Throwing Stuff Away

Grrrrr. I always agonize over throwing things away. But I might need this one day. But I might need this one day. I get so frustrated with that mental refrain that I eventually just tell myself, You know what? Tough. Even if I do need it one day, I'm so tired of looking at it take up space that it's going in the trash. For a year, my accent chair hasn't felt the weight of a single butt. Instead it's served as the depository for books, papers, folders, binders and file folders filled with class notes and copies of articles.

The guilt monster rises up in me and tries to come at me with righteous indignation at the thought of my throwing away two years worth of graduate study notes, syllabi, reading lists and articles. What if you decide to get your PhD one day? You'll wish you'd kept them! I hate you, guilt monster. I wish I could muster up every ounce of strength in my being and kick you in the gut. I don't want to keep them. I want to get rid of everything, do you hear me? Everything. I wish I had a firey furnace, Nebuchadnezzar style, that I could just chunk everything into. I mean, if something has sat around for a year and collected dust, how can I in my right mind think it's something I "need"? Besides, whatever work I've done, whatever papers I've written, whatever, is saved on my computer. Isn't that enough? It's not like I'm throwing away the books I've bought and used. Geez. Shut your guilt monstery mouth right now before I have to shut it for you.

Pepperoni Pizza

If I had to choose one thing to eat for the rest of my life, it would be pepperoni pizza. I would eat it every day, I wouldn't get tired of it, and I would love it. Each and every day.

Things That Made Me Cry This Week So Far

1. Watching the season finale of Kings. It was SUCH a good show. It was basically a modern retelling of the biblical David story. A modern-day monarchy. I'd almost do anything for NBC to bring it back for another season. The high quality shows with breadth and depth always get the axe. All that's usually left is reality show detritus.

2. Opening the door to see a beautiful friend of mine with a scraped face, slightly off-kilter glasses, a badly scraped elbow and torn and dirty clothes. She swerved on her bike to avoid getting hit by a truck which turned a little too wide and fell. What did me in is when she told me that she broke and lost a bracelet given to her by her mom which she vowed to never remove. She had worn it for several years.

3. Realizing that I had completely forgotten my aunt's birthday. Completely.

Move

There's something about preparing for a move that just sucks the life out of me. I'm listless, unmotivated. I sullenly lounge around my apartment, the weight of the realization that I'm going to have to either pack up or get rid of all this unnecessary stuff crushing me.

When I express these thoughts out loud, on paper, on computer screen and read back over them, they sound ludicrous. Absurd. Melodramatic. Why can't you be thankful that you even have stuff? Why can't you be happy that you're graduating and moving on to something else? I want to wrap myself in a comforter cocoon and never emerge. I want my stuff to pack itself. I have the boxes, the packing tape and the old newspaper to stuff in the crevices. All my stuff needs to do is get up and enclose itself accordingly.

Maybe part of it is that it's a move in name only. It's actually a tabling. A shelving. A displacement of articles in various niches scattered throughout. A dinette set with brother. Boxes of who knows what in my parents' attic. Heavy stuff in a storage room. Me? An adult-girl, once again at the mercy of mum n diddy. That's how they say it in these parts.

My circle of friends? It will disband with time and distance. I finally carved out a little niche at my little church only to have to abandon it. I'm haunted by the nebulous haze that I'm re-entering, and I curse the meticulous mind that serves to remind me of the many things that didn't work out.

I know that I sound like The Writer. Like a moody teenager whose world has come crashing down around her because of a zit. There are times when I'm speaking Spanish and I know the words are wrong as they leave my mouth, but I'm powerless to correct them because of the immediacy of conversation. There are times when I know the answer's wrong as I'm writing it, but I write it anyway because I'd rather hope that it's right than leave it blank. But when will I get over the unfounded embarrassment of being myself?

Choices, choices . . .

After the French test today, my pal and I were thinking up metaphors of how we did:

"We kicked it in the head, yo."

"It was like we said, 'Hey, French test, c'mere' and then we're like, WHAP!" (gesturing with an imaginary club).

Now, I'm left with the conundrum of figuring out what to do with myself for the rest of the day. I could:

a. Do a few more Rosetta Stone Level 2 French lessons. (When am I ever going to have to tell anyone "The cat is on top of the table"?)

b. Read a few more chapters of Northanger Abbey (Will Catherine Morland ever rid herself of the horrid John Thorpe and discover Mr. Tilney's whereabouts?)

c. Go home and start putting stuff in boxes and throwing stuff away (Will I be able to part with a dusty cordless phone I haven't used in eons? What about copies of articles about the essence of the Spanish Baroque?)

d. Watch a melodramatic French film (Disappearing spouses, existential crises, longing melancholic gazes, basking in ennui)

e. Obsess over whether I should still try to write a theology paper (I checked out too many books to turn back now vs. I'm an easily excitable yet shameless procrastinating bum)

Choices, choices . . .

