3 . . .

So, I knocked some things off of my to-do list yesterday.

I still need to get some souvenirs/gifts to give to people who will be hosting me. I would like to get something representative of American culture somehow. My mom suggested calendars featuring US landmarks. Not a bad idea. Any other suggestions out there?

I have a love/hate relationship with change. (Barack Obama notwithstanding.) Change can't win with me. When things are surrounded by an inevitable, stolid system of never changing, I become shrouded in melancholic ennui and frustrated because things are so stubborn and backwards. But when things are bustling about and changing to the tune of microwaved popcorn kernels, I get bathed in melancholic nostalgia and mourn the loss of the way things used to be.

There's also a third, neurotic reaction I have to change which departs from the love/hate dichotomy and simply involves good old fashioned freaking out. Most of the time, though, the freak out gets mixed with the melancholia and I alternate between sighing and hyperventilating.

It's going to be fine, I know. I just like making fun of myself and my figmental quandaries of philosophical crisis. There's a nugget of knowing beneath the alternating lasagna layers of excitement and apprehension. And it is that I know God's hand is in this.

I've told the story before . . . due to irrational reasons (what an oxymoron!), I sat on the scholarship application. I came to my senses the day it was due and was still encouraged to apply. I somehow rustled up letters of recommendation in the dead of summer and eventually managed to become one of 4 winners out of 11 applicants.

I know there are some bearded unbelievers out there chalking it up to odds. But I know where I was when I embarked on this thing. I did it on a whim, a last ditch ploy to fleece the Almighty. I had created a set of circumstances where I'd be hard-pressed to get it together. So, if it somehow came together, despite my reluctance, despite my Hamlet-like inaction, despite my absurd reasoning, despite, even, my lack of faith and trust, then maybe He seriously wants me to do this for some reason. And . . . voilà. Nous sommes ici. Here we are.

Do you know people who get a tech gadget they're unfamiliar with, it's been a year since they got it as a gift (last Christmas) and haven't used it a single day in their lives, but when someone else who is familiar with it would like to borrow it, suddenly they "might need it" in the indeterminate future? My dad. Digital video camera.

Next item on to-do list: Sweet talk my dad into letting me bring along his camera so I can upload clips of my French experience.

5 . . .

Oui, the countdown's getting slim.

The realization of what is about to happen in less than a week is slowly seeping into my consciousness.

Christmas was lovely, by the way. The 5 of us are rarely together for an extended amount of time. It was great to be with family, to go back in time a little and act completely silly with my brothers. I would post a few pictures, but the majority of them are of my brothers and myself making extremely unattractive faces.

How do you pack for 6 months?

I've done something similar before. I spent 4 months in Spain in 2004. It's not like I have no idea of what to expect.

The difference is that now they charge craziness for checking bags (additional flight restrictions notwithstanding due to moronic madmen trying to blow stuff up recently), I'll be in France for longer than I was in Spain, and this time I'm learning French. Oh, and whereas my Spanish then was decent, my French presently sucks.

You're going to France? But I thought you spoke Spanish. Then I end up explaining the requirements of my Master's program and my subsequent academic decisions, ending up sounding more smartypants than I'd intended.

You just can't stay still for long, can you? Always going somewhere, aren't you? Why do I detect a hint of antagonism in those (rhetorical) questions? Why do they put me on the defensive?

Here begins my week of workless countdown. It must be filled with bustling and preparation. To do:

1. Write thank you cards to all of my friends and family who hosted me in their homes during my recent trip and who have given me gifts towards my upcoming trip.

2. Buy relaxer kits to last me for 6 months. There ain't no Soft and Beautiful "regulars" in Tours, France. There ain't no "ethnic hair care" section in Carrefour. With all the black folks in Paris, I'd probably have better hair luck there, but I'm not going to be in Paris and, let's be real, I'm going to Europe.

3. Read the entire Rotary Handbook again just to make sure I understand my responsibilities.

4. Print out extra copies of all the forms I need.

5. Design a PowerPoint presentation to share my Southern American culture with the French Rotarians. (Gulp!)

6. Take these overdue books back to the library.

7. Start packing (which probably won't happen until Saturday night.)

Let's go.

Christmas Eve

Christmas is tomorrow, and I leave for France in a little over a week.

None of it seems true. It doesn't feel like Christmas is tomorrow, and it doesn't feel like I'm leaving the country for 6 months in such a short amount of time.

I still don't know what to get for my dad. He is like the worst person to shop for. He never wants anything and I never have any idea of what to get him yet I still have this need to get him something.

I should be more excited. I should have special feelings swirling around me like bubbles or raining down on me like confetti or sprinkled on me like fairy dust. Like I said, Christmas is tomorrow and I leave for France in a little over a week. That sentence should end with a breathless exclamation point, not a smug, declaratory period.

Dare I don my Santa Claus hat to brave the hordes of last-minute shoppers? If I'm planning on doing any shopping today, I better dust myself off and get to it now instead of languishing in my melancholy space-world of bloggery. Things close early today, and my chances of finding a good parking spot anywhere look about as good as the possibility of my smashing into the man of my dreams in my Christmas Eve haste, shopping bags flying everywhere, and having him gallantly pick them up for me, offer me his arm, and escort me to my car.

My hair looks all right, but my face looks like Bruno's Pizzeria that I bought my cheesesteak from earlier this week. I say I like looking younger, but can I get 'youthful' without going all the way back to 'pubescent'?

Yeah. I'd better get to it. I have a pound cake to whip up (my claim to culinary fame) and my annual breakfast casserole to put together for our little post-present opening Christmas brunch. Imma get it together.

May your days be merry and bright, and may all your Christmases be right.

Happy Holidays and Merry Christmas everyone!

NY and Philly: List

1. My grandfather calls dessert "tie down."

2. It's hard not to look like a tourist in Chinatown.

3. The first thing I ate in Philly was a Philly cheesesteak. You can't go to Philly without getting a Philly cheesesteak.

4. Snow!

5. I had a crush on my cousin when I was 6. He was 13. I wrote him a letter declaring my affections. I didn't know any better. I finally saw him again. As I hugged him, I couldn't help but think of my smitten 6-year-old heart.

6. Pete and Repeat were on top of the Empire State Building. Pete fell off, who was left? (Repeat.) Pete and Repeat were on top of the Empire State Building. Pete fell off, who was left? (Repeat.) Pete and Repeat . . . okay. I was on top of the Empire State Building. I got a great view, but thankfully, didn't fall off like Pete.

7. A Moroccan friend I met at a church in Spain met up with me in NY. She told me the story of her conversion, and I sat, ashamed of my tears in the middle of Starbucks, ashamed that I dare to complain.

8. As I beheld the golden statue in the Rockefeller Plaza, I looked around for Mr. Donaghy, Liz Lemon and Kenneth the Page, but couldn't find them.

9. When I was in Central Park, I expected some kind of serendipitous meeting with the man of my dreams while he was walking his dog, but . . . that didn't pan out either.

10. I was so enthralled with a stringed instrument a man was playing at Grand Central Station. It was mesmerizing. I didn't want to go away. I bought his CD and discovered that it was a dulcimer.

11. We went to Wall Street, hoping to get glimpses of moneyed businessmen on their way home from work. Er, not so much. We forgot it was Saturday.

