Sk8er Boi: The Remix

He was a boy

She was a girl

Can I make it any more obvious?

He was at a study abroad meeting

She was at Starbucks

What more can I say?

He was to come by

After his meeting

Meanwhile she caught up on her reading

But the meeting ran late

He had to get back

He sent her a text in profound apology

Chorus:

He was a sk8er boi

He said see you later girl

Gotta get back to Montgomery

But she didn't mind too much

At least she got reading done

She needed to get out of her apartment anyway

The original (skip it if you don't like maddeningly catchy pop rock that will never get out of your head):

Swine Flu: The Hypochondriac's Dream Come True

I'm not very freaked out by the swine flu. I mean, really, it's nothing new. Mad cow disease, SARS, that bird disease or whatever it was, and now this.

News organizations get on my nerves with hyping it up like it's the dawn of the apocalypse. But, uh, hello, the plain ol' regular flu has always killed thousands of folks and nobody's crying "pandemic."

But what annoys me more than anything are hypochondriacal people who deep down inside want to get the swine flu. They get an almost indecent pleasure each time they hear another confirmed case in another country and they have to wipe away the drool that slips when they turn on Fox News and see a world map with all affected countries lit up in blazing, hellfire red. They're the weirdos who think their sneezes should make local news. If they happen to be church folks, they testify like this: "Thank the Lord for healin' me cause I've been kinder sick, and I'm still feelin' a little under the weather and I hope it ain't the swine flu cause it's been killin' folks in Mexico and I hope I don't spread my germs to any of y'all. Praise the Lord."

So annoying.

Google Chrome Rocks!

I'm always behind the times.  Out of the loop.  I'm sure most people have already tasted the awesomeness that is Google Chrome, but I'm just now getting into the game.

I'm impressed.  All my pages load at lightning speed, and the web browser is also a search engine.  Sweetness.  Just had to give a shout out.

The Seven-Pager Blues: Coffee with Skater Boy

This is another one of those posts that I've posted a million times. Same circumstance, different occasion. Paper is due tomorrow, I haven't started on it, and I don't feel like writing it.

It'll get done. Somehow. It always does. I'm probably going to use a paper I wrote last summer on the same short story as my base and sort of springboard off of it, adding sources and other points to expand it. I will briefly procrastinate by sharing this story:

A while ago, during my last year of teacher life, I found myself at Starbucks chatting with a friend about Spanish. A jolly, effeminate older man sitting nearby overheard and he happened to be a Spanish-speaker too, and we starting going at it in Spanish. He regaled me with stories of singing opera and wistfully related the time he sang with Leontyne Price. As an addendum, he gifted me with a burnt copy of an Il Divo CD since it featured a few songs in Spanish. He offhandedly mentioned that one of the baristas was a Spanish-speaker as well.

Impassioned, I bounded over to the counter to share in the Spanishy goodness and introduced myself to the barista. He was into Spanish! So am I! He was thinking about going to Spain! To the same place I went when I studied abroad! Omg! We had so much to talk about. He told me about this teach English abroad program he'd heard about. Sweet.

I don't know why, but he didn't strike me as the Spanish type. I don't know what I think the Spanish type is, but he seemed . . . I don't know. He gave off the air of a skater dude. With the piercings and the faux-hawk and all. He definitely didn't seem to be the type to want to have anything to do with me outside of small talk about studying abroad in Spain for the time being.

But I was wrong. He asked me for my info and gave me his and suggested I look him up on Facebook so that he could send me the info about the teach abroad stuff. "We should go to lunch sometime," he said. Ka-puzzlement? Skater boy wants a lunch date?

Fast forward to today. Ah, Facebook. It just so happens he's coming to town later on this week for a study abroad meeting with the golden boy professor (for whom I'm supposed to be writing this paper). We settled on getting coffee at the student center after the meeting. Church girl meets skater boy for coffee to talk Spain and all things Spanish. This should be interesting.

My Weekend

Friday, April 24
Church hair was had, and subsequently, so was church. I was always a 2nd soprano kind of girl (always soprano, but preferably low key), but after being charged with alto on some songs, I had an epiphany. I kind of like the sultry jazziness of harmonizing.

