Journey through the Sticks

I love my little bro. He better be glad I love him. Else, I wouldn't have taken a 3 hr+ journey through the sticks to see him. What's crazy is that people kept asking if we were twins. Um, really? I'm 4 years older than this dude.

Anyway, I was amused by the names of podunk towns on the way that I didn't know existed. Locust Fork. Pinson. Tarrant. Oneonta. How do you even pronounce the last one? Then, a few signs on Highway 79 actually read "Hiway 79." Oh, Lord. Then I passed this little convenience store called "Hicks Poor Boy Store." Really? And then I saw a sign for a dirt road called "Hog Walla Holler." I'm not making this stuff up.

Even though I'm not Alabama born and bred, it still annoys me when I'm confronted with the worst Alabama stereotypes from non-Alabamians. But then, I realize that the reason why stereotypes are stereotypes is because they are partly based in truth.

Perezosa

Many times, while pondering, while going to my special place in space, I ask myself: How did I get this far with such reluctance to get things done?

It's déjà vu.  How many strains of senioritis are there?  I had high school senioritis.  Then I had college senioritis.  Then I had job senioritis.  Now I have grad school senioritis.  You'd think I'd have built up immunity by now.

I want to eat something greasy and unhealthy, but I'm too lazy to go out and get it.  Isn't that laziness squared?  Too lazy to go out and get lazy food.

Guess I'm doomed to leftover stir-fry.

Post-Class Naps Have the Crazy

I came home after a long day of class and a mind-numbing meeting (you know those kind of meetings where people feel compelled to tell tangentially related to the matter at hand anecdotes and bring up all kinds of paranoid "what if's"?  Finally, I whispered in a valley girl voice to a co-conspirator next to me, "Like, what if we're in class and someone's head explodes?  Like, what do we do then?"  Then in a calm voice, "Well, first you need to call someone to help you clean it up, then you determine if the student survived the head explosion . . . ").  As soon as I stepped into the door I collapsed into bed and died for a few hours.

I realized that those kind of sleeping sessions produce the most bizarre dreams ever.

Why did I dream about a seasoning packet that, if added to ground beef, would produce creamy, bacon-filled meatloaf?  It was called something like "Creme brulee alfredo with bacon."

Why did I dream about a boy missing an arm with somewhat deformed legs watching people play soccer through a tinted window who stood up and introduced himself as something very bizarre like "Wildorf"?  Why did I then realize he was actually somehow a world-class soccer star and ask him why he wasn't playing?  Why did he then show me his armless stump?  Why did I then counter with, "But you don't need hands to play soccer"?

Why did I dream that I arrived at my apartment at the same time this girl from my program was about to go in and that I asked her where did she get a key from, and she mentioned she got it from some other girl that I didn't know had a key?  Why did she bring in bags of groceries?

Freud would have had a field day with me.

Psalm 23, Gangsta Style

The Lord is all that, I need for nothing.
He allows me to chill.
He keeps me from being heated
and allows me to breathe easy.
He guides my life so that
I can represent and give
shouts out in his Name.
And even though I walk through
the Hood of death,
I don't back down
for you have my back.
The fact that you have me covered
allows me to chill.
He provides me with back-up
in front of my player-haters
and I know that I am a baller
and life will be phat.
I fall back in the Lord's crib
for the rest of my life.

--from The Hip Hop Prayer Book

Feelin'

that blood rush laced with adrenaline

that stomach lurch which stings the armpits

that brain twist which loops the to-be-forgotten on eternal instant replay

that tooth grind which functions as futile mental exorcism

that eye burn which knows sleep too late and wake too soon

that heart rap laced with hope.

This Just In . . .

wheat crackers + sundried tomato & basil cream cheese = Mmmmm!

The Cutest Sunday School Lesson

Okay, granted, I didn't come up with it, I just followed the lesson in the Toddler literature, but what we did today was ridiculously cute.

The lesson was on baptism.  "Does anyone know what happens when someone gets baptized?" I asked.

"Yeah.  It's when you get in that bathtub and hide in the water."  Ah, priceless.