12. All of my little 2nd cousins are ridiculously cute. It gives me hope for the attractiveness of my future progeny.

13. Times Square at night. What else needs to be said?

14. Walking on the Brooklyn Bridge = awesome view. Walking on the Brooklyn Bridge in the snow = c-c-c-c-old!

15. I would have run up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art and shouted "Adrian!" once I got to the top, but they were covered in snow.

Of course, there's much, much more. But how about a selection of pictures?

NY and Philly

1. Today was my last day of work. I had to turn in all of my keys and even my student ID. It was sad. Final.

2. I hung out with a balding, bearded buddy of mine after work. (Like that alliteration?) He's the best and I'm going to miss him and his family.

3. I'm getting a bit more money leftover from my scholarship than I thought. Sweet. I'm still having to hit up Pops, but for less than I anticipated.

4. I have one more trip planned before I fly across the Atlantic, and that is a weekend in NY to see some friends and a couple of days in Philadelphia to see family I haven't seen in a ridiculous amount of time. Honestly, when I first realized what my financial situation was concerning France, I regretted making these plans, but it was too late to do anything about it. But then I thought some more and realized that even if I hadn't made these plans, I would still be in the position of having to hit up Pops, and it's a good thing I'm going to see my extended family. It's been way too long.

5. I'm leaving tomorrow morning (today, technically) so my little blog baby snookums is going to take a little nap for a while. Pictures and tales of adventure to come!

One for the Annals

When I went to UA in Tuscaloosa and anything "historic" would go down, a friend of mine would say that it would go down in the Annals of Tusky-tusky. I cannot even write this without laughing.

Well, yesterday I went to Birmingham and my friend and I went to a nice place for lunch. It might've been the last time we see each other before I go to France, but we weren't going to think about thinking about that.

She (and others) always accuse me of flirting with the waiter. I promise that I don't go in there with intentions of trying to catch the waiter's eye. I mean, please. The waiter wasn't even particularly attractive. But I will admit that maybe I do get a little giggly and fidgety when there's a man bustling about me. (Is that really flirting, though?) And simple things like, "Is there anything else I can do for you?" always drip with double entendre when you're sitting with a funny friend.

We both wanted creme brulee for dessert even though it wasn't on the menu. My friend outrightly asked for it. He said it was available, but just to be sure, I said that it wasn't on the menu so I thought they didn't have any. He assured me that they did have it available. My friend then accused me of trying to seduce him into saying they didn't have it so that I could then seduce him into getting it. Whatever. When he brought it out, he said, "Is this what you were looking for?" as he set it in front of me. That was him, not me.

But here's the event which shall go down in the Annals: We were fighting over the bill. She refused to let me take it. She told him to split it, I told him to put it on mine, and I looked at him and said, "Listen to me." She mean mugged him. When he brought out two little bill holder things, we both thought she had prevailed. But when she opened hers, it was empty, and when I opened mine, I had it! He tricked us! Victory was indeed mine! That was the most clever little trick. My friend said he must've gone to college to have thought of that. I said she learned an important lesson that day: Charm gets you further than mean.

I Have a Cool Brother

Today my brother treated me to lunch at Red Lobster. He's a pretty cool guy. I mean, I'm kind of dorky and more than a little dramatic, yet my brother is very smooth and collected. He told me he passed his accounting class. We bumped knuckles. Thass my boy.

I Don't Know Anything About Cars

I can be a snarky smartypants about lots of stuff . . . except for cars. When it comes to cars, I'm a helpless, exposed little rabbit, drained of any verve, snap, crackle or pop. I'm a wide-eyed, blank-faced naif. However, beneath the bland, numb surface of my un-knowledge seethes a roiling, hissing cauldron of Ican'tstandthefactthatIcanbetakenasasucker.

So, after I jumped in my car last Sunday to scurry away to church only to be jolted by a dismaying non-start, I took it in on Monday. Thank God it was as simple as just needing a new battery. I know that words like 'alternator' and 'transmission' are bad, so after hearing a mere 'new battery,' I was shouting on the inside.

But come Wednesday night, the fool "check engine" light flickers on. Oh, really? So, this morning I took it back in and they said they'd take a look at it right away. Thank you, kind sir. Cuz I was bout to go get my cousin n'nem come up in heah an tell you you bett not be tryna play me.

Car guy: Well, Miss Smith, it didn't have anything to do with installing the battery. There's this instrument attached to your xgijagwgl sensor called an asfoiajgfahr8 and when woeruj evaporates it can cause erifojrgfio. It seemed that foijrmfoiwe was a little loose and may have been leaking, so we went in and tightened your rdfoijoit cap and the check engine light went off, so I think we may have fixed your problem.

Me: So there's no major, like, problems or leaks or anything?

Car guy: (handing me back my keys) No, ma'am. You're good to go.

Me: Thanks. (walks out dazed)

All I have to say is whatever poor soul out there who ends up pledging to stick with me for life better know something about cars.

You Won't Believe What I Did Yesterday Morning

Yesterday morning, my brain was flinging itself onto divans. It was traipsing through meadows in search of an elusive fawn. It was backstroking through an idyllic, mythical lake. It was drowning itself in a million figmental sorrows.

Plus it was raining.

I stepped outside with my NPR bag full of Spanish academic miscellany (which I hardly use since I'm not teaching now) and, armed with a flimsy fuschia umbrella, locked the door from the inside and pulled it to, thinking I would proceed to hop in my car and drive to work.

I was wrong.

As soon as I took a step towards my car, I realized that I didn't have my keys out. And when I realized I didn't have my keys out, I realized I didn't have my purse. And when I realized I didn't have my purse, I realized I had locked my purse (with keys) inside the house. And when I realized I had locked my purse (with keys) inside the house, I realized I couldn't get back into the house. And when I realized I couldn't get back into the house, I realized I had also left my cell phone in the house. And when I realized I had also left my cell phone in the house, I realized that I couldn't easily call anyone to help me resolve my dilemma. And when I realized I couldn't easily call anyone to help me resolve my dilemma, I realized I was adrift.

These realizations actually only took about 0.75 seconds to process.

So I did the futile things that people in like surreal situations usually do, ranging from berating myself to trying the knob to see if by some miraculous mechanical miracle it would yield. 'Twas all in vain. I stood there right outside the front door, watching the rain fall and soaking in the absurdity of life.

The rest of the story is anti-climatic, in a practical kind of way. After a few seconds of soaking in the absurdity of life, I went to a neighbor's house and was able to call my mom to relate to her my plight. I then called the department to let them know that, due to, er, delays, I would be in late.

Oh, and between my mom's arrival and my driving off into the sunset, I gave a tearful monologue on how much I despise having to rely on other people, how I hate feeling dependent and how I'm 27 and am supposed to be an adult. My mom, in so many words, said, "This is life. Get over it." And then I drove off into the sunset.

One of the odd pleasures

in my life is going to Starbucks at the student center where they always ask you your name to write on the cup, and awaiting my drink to see what amusing misspelled rendering of my name the barista decided upon.

One of the Things That Makes Me Laugh Every Time I Think About It

When I was subbing for one of my colleagues on maternity leave earlier this semester, I had a student in my class named Charlie.