Saturday, April 25
Auburn City Fest! Armed with newly minted church t-shirts we set up camp and gave out free water, the New Testament on CD, and bunches of other free gifts. Go, Gateway!

Sunday, April 26
I'm a little Sunday School teacher now. Bible words: "Jesus loves me very much." Lesson: Jesus tells the disciples, "Cast down your nets and follow me." Craft: Sticking foam fish onto "nets" of pieces of mesh laundry bag. Snack: Goldfish crackers. Of course.

Post-church: Lunch with a buddy.

Post-lunch: Montgomery for clothes washing/hearing Pops preach/eating cookies and drinking chai tea with Lovely while watching Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. How many more times am I going to get to watch corny musicals with my mom before I gallavant off to yet another far away land? Observe the best dance sequence (with Italian subtitles and smatterings of voiceovers during the speaking parts):



Now:
Off to lesson planning and sucking it up to write a 7-pager tonight. It's the last week of classes, baby! (And then I can catch my breath before the summer session descends.)

My Church Hair

Aww, shucks! I went and got my church hair on tonight. I'm really excited because I haven't seriously gotten my church hair on in a while. I just hadn't felt like it. But tonight, I felt inspired.


Pre-ready front view


Pre-ready side view


Pre-ready back view


Post-ready front view

Time to get mine praiseth on. Go, church hair! Show the devil if it falls you don't care! Halleluyer.

And now comes doing what I despise

and that is grading papers. I know, I've gone on this rant several times, but I can't help it. I actually don't mind teaching. I like it. One of my students told me this week, "Wow, this was a great class!" and it totally made my day. But I hate grading papers. Especially compositions. Waaah! I've procrastinated to the point where I'm down to the wire (surprise, surprise). I've GOT to get them graded tonight. However, reflecting on my paper grading aversion brings to mind other things I absolutely despise doing:

1. Turning people down because I'm just not that into them.

2. Accidentally scratching the blackboard while writing with an uber-short piece of chalk.

3. Swallowing a gulp of expired milk.

4. Sweating.

5. Having to confront people about things.

6. Burning something I was really looking forward to eating.

All right. I can think of many other things, but that's enough.

On a random note, I've fallen even more in love with my golden boy professor. He's got a bit of cocky swagger, and he has every right to because he is literally a genius. Today he announced that he was going to refer to a paper he had written in undergrad about a work we were reading in our class during the discussion. I offhandedly asked him (in Spanish) what grade he made on it. He smiled, leaned over and said (in Spanish), "What do you think I made on it?" My heart skipped a beat. Why did I think that was sexy? I am SUCH a nerd.

And I'm really trying to practice non-overanalysis. Honest. But I can't help but ask what it means if someone sends you a picture of himself to ask what you think of his new haircut?

Overanalysis

It drives me nuts. Why must I have an overactive brain that won't stop?

No matter how many glasses of Tropicana Peach Orchard Punch I try to drown it out with, it buzzes on. (Yes, I went to WalMart today.)

Things get to the point where I ruminate over things so much that I miss enjoying them for what they are. Not everything has to be categorized, chiseled with draconian precision. There's this unending taxonomic process going on in my mind, and it must stop.

A text is a text. A smile is a smile. A compliment is a compliment. A conversation is a conversation. A borrowed book is a borrowed book. I used to hate this phrase, but in some cases, it fits the occasion: It is what it is.

Details

I like when guys notice details like hair.

I did a little something different with my hair today . . . I mean, it's not the first time I've ever done it, it wasn't anything radically new.

I guess I assume that guys don't usually pay attention to details like purses and shoes and hairstyles. So a simple, "I like your hair like that," made my day today.

But of course, I couldn't let on that it made my day.

Pepita Jiménez

Pepita Jiménez is a 19^th century Spanish novel by Juan Valera. The story is about a young seminarian (priest-in-training), Don Luis de Vargas, and a passionate young widow, Pepita Jiménez, who fall in love. Don Luis, then, is forced to choose between his vocation and his love for Pepita.

