Another Chicken Post

I wanted some chicken wings. I didn't want the leftover gumbo my mom made. So I went to Popeye's and got a 3 chicken wing combo. With a biscuit. With red beans and rice.

It was the first time in a while I ate really well. I had been picking at stuff because I had kind of a loss of appetite lately.

But I tore some Popeye's up. Hopefully, I can tear up grading papers this weekend.

Dear Lord Henry

Read The Picture of Dorian Gray and then come back and read this post.

Dear Lord Henry,

You are the Victorian incarnation of the devil, you are. What is so maddening (yet intriguing) about you is that it's quite clear what you are, it's quite clear you're a seducer. That in itself should be fair warning.

But your words, your words. Even though if studied hard enough with sharp, unfeeling eye, they're found to be nonsense, lies, twisted, hedonistic logic, all they need is a moment, a few soft, insecure moments to slither past defenses and embed themselves in the mind. What a snare for the trusting, open-hearted! To be presented with one who is at once dangerous and appealing, at once flattering and destructive. Your influence is your elixir, and once anyone dares take a sip you become their god and they your slave.

Though you are a fictional character, a projection of Oscar Wilde's fancy, it does not mean that you do not exist. That's the wonder, or rather, the terror of you. Lord Henry does exist. You exist in the form of living, breathing men ages removed from your literary conception. You live through manipulative words whispered to susceptible prey. You live in the machinations of the base desire of conquest, for no reason other than the lust for possession. You live in the cruel satisfaction some receive from watching the unsullied spoil before their eyes. You live in those who glory in efforts to make the principled succumb.

Lord Henry, you walk in the shadows down the corridors of my fears. But you shall not overtake me. I refuse to be your Dorian Gray.

Cordially,

Me

Another Sunday Night

I love the taste of my mom's pasta salad, this time with chunks of artichoke hearts. They and the bits of olive are chunks and bits of nostalgic Italian childhood.

I love the citrusy smell of deep conditioner invigorating my scalp. My hair's gonna be so soft. It's gonna be so soft.

Writing out heartfelt words on blank note cards, typing out ideas and games that amount to learning as lesson plans, sitting under a hairdryer while reading the colorful Sunday comics.

CNN and New York Times scans, a Facebook check, and the fuzzy few pensive moments before settling into a well-earned sleep.

Work

I have to work at it. It takes work.

I have to get up in the morning. I have to go to work. I have to plan. I have to be ready. I have to push against the friction, against the grind. I have to overcome inertia.

A body at rest will remain at rest unless an outside force acts on it.

I must say no and follow through. I must say yes and follow through.

A double minded man is unstable in all his ways.

I must make a conscious decision every day to love. I must make a conscious decision every day to shine. I must make a conscious decision every day to hope. I must make a conscious decision every day not to drown.

What makes you think

that a handful of heartfelt prayers is all it takes?

that ingrained things disappear for good?

that the disconnect between your actions and words is negligible?

that another human being would ever be able to save you?

that your impatience is a result of your situation instead of the other way around?

that the same things will somehow produce different results?

that giving up is an option?

Sick Day

Ugh. Today I woke up drowning in it.

At least I got my grades posted.

At least I had time to eat breakfast today.

Tomorrow will be better.

I begged for a chicken biscuit today.

Today started out as a slumping day. A lumpy, disjointed, moping in my airy world time because people won't do what I want them to do. Now. Be patient. Be prayerful. Take care of God's business and He'll take care of yours.

It wasn't even a regular workday. No kiddies to contend with, but meetings nonetheless. By 10:35, I was starving and I only wanted one thing: A Chick-fil-a chicken biscuit. (They've gotten me into trouble before.) I don't know how to convey to you how much I absolutely had to have one. There was only one problem: They stop serving breakfast at 10:30. After my slumpy lumpy funk of waking up, I didn't care. I was going to speed to the drive thru and beg. I made it at approximately 10:47.

Me: I know you stop serving breakfast at 10:30, but is there any possible way I could pleeeease have a chicken biscuit?

Lady: No, ma'am, I'm sorry.

Me: Are you sure? I just really have to have one today. Please.

Lady: I'm sorry, but I'm not going to be able to do that.

Me: (long, sorrowful sigh) Okayyyy. Well, I guess I'll get a chicken strips meal, thr-

Lady: Hold on for just a second. I'll be right back. (long pause) Well, actually we have one more chicken biscuit left! Is there anything else you'd like?

Me: Yes! Yes! Thank you! Okay, I'll also get a medium waffle fry and a lemonade. Thank you so much! You just made my day!

Why can't everything else in life work like the Chick-fil-a drive thru?

An Actual Saturday

This is the first Saturday in a long time that I've felt like I can actually enjoy.

It's not like I don't still have stuff to do. There's always something to do. But I don't feel like there's this heavy cloud of ohmygodihavesomuchtodoswirling about me. This breath-taking, hyperventilation-inducing pressure that boils my brain into a thick cauldron of cerebral stew.

But I still have stuff to do.

This week kicked off my professional development Spanish class. So far, so good, I must say. I had a principal in my class make a few positive comments to me and to my supervisor about my energetic, engaging style. Hurray! However, any time something starts off with a bang, there's the pressure to keep it up. I can't lose steam.

My day job is still all the way live. But I'm learning how to handle it. No matter how horrible some of my kids are, there still exists a blessed remnant which I believe makes it worth it.

I will allow myself

a slight break in this 11:30 p.m. coffee-induced burst of productivity to say that I wish this mission-minded me would come around more often.

The me that usually decides to manifest is the slothful worrywart. Lots of energy is produced, but it's all kept internally. No measurable progress is made, and it does no good but burn up my brain cells before they get a chance to do anything productive.

But the mission-minded me, when she decides to emerge, is much easier to stomach. No guilty aftertaste.

Here's to finally delving into grading the tests my students keep nagging me about!

Got ma check

Ey. I fin'ly got ma check. You'ont eeeven know. Shoooooot. Been waitin fo dat check. Das MAH check. Das mah PAYcheck, cuz. Gon pay sum