I was passing back papers and when I went to hand Charlie his paper back I accidentally dropped it. Picking it up, I said, "Oops! Sorry, Charlie." I immediately started laughing at the fact that I had just said, "Sorry, Charlie," and then I tried (unsuccessfully) to stop and felt badly because I didn't want him to think I was making fun of his name. Besides, I was sure he'd been teased with "Sorry, Charlie" his whole life, and I had a feeling he wasn't as amused as I was.

France Update

Ah, bon. Pretty much everything is in place for my departure next month. It is absolutely ridiculous that it's less than a month away. I've got my ticket, I've got my visa, I have my accommodations arranged, and I've taken my placement test. I'm set.

Quick recap: I applied for and won a scholarship through a service club, Rotary International, to study abroad in Tours, France for six months. I'll be attending a language institute 20 hours a week and living with a host family. My responsibilities will be to attend class (of course), give presentations at Rotary meetings in France (in French!) and share American culture with those I meet. My scholarship covers tuition, room, board and round trip travel.

God has been very good to me by providing me with part-time employment during my transition between graduation and leaving to go abroad. But the fact of the matter is that I will not be allowed to work abroad (legally) and, after some recent calculations, it appears that my scholarship won't be enough to cover financial obligations that I'm still taking care of stateside.

In the end, I've worked, but have not saved what I anticipated. If any readers would be so gracious, I've installed a way for you to help by way of the PayPal donate button you'll find above. Any little bit would mean a lot to me. Merci beaucoup!

A Million Miles Tour Report

A more informative, less giddy report on my night with Don Miller has been featured on the latest edition of 90&9. Check it out here.

My Tres Leches Cake

You 'ont know nothin' bout DIS!

What 'chu know bout DAT?

Awww, yeah. It's the milky silky Tres Leches cake all topped with whipped cream all up in my fridge all up in ya girl's kitchen. Yeah. Tres Leches, son.

So, I was in Texas and we made a quick stop by a supermarket named Fiesta. I virtually stepped into Mexico. Mariachi music on the loudspeakers, signs in Spanish, spicy, foreign, Cheeto-like snacks in the snack aisle. I was in a wonderland of Spanishness. When I saw a bilingual Duncan Hines box mix for Tres Leches cake, I snatched that bad boy up and vowed to make it once I returned to my syrupy sweet native (sort of) Alabama.

Sweet potato pie's been scarfed away, peach cobbler's been gobbled, so I whipped up this sucka. Mmmm. Silky milky goodness.

Prince Caspian

I have seen both Narnia movies more times that I'd like to admit. Wiping drool away from my mouth after awakening from having slept through the bulk of the second one, Prince Caspian, I caught the tail end. Peter, Susan, Edmond and Lucy, after having saved Narnia once again, say their farewells and head back through the portal to return to their lives as English schoolkids.

It hit me that night how deeply sad that part is. (And it's not because Susan impulsively kisses Prince Caspian after she tells him it wouldn't work. Prince Caspian is a total weenie throughout the whole movie. Good riddance, Susan.) For some reason, that night, it left a hollow in my soul. I mean it. And the song that accompanies it, "The Call" by Regina Spektor, is so hauntingly sadly beautiful, I just wanted to scream, "No! Don't go back! Stay in Narnia forever!"

When will I get it through my head that Narnia is make-believe?

Today is Thanksgiving Day

so I'll do what everyone does and what everyone should do and list the things that I am thankful for.

1. The grace and mercy of God.

2. A functional, supportive family.

3. My health.

4. A working car.

5. My education.

6. Chocolate.

7. The opportunity to travel.

8. Straight teeth.

9. Time off.

10. Cool, funny brothers who would fight for me at the drop of a hat.

11. The laughter of children.

12. Good, true, honest friends.

13. My present inability to gain significant weight.

14. Healthy parents who look like they'll last a long, long time.

15. A safe, cozy place to sleep at night.

16. Sunflowers.

17. Hot, buttery Auntie Anne's pretzels with no salt from the mall.

18. Things that make me laugh every time I think about them.

19. Hugs.

20. Smiles. (Especially from attractive, tall, bespectacled men.)

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Morning Prayer

My mind is crammed with me.

Moving creatures jostling, wriggling

Infused with me

Injected with Serum of Me

And left to grow frantic.

Deconstruct me.

Decentralize me.

Don't leave me tangled in me

Forced to breathe the odor of me

Sweet, fearful stench.

Unfold me.

Instead, I want to carry

The power of small things:

One word, one grain, one note, one drop, one thread

At ease with days of no resolve.

Show me.

I am a beloved stranger.

Strangers learn by imitation

Strangers smile at approximation

They know this is not their country.

On Love

There was a little girl in my Sunday School class yesterday. She was inconsolable. She pushed away crayons, stickers. She declined the opportunity to paste brightly colored feathers onto a handprint turkey. She said "no" to a fuzzy bear that wanted a hug. She cried. She whined. She tantrumed. She pulled out and tried to knock down multi-colored wooden chairs. She wandered around the room instead of joining the group.

Even the most unhappy children perk up for snack time. But she pushed away even animal crackers and juice. I almost gave up. I didn't know what this child wanted. She wasn't even crying for Mommy like most of the criers do. I finally bent down and picked her up, fully expecting her to push me away. But instead of wriggling out of my grasp, she clung to me and buried her face in my neck. I rubbed her back and told her "it's okay" until she calmed down.

That's all she wanted. Someone to hold her and love her and give her positive attention.

I held her in my lap as I continued with the lesson. She slowly began to eat the animal crackers, drink the juice and eventually participate with the other children.

It was amazing to me. There are so many children whose parents, due to youth, poverty and ignorance, don't treat them like children. Maybe they treat them the way they were treated as children. It becomes a vicious cycle.

Maybe I'll have the chance to teach the little girl again.

The whole experience made me think about how I will treat my own children and how important it is, above anything else, to show them love.

This Just In! OMG!

I twittered my t-shirt pics to Don Miller and got a DIRECT REPLY from him!

You have a new direct message:

donmilleris: My girl!!! Yes! So good Chan. Thanks so much. You are such a bright spot on the tour for me.

I am in 7th Heaven. So sweet.

My Brush with Destiny

As any faithful readers know, last night was my brush with destiny. After so many years of being touched by Don Miller's writing, and as a result, loving him, I finally met him in the flesh. It was fantastic.

Okay, let me start out by saying this: Everything on my wishlist came true. (Mention on his blog as yet undetermined.) Boy, am I glad I wore my shirt! It was a hit. People commented on it, but most of all, Don loved it. When I walked up to him to get my book signed, he was pleasantly surprised at my shirt. He was all flattered and said it was great and asked me to send him a picture. Then he asked for a hug. I was more than happy to oblige.

Here's the thing: Because of time constraints, Don was only to autograph the books. No time for writing special messages, etc. But Don himself asked me my name and wrote an unsolicited special message in my book right above his autograph. Take a look at the slideshow and see everything for yourself:

I'll be writing a less giddy, more informative report on my night with Don Miller for 90&9 soon. But for now, a few details:

1. Susan Isaacs was Don's warm-up act, so to speak, and she did a great piece from her book Angry Conversations with God.