I had to read an excerpt of it in a 19^th and 20^th century literature class I was taking while studying abroad in Spain. I was so entranced by the excerpt that I bought the book and read the entire thing. The book has a special place in my heart, not only because I loved the story, but because it was the first time I was able to read an entire work in Spanish on my own. I had finally gotten to a point where I didn't need a dictionary—I was able to read, understand and enjoy a work of literature in a foreign language. It was one of the most exciting experiences in my life.

I let someone borrow the book a while ago and when I finally got it back yesterday, I immediately succumbed to the urge to find the passage in the book that first enamored me. They're the impassioned words of Pepita after Don Luis suggests that the only way they can love each other is through a pure, spiritual, divine love of the soul after they get to Heaven (translated by yours truly):

"Oh, Don Luis!" replied Pepita, completely disconsolate and sorrowful, "Now I know how vile is the metal of which I am forged and how unworthy I am of that which penetrates and moves the divine fire. I will declare to you everything, divulging even unto shame. I am an infernal sinner. My crude and ignorant spirit cannot achieve those subtleties, those distinctions, those refinements of love. My rebellious will negates what you propose. I can't even conceive of you apart from what makes you. For me, you are your mouth, your eyes, your dark locks; which I wish to caress with my hands, your sweet voice and the pleasant accent of your words which literally wound yet enchant my ears; your whole bodily form, in sum, that enamors and seduces me, through which, and that only through which shows me the invisible spirit, vague and full of mysteries. My soul, unwilling and incapable of those rapturous mysteries, cannot ever follow you to those regions where you want to bring it. If you rise to those places, I will be left alone, abandoned, plunged in the deepest affliction. I prefer to die. I deserve death; I desire it. Perhaps upon dying, detaching or breaking these dreadful chains which detain my soul, it will be able to love with the kind of love you wish us to have. But kill me first, so that we can love that way; kill me first and, then, spirit freed, it will follow you everywhere and will travel with you invisibly by your side, watching over you in your sleep, thinking of you in bliss, penetrating your most hidden thoughts, truly seeing your soul, without the interference of the senses. But alive, it cannot be. I love in you, not only your soul, but your body, the shadow of your body, the reflection of your body in mirrors and in the water, your name and your last name, your blood, and all of which makes you don Luis de Vargas; the timbre of your voice, your gestures, the way you walk and I don't know what else to say. I repeat that you must kill me. Kill me mercilessly. No, I'm no Christian, but rather a carnal idolater."

Here Pepita made a long pause. Don Luis didn't know what to say and was quiet. Tears bathed Pepita's cheeks and she continued, crying:

"I know; you look down upon me, and you do well in looking down on me. With this just contempt, you shall kill me better than you would with a knife, staining neither your hands nor your conscience with blood. Goodbye. Free yourself from my contemptible presence. Goodbye forever."

Having said this, Pepita got up from her seat and without looking back, her eyes filled with tears, beside herself, with hasty steps flung herself towards the door to the rooms within. Don Luis felt an invincible tenderness, a fatal pity. He was afraid that Pepita would die. He rose up to stop her, but he was too late. Pepita had passed through the doorway. Her figure was lost in the darkness. Swept up by what seemed a superhuman power, propelled by what seemed an invisible hand, he went after Pepita into the shadowy chamber.

P.S. After I translated that, I discovered that there is an online translation of the entire novel here. Of course, I went to Chapter IX of Part II (starting with para. 35) and compared my translation to it. I didn't do too bad. I guess mine is more literal whereas the online one took a few more liberties than I did so that it would flow better in English.

I'm Lazy, I'm a Whiner, and I Want It to Be Over

Aaargh! I am SO lazy.

I feel like the laziest person in the universe right now. I don't feel like doing anything. At all. I have this marathon of a presentation/final exam day to contend with tomorrow. (Yes, tomorrow, as in Saturday.) There's a PowerPoint that goes along with it, and I don't feel like finishing it. I guess marriage in colonial California could be considered somewhat of a sexy topic. But at this point I just feel like who cares about everything. So, the indigenous peoples practiced polygyny. So, the Spanish missionaries thought they were a bunch of fornicators. I just want it to be over.