I brought a plastic bin filled with water along with a little furry bear and a little furry rabbit to represent Paul's "friends."  He asked them if they had ever been baptized in Jesus' name or received the Holy Ghost.  I made them shake their heads and say "Uh-uh."  They all erupted in laughter.  Then Paul asked them if they wanted to get baptized in Jesus' name and receive the Holy Ghost.  Then they nodded their heads and said, "Uh-huh!"  Laughter again.  Then I commenced to "baptize" them in Jesus' name in the plastic bin.   And afterward they danced around and were happy.  (Acts 19:1-7 for the non-toddler version.) Of course, every one else got a chance to baptize Paul's friends, too.  

Their snack was milk and cookies and, naturally, we "baptized" our cookies in the milk.

After the lesson was over, a mom met her little boy at the door and asked what he did in Sunday School.  He said, "We bap-a-tized a wabbit."  

My little Sunday School teacher wanna-be mom heart filled with warm fuzzy feelings.

Dreary

It's the only way to describe this Saturday.  93% chance of rain.

Coffee: 2nd cup, caffeinated, creme brulee creamer.  Pretty good.

Scrambled eggs with no cheese: So-so.  At WalMart.  My mind on at least a quarter pound of white American cheese from the deli, only to happen upon hairnetted women spraying the display cases with off-brand Windex.  But, but when do you normally close?  9 o'clock.  It was 8:45.

Croissant: Warmed up for too long in the microwave.  Grrrr.

Just realized: I left a tub of way too creamy hummus in my lunchbag.

Missing: My pseudo-housewife (or rather, a housewife with no kids) life before the summer session started.  Sleeping in leisurely.  Long, leisurely showers.  Doing lunch with a friend every day.  Going shopping often.  Reading non-school related things for enjoyment.

Pondering: The feast or famine phenomenon in my life.  Either I have a whole bunch of stuff due every day, or nothing to do at all.  Either I have dudes sweating me and jamming up my inbox with text messages, or not a peep from a single male soul.  People simply blowing up my phone, or a disconcertingly silent phone.  Rushing around or watching the minutes tick by.

To-do: Work on a series of short stories for Sunday School literature.  Read for my Contemporary Spanish Lit class.  Prepare my Sunday School lesson for tomorrow.  Write some semblance of an abstract for a paper I want to present soon.  Write a survey for Spanish-speaking people who want to take an ESL class given by a church wanting to start a Spanish ministry.

Discovered: Some seriously back in the day cassette tapes that make my heart spread with warm fuzzy liquid nostalgia of lovely sunshine times.

Funny: That I still own a machine which can play cassette tapes.

Heard on NPR: That Bob Dylan proposed to gospel singer Mavis Staples long ago.  She turned him down.  She later regretted it.

On the Morrow

Aaack.  I'm back.

Tomorrow morning I will have to wake up at the crack of the oogliest ungodly hour and splash myself with coffee so that I can be coherent for the 8 o'clock I'm teaching this session.  

But I'm ready to be back in the saddle.  I also found out that there's no 20-pager for the class that I'm taking from a prof who is notorious for 20-pagers.  The Lawd is good and the devil is a liya. 

I've also got a little writing project in the works (well, more in the brain at this point) that I'm excited about that I'll expound upon later.  

For now, I'm going to make my little chicken salad croissant for lunch tomorrow and get my hiney in bed so that my alarm doesn't sound while I'm in the middle of deep sleep.  I'd much rather it go off while I'm in REM sleep so that I'll wake from whatever bizarre dream I'm wont to have.

Come on bring it, 5-week mini-mester.  Yeah, thas right.  Say it to my face and see what happen.

The Church Girl: Sermon Review

Helluuu, this is your friendly neighborhood church girl checking in with a review of last night's home church sermon. Where she attends as grad student girl, there's only one service, so she usually spends her Sunday nights procrastinating on papers and lesson plans, leisurely sipping lattes at Starbucks reminiscing about the old days with friends. But last night, oh, no. Last night she was under the spout where the glory comes out. Youknaaimsayin? She was up in the House of the Lawd (even though her inner critic silently reprimands every hard core "House of the Lord" proponent because the church is not a physical location and insisting that there's a certain place to meet with God causes people to compartmentalize their relationships with Him). She wasn't simply in church. She was havin' CHUCH. And on top of that, it was HOME chuch. Aww, shucks.