2. While Don was chatting right before intermission about The Mentoring Project and Worldvision, he tripped off of the platform! It was a really bad trip, but he saved himself from actually taking a dive. I was horrified, but he recovered quite nicely with his signature self-deprecating humor. It endeared him to me even more, though. It made him seem more human.

3. I sat in the very first pew, front and center. I am so thankful that my friend insisted we sit right up front. She also took many of the pictures for me. She really helped to make it a special night for me. Love you, k.

I don't think anything could have gone much better. Don really exceeded my expectations!

Today Is Don Miller Day!

Omgness. Freakingoutity. Ican'tbelieveitescence.

If you notice, there's no more counting down on my "Days Before My Brush With Destiny" widget. Today is the day. Don Miller and I will be in the same lifespace and there is nothing that can prevent destiny from running its course.

Whenever faced with a situation of such epic proportions, a million absurdities begin to dance through my head. What if I:

1. Ran onstage and jumped on Don Miller's back?

2. Stood on my chair in the middle of his talk and started singing "Halo" to him?

3. Leaned in and smelled him while he signed my book?

Not that I would even seriously consider doing any of these things; I guess thinking about doing absurd things that I would never do amuses me.

Okay, let's be more realistic. I would be satisfied if I ended the night with:

1. Getting A Million Miles in a Thousand Years signed by him.

2. Saying something to him and him responding to me.

3. Getting a picture taken with him.

I would be even happier if:

1. I got a hug from him.

2. He smiled at me.

3. He mentioned me on his blog.

My next post will be a rundown of how many of these things came to pass. And it came to pass in those days that twentysomething women became obsessed with Donald Miller; they went to hear him speak, and the plague was stayed.

And if you take a look at Don's tweets, he says he's on his way to Birmingham! He's coming!

Yet Another List

1. Dallas was great. I spent time with a lovely friend and her endearing daughter. Sometimes you just need to get away and see different faces and breathe different air. I'm grateful for friends who allow you to do that.

2. I learned how to make cake balls. I'm so going to make some. They're decadent bon-bons of icing-moistened chocolate cake formed into balls and then dipped into melted chocolate. In the process, I learned the 11th Commandment: Thou shalt never waste chocolate.

3. A cat with a French name inspires one to speak to it in French.

4. I now know what a horse apple is, and I'm aware that worms can crawl out of them with perfect timing. Here is a picture of one for your enlightenment:



5. God can use anybody anywhere anytime to tell you anything. Picture this: You're slipping out of the tail end of an Israel and New Breed concert because your friend's daughter needs to be picked up from the babysitter's and you're in the parking lot when a person you don't know and that your friend doesn't know runs out after you, introduces herself and tells you that God impressed upon her to pray for you. At first you're kind of stunned, but then you consent, planning to just be nice, pray and go on your way. But then you end up basically having a personal Day of Pentecost in the middle of the parking lot.

6. Imagination is definitely an asset in dealings with imaginative 9-year-olds.

7. I must work on seeming less awkward and dumbfounded when I am the target of an unexpected mack.

8. If you're me and have a connecting flight, you will have a flight delay that will cause you to miss your connecting flight. And then you will buy McNuggets with a meal voucher and spend the night in a king-sized bed.

9. You know the song "Home On the Range?": "Where seldom is heard a discouraging word/ And the skies are not clouded all day?" I used to think that 'seldom' was the discouraging word that is heard. As if it were written like this: "Where 'seldom' is heard, a discouraging word, and the skies are not clouded all day." What a difference punctuation makes.

10. I ate a green apple on the way to work today that was the Platonic ideal of a green apple. It was large and firm and crisp and tart, and was the most beautiful green apple green. It looked like it belonged on the cover of Green Apple magazine. But there was a small bruise. I guess even the most perfect things on this earth are still somehow flawed.

TTFN

Tomorrow morning I'm up at the crack of dawn (again!) to head out the the airport. I'm visiting a friend in the great state of Texas. So, just a head's up that my blog baby may take a lil nap till Sunday, unless some breaking news happens. Deuces!

I'm up early again

this morning because I had to take my mom to the airport. Come to think of it, I'll be going to the airport myself a little later on this week to visit a friend in Dallas. Maybe it's not so bad that I don't have a lot of friends where I'm located currently. It gives me an excuse to get up and go somewhere.

Once I got back from the airport, going back to sleep was not an option. I'm, unfortunately, one of those people who can't go back to sleep. Once I'm up, I'm up.

So, I did what every self-respecting girl who's up early and can't go back to sleep would do -- I got my housewife on. I whipped up a pretty superb omelet, if I may say so myself. An homage to my upcoming French experience. I can actually say coherent, conversational things in French at this point. I can talk about myself, my family, what I like to do, I can describe events in the past. I've been corresponding with my host counselor and people at my little language school in French. They think my French is good because I can write it okay, but I'm afraid they'll be disappointed when they hear me speak.

Over tea, I read a Don Miller interview from a link sent to me by my go-to book guy, and it descended upon me how close my brush with destiny is! On my countdown, I have just over a week left. Reading the interview, I thought about how, in a little over a week from now, I may have an opportunity to talk to him too. But what would I say? I don't want to be a giggly groupie, but I want to impress in his mind how much his writing has truly meant to me. And the thing is, I know scores of other people have probably said the same thing to him. I want to be unique. I want him to remember me.

On the Road in the Morning

Today, I got up at the crack of dawn and made the trek to the French consulate to present all of my little documents to procure a visa so that I can legally reside in France for 6 months.

When I'm in my car, on the road, by myself, driving a distance to wherever, part of me feels empowered. I'm a woman on a mission. Handling my business. Going where I need to go. Doing what I want to do. I can fill up my car with gas, jump in, and go anywhere I want. The world feels open, limitless. I'm passing slow moving cars, watching the sky lighten, scanning the road for cops tucked away in enclaves lying in wait to catch speeders unawares, Mapquest directions my only companion. (I don't have a GPS.) I'm on a journey headed for a sure destination.

But another part of me feels in my place, circumscribed by lines that I can't change. Instead of the world feeling open and limitless, it feels empty and lonely. The rubber hits the road and the wheels spin. Over and over and over. I feel a sense of inevitability and sameness. Ecclesiastes (which I'm convinced is the most depressing book of the Bible) rolls through my head: That which was is that which shall be. There is no new thing under the sun. I'm reminded of the many things beyond my control. NPR and old dcTalk songs can't drown out the buzzing in my head. The lightening sky serves as the backdrop for my mind to dredge up things I'm trying to leave behind and I feel the powerlessness that memory can bring.

I flip back and forth between the two like pre-programmed radio stations. Open and limitless, empty and lonely. An unwritten future, an unchangeable past. The unknown is exciting, the unknown is daunting. I have a quarter tank of gas left, my tank is 3/4ths empty.

The funny thing is that I romanticize both of them. Open and limitless, ah, la vie en rose. Empty and lonely, ah, a beautifully tragic solitude. It really is funny. Like, comically funny. Once I get over flipping between the two pre-programmed philosophical radio stations, the next stage is self-parody. In one scene, I'm galloping through rainbows and fields of daffodils on a unicorn. In the next, I'm gathering fallen rose petals in the cold to wipe my tear-streaked face.