I am SUCH a whiner. All I want to do is eat Cheez-it crackers and guzzle cream soda and watch 30 Rock, Kings, The Daily Show and The Mentalist online. I want to daydream. I want to allow my eyes to glaze over as I overanalyze my latest idiosyncratic attachment. I don't want to grade badly written compositions. I don't want to put participation points in an Excel spreadsheet. I don't want to print out items analysis. I don't want to articulate any more reasons to use the present subjunctive.

I want it to be OVER. I want to sleep and wake up when I want to. Sing in the shower until all the hot water runs out. Make mugs and mugs of honey vanilla chamomile tea. I want to finally finish reading Dreams from My Father. Barack Obama's been in Kenya for like 3 months now. I want French pedicures. I want bliss. I want a smile from a handsome stranger.

No more slathering myself with Suave powder fresh lotion. No more donning a wrinkled denim jacket, burdening myself with an NPR bag full of academic minutiae, stuffing my ears with white earbuds and listening to the same songs over and over again while I sulkily eat an apple staring out the bus window. No more, I say.

I want to wrap myself in a comforter cocoon and emerge a sunflower-colored butterfly.

Yeah. Which means it's time to finish my PowerPoint. Sexy.

I cried

by the end of this video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY

I would have embedded it, but embedding is disabled. Forgive me if you've already seen it. It's the new Internet/YouTube sensation.

But I loved it, and I watched it over and over. Just see how people laughed at her and completely discredited her at the beginning because of her appearance. But then she blew everyone away.

I've always had a weakness for the underdog. Somehow, this lady's day in the sun makes me feel like there's justice in the world. Like everyone, creatures great and small, one day, will have their day in the sun.

Aww, Snap!

Note to pirates:

If you take a US cargo ship captain hostage, my boy will give the okay to have you taken out.

Note to people talking smack about my boy claiming he's milquetoast:

How you like them apples?

The Procrastinator's Guide to Studying for a Comps Retake

Given:

• What was on the initial test will not be on the retake.
• What was on the initial test I didn't know.

Therefore:

• What I didn't know will not be on the retake.

So hopefully:

• What I do know will be on the retake.

And usually:

• The retake is "easier."

*Addendum @4:12 PM*

My procrastinatory logic proved sound. Yeah, baby! The comps nightmare is officially ovah!

Dude!

So, I got a random refund check in the mail from Charter Communications for $24.84. Something about a credit on my account from where I lived previously. Sure. Whatever you say. Just gimme my money, youknaaimsayin?

What can I get for $24.84? A nice juicy steak dinner (cooked medium rare)? A cute pair of ballet flats? Several bunches of sunflowers? Some Love Spell lotion and body spray? The possibilities are endless. Wait, I think I've settled on it . . . $24.84 may not foot the whole bill (pun intended), but it's a healthy contribution towards a French pedicure.

In economic times like these (sucky) and in an occupational station like the one I find myself in (grad student), every extra buck is like a shining nugget of pure gold.

Reflections on Easter Weekend

I love The Passion of the Christ. Most people I talk to that have seen it have told me, "Once was enough," but it is so well-done and powerful to me. I love the fact that it was done as realistically as possible (original languages, etc.) and it shows exactly what it was that Jesus went through.

I remember the first time I saw it, I was overwhelmed and cried almost the entire time. But now that I've seen it a few times, the parts that make me cry are when Peter realizes he denied Christ, when the Sanhedrin tear at their clothes because they are outraged at the blasphemy of Jesus claiming to be God, the whipping scene (which is brutal), and while carrying his cross Jesus tells his mother "I make all things new." I watched it on Good Friday.

Saturday was lovely. I played with a puppy at the park and had some friends over for dinner.

Sunday was fabulous. I'm really starting to get involved at the church here. I'm one of the praise singers now, and I participated in a signing thing and a song presentation with dowel rods. It was great. Though the church is super small, everyone is so dedicated, and it's rewarding to participate, work together, and see God do great things.

Then I went home and spent Sunday afternoon with my folks. Mom made a huge pan of tiramisu. (One of the consequences of spending 6 years in Italy is learning how to make homemade tiramisu.) You better believe I brought home a whole lot of it.

Listening to country music on the way home (something I never do), I thought about the fact that Jesus conquered Death. I thought about what that meant. When He rose, He gave every single one of us hope of a resurrection.