The Sea of Undesirable Propositions

Ever had those conversations where there's an urgent, spidey-like sense tingling a warning that the longer the conversation lasts the closer you edge towards a precipice of awkwardness which overlooks a murky Sea of Undesirable Propositions?

Yeah.

Me, outside of the Haley Center, notorious for its bad reception, observing my surroundings from a drab concrete and steel balcony, arranging a possible Starbucks outing with pals.

Him, looking like a former member of Rascal Flatts complete with spiky hair, tight shirt, jeans, cowboy boots and a Southern drawl, yet not particularly attractive and of doubtful musical talent.

Backstory: He used to virtually stalk a colleague of mine who was his instructor before class every day. He always had some excuse or issue to discuss = He was a slacker. Since we taught at the same time, I was always in the office either before or at the same time she was = I saw him toujours.

The conversation began (on my end) as a simple exchange of banal pleasantries. But then it progressed to him telling me parts of his life story and then a series of questions as to my particulars.

Where am I from? (harmless enough) "Well, my dad was in the Air Force, so we moved around a little."

What do I plan to do after I graduate? (typical, but why do you care?) "Umm, I'm teaching for a while here, going to France, and then after that, I don't know."

Where do I live? (creeper alert!) "Err . . . near the post office."

How much longer do I plan to be around? (edging closer to the precipice!) "Well, actually, I'm leaving pretty soon. Moving out. Moving to another place. Yep."

The spidey sense subsides a little as he rattles on a bit more about his future plans. Meanwhile, I'm planning my escape. But then he yanks me back to the very edge of the precipice when he ends his spiel by saying that the only thing he needs now is a girlfriend. Spidey sense explosion!

(Trying out my condescending, "I'm older than you" tactic) "Oh, that'll come in time."

He doesn't take the hint. He compliments me. Cheesily. My body is dangling off the cliff. I'm grasping the edge of the precipice with one hand. The Sea of Undesirable Propositions churns menacingly below me. Stomach acid levels are dangerously rising. I have no choice but to execute my hastily arranged escape plan and mentally whisper a prayer for its success:

"Hey, it was nice talking to you, but I've gotta run back to the language lab."

Never before has a liberal been so fond of these words: Mission Accomplished.

Joke of the Day

I love those Laffy Taffy wrapper jokes. Apparently, so does my mom. She called sometime around 12 a.m. to tell me this joke. I was in dreamland and when I listened to the message she left I could barely understand it because she was laughing so hard:

Q: What kind of teeth can you buy for a dollar?

A: Buck teeth.

I dreamt. I thought.

Those bizarre images and situations of dreams. Those curious moments right after awaking from a dream.

I dreamt that when I opened the refrigerator and lifted the aluminum foil which covered a watermelon half, I found it coated in thick white mold.

I dreamt that a bespectacled young man in my French class accused me of ignoring him because he had been going to my church for several weeks and I hadn't noticed him.

I thought about why people commonly have the last names Black, White, Brown, Green and Gray, but never Red, Yellow, Orange, Blue or Purple?

I thought of absolutely horrible poems and one cringingly embarrassing short story I had written in a Creative Writing class as a sophomore. I then thought of the crush I had on the dorky instructor. Once I addressed him as Mr. and his last name and he insisted that I call him by his first name because Mr. and his last name made him think someone's talking to his father. He also called William Shakespeare "Willy the Shake." I also wrote him a letter of recommendation for him to receive a teaching award in the department, and he won. I also realize now that he used my obvious crush on him to his advantage.

Ambiguous Breakfasts

You both know you're friends and nothing more. And you both know that, in the end, you really wouldn't want anything more. But the idea, rather than the possibility, still hangs in the air. The possibility would be impossible. But the idea is amusing, something you want to play with like bubbles or playdoh.

You could press a thumb into doughy curious glances. You could pop translucent thoughts. You could roll a snake out of common stories and blow floating orbs of easy laughter. And then you split the check, shake hands and toss farewells over your smugly retreating shoulders.