There's got to be a realistic medium that is neither sun-streaked nor tinged with gray. There is, and I live it reluctantly every day. My brain can't stop my heart from hoping. My heart can't stop my brain from overanalyzing.

Set in Stone

My ticket to France has been purchased. I'm leaving January 3rd. It's set in stone. I'm going.

I also now have everything together to (finally) apply for my visa. Yay! I have an appointment at the French consulate Monday morning.

Any time I get down, my new way to deal with it will be to repeat to myself over and over I'm going to France, I'm going to France, I'm going to France!

Seriously, how dare I even think about getting depressed when I have a whole 6-month, all-expenses-paid trip to France awaiting me?

Me 1: (in a fetal position) My life is bleak.

Me 2: (incredulous) Are you serious?

Me 1: (nodding weakly, sighing) Everything is so uncertain. I mean, there are so many things I'm unsure about . . . who knows what I'm going to do when I get back from France --

Me 2: I'm sorry? Did you just say "when I get back from France"? You haven't even left yet! Why on Earth are you worrying about when you get back?

Me 1: (burying face in hands) I know . . . nobody understands . . . I wish things weren't this way . . . it's just so hard to deal with the contradictions of myself and being so analytical yet so emotional and not knowing what to do and feeling like I don't know what I'm doing and wishing I had never --

Me 2: (getting up, grabbing Me 1 by the shoulders and shaking her) You're killing me! Listen, you have been handed an opportunity to go live in another country for 6 months and your only responsibilities are learning French and being a good American. And everything's paid for! So, please, cut the existential angst crap and go SAT yourself down somewhere. I mean, really. You're so annoying.

Me 1: (sniffling) Sorry.

Me 2: (feeling perhaps she had been a little harsh) It's all right. C'mere. (gives Me 1 a sympathetic hug) Just do yourself a favor and skip the David Gray songs on your iPod for a while, okay? Stick with your Motown oldies playlist for now.

Me 1: (smiling slowly) Okay.

Mighty, Mighty, Mighty God!

That's what my mom reported saying to the doctor and technician this morning when she found that she, in fact, did not have to get a certain procedure done. But if you knew my mom, you'd know that that was probably the abridged version of what she did once she found out the news. My mom is that lady in church. Yes, that lady who used to make me slide down in the pew and disown her in my mind when I was a teenager. That is not my mom shouting and dancing while everyone else is calmly clapping. That is not my mom laying prostrate speaking in tongues in front of the whole church and it's not even altar call yet. What's funny is that in small ways I'm turning into her. Maybe one day my daughter will go through a phase of disowning me in her mind during church, too.

It's exciting that God cares and knows. He knew my mom didn't want to have to undergo that procedure. She was worried about it. It was a cloud over her. A weight. She was prepped and ready and draped in one of those gowns, waiting nervously. And just when she thought it was time, instead, the doctor said that he wasn't going to put her through that. After re-examining the results of previous tests, he determined that it was unnecessary. Mighty, mighty, mighty, God!

It's a testimony for my mom, but it's a testimony to other people too. Just when we think the worst is to come, God can suddenly lift a weight off our shoulders. I forget this time and time again, but today I remembered that He is in control.

My New Tea Love

Dear chai tea,

I thought I would never get over you. Here and there I had a few dalliances with French vanilla tea and honey chamomile tea, but still, I clung to chai tea. You dominated my tea palate.

But one day, I took a sip of lemon ginger tea and my world turned upside down. That lemony zing. That gingery spice. It was soothing, yet energizing. Lemonly calming, while at the same time rocking my world with a ginger-flavored bite. I surrendered to it, and realized that I could move on. Chai tea lattes didn't have to dominate my tea palate. There were other unique, flavorful teas that I could love, too.

Chai tea, this doesn't mean that I've forgotten you. That I won't occasionally whip up a latte of your essence. I'm just saying that lemon ginger tea is what's up right now. It's that tea. But knowing my various and capricious tastes, who's to say some other tea won't come along and make lemon ginger but a byword? Who's to know I won't be writing a similar letter to it in the near future?

As a tea yourself, I think you understand. Tea tastes come and go. There was a time when Earl Grey was all the rage, but now something even as modern as green tea knows that nothing gold can stay. You must understand.

Maybe we'll come full circle. Maybe one day, I'll be in my old age, in a rocking chair, sipping you while reading a story to my grandchildren for whom I've prepared sweet, milky mugs of you. Who knows what the future holds?

But for now, I must say goodbye. Things have changed. Lemon ginger has stolen my heart.

Sincerely,

Me

Today is my off day.

Or one of my off days. As I mentioned earlier, the department is keeping me on as an assistant even though my teaching gigs are up and I'm working a very flexible 10 hours a week.

I like having time to get stuff done. I like having time to relax. There's a lot of stuff to get done, and I like to relax. But sometimes I hate having time to think. I hate having the possibility of wasting time, brain space, and emotional energy absorbed in the perceived complexities of my existence.

I'm not that big of a deal. It's not all about me. I'm almost done with A Million Miles in a Thousand Years by, yes, Don Miller, and as he put it in his book, we're just trees in a story about a forest.

It just doesn't help that the sky is overcast, that my aunt went back to Philly this morning, and that I'm left to inevitably mull over a nearly 5-hour conversation last night. That started at 11 p.m.

Sometimes I wish I could be George W. Bush. I could be the decider. Not do nuance. See things in black and white. Stick to my guns. Go with my gut. Look people in the eye and see into their souls. But instead I'm Barack Obama, pensive, calculating, achingly aware of the complexity and consequence and nuance inherent in every decision I make and every situation I face and nearly paralyzed because of it. It's not as simple a matter as either sending more troops to Afghanistan or deucing out of Afghanistan completely. It's not as simple a matter as either continuing to see someone or completely cutting them out of your life.

Where there is clear black and white, a Rock of Ages, I unashamedly cling to it. I make no excuses. But, try as I might to be Dubya, there are simply too many shades of gray to ignore.

Prayer changes and helps, I know it. It has brought me out of many a pit of pseudo-despair. I guess I'm still learning what it means to be a tree in a story about a forest.

This Morning

I woke up.

I sat on the bed, wrapped in the same teddy bear robe I've had since I was a teenager and looked out the window.

I allowed tears to fall until I noticed a solitary rose still left on the rosebush in the backyard.

I put on those clogs my aunt gave me, found a pair of scissors, and went outside.

Careful not to scratch myself on the thorns, I clipped it.

I examined it. Frail.

I smelled it. Its fragrance had all but gone.

I carried it back into my room and set it on my chest of drawers.

If roses could know things, I would want it to know that it died giving someone a bit of wonder instead of out there on the rosebush alone.

Smell that?

It's the sweet aroma of my ticket for the A Million Miles Tour that I got in the mail yesterday. See?

When an envelope from iTickets.com was brought into me on a silver charger along with the other letters and calling cards of the day, I had to instruct my heart to be still. When I opened it up with the letter opener with an ivory handle that Lord Smithsworth purchased for me during his sojourn in the exotic climes of Asia, my senses were flooded with such a sweet fragrance that I swooned. Once my devoted lady-in-waiting, Agnes, revived me with smelling salts, I grasped my Don Miller-penned tome, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years and clutched it to my breast, exhaling scores of melancholy sighs and allowing a solitary tear to escape, in expectation of the day, the fateful day, where Sir Don shall sign my book and I shall experience a brush with very Destiny.