You lived/ You died/ You rose again on high/ You opened the way/ For the world to live again/ Hallelujah/ For all you've done.

I Want a Puppy

I want to take care of a living creature. Other than myself.

I'd like to have kids, but that's kind of impossible (okay, unlikely) seeing I'm

1. husbandless
2. in grad school
3. broke as a sick joke

So, the next best thing is an animal. A cute wittle puppy I would name Fitz (for Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy) or Marc Antony (for Marcus Antonius). But that's kind of impossible (alright, unlikely) seeing I'm

1. in an apartment complex that doesn't allow pets
2. in grad school
3. broke as a sick joke
4. not to mention leaving the country in the not too distant future

So, what is a girl to do? Have friends who do have living creatures and play with them. Like today, I'm getting to play with my buddy's black lab puppy at the park. Yay!

Propinquity

Sometimes I've wondered if people were attracted to me just because I was there. Sometimes I've wondered if I were attracted to others just because they were there. Well, here's proof that my little musing is probably true.

From Wikipedia, the Internet authority of knowledge:

In social psychology, propinquity (from Latin propinquitas, nearness) is one of the main factors leading to interpersonal attraction. It refers to the physical or psychological proximity between people. Two people living on the same floor of a building, for example, have a higher propinquity than those living on different floors. Propinquity can mean physical proximity, a kinship between people, or a similarity in nature between things.

The propinquity effect is the tendency for people to form friendships or romantic relationships with those whom they encounter often. In other words, relationships tend to be formed between those who have a high propinquity.

Quote of the Day

"Think wrongly, if you please, but in all cases think for yourself."

-Doris Lessing-

Birthday Present from Lovely

Disclaimer: This post will be a sentimental, gushy testament to filial love. Even though it's not Mother's Day. Yet.

My mom is my friend. She gave me a magnet that says "A daughter is a little girl who grows up to be a friend" and I have it on my refrigerator. Awwww. I have little names for her like "Lovely" and "Lady." Most of the time she calls me "Daughter" and people within earshot think it's so sweet. Aww, gooey lovey dovey gushy warm and fuzzies. We won't talk about what we call each other when we get mad. That'll be for another post. (Right.)

I told her I would post about the present she got me for my birthday. I've posted about my Monet obsession before. She knows I like his paintings and that at one point I wanted to be him, and though she couldn't find Impression, soleil levant, she did happen across Bassin D'Argenteuil, and I was quite pleased. So, here's what it looks like:

And, mom, here's where I put it in my apartment:

You see what I'm saying now? Fantastic.

Do Not Hold Over People

I noticed this little admonition on my coffee pot this morning. Why do people need to be warned not to hold a coffee pot over someone else's head? What is our world coming to?

Thank You, Mr. President

Although many feel that Obama is the most liberal president since . . . whatever, I've long held that at the core, he is neither liberal nor conservative. He is a pragmatist.

A pragmatist is someone who will do whatever works and will do whatever it takes to get the job done. He sees both sides of an issue and often strikes a Solomonic balance. In this clip, for example, Obama admits to American arrogance, but he doesn't let Europe off the hook.

If he were a pure bleeding heart, he wouldn't have said anything about European anti-Americanism, or continued Bush's faith-based initiatives or done a host of other things that have gotten under the skin of his liberal base.

To the extreme, however, a pragmatist becomes Machiavellian, as in, the end justifies the means. But he hasn't worried me on getting out of whack with his pragmatism so far. It's just a relief to have a president who makes sense and who is making an effort to change the way things have been done.

The Writer(ess)

I wrote this story years ago as a tribute to an extended inside joke between myself and my friend who is a writeress.

However, I've decided to repost it in her honor. Especially in light of recent events. Oscar Wilde said, "Life imitates art far more than art imitates Life." She is The Writeress. We'll leave it at that. To see the original post, (with original comments) click here. Otherwise, enjoy!

Originally posted December 6, 2005:

One of my best friends, Homegirl, and I have this running joke. We always remind each other that we could never marry a writer because it just wouldn’t do to be with someone who would be more dramatic and emotional than we are. Of course, this writer we are talking about is a stereotypical one. He wears black-rimmed glasses, is a caffeine-a-holic, is always brooding, and always intensely releasing the agonies of his soul through his writing. Here is a fully fleshed-out account of the content of our joke:

Brooding in a dimly lit corner in the study of an apartment, in a student-ghetto complex filled with graduate students, sits the writer.

