Princess for a Day

My birthday dinner was fabulous. We ended up having Japanese curry instead of sushi. It was fantastic. We also ate a rich, decadent, to-die-for chocolate on chocolate cake made from scratch. I got Chinese fan, balloons and flowers in my absolute favorite color, a very sweet card, and a birthday tiara. I felt like an indulged little girl instead of a 27-year-old woman.

I am so thankful for friends who cared enough about me to want to make my birthday special. I didn't ask them to do this at all, and it meant so much to me.

Happy Birthday, Me!

I said I wasn't going to make a big deal about it, but what the hey. A birthday is something to be thankful for. Happy Birthday, me!

Messenger Bags

Another one of my idiosyncrasies.

I've already talked about my glasses obsession. Now, I've decided that I also have a thing for messenger bags.

In my weird, ideal mind-world, the perfect guy is walking around out there somewhere in a pair of specs with a messenger bag slung across his shoulder.

I guess I feel that there's something about messenger bags which carries (pun intended) a dash of bohemian mixed with a dash of intellectual mixed with a dash of professorial mixed with a dash of derring-do. Quite an interest piquing combination.

So, my birthday's around the corner.

I would prefer to downplay it and stay at home and sulk, (ever since 25, my outlook has become increasingly drear) but my pals won't let me.

They've taken it upon themselves to host a sushi dinner for me (since I like sushi and their wives are respectively Japanese and raised in the West Village). Awww, my pals are so sweet.

Perhaps I can console myself with the fact that people don't often think I'm as old as I am. I used to hate it but as post-twenties looms closer and closer, I appreciate it more and more.

However, I need to stop thinking that post-twenties is some kind of death sentence. It's absurd. Despite my melodramatic ideas about how things should be, I know that, ultimately, life goes on.

Random extra
My favorite words used in critique:
1. Absurd
2. Ludicrous
3. Ridiculous
4. Asinine
5. Maddening

Grading Papers

Nothing profound, just a declaration of the simple fact that I despise grading papers. Grading papers, especially badly written compositions, is the bane of my existence.

I mean, I know Spanish isn't their first language. I know. It's not mine either and I make mistakes all the time. But it's like, why are you using made up verb endings? There's no excuse for that. That's like expecting "My friend and I swauuck in the ocean" to make sense.

There's also a tendency for beginning students to directly translate. I understand that, I used to do it myself. If it were that simple of a case, I'd take my red pen, underline the directly translated phrase and write "TRAN" right above it. But how about if I have no earthly idea what you're trying to say? Mi amigo vacaciones Costa Rica para ir las maletas. My friend vacation Costa Rica in order to go suitcases. Really? So, now writing a composition means taking a bunch of random vocabulary words from the chapter, stringing them together and keeping your fingers crossed that they make some semblance of coherent thought?

I don't even want to think about the exams that I'm going to have to grade next week. Here's to a fruitful review day!

Results

This morning started out listlessly. Tired of it, skipping every song on my iPod on the way to class because I had heard it already, musing over the fact that everything I've done since high school has been temporary. I got tired of school. Found a job. Got tired of my job. Went back to school. Will I ever be satisfied? Now that this gig is almost up, I easily get mired in existential ruminations. Especially while I'm on the transit. The whole methodical repetitiveness of people getting on. Bus stopping. People getting off. People getting on. Bus stopping. It increases the sense of the mundane and of being trapped in an inescapable, inevitable system.

Then I pondered the blank stares of my students after I explain a grammatical concept to the best of my ability, writing clear examples in blue chalk, and then ask, "Hay preguntas? Any questions?" Their faces scream question marks, but what can I do? Explain it again. Give more examples. Do more communicative activities. And I still have to grade their compositions and listen to their pronunciation recordings and . . .

Later on today the grad student grapevine informed me that we'd be getting our results back from comps today. In our boxes (grown-up cubbie holes). At 2 p.m. Imagine the stress of Deal or No Deal without getting to choose a suitcase number. Whatever suitcase is in your box you have to open and live with.

I tore my suitcase open, praying that I didn't have to retake any more than I previously supposed. Relief. I passed everything except for, well, the section I didn't answer. Smile. Somehow, listening to pronunciation recordings isn't so bad.

Teachable Moments

You park. You put money in a parking meter. You go on your merry way.

You come back an hour later. You find a red and white parking ticket stuck on your windshield, flapping in the wind.

But, but I . . . No buts. Moral of the story: Even though you put money in a parking meter, you'll still get a ticket if you don't put it in the right one. As in, the parking meter that corresponds to the spot where you actually, er, parked.

Patriarchs, Prophets and Pick-Ups

Last week, a guy named Moses asked me out. Yesterday, a guy named Hosea asked me for my number. Is it me, or is there a pattern emerging here?

I must have a newly acquired signal which transmits at a frequency that only men who are the namesakes of Jewish patriarchs and prophets can hear. I guess I won't be surprised if some dude giving me the eye sometime soon turns out to be named Zephaniah.