Realignment

Things are slowly realigning. Getting back into whack.

1. Got my medical check up to say I'm healthy enough to spend 6 months abroad. Now I have everything together in order to get my tickets, which will set in stone that I'm going to France (and then I'll have one more thing I need to get my visa). Imagine this said to you in a British accent: "Well, it appears that you're disgustingly healthy." He said it in a quite jocular manner. Indeed, he was joshing. Quite.

2. I got my Don Miller t-shirt in the mail. Yes, I got a t-shirt custom made to wear to the fateful event. Please let him love me back. I have conscripted at least one buddy, possibly a few others, to join me on this glorious occasion. Hilarity shall ensue. And I will have the pictures to prove it.

3. There are friends, and then there are friends, unfiltered. This blog, as if you already didn't know, is filtered. There have been times that I wish I would have filtered it a wee bit more in the past, but alas. On this blog, I gotta check myself before I wreck myself. There are friends that you have to filter with. You know, you share politely, and titter at their jokes. There's a filter in place. But then there are friends, unfiltered. You share unashamedly and cackle at their jokes. You open your mouth really wide and let all your teeth show without reservation. I love friends like that. I love them boundlessly.

4. I love my children. My wannabe children/Sunday school students. They dressed up like Moses (i.e. I draped them in bath towels) and we climbed an imaginary mountain to get "God's ten rules." There's a little girl in my class who always wants the pink one. No matter what it is. She wants pink construction paper, and she wants the pink playdoh. She was very specific about the fact that she was a girl Moses. My kinda gal.

Okay, so

I'm freaking out because I have crazy paperwork to fill out to apply for a French visa. That's not including the procedures and stuff I have to complete even after I get there. What was I thinking? I don't remember it being this involved when I applied for a Spanish visa before I spent a semester abroad in Spain (you can read all about that here). Picky Frenchies. Always having to make things très compliqué. I had a dude from the French Consulate in Atlanta call me up to respond to an email I sent and I had to rewind my mind light years to catch what he was saying. And he was speaking English. Uh, oh . . .

Not only have I been getting paid for teaching two classes at the rate I was getting paid for teaching four (score!), but it appears that the department is going to try to keep me on to do other projects. I was totally not expecting to continue working after colleague #2 got back from having her baby. For real. After this gig was up, I was planning on joining the long line of the currently unemployed and milking the system, but they're trying to work something out for me, which is totally unexpected, totally unsolicited, and totally a blessing. Cuz tha kid need to keep chasin that paper, ya smell me?

He Heard Me

A good thing about being Pentecostal is that emotional responses to God are the norm and even encouraged. Granted, as with most things taken to the extreme, it can also be negative because people can get addicted to responding emotionally without responding with a commitment to Him. Nevertheless, sometimes all you need is an emotional release. A time and space to completely empty yourself. To let go of all the pent up frustration and anger and loneliness. A catharsis. A cleansing. To be allowed to break down into your most basic substance and allow God to do with it what He will.

I'm glad that I'm in a place where I feel the freedom to be completely open with God and with my feelings and that I can publicly and unashamedly lay everything out before Him. That I can get completely, for lack of a better word, ugly before Him without restraint or regret.

Last night was one of those services. No preaching. Just praying. Just opening up to Him.

Before I knew it, I found myself doubled over, screaming over and over again. I know this may sound kind of hard core and odd to people who have never had an experience like this, but I feel compelled to share it. I found myself on the floor, broken, unable to form intelligible words yet still communicating to Him to take it all. Because I'm so weary of trying to do it myself. Because I wasn't meant to do it by myself or for myself.

The world hasn't changed. Negative situations haven't become miraculously undone. But I know that He heard me.

In my distress I cried unto the LORD, and he heard me (Psalm 120:1).

Letters From My Friend: Response to Molluskophobia

Dearest K,

I'm no expert, to be sure, but I'm willing to bet part of what allows you to cope with your phobia is the idea of empowerment. Sure. When you have that cylindrical container of salt at your disposal, you are empowered. Mollusks have no hold on you. You can tell them mollusks that the devil is a liya when you get your salt on. Even the thug slugs.

The same can be said of the feeling I get when I'm in my taekwondo class. Though I have no specific phobias, I will admit that at times I feel intimidated. I do. I feel intimidated as a young, slight female. I feel like the violators and predators of the world would pick me out of a crowd as an easy target. But not so. Not when I can execute deadly knife hand strikes. And I know a few one-step sparring moves now, too? Aww, shucks.

But talking about feeling empowered due to my taekwondo class was only a segue into what I really want to talk about. And that is my instructor. Tonight, I had a private lesson. Hee, hee. It appears that people have better things to do on a Friday night than go to a 6:30 karate class . . . except for me. I could have had a private lesson last Friday night, too, but the thought of me alone with Mr. Kim (not his real name) was too much to bear. There would have been no one else to hide behind, to mask my foibles and lack of coordination. But tonight, I was up to the titillating challenge. Just me and Mr. Kim.

He stretched me out to my limit. Really, I felt muscles I didn't know I had. I practiced fake beating him up with crescent kicks and punches. I jumped rope 115 times in a minute. I did 10 real push-ups and 15 sit ups. I discovered that he was 24. He couldn't believe I was 27. Heh, heh. And I told him kam-sa-ham-ni-dah when I left. That's Korean for "thank you." He seemed impressed. (sigh.)

May you continue to kill slugs with impunity and relish with your all-powerful salt. And I will continue to garner the skills to do much damage to any wannabe adversaries (while nursing a slight instructorial crush). Together, we will perpetuate empowerment until the end of our days.

Yours,

Chantell

Letters From My Friend: Molluskophobia

Dear Chantell,

After much googling and dictionarying.com, I have discovered the name of my problem. Molluskophobia. Molluskophobia is a fear of slugs. I know how ridiculous it is to have as a phobia, but that's what a phobia is, an irrational fear. This fear is also slightly inclusive of worms and caterpillars. It's the bonelessness, I think, that bothers me. It's their movement.

Slugs come out with the rain. An online comment from a fellow molluskophobia sufferer stated, " I dread the rain, because that's when the slugs come out." This is so true. Everytime it rains, like now, I look down when I walk. The part of the fear that is the silliest, though seemingly the most true, is that the slugs will get on my shoes. If they get on my shoes, they can move up my shoes, and onto me. I'm most afraid of skin-to-skin contact. If a slug is within ten feet away, I can be calm. However, if I see more than one slug, I know they are all around me. This typically causes me to breathe faster and sometimes, I hyperventilate. I panic. I check my shoes repeatedly. I have to remove myself from the vicinity.

Salt. I love it. I can never have enough. Salt is the only thing I know that immediately kills slugs. It also gives them what I perceive to be an agonizing death. When salt is poured on a slug, they begin to melt, their bodies twisting and writhing, until there is only a liquid stain where they were. Though I cringe while killing them, it gives me immense satisfaction. To ward off slugs from being around my house, I sprinkle salt everywhere. Everytime it rains, I sprinkle salt on the slick concrete of the back patio--slugs love slick concrete. I sprinkle it on the front porch. This practice may seem absurd, but I would see slugs in my house when I was growing up. They do come in.

