endorsed Obama, I was elated and thought he would definitely be at the top of the veep short list. Now . . . ugh. I just hope this Edwards fiasco doesn't negatively affect my boy. Here's a quotation from her column that is SO true. Seriously, every politician take note: "Still, it’s bizarre the way these pols spend millions getting their faces plastered everywhere and then think they can do something in secret."
Really. Power really does corrupt. People let it go to their heads and they begin to assume they are privileged to get whatever they want at whomever's expense. (Please don't let it happen to my boy.)
Anyway, if you want to laugh, read the whole article here. The last line did me in. LOL.
Really. Power really does corrupt. People let it go to their heads and they begin to assume they are privileged to get whatever they want at whomever's expense. (Please don't let it happen to my boy.)
Anyway, if you want to laugh, read the whole article here. The last line did me in. LOL.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Ga-Ga for Glasses
I'm weird. At least I freely admit it. I may have mentioned this before, but I have this fixation with glasses. I've always wished that I could wear them, and I always think guys who wear them are cuter than guys who don't. They just give people a more sophisticated, intelligent look. It gives them a cool, slightly aloof, intellectual air that is highly attractive to me.
I think it stems from my gravitation towards the, er, professorial. What I mean is that I have a high regard for the pedagogical. Such a high regard, that at times, especially during my more naive undergrad years, the regard slid into the classic professorial crush. Yeah, I used to be the girl who hung around after class to ask special questions. Or worse, wrote emails at the end of the semester telling my professor "how much I enjoyed the class." (Sigh.) Anyway, thank God I've grown up a little. But my glasses obsession remains. Come to think of it, there was not one professor I had a crush on who didn't wear glasses. Not a one.
Anyway, like I said, I've always wished I could wear them although my eyesight is impeccable. I've tried on some prescriptionless glasses, but could never find any that looked okay on me. But I think I've finally found some that suit me. I'm not going to wear them all the time, I just like to have them and put them on when the mood strikes me. It's not that I think I look better in them or anything, but I feel that I look older, slightly more sophisticated, more serious, and intellectual. Like, I don't look like a giggly little girl. I look more, I dunno, like people would take me more seriously:
Or not. LOL.
"Okay, class, take out your books and turn to page 138." Or no,"Biographies are in the 920s." Or how about, "Let's discuss the finer points of solipsism and existentialism and how they form the basis of the postmodern relativist worldview." What is wrong with me?
I think it stems from my gravitation towards the, er, professorial. What I mean is that I have a high regard for the pedagogical. Such a high regard, that at times, especially during my more naive undergrad years, the regard slid into the classic professorial crush. Yeah, I used to be the girl who hung around after class to ask special questions. Or worse, wrote emails at the end of the semester telling my professor "how much I enjoyed the class." (Sigh.) Anyway, thank God I've grown up a little. But my glasses obsession remains. Come to think of it, there was not one professor I had a crush on who didn't wear glasses. Not a one.
Anyway, like I said, I've always wished I could wear them although my eyesight is impeccable. I've tried on some prescriptionless glasses, but could never find any that looked okay on me. But I think I've finally found some that suit me. I'm not going to wear them all the time, I just like to have them and put them on when the mood strikes me. It's not that I think I look better in them or anything, but I feel that I look older, slightly more sophisticated, more serious, and intellectual. Like, I don't look like a giggly little girl. I look more, I dunno, like people would take me more seriously:
Or not. LOL.
"Okay, class, take out your books and turn to page 138." Or no,"Biographies are in the 920s." Or how about, "Let's discuss the finer points of solipsism and existentialism and how they form the basis of the postmodern relativist worldview." What is wrong with me?
Thursday, August 07, 2008
I Have Done Zero Today
There are two ways you can feel from having done zero in 24 hours: Either refreshed or like a bum.
I feel like a bum. It is 8:11 p.m. and I still have on my pj's. That is just eww. I don't even want to discuss my hair or the dishes I haven't washed in nearly a week.