The only light in the room consists of the glow of his laptop screen and the streetlight that shines through the window, creating an eerie cast over his pale skin and black-rimmed glasses. He runs a hand over his unruly dark hair and sighs deeply as he stares at the blank Word document screen before him. The cursor blinks unceasingly, taunting him.

He rubs at his bag-laden eyes, red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Scattered about are empty venti-sized Starbucks cups, drained of coffee he could barely afford to drink. He is trying to do what he supposedly does best—write. But inspiration is lacking. His muse has been uncomfortably silent. He has nearly spent himself, trying to reach into the depths of his tormented soul—tormented by the same demons that torment writers and artists and musicians and all those of the creative bent—to draw out that one nugget of raw, unadulterated impetus that he could always depend upon to get him going, to get his thoughts rushing from brain to fingertips like adrenaline-laced blood through his veins.

But lately, he has turned up nothing. Every attempt he makes seems futile, and, there, in the solitude of his study, mesmerized by the emptiness of the Word document, he finds himself sinking deeper and deeper into the abysmal abyss of losing his writer-identity forever.

A timid knock at the door jolts him into existence. He remembers his girlfriend said she would come over at about this time. She was a waif of a thing, almost like the wind could blow her away, he thinks, remembering the time they met at the reading held by the Creative Writing department. He could feel her eyes burning into him as he read an excerpt from his unpublished novel. Though she had the air of a complacent child at times, her intensity about things, about life, was what had initially attracted him. But no, she is not what he needs now. Not right now. Not when his grasp on the craft that has become a part of him is so weak. Not right now, he almost says aloud as he opens the door.

“I brought you some peanut butter cookies,” she whispers. “Your favorite.” She hands him a freezer bag bulging with them. He takes them and mumbles a greeting as he stands back to let her inside. It is as if he forgets she is even there as he goes back into his study to take up staring at the empty screen again. She cautiously follows him. “Are you uhh . . . going to try some?” she ventures. His back is to her as he sits slumped before the computer. No answer. “Baby, what’s wrong? You can tell me.” Her voice is soothing, almost musical, and she lays a soft hand upon his shoulder. He stiffens.

“No.” She doesn’t realize that his “no” is not really a refusal to tell her what is troubling him. At this moment, it’s more of a refusal to entertain any living entity in any manner whatsoever.

“Oh, it’s okay, baby, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. It just seems as if--”

He suddenly lifts his hand to silence her. “No . . . not now,” He says brusquely. Doesn’t she understand? His identity is slipping away from him and all she has to give in response are empty words and peanut butter cookies? He just needs to be left alone.

Tears well up in her eyes. How can he just shut her out like that? She has always been there for him, been his emotional support. She was always able to calm him, to soothe his mental anguish. “But honey, I--”

“NO! LEAVE ME ALONE!” He spins around in his chair to face her. Though his voice is harsh and bellowing, one could sense a tinge of desperate pleading in it.

She flees the apartment, sobbing, and slams the door behind her.

Brooding in a dimly lit corner in the study of an apartment, in a student-ghetto complex filled with graduate students, sits the writer, alone.

(That was for you, Homegirl. Love ya much!)

Extremely Hypothetical: Younger Guys

I have always thought older guys were the way to go. Part of me still does. Mature, established, experienced, stable. Dashing, distinguished. lol. And I'm not talking about a dried up grandpa sugar daddy, either. Please. I just turned 27, so I'm talking 30s.

However, how would I respond if a younger guy tried to mack? Like early 20s? I think I would freak out. Especially if he were around the same age as or younger than my kid brother (who of course, is in his early twenties, but who will always be my kid brother). Blech!

But then another part of me says that's being unfair. Should you discount a guy just based on age?

But then my rational side says there are other factors connected to age such as maturity level and stage in life that must be considered. And it also says that you shouldn't even want anything to get to the point of "considering" in the first place.

My rational side can be mean, but many times it's right.