And, only slightly unrelated, but why do I think that "So, what do you do for fun?" sounds like a creep's question? I mean, there's nothing inherently wrong with it. It's just a harmless attempt to find out what someone likes to do. But the sensitive little snob that inhabits a tiny corner of my mind always feels slightly violated when someone asks me that. Maybe violated is too strong a word. It's more like, the snob feels like it's such a pedestrian, sophomoric, unimaginative, predictable, so obviously "I'm trying to pick you up" question. The snob feels that falling back on that question is indicative of a weak game, and automatically garners a thumbs-down boo.

Or maybe I just don't like answering that question because I don't like telling people I don't know about the nerdy/snobby/boring things I like to do.

Anyway, that type of reasoning is why I try my best to keep the little snob shoved away in that tiny corner. If she called all the shots . . . (sigh) nevermind.

Sanity Regained: An Unwieldy, Self-Indulgent Extended Metaphor

Alone, on a sterile, starkly white surgeon's table lies a brain. Usually, one would imagine a brain to be slick and pulsing with brain juice, but this one is dry. Almost shriveled.

Attached to the brain is a little tube which is connected to a glass jar. One wouldn't think that a tube leading from a brain to a jar would have any label at all, but it does. It's labeled "Comps."

The glass jar is full of juice. Considering the circumstances and the surroundings, one would imagine it to be labeled "Brain Juice," but it isn't. It's labeled "Sanity."

Suddenly, someone enters. One would imagine him to be a person donned in latex gloves and a sterile, white lab coat, with a surgical mask around his nose and mouth. But no, it's a young woman in a denim skirt. She's gangly, with puffy hair and a cleft chin. She looks like a grad student. Stealthily, she goes over the the table. She fights the waves of nausea from the sight of a dry, disembodied brain and the unfamiliar, briny odor of the juice. "But I must," she says, and takes out an eyedropper.

Drop by drop, she re-moistens the brain. It takes her an entire week. If a week could have a label, it would read "Spring Break."

The Upside of Down

This will probably not be as funny to other people as it is to me and the people I studied for comps with.

Tuesday was fine, but today was real. Today was where some of us got hurt up. And we still have Saturday to contend with. Well, first, the funny part. We told ourselves that if we got a question that we didn't know anything about, we would start humming the tune to this song from Glory and throw up our hands and say, "I'm out." (This is a great movie, by the way, about the 54th regiment that fought in the Civil War. Fast forward to about 2:28 if you want to skip directly to the song):

Anyway, the way I've gone about this program is non-conventional. The first year I started, I was still working as a teacher, so I took whatever classes I could that would fit into my schedule . . . very few of them literature classes. That's fine credits-wise, but not so great comps preparation-wise. Then I went to Spain over the summer for more credits (which I had to do in order to graduate within a year full-time). Again, that's fine credits-wise, but not so great comps preparation-wise. A month of study in a certain area does not prepare you to take a section of comps in that area. All of that to say that I had to throw up my hands and start humming "Oh my Lord, Lord, Lord, Lord" and deuce out when I looked at the Post-War Spanish Lit section questions today. I was prepared for some of the prose, and it just happened that none of what I was banking on showed up in the questions. I wrote my professor a polite note, apologizing for not being prepared, but affirming that I'd much rather retake the section than insult his intelligence by trying to bluff my way through it.

Instead of feeling devastated, though, I feel weirdly upbeat and unburdened. It's like, okay, I know that I didn't pass this, and I know what I have to do to be ready for the retake. The pressure is off and the uncertainty is over. Saturday is the last day. Lord, I'll be glad when this is over. Mmmhmm . . . Mmmhmmm . . .

Time's Up!

Comps week has officially arrived. This is it.

A series of 9 essay tests. Three sections per day. 90 minutes per section. Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday from 12:00-4:30.

I'm trying to breathe and realize that, no matter what, everything is going to be fine. No one has ever NOT graduated because of comps. In August, I'm walking across the stage. That's the bottom line.

I guess what makes me slightly nervous is the prospect of failure. Though I feel confident about the majority of the sections, there are a couple I don't feel quite as confident about, and I know there is a possibility that I could fail those sections and would be required to retake them. If that were to happen, the cool, rational side of me realizes that it's actually common to fail a few the first time, and that I wouldn't be the first.

But the manic, emotional side doesn't even want to fathom the prospect of failure. I want to pass everything this week and be done with it. Besides, nerds and failure just don't get along that well, even if the nerd will be allowed to retake and eventually pass. Just the idea of failing something makes me feel sick.

But I need to get over it. I need to be confident, trust God, and do the best I can.

All of that to say, if I get sucked under this week, you'll know why. Pray for me!

Apartment Morning

Man sneezes. Man sneezes.
Through cinderblock walls
Throat clears. Baby wails. A Chinese lullaby.
Outside, scraping dragging
Last night they ate grilled.
Throat clears. Nose blows. Faucet on. Off.
Shuffling feet in the morning
Shuffling clothes in the morning
Hangers scrape a screech song in the morning.
Above, trampling bulks. A TV murmur.
Scenes reel in the mind.
Lazy, morning-coated tongue.
Pillows rumpled, blankets tepid
An indifferent red display of now.