I had lofty intentions. Really, I did. See, I've been seized with the idea that I'm going to study abroad in France for 3 months after I graduate. (Well, I could have applied for the 6 month scholarship, but 6 months is kinda long.) France? I thought you were a Spanish major. Well, I am. But I have to be proficient in a language other than Spanish (and English, of course) as a program requirement. I chose French. By the time I graduate with my Masters (by this time next year, if the Lord tarries), I will have had one year of French under my belt. But I most definitely won't be fluent. So, since I have zero idea of what I'm going to do after I graduate, what better thing to do than gallivant off to France to perfect my elementary French? And what better way to do that than apply for a scholarship that will pay for your round trip airfare and 3 months of tuition, room and board while attending an intensive language institute?
Here's the thing. The deadline was July 31. As in last Thursday. So, why am I still applying for it? Well, when I first got wind of the scholarship, I immediately printed off the application and everything. But I hesitated. I didn't want to be a gallivanting world traveler after I graduated. I wanted to be settled. I wanted to have a white picket fence surrounding a house in the suburbs, a dog named Mark Antony, and 2.5 kids. So, I didn't go for it, even though I knew I could. But then on July 31, something hit me. Why am I not applying for something based on an uncertain future? Who knows where I'll be a year from now? And even though the dog is forseeable, if I were to have 2.5 kids by then, that would mean that I'd have to be pregnant with twins like, 3 months from now. The other 0.5, the house in the suburbs and the fence just seem that much more improbable. So I told myself, if I call the contact guy and he says, "Sorry, no can do, it's too late, you waited too long to apply, you bum," then oh, well. But if he says, "We're kind of lenient on the deadline, go ahead and turn in an application ASAP," then I'd do it. Well, obviously, he said the latter. So I'm going for it.
Which brings me back to my lofty intentions. I was planning on writing my no longer than 2 page autobiography, my no longer than 3 page detailed statement of intent, and my no longer than 1 page list of interests, activities, and leadership positions today. But what did I do? I lounged obscenely long around my apartment in my pj's, reading Newsweek, instant messaging, napping, blogsurfing, and blabbing on the phone for hours. Please don't let me go over my minutes again!
I feel like a bum. It is 8:11 p.m. and I still have on my pj's. That is just eww. I don't even want to discuss my hair or the dishes I haven't washed in nearly a week.
I had lofty intentions. Really, I did. See, I've been seized with the idea that I'm going to study abroad in France for 3 months after I graduate. (Well, I could have applied for the 6 month scholarship, but 6 months is kinda long.) France? I thought you were a Spanish major. Well, I am. But I have to be proficient in a language other than Spanish (and English, of course) as a program requirement. I chose French. By the time I graduate with my Masters (by this time next year, if the Lord tarries), I will have had one year of French under my belt. But I most definitely won't be fluent. So, since I have zero idea of what I'm going to do after I graduate, what better thing to do than gallivant off to France to perfect my elementary French? And what better way to do that than apply for a scholarship that will pay for your round trip airfare and 3 months of tuition, room and board while attending an intensive language institute?
Here's the thing. The deadline was July 31. As in last Thursday. So, why am I still applying for it? Well, when I first got wind of the scholarship, I immediately printed off the application and everything. But I hesitated. I didn't want to be a gallivanting world traveler after I graduated. I wanted to be settled. I wanted to have a white picket fence surrounding a house in the suburbs, a dog named Mark Antony, and 2.5 kids. So, I didn't go for it, even though I knew I could. But then on July 31, something hit me. Why am I not applying for something based on an uncertain future? Who knows where I'll be a year from now? And even though the dog is forseeable, if I were to have 2.5 kids by then, that would mean that I'd have to be pregnant with twins like, 3 months from now. The other 0.5, the house in the suburbs and the fence just seem that much more improbable. So I told myself, if I call the contact guy and he says, "Sorry, no can do, it's too late, you waited too long to apply, you bum," then oh, well. But if he says, "We're kind of lenient on the deadline, go ahead and turn in an application ASAP," then I'd do it. Well, obviously, he said the latter. So I'm going for it.