To be honest, church girl, although a church girl, has a very discriminating sermonic palate. When it's of the heavy breathing with "ah" added at the end of every word variety, i.e. Lemme tell you-ah, Jesus-ah wants to save your soul-ah! Her brain goes out to play in the meadow. When it's of the repetitive, cheerleading variety, i.e. Let's have revival! How many of you really want revival? Revival ain't on it's way, revival is now! Her brain starts dancing around the maypole with other wandering brains. But when it's of the innovative variety that surprisingly sla-DAPS her in the solar plexus, yeah, you guessed it. Aww, shucks.

Jacob and Rachel and Leah. Rachel was pretty, Leah was oogly. Leah really wanted Jacob's attention and love. Even when Leah started having a horde of kids (sons at that), Jacob was still like whatever. Poor Leah. (Genesis 29:16-29:35, for those interested.) With the first 3 children she had she named them focusing on Jacob. They had something to do with hoping to win his favor. Maybe this time my husband will love me. Oh, maybe this time my husband will love me. But the fourth child, she named Judah, which means "praise." This time she simply said "Now I will praise the Lord." It had zero to do with sweating Jacob. She had totally changed her focus from her problem to God. I had heard and read the Jacob-Rachel-Leah dysfunctional love triangle story a gazillion times, but never heard this particular take on it.

It was so beautiful to me and struck me, almost melancholically. A slice of me felt I was doomed to continue focusing on my lack of fill-in-the-blank and to continue thinking I can just escape by doing things and going places. I'd like the answer to be complicated and involved and adventurous and dramatically revealed. But it's a simple personal mental exercise. Changing focus. It's the answers we already know that affect us the most.

That was your review of "When Praise Was Born" by your friendly neighborhood church girl.

The Critic

Usually, Shakespearean tragic heroes have one tragic flaw that lends to their downfall.

I couldn't have been one, not only because I'm a woman and my part would have been played by a boy anyway, but because I have so many tragic flaws that I never would have been a hero in the first place. Ahem.

There are lots of things that bother me. There are lots of things that I don't like. There are lots of things I don't think are good ideas. Add to the mix a smartypants attitude and an arsenal of words with which to convey a variety of shades of disdain, and you have me at my worst. A snobby critic. A critical snob. A snobical crit.

When I go into snob-critic mode, my mouth becomes disembodied from my face and goes on pessimistic, snarky autopilot. How un-nice. At the time, I think I'm right and witty. Later, I think I would have done better keeping my piehole, if there is such a thing, cerrado.

Here's something I'm learning: It's not always worth it. You have to pick your (verbal) battles. If people want to think something I don't agree with, they still have the right to think it, don't they? I'm not the thought police. I'm learning how appointing myself to the position of enlightener isn't always the best idea. It usually ends up causing contention more than it does fostering dialogue. The only thing that is advanced are hot puffs of exhaled air.

For example, I think doorknocking is outdated. To people who read this and don't come from a conservative, Evangelical background, that's going door to door inviting people to your church. A la Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses. I think it worked in 1950s America when John and Martha would drop by uninvited to Glen and Susan's for casserole and apple pie, but now it's just an opportunity for folks to get annoyed and/or mistake you for Jehovah's Witnesses. (No offense to Jehovah's Witnesses.) People barely know their own neighbors nowadays, and an uninvited knock on the door is usually cause for slight alarm. Unless you're a Girl Scout with cookies in tow.

What I feel is more effective (and what people would be more likely to want to get involved in) are activities that demonstrate your church's involvement in the community—Blood drives, free car washes, setting up a booth at a city-wide activity, volunteerism, health fairs—stuff that says "I am contributing to and am a part of the community that I am trying to reach as a member of the Body of Christ" rather than "Here's a tract, hope to see you in service."

You see what I mean? Although I think I have valid, productive points, the disembodied snark mouth can express this and it come across like a negative smartypants meanie head. I guess I'm still learning how to get my point across without critique being the centerpiece of my statement.