Obama's NAACP Speech

I listened to this and just teared up when he launched into the "personal responsibility" part of the speech. It was heartfelt and not condescending: "Your destiny is in your hands, and don't you forget that."

It was a laudatory speech, paying homage to people who came before him, to people who helped him get to where he is now. It was also an honest speech that called for self-reflection and a new mindset. But more than a speech, it was a sermon. Replete with scripture, call-and-response and Amens. Like him or not, you gotta give it to my boy for having some church up in there.

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Graduation

I just got the envelope in the mail. Here's where to park, here's where to be, here's your name card, here's where to get your diploma. At first, I didn't really care. I wasn't even going to walk in the ceremony. Ah, degree, schmegree. Really. Even though I'm glad I've had the chance to further my education, I was feeling kind of whatever about it. Getting all Ecclesiastes about everything. But now, as the day approaches, the thought that I'll have my Master's in a matter of weeks is kind of sobering.

Even though I suppose I'm still relatively wet behind the ears, I'm starting to feel the weight of years. Not in a bad way. What I mean is, I'm actually starting to feel experience amassing under my belt. One of my colleagues is thinking of going into Education and she asked me what was the best way to go about looking for a job. All of this stuff started flying out of my mouth. Advice, resources, contacts. Sometimes I almost forget I spent three years teaching after undergrad. And now this.

Move

Ugh. I despise moving with a passion. It's just a gargantuan hassle. And as annoying as it is to accumulate junk, it tears my heart out to throw junk away. And my stuff. I was going to put it in storage, but the more I think about it, the more sense I think it might make to sell it. By the time I finish living with Mom and Pops for a few months, go to live in France for a few months and get back, I'll have paid some storage place at least half of what my stuff is worth. And God knows what my life will look like by the time I get back.

And moving back. Not just back in with parents, but back. A retrograde. Too much history. Too much familiarity. History and familiarity are definitely bittersweet. I think of it every time I go to the park. I know and love this place vs. This place reminds me of too much. Funny how a person who laments having no roots also laments the dogged sameness of what she's come to call home. Funny how a person depressed by sameness is also depressed by change. Make up your contradictory, irreconcilable mind.

Bonus musing

I say I want to have a "reason" for doing what I do. I don't just want to do it for myself. By myself. I waxed eloquent one day divulging my usual misgivings. But last Sunday, while singing "All My Life" with the praise band, a reply in the lyrics fell over me:

And I will love You all my life / For You are my reason/ The one that I live for . . .

Obama's Surgeon General Pick

Wow. Homegirl's from my neck of the woods. And her resume seems pretty impressive. Check the CNN article out here. Check the NYT article out here.

Hey, friend

Me: May I have a half a pound of white American cheese, a quarter pound of smoked turkey and a quarter pound of honey ham, please?

Lady: You gonna make yo' self a sandwich?

Me: (laughing nervously) Um, yes ma'am.

Lady: What grade you in, honey?

Me: Um, I'm in college. In grad school.

Lady: You about 18 or something?

Me: No ma'am. I'm 27 years old.

Lady: (bewildered) But you look so young!

Me: (laughing nervously) Yeah . . . people tell me that. I'm graduating with my Master's in August.

Lady: (with a serious, proud look in her eye) You go 'head girl.

It's okay friend, you can come crash anytime. We took care of those invitations, didn't we? Hey, remember this song by Third Eye Blind? It's "cut ties," not "capsize." Let's listen to it again. Wow, I guess that No Doubt song takes you back, huh?

Hey, friend, I haven't seen you in months, girl! Yeah, Jason's Deli. I love their salad bar. I heard you're engaged. I keep telling my friends I'm going to have the simplest wedding ever. Drama free . . . probably impossible.

Hey, why don't you come over for lunch? Can you explain the conflict between Han Chinese and Uighurs? You mean Mandarin and Changshounese are mutually unintelligible? So when you speak Changshounese you have a Mandarin accent? Yeah, if you're 18 you have the right to vote. No, you aren't required to vote. I know, the Electoral College sounds unfair. I used to think the same thing, but let me tell you why I think it's okay.

Hey, friend. Starbucks? 8ish? I got an iced white chocolate mocha. Have you ever read The Picture of Dorian Gray? See if you can figure out what language they're speaking. I'm trying not to look. So, you're telling me the day of the test she said, "So what is the difference between the preterite and . . . what's that other weird one called?" Yikes. At that point, it's a wrap, right?

The Running of the Bulls

I was surprised to read that it was a Spaniard this time.