Which brings me back to my lofty intentions. I was planning on writing my no longer than 2 page autobiography, my no longer than 3 page detailed statement of intent, and my no longer than 1 page list of interests, activities, and leadership positions today. But what did I do? I lounged obscenely long around my apartment in my pj's, reading Newsweek, instant messaging, napping, blogsurfing, and blabbing on the phone for hours. Please don't let me go over my minutes again!
Tuesday, August 05, 2008
I Trust God, Too.
Well, hello.
I realize I may have driven some readers towards illness due to my vagueness—aneurysm, nausea and dementia were mentioned as ailments in a previous comment section—and I apologize.
I must start, however, maddening as it may be, with a preamble/disclaimer. Anyone who has been reading Where You Can Find Me for any amount of time should not be surprised, and anyone who knows me in real life knows that the preamble/disclaimer is part of the package.
This does not involve some guy somewhere who I thought was cute, or some random person who said something funny to me, or some nameless character who happened to temporarily wind his way into my life's narrative. It involves a flesh and blood person who has a name and a life and a personality and feelings, and I am very loath to publicly dissect anything concerning him. (Yes, having a blog has taught me well.) However, since I cryptically mentioned stuff, it's only fair to make it clearer, but you must forgive me for the lack of finite detail.
A young man came to visit me this weekend, and we had fun getting to know each other better. Howbeit, there are some complications which may influence the probability of it working out.
My first response to complications is usually emotional, and once that dissipates, analytical. But in my mind that is often riddled with the love child of emotional and analytical, worry, it's easy to forget that something God does best is being in control, and that what humans are better off doing is trusting Him rather than worrying.
Here's the flip side of the whole trusting God thing, though: Trusting God does not always = everything working out fine and dandy. The comfort in trusting Him doesn't come from getting your way. It comes from knowing that His will will be done, and knowing that He works all things together for our good.
I realize I may have driven some readers towards illness due to my vagueness—aneurysm, nausea and dementia were mentioned as ailments in a previous comment section—and I apologize.
I must start, however, maddening as it may be, with a preamble/disclaimer. Anyone who has been reading Where You Can Find Me for any amount of time should not be surprised, and anyone who knows me in real life knows that the preamble/disclaimer is part of the package.
This does not involve some guy somewhere who I thought was cute, or some random person who said something funny to me, or some nameless character who happened to temporarily wind his way into my life's narrative. It involves a flesh and blood person who has a name and a life and a personality and feelings, and I am very loath to publicly dissect anything concerning him. (Yes, having a blog has taught me well.) However, since I cryptically mentioned stuff, it's only fair to make it clearer, but you must forgive me for the lack of finite detail.
A young man came to visit me this weekend, and we had fun getting to know each other better. Howbeit, there are some complications which may influence the probability of it working out.
My first response to complications is usually emotional, and once that dissipates, analytical. But in my mind that is often riddled with the love child of emotional and analytical, worry, it's easy to forget that something God does best is being in control, and that what humans are better off doing is trusting Him rather than worrying.
Here's the flip side of the whole trusting God thing, though: Trusting God does not always = everything working out fine and dandy. The comfort in trusting Him doesn't come from getting your way. It comes from knowing that His will will be done, and knowing that He works all things together for our good.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
Halftime
Whew. This weekend isn't over yet, though.
How can I talk about it without totally blowing everyone's cover? As far as my meeting with the main party involved, so far, so good. But as far as the main party involved's meeting with the factors surrounding me . . . mixed results.
What I can say is that up to this point, there have been no red circles with slashes through them, no bold red "x"s, no impenetrable brick walls. The best way I can put it is the way it has been put to me: Difficulty, but not impossibility.
How can I talk about it without totally blowing everyone's cover? As far as my meeting with the main party involved, so far, so good. But as far as the main party involved's meeting with the factors surrounding me . . . mixed results.
What I can say is that up to this point, there have been no red circles with slashes through them, no bold red "x"s, no impenetrable brick walls. The best way I can put it is the way it has been put to me: Difficulty, but not impossibility.
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