An Exercise in Hypothetical Futility

Why he likes me (if he did, if he existed)

1. I cut him down to size, but give him just enough ego-boost to want to be around me.  Since he's handsome, he's used to girls constantly pumping his ego.  In contrast, if I think he's being arrogant, insensitive, immature, silly or petty, I'm not afraid to tell him so.  But neither do I slam him all the time.  I build him up where he's the most vulnerable.  The combination of a girl who will tell him about himself yet still makes him feel good about himself is intriguing.

2. I'm not needy.  He's used to girls who need his attention 24/7, and I don't.  I'm independent and smart and accomplished and instead of being intimidated by it, he's impressed by it.  He knows that I wouldn't smother him because I have my own stuff going on.

3. I'm a listener.  He's used to girls who go on and on about themselves, but in this case, I know more about him than he does about me.  He feels comfortable confiding in me and values my feedback.

4. He can tell I'm serious about God.  He's also discovered that we share a lot of the same ideas about the church and what should be the focus in our spiritual journey.

Happy Future Mother's Day

That's what I texted both of my best friends while on the way home to spend time with my dear Lovely yesterday morning.

I dunno, it's one of those silly/annoying things that I always said to other childless young ladies like myself after church on Mother's Day that for some reason always amused me. In the same way that putting unsuspecting bunny ears on people while they're talking to someone else or right before a group picture always amused me. I suppose I'm easily amused. Anyway.

I was pondering the prospect of future motherhood. And, I know, though I have to find a man first (or rather, he should find me, right? In my little butterflies-sunflowers-rainbows-Curious-George world, that's what the perfect guy would say to me—"I finally found you!" or no, how about, "I've found you at last!" as he alights from his trusty steed and I'm temporarily blinded by the sheen of his shining armor) and all of that before future motherhood could reasonably and realistically be considered, Mother's Day, aside from being grateful for my own mom, makes me think about what kind of mom I'd be. (And that's not a run-on sentence. Although it might have been red-lined "wordy" by the English teacher we dubbed The Goddess of English in high school. And, yes, the sentence before this one is a sentence fragment. And, no, technically you aren't supposed to begin sentences with 'and.')

There are two little boys I absolutely adore at my home church. It's so cute how the younger sibling always copies the older. I remember when that same phenomenon happened between my younger brothers. Near the tail end of altar call, I spied them asking their father if they could come over to me in the pew (I wasn't up front. Lawd have mercy on mah soul.) and they both ran over and stood on either side of me, clinging to me like cuddly toy soldiers. Gosh, my future mother heart melted, and I tousled their hair and showered them with kisses as they told me about their toys and their boo-boos (one of them, caused by a bike tire, happened to be on one's "biscuits," which I declined to view) and eventually filled their mouths with my last pieces of berry-flavored gum.

I think I may call up their mom and ask if I can come over sometime this week and read them stories or something. If one of your friends has a book you'd like to read, you ask to borrow it. If you need a power drill for some reason and know a buddy that has one, you can access the benefits of a power drill though you don't own one. So, I'm a future mother. I don't have kids, but I can borrow those of others from time to time. Perhaps my future mothering skills will become so acute that I'll be a good real one.

I thought it was beautiful and had to share.

"Do you know what a nebula is? A cloud of dust and gas which form a star. That's how I feel. Like a pile of dirt. Although I'm bruised and broken I know God's been putting elements inside of me together, that one day will radiate with his mercy and grace . . . I'm glad you shot across my cloud. You're a great person."

Doubt

Ding-a-ling! The door chimes announced her entrance into the rather frigid Movie Gallery. Finals were over and she had a lot of free time on her hands. This was the weird thing about her: When she had lots to do (as usual) she became a neurotic complainer. However, when she had leisure time, she didn't know what to do with herself. A most annoying paradox.

She marched over to the "D" section in "New Releases" because she had been looking forward to watching Doubt with Meryl Streep. She liked Meryl Streep. The last thing she had seen her in was The Devil Wears Prada. From icy fashion maven to belligerent nun. Anyway, Doubt had garnered a lot of Oscar buzz and she was looking forward to seeing Viola Davis's performance as well.

Unfortunately, she found all of the Doubt spaces empty. Blast! She was also the type of person that wants what she wants and nothing else. She wanted a particular movie, and if they didn't have it, she couldn't settle for anything else. (Another annoying idiosyncrasy of hers.) Instead of leaving, though, she sauntered around, half-heartedly eyeing the other new releases and then, out of nowhere--BAM--she spotted it. An out of place Doubt. It was in the "A" section. Like it was waiting for her.