Molluskophobia has interfered with decisions in my life. I am a part of a poetry program, as you know, called Cave Canem. Every year they have a week long poetry retreat. I was accepted last year so for the first time I drove to Greensburg, Pennslyvania, a.k.a the "Land of Slugs." Here, the slugs had "slug life" tattooed on their backs. It was cool to be a slug in Greensburg because they dominated. The fattest, discolored slugs hung hard in the cracks of the sidewalks, and at night, hundreds moved out onto the slick, cool, concrete. I was in bed early every night. People would ask me if I was going to this or that night activity. "No." I said. Finally after an embarrassing episode during the day, it came out that I was afraid of the slugs. Everyone was really supportive. When they wanted to hang out with me, they came to my room and walked me to the next location. I even had one sweet woman remove slugs off the steps for me, while I looked on, hyperventilating and moaning. The best place to have something weird about you is at a poetry retreat. This past summer, one of my reasons for not attending the retreat was the overwhelming presence of slugs in PA. I couldn't do it. When I do return, I am taking several containers of salt with me, and I lie to you not.

So as you can see, Chantell, slugs are the bane of my existence. And there is no psychotherapy, no hypnotism, and no Maury episode that will relieve me because I will have none of it. I will never familiarize myself with a slug. I will continue hating them. I will be vigilant. If it is within my power, I will kill every one I see.

Countdown

The time is drawing near when I must prepare to see him. Yes, him. The one about whom I fantasize meeting at the airport. My husband-in-my-mind. Don Miller. If you wish to grasp the depth of my Don Miller love, feel free to peruse these additional past posts:

I (Heart) Don Miller

More Don

Don Miller Has a New Blog!

Don Miller: Speaking Something into Nothing

Co-Author with Don Miller!

I've posted previously about his coming, but I've since found that the stop originally planned in my fair city has been cancelled. However, there is an event that has been added in Birmingham (about an hour and a half away) on November 19, so I'm on it.

I've already bought his newest book, A Million Miles in a Thousand Years (which he must autograph) and I'm quite a ways through it already, and I've custom ordered a t-shirt that says "I (heart) Don Miller" to wear on the big day. I was trying to conscript someone to go with me. I feel like I might be tempted to do something outlandish and I'm going to need someone to hold me back.

There's got to be some way to let Don Miller know how much I love him. I have to somehow make him realize that I'm not like the other groupie girls who like him because he's Christian yet cool. I don't care about his edginess. His Christian "bad boy" air. I love him because he speaks to a raw hollow in my soul. His words reach in and wrench my adrenaline-laced gut until my heart beats to their cadence. They strum a harrowing chord of recognition within me until my tears dance to the sound. He must understand this.

I've added a widget in the sidebar to count down, with growing expectation, the days before my brush with destiny.

Oh, this is glorious.

So, today's the last day I'm covering for one of my colleagues who's on maternity leave. She's coming back Wednesday. The day she comes back, I'll still come in to work to tie up loose ends with grading, etc., we'll have a transitional meeting with the GTAs who, up to this point, I've been "mentoring," and then I'll hand things over to her.

Starting Friday, I'll start with the 2nd colleague I'm covering for who's about to have her baby. Once she goes into labor, I'll take over her classes until she comes back. She's only teaching two classes (down from the four I've been covering) and the earliest class is at 1p.m. (in contrast to the 8 a.m. which has heretofore started out my day. And let's not forget factoring in the 45 minute commute.) And since she's a 2nd year GTA herself, there are no GTAs to mentor. I'll be getting paid a little less, but I'm still making that paper.

Oh, this is glorious.

*UPDATE @ 4:38 p.m.*

So much for "starting Friday" for colleague #2. Homegirl had the baby today. Looks like I've got the reins on Wednesday!

Obama Wins Nobel Peace Prize

Caramba. I love my boy, but I nearly veered off the road when I heard on NPR this morning that he won the Nobel Peace Prize!

Even for me that was a little too much to swallow. I guess my slight problem with this baffling info is not that Obama has been awarded it, but the blatantly political, more so than other, reasons in awarding it. The committee is using my boy to send a message about how much the world couldn't stand Bush. I mean, we get it. I couldn't stand him either, but don't use my boy and the credibility of the Peace Prize for that.

But here's the irony. I, along with everyone else who may pooh-pooh the prize committee's decision to award the Prize to Obama would say something to the effect of, "He's only been in office for 9 months! Let the guy get some stuff done first, and then we'll see." (I must emphasize that some would say that more rabidly than others.) BUT some of the same folks who say, "He's only been in office 9 months!" i.e. He hasn't been in office enough time to get substantial stuff done, are some of the same ones who would say, "He's been in office 9 months, and what does he have to show for it?" i.e. He has been in office enough time to get substantial stuff done and hasn't done it. So, is 9 months long enough or not? Make up your minds, folks.

I say he has made significant positive strides within these 9 months. But I'm unsure whether those strides are worthy of a Mother Teresa, Nelson Mandela, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Nobel Peace Prize. Now. I think Obama would agree, judging from his statement this morning. But I'm satisfied with his rationale for accepting it.

From the NYT transcript of his comments:

"I am both surprised and deeply humbled by the decision of the Nobel Committee.

Let me be clear, I do not view it as a recognition of my own accomplishments, but rather as an affirmation of American leadership on behalf of aspirations held by people in all nations.

To be honest, I do not feel that I deserve to be in the company of so many of the transformative figures who've been honored by this prize, men and women who've inspired me and inspired the entire world through their courageous pursuit of peace.

But I also know that this prize reflects the kind of world that those men and women and all Americans want to build, a world that gives life to the promise of our founding documents.

And I know that throughout history the Nobel Peace Prize has not just been used to honor specific achievement; it's also been used as a means to give momentum to a set of causes.

And that is why I will accept this award as a call to action, a call for all nations to confront the common challenges of the 21st century."

That's my boy.

I like when people do cute things.

I have this colleague/buddy who makes me laugh. He's the best person to sit by during mind-numbing meetings in order to amuse yourself with whispered snarky commentary and to struggle to stifle shoulder-shaking laughs with, and you can always count on him for conversations of political solidarity. (Which is a rarity for an Obama fan in a bleeding red state like Alabama.)

Our schedules are different this time around, so I rarely see him nowadays, but this morning he did something really cute, and I warned him that I would blog about it.

There I am in my office, putting the finishing touches on my lesson plan a little after 7 am. My cell chimes with the receipt of a text message. Who could that be this early? I read it and it says, "It's me." Before I could scroll down to see who it was from, he appears in my office doorway! The timing was perfect. It was like from a sitcom or something.

I love things like that. They're simple, but sweet. It put a smile on my face and got my day off to a good start.

I don't know how to title this post.

There are several things I'd like to discuss, yet they are only tangentially related.

