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

Letters From My Friend: Debut

Letters From My Friend is a new Where You Can Find Me feature. My friend, a dear kindred spirit, gifted in writing, will occasionally write letters to me. I will post them, and subsequently post a worthy response. I bring to you the first installment of Letters from My Friend. Enjoy!

Dearest Chantell,

I have been reading two books simultaneously, The Picture of Dorian Gray and Uncle Tom's Cabin. And one must admit that it is quite strange to be reading both! On another subject first though, and then back to the latter.

Often, I recall the line from a book being read in the movie Gone With the Wind, which reads like this: "To begin my life with the beginning of my life, I recall that I was born." I don't know why this strange line should occur to me so frequently, and why I should think on it. Now it brings to mind a time when I asked a group of second grade girls if they remember being born. They invariably answered yes, and flung themselves onto a slew of divans to tell me of it. They described hearing their mothers heartbeats, feeling themselves being pushed through the birth canal, and fighting to go back into the warmth of the womb. It makes me wonder if I fought. Did I really want to come into this world if the first thing I did was have a bowel movement? This is true, sadly. I was scared of the world, and rightly so. I hated everyone and everything except my mother.

But back to Dorian and Uncle Tom. What would Dorian say about my life? Wouldn't he only try to defile me if he came across me, or worse yet-- though more of a reality--ignore me because of the orange tones of my skin? And Uncle Tom, why, he would only beg me to read the Bible to him. And one does grow tired of reading to one who can read himself. The only purpose of reading to someone is so that one can change the content of what one is reading and the other will not be able to discover the lie because the other is altogether not capable of reading it for himself. Dorian would make me love him and then stab me behind the ear in a rush of passionate hate, all while holding yellow jessamins between his teeth. Uncle Tom would tell me to stay with my master and not ask for freedom until it is offered.

Both of these characters perplex me much, Chantell. They have affected my life and I am forever altered. I can never regain my existence before knowing either of them. They sit in my head, one on either side of my cerebral cortex, spitting fire or water onto my grey matter. What am I to do? I am writing because I am desperate. I am off to the opera, though first I am to dine with Lord Henry and who can know the outcome! Debauchery, to be sure.

Sincerely,

K.

Me Want Chocolate

Last night, after commiserating over a series of rainy days and analyzing characters and themes in The Picture of Dorian Gray with a dear friend, I was blindsided by a chocolate craving. Me wanted chocolate so badly. And nothing satisfies it more than brownies. Dark chocolate, fudgy, warm and gooey. Me wanted them. But, blast! We were out of eggs. And indeed, I braved the rainy night and the frigid Winn-Dixie air to get them.

But it was worth it. Oh, Lawd. After I took the first bite of that gooey, chocolatey concoction, it was a wrap.

And, no, I'm still not done with the compositions. (Grrrrrr . . . )

Scattered Thoughts Compiled as a Neat List

1. I can't worry about what other people think. Why am I wasting my brain energy? I have no import upon what goes on in other people's heads. Why am I concerned about something so utterly incontrollable?

2. I can't worry about what's going to happen next. There's always been a next step. God's always led me to one. So what makes me think that suddenly He won't?

3. Are the dreams that I fervently wish for nightmares in disguise?

4. I really don't want to grade these compositions. I really don't. There are so many of them. I'm teaching four classes! That's about 100 students. And they're going to be bad. Most of them will be. It's Elementary Spanish. They're supposed to be bad. And I hate grading, more than anything, error riddled compositions. It drains my lifeforce. But I'm getting paid for it. I'm getting paid for the draining of my lifeforce.

5. My iPod earbuds are broke down. To' up. It was a slow process of erosion.

6. I had the UN in my stomach Thursday night. Japanese, Chinese, Saudi Arabian, Turkish, Italian, Malian, Korean. The only thing American were my peanut butter brownies out of a box.

7. People keep postulating that I'll return from France with a Frenchman in tow. Bon chance with that happening.

8. I am procrastinating, egregiously and brazenly, on grading my compositions. Expect a few more procrastinatory posts in the near future.

Stuff Apostolics Like

I've been invited to contribute to a hilarious blog called Stuff Apostolics Like. (Modeled after the equally hilarious Stuff White People Like.) It gives a humorous and ironic glimpse into the rich, quirky and at times, contradictory world of Apostolic Pentecostals.

Flattered, I accepted. I've already submitted ideas that have been published, among them:

#9-Anne of Green Gables

#30-Watching TV Shows Online

#40-Compartmentalizing Your Prayer Requests

So, now, I'll be a regular blogger. Check it out.

P.S. - The funniest one so far to me is #31-Covering Ladies' Legs Who Are Slain in the Spirit with Suitcoats.

Gas Station Encounter

Me (Minding my own business pumping gas. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a figure walking towards me. At first I think he's going past me, but then he stops right in front of me. The figure turns out to be a blond-haired, freckle-faced teenager.)