I don't mean to trivialize what happened. It's brutal and tragic. But I must admit that I was slightly relieved that it wasn't the usual clueless, drunken American.

En colère

Me: I'm just so taken with French pronunciation! It's just so cool sounding. I mean, even the word for "angry" sounds beautiful. En colère. I just feel like going around saying "Je suis en colère avec toi" to random people. I mean, I know it means "I'm angry with you," but it just sounds so beautiful.

Classmate: Okay, you say that now, but when you get to France and you've ticked someone off and they say "Je suis en colère avec toi" to you filled with French wrath and really mean it, you aren't going to think it sounds so pretty anymore.

Me: (laughs out loud) I guess you're right. (sighing, in my head) Why does everyone have to burst my bubble of romanticism?

I'm Nice, Really

I just went through and deleted a few Facebook contacts whose friendships I accepted on an "oh, what the heck" basis. Meaning I barely remember you and/or never had any interaction with you. Or you are a former student who tried to suck up to me. Is that mean?

Live Your Life

Fireworks. A friend from China. Where fireworks were invented. But I've never seen fireworks this beautiful in China. Sitting under a sky with starbursts of color, I drifted back to a different fireworked sky in a different time celebrating a different holiday in a different country with a different person under a different circumstance—a fleeting romance. A college friend soon to have a different last name. I composed a song when I was 11. It improved with maturity and formal training. "Here Comes the Bride"? Nope. My song. Wow, you must be really good friends! What an honor! And it is. And to think that a student handed in a comparison/contrast paper to her that was a mere two-columned list of the characteristics of different car brands. I wouldn't have been able to keep my composure! Every time I think about it, I laugh. It must've been surreal, like, how could someone living in this century think that that's an acceptable paper? It definitely topped my suck up email. The Picture of Dorian Gray. My current bedside reading. It was one of college friend's frequent mentions. I've always been intrigued by the posture of the 19th century dandy. A gentleman, all the time in the world on his hands, polished, moneyed, decadent, fanciful, world-weary, apathetic, hedonistic, erudite and cynical, and always tinged with latent homoeroticism. Pizza. Veggie with wheat crust. Can you handle it? We just saw Food, Inc. Yeah, I can handle it. Laughing with abandon. Testing out our elementary French. Ruminating over our post-graduation plans. So live your life, ay ay ay/ You steady chasing that paper/ Just live your life (Oh!) ay ay ay/ You got no time for no haters.

J'aime le français!

The following is a nerd PSA brought to you by smartgirl:

Learning a foreign language is really a lot of fun. It can be frustrating and embarrassing, especially in the beginning, but there eventually comes a point where you break through an invisible barrier. You don't know it the moment it happens, but one day it will dawn on you that you are thinking in a language other than your own. Once you break through that barrier, yes, you will still lose some sharpness if you don't practice. But so much is instilled in you at that point that it will always be with you.

Teaching Spanish, for now, is over. I am now taking the last class I have to ever take in order to get my Masters in Spanish. A French class. One of the program requirements is to have at least a year of a foreign language other than Spanish (or English, of course). I took my first semester of French last Fall, and I'm taking my last semester (or minimester in this case) now.

I'm super excited and super motivated. I'm not taking or teaching any other classes, so I'm able to focus completely on French. I'm going to France in January, so I'm really doing my best to try to get as much practice as I can before I go abroad. The language lab here has Rosetta Stone software for free, and I have plenty of time to do that for extra practice as well.

But here's the most exciting part for me. Spanish and French are both Romance languages. They have basically the same grammatical concepts and structures. Since I'm already fluent in Spanish, it's like I already have pre-programmed slots in my brain for a Romance language. Now, I just fill those same slots with French.

I must admit that French is a little pickier, though, especially where pronunciation is concerned. Spanish is completely straightforward. What you see written is what you pronounce (with the exception of 'h'). With French . . . not so much. Half the letters aren't pronounced and there's a bunch of nasal stuff going on which affects meaning. I guess trilling the 'r' is to Spanish what knowing what to pronounce and how is to French. Also, the numbers are wild. Ninety-nine = noventa y nueve. Simple. But ninety-nine = quatre-vingt-dix neuf? Really?

Still it's cool. I love how each language has a different personality. Spanish is very melodic and rhythmic. Every word has a ring to it. Every sentence is a poem. French has sharper sounds. Broken apart, each word can sound unpleasant. But altogether, it has an air of sophistication. The simplest statement sounds like a masterpiece.