She scooped it up and went grinningly to the checkout counter. A boyishly cute video store guy was busying himself behind the counter and didn't notice that she had walked up.

"Helluuuu," she said, goofily.

He laughed, turning towards her.

"Sorry," she smiled, "I didn't mean to disturb you there."

"No, it's my job," he said with a grin, as she laid her selection down. "Will this be all?"

"Mmhmm," she giggled as she whipped out her debit card. "You know, I found this out of place. At first I thought they were all checked out, but then I was happy when I found it in the wrong place."

"Well, that's great. You found the movie you wanted, and I don't have to go back and put it in the right place. It's a win-win." They both laughed.

"Do you need my ID?" She slid out her driver's license and handed it to him. He read her name out loud to himself as he checked it against her account.

They both kept smiling at each other and laughing while she declined damage protection and signed her name on the dotted line.

"It's due back Tuesday," he finally said. She nodded and waved farewell.

I'm probably several years older than that guy, she thought as she started up the car. She used to hate looking younger. Especially when she was 18 and people assumed she was 12. But she was in her late twenties now so she had definitely grown to like it. The ability to benignly flirt with guys who had no idea how old she was was kind of amusing.

But then she remembered that he had taken a look at her driver's license. Was she on the road to Cougarville?

Me Happy Now

Me get A on final paper for golden boy.

Me have no more finals.

Me go to church.  Me sing.  Me pray.  Me hear preacher.

Me go to friend party and have fun time.

Me happy now.

The Downswing

Oh, boy.  Here we go.

What is it that makes my mind's theme song go from this

to this?

I may need to steer clear of the keyboard for a little while to avoid sloshing melancholia all over the place. Boo to soggy blogs.  

The Demythification of Cinco de Mayo

Myth: Cinco de Mayo (May 5) is Mexican Independence Day.

Fact: September 16 is Mexican Independence Day.

Myth: Cinco de Mayo is celebrated widely in Mexico.

Fact: Cinco de Mayo is celebrated more widely in the US than it is in Mexico.  The only place in Mexico where there is a big to-do for Cinco de Mayo is in Puebla, where the Battle of Puebla was won against the much larger and better-equipped French army in 1862 on . . . you guessed it, el cinco de mayo.  September 16 is a much bigger deal in Mexico as a whole and is celebrated like our 4th of July with food, fireworks, etc.

Well, then, why is Cinco de Mayo a big deal here?

I'm glad you asked.  Well, let me put it this way.  Americans have a habit of co-opting things for their own purposes.  Much like we've done with St. Patrick's Day co-opted from the Irish, Cinco de Mayo for many has become a Mexicanly co-opted excuse to get plastered. Okay, to be fair, some Mexican-Americans observe it as a celebration of Mexican heritage, but I'm sure that's not the answer you'll get when you ask my underaged students how many of them are planning on downing muchas margaritas tonight.

Today Is Pretty Day

Yes, you read that right.  Not today is a pretty day.  Today is pretty day.  Today is the day where things become pretty.  Exhibit A:  

My feet.  Indeed.

My feet are usually not one of my high points.  Even in the post-French pedicure picture above, I'm sure you can tell why.  My big toes are disconcertingly larger than most big toes out there, and the rest of them look like elongated Vienna sausages.  Add to that crustiness and other things that happen to the feet of extremely flat-footed high-heel addicts, and you can surmise that it ain't pretty.

But today is pretty day.  And as I slipped my wedge sandals back on and stepped out into the sun, I realized that today is a day I'm proud to call my feet my own.

Exhibit B shall be my hair.  Ever notice that special "ethnic hair care" section in WalMart? (Let me break it down for those who've never ventured down that aisle.)  That's where girls like me who have hair like mine who don't have $60 to spend on gettin they hair did go to pick up a relaxer kit.  It's called do-it-yourself for $5.94.  One of my colleagues with natural hair calls it "creamy crack," but whatever.  She do her thing, I do my thing.  But I must say I do a right fine job.

Today is pretty day.  Bask in the beautification!