Him: Hey, um, I just wanted to say that you look pretty good.

Me: (surprised, because I honestly thought he was going to ask me for money or try to sell me something) Oh, why, thank you.

Him: Yeah, you're looking pretty good. And um, I wanted to know if I could get your number.

Me: (even more surprised and somewhat amused at his audacity) Um, I'm sorry, but that's not going to happen.

Him: (embarrassed) Oh . . .

Me: (feeling like maybe I was a little too harsh) How old are you?

Him: 16 about to be 17.

Me: Well, add 10 years to your age, and that's how old I am. You see, it's impossible.

Him: Okay, well, you still look good . . . have a good night. (walking away)

(sigh.) I could start my own show called "The Cougar." Seriously.

I have a scary problem with days.

What I'm saying is that I'll wake up and think it's another day.

Case in point: Last month I woke up on a Sunday morning, and upon looking at my alarm clock and seeing it a little past 6 a.m. (the time I normally leave the house for my 45 min commute), I jumped up (more like tumbled out) and started feverishly brushing my teeth trying to whip up an acceptable-outfit-to-wear image in my head so that I wouldn't have to blindly rummage through my closet. Mid-spit, it dawned on me that it was Sunday morning, not Monday morning (I had a flashback of preparing snack for my Toddler Sunday School class the night before) and I angrily yet disorientedly tried (but failed) to go back to sleep.

Fast-forward to this past weekend. I just knew that a certain dinner party I had been invited to was Saturday night. I got all ready, bought a bottle of sparkling cider (for the teetotalers like myself) and a Publix-made Boston Creme Cake. You couldn't tell me that the party was not that night. Upon my arrival, the hostess greeted me in her jammies and regretfully informed me that the party was the night before.

Wait . . . come again? I'mmmmm sorry? ::perplexed blinking and head shake:: Then it dawned on me. The last minute invitation she emailed me which said "The party is tomorrow night" was sent on Thursday night. My weird self, not bothering to check the date, read the email on Friday morning and assumed that it was also sent Friday morning. So "tomorrow night" registered in my mind as Saturday night.

I felt like idiota of idiotas and could barely staunch the deluge of manic apologies that came flowing out of my mouth, but she ended up inviting me to stay and she whipped up some lovely pasta carbonara and a salad, we sipped sparkling cider and finished things off with Boston Creme Cake. Um, all's well that ends well?

Co-Author with Don Miller!

I know it's hard to believe, but Don Miller chose me to co-author his new book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years. It really is a dream come true. I had to wait to announce it because it was being featured on the literary e-zine Top Selling Authors, and I couldn't break the non-disclosure agreement. Read about my exhilarating experience collaborating with my husband-in-my-mind here.

Why I'm Getting Old

A few weeks back, I was teaching food vocabulary in Spanish. Fruits, vegetables, all of that. One of the vocabulary words was rábano, otherwise known as a radish. I was trying to be funny and made a Fraggle Rock reference. You know, those little things that lived in caves and sang "Dance your cares away (clap, clap) worries for another day, let the music play (clap, clap), down at Fraggle Rock!" Anyway, the fraggles ate radishes. I loved that show when I was little.

My students stared back at me blankly. They had no idea what fraggles were. It was before their time! I could understand if my middle schoolers didn't get it. But these were college-aged kids. I'm not that much older than them, c'mon. But then I thought about it. Most of my students now are between the ages of 18-22. So, I'm at least 5 years older than the oldest. But this is 1st year Spanish and most of them are freshmen, so I'm about 8 or 9 years older than the majority. That's a generation gap. Yikes.

I'm baaaack!

I thought I had a long, silent road of recovery ahead of me. I saw myself a month, even two months from now, as a mere puddle of emotional meltdown soup, the primordial ooze from which I would painstakingly re-evolve into a shell of my former self. And once I did re-evolve, once my pseudopods hardened into actual legs, I questioned whether I would even be able to walk.

If all of that sounds melodramatic (if not pedantic), that's because it is. And once I realized that it was, that the sun still rises, and that I could still see rainbows after the rain, I also realized that I could still nourish my blog baby with the milk of my mind.

To commemorate my realizations, I'm pondering doing some new things with my blog baby. I'm considering having some guest bloggers throw their $0.02 in. I had a weekly "mindquote" going, (all of which were made up and from varying pseudonyms conjured from my own name. Can anyone guess why the present quotation is by "Chaniko Smitikami"?) and I think it might be fun to have readers submit their own quotations (real or imagined) for me to feature.

If you'd like to help me realize my realizations, leave a comment or shoot me an email (you can find the address if you click on "View my complete profile" to the right) if you think you're a good candidate for guest blogging or have any mindquote suggestions.

Hurray! May your days be full of sunflowers.