First, I was going to name this post "The Waning of Pedicure Display Season" because I wanted to lament the fact that even though the French pedicure I got quite a while ago is still looking decent, the seasons are changing and I have a hankering for my boots, which = toes hidden under a bushel instead of being allowed to shine. But then I remembered that I do still have occasion to unashamedly exhibit my toes, and that is during my taekwondo class, so then I was going to name it "Mr. Kim and Master Woo, Pseudonyms" to talk self-deprecatingly about my lack of coordination, Master Woo's hardcoreness, and my slight crush on Mr. Kim. And then I realized there are characteristics about Mr. Kim that make me have a slight crush on him that are common to many I've had a slight crush on, so then I was going to enumerate those characteristics and title the post "How to Make Me Have a Crush on You."

Sigh. So, what to do? Pedicures . . . *yawn* So . . . taekwondo? Knife hand strikes are only exciting when witnessed live. Oh, and I witnessed a couple of black belts sparring last night. That was pretty cool. I'm still a lowly white belt. Which basically means I ain't nothin. My crush characteristics, then.

How to Make Me Have a Crush on You
by smartgirl

1. Be tall. If you're tall, you've gained major points by virtue of your existence.

2. Have bad eyesight. Because if you do, chances are you'll wear glasses. And I like glasses very much.

3. Have a slightly dorky/goofy manner about you. It's endearing. And it will make my inner nerd feel at ease when I'm around you.

4. Have something foreign about you. Not necessarily from another country. If there is anything different looking or sounding about you, I will probably have a crush on you.

5. Have specialized knowledge in something. If you know a lot about a particular area, I will be intrigued, especially if it's something I don't know a lot about.

6. Be funny. I'm easily amused, and have a very forthcoming laugh, so this one is probably the least insuperable.

Mr. Kim (not his name), along with others who come to mind, fits the bill perfectly. He's 1. very tall, 2. bespectacled, 3. on the dorky side 4. Korean and speaks heavily accented English, 5. teaches taekwondo which definitely counts as specialized knowledge, 6. makes everyone laugh.

And . . . I'm finally finished grading the absurd mountain of stuff I had to grade recently. Now I think I have one-millionth of an idea of how Jesus felt when he said, "It is finished."

And . . . I've been officially admitted to the Insititut de Touraine in Tours, France! Magnifique!

How to Test a Guy's Resolve

Have him spend an entire evening helping you grade exams.

An Analogy

Let's say a guy and a girl went to dinner. They both wanted dessert, but the guy only had enough money for one dessert, and the girl didn't have enough room for a whole dessert to herself anyway, so they both agreed to share. Of the choices, there was traditional chocolate cake with chocolate icing as well as dark chocolate cake with dark chocolate icing. To the guy, chocolate was chocolate. Both choices were chocolate cake with chocolate icing. Both choices were fine with him. But the girl was a little pickier. She had to have the dark chocolate. Sure, chocolate was chocolate, but they weren't the same to her. She preferred the dark chocolate. She would even go as far as to say that the dark chocolate was the best choice. He didn't have a preference, but she did. And since they were going to share, what would make the most sense for the guy to order?

On the first day of kick-butt . . .

my instructor gave to me a way to punch, block and kick-y.

I am so stoked about my taekwondo class. Today was the first day. Every time we make a move we say HEE-ya. That was the first awesome thing. I get to make karate noises.

I can punch, low block, high block, side block, and side strike. I can front kick, cross kick, snap kick and side kick. Aw, shucks. I can already do some serious damage.

One embarrassing confession, though. (And this would only happen to me.) In the middle of practicing kicks, my belt fell off! How in the world?! I was getting all excited about kicking my imaginary enemy into oblivion when my belt just fell off onto the floor. Then my instructor tied it so tightly I could hardly get the thing off when I changed back into my non-warrior clothes.

One downside: I am going to be SO sore tomorrow. Lawd hep me.

Snob Cravings and The Last Dragon

I wanted sushi. It's not like I eat it all the time or am some sort of snobby sushi connoisseur. But I wanted hunks of raw salmon on mounds of rice. I wanted something vegetabley and seaweedy. And so I wandered into Publix and was also struck by a craving for Camembert cheese. I don't even eat it, but I did have it at a French Club meeting a few weeks back, and I had to have some.

Chocolate is a normal craving. But sushi and Camembert? Even I would tell myself to go SAT down.

In other news, I picked up my taekwondo uniform this afternoon. When I tried it on, I felt fierce. Like a female Last Dragon. I start next week and can't wait! For those unversed in The Last Dragon, I leave you with this youTube clip:

Here I sit,

basking in the glow of my triumph. Procrastination has always plagued me. It's always threatened to suck me under. But somehow, somewhere, when I dig deep enough, I chance upon a raw lode of drive buried deep beneath the surface. And once I hit it, it's a wrap.

I woke up this morning, donned my iPod, armed myself with a cup of coffee, unsheathed my red pen, and got to work. I've corrected all of my compositions. I've slain the dragon of procrastination once again.

But oh, it ain't over. I still have to grade the revisions. And my students just took their first exam yesterday. I didn't even bring them home with me because I was still battling the first drafts of the compositions. They'll get done too, I suppose.

Speaking of battles, I've decided to take taekwondo classes. I'm gonna learn how to whup some tail.

Letters From My Friend: Debut Response

And now, my response to the debut of Letters From My Friend. Enjoy!

Ah! Dearest K.,

As I sharpen my metaphorical quill to dip into my metaphorical inkwell to respond to you, I must admit that I am presently relishing one of the brownies I baked after our most recent conversation. Chocolate cravings arise suddenly and madly and often last for days, as you well know. A question now forms in my mind: Dear Heavens, what ever would I have done to satisfy such a craving were I living in Dorian's time, or worse, Uncle Tom's time? Brownies were quite non-existent, and I daresay chocolate were not altogether easy to come by. I would have been a woman undone. Undone, I say.

But to respond to your initial inquiry. I understand all too well the mental conflict that two antithetical characters in two books being read simultaneously can cause. Truly, Uncle Tom and Dorian oppose one another in almost every way. Let's examine the oppositions:

1. Uncle Tom = elderly, Dorian = prime of youth

2. Uncle Tom = swarthy and wrinkled, Dorian = rosy-cheeked and smooth

3. Uncle Tom = indigent, Dorian = wealthy

4. Uncle Tom = passive and gentle, Dorian = active and violent

5. Uncle Tom = hopeful realist, Dorian = hopeless romantic

The list can surely go on. More disturbing than their utter antithesis is their quite realistic possible responses to you. Uncle Tom's advice on remaining enslaved is just as intolerable as Dorian's apathy towards you due to your particular dusky orange hue. But may I be so bold as to suggest that an earlier Dorian may have looked past your sienna just as he looked past Sibyl Vane's class?

Notwithstanding, none of these postulations or observations resolves the war taking place in your cerebral cortex. Perhaps it would at least calm the war, if not completely end it, if you were to look at these two fictional chaps in their particular contexts. Perhaps it would help to have sympathy towards them if you viewed them both as victims of their time and circumstance. Uncle Tom's dependency and passivity are a result of his being brought up to believe that he is sub-human property as a part of an institution American society allowed to exist. Dorian's debauched state is a result of being a part of an indolent, self-obsessed, hedonistic aristocracy that English society allowed to exist. You see, were we in Uncle Tom's or Dorian's shoes would we have been the better?

And a bit of advice: Don't fling yourself too liberally on any divans or chaise lounges in the presence of Lord Henry. We've previously discussed his corruptive designs.

Yours truly,

Chantell