Professorial Praise

Part of what makes me a nerd is my deep-seated craving for professorial praise.

Everyone likes to hear "good job." It's how we're wired. However, the professorial praise I crave the most is a particular kind. Although I smile if I get a good grade in any class, what gives me an adrenaline rush is when I get a good grade or a nice comment from a professor who is known to be an ungenerous grader and sparse with praise.

There is a professor I'm taking a class from this semester who is, simply, a genius. He's like the golden boy of the department. He's young, has a diverse educational background, and is passionate about what he teaches. He sets the nerd center of my brain on fire. Like, I eat this guy's class up. I sit right up front and I ask questions and make comments liberally. I know that I may annoy some of my classmates who just want to know what they need to know for the test and nothing else, but oh, well. To me, learning is more than "Just tell me what I need to know and shut up." Anyway, genius golden boy professor is known for being a hard grader.

We got our papers back today. I was afraid to turn to the last page to see the grade because he had just given us this speech about the first paper not being the best one and how we'll improve for the next one. But more than that, I really wanted to impress him and his little preparation speech made me think that he wasn't overly impressed with anyone's work. I breathlessly turned to the last page. Here's what I read: Excelente ensayo, Chantell. Escribes muy bien. Excellent essay, Chantell. You write very well. A.

Be still, my heart.

Impression, Sunrise in March: A Good Sign?

Last year I had a sunflower calendar. Surprise, surprise.

This year I have a Monet calendar. Monet is one of the main artists associated with Impressionism. In fact, there is a painting by Monet which is considered the inaugural Impressionist work. Indeed, the movement's name was taken from the title of this work (in English), Impression, Sunrise.

I used to want to be a painter. An Impressionist painter. I wanted to be Monet. It used to be that I wanted oil paint and canvases for Christmas . . . those are days gone by. But Monet and the idea of wanting to be an Impressionist painter and Impression, Sunrise all have a special place in my heart.

So, how delighted was I to find that the Monet painting featured for this month, the month of comps (next week), and the month of my birthday, is Impression, Sunrise? Very. I like to think that it's a good sign.

Don Miller at the Airport

Most normal people wish for things like finding a $100 bill or a brand new car or a free trip to any city in the world. I wish to happen upon Don Miller at the airport.

It's kind of a quirky wish, but I could see it possibly happening. Like, he'd be on his way to one of his speaking engagements or book signings, I'd be on my way to see a friend or something, and we'd both have a layover in the same city. The great thing is that we'd both have some free time to talk, and I'd have him all to myself. The thing is, while he's famous for his writing and was at the top of the New York Times Bestseller List and all of that, he's not a paparrazzi-hounded celebrity. Like, people wouldn't be swarming around him and taking pictures of him with their cellphone cameras and stuff at the airport. While many people have heard of him and Blue Like Jazz, many people wouldn't recognize him. But I would.

I can just picture it. He's sitting in the airport Starbucks or in some tranquil waiting area reading a book, whiling away time during his layover. Wandering around with nothing better to do during my layover, somehow, I spot him. Is it really him? I tentatively approach.

Me: Um, (clears throat) . . . Don Miller?

Don: (looks up from book, then breaks into a smile) Yes, that's right.

Me: (feels adrenaline rush) I-I always hoped I would meet you here. At the airport.

Don: (chuckles) Is that so? Why don't you have a seat, uh, what's your name?

Me: (laughs nervously) Chantell.

Don: Chantell. That's a pretty name.

I take a seat across from him, not believing that this is actually happening to me. That my wish is actually coming true!

Me: (laughs nervously) Thanks. (pause) I've read all your books.

Don: Even To Own a Dragon?

Me: (looks down shyly) Yes. It's . . . I just love your writing. I read your blog all the time. I have you blogrolled on mine.

Don: Oh, a fellow blogger.

Me: Yeah . . . it's nothing serious. My blog is not nearly as entertaining and insightful as yours . . .

Don: (laughs) I don't know about all of that. I'll have to check yours out sometime. What's the site?

Suddenly, I inwardly panic. If he goes to my blog, he might come across all of the gushy stuff I've written about him in the past!

Thankfully, this is just a pretend conversation. Maybe if I do meet him for real, I'll omit the fact that I have a blog too so he wouldn't discover the depth of my obsession.

The Coolest Music Video I've Ever Seen

This video is so cool . . . like, you want to keep watching it over and over because it looks so cool, and you know it took a lot of time to put it together. Okay, back to lesson plan making. Enjoy!

Snowy Day Fun

The depressing rain turned into falling snow. It was snow that actually stayed, too! I woke up this morning and was delighted to look out my window to see a winter wonderland. Snow is so rare in these parts, I couldn't resist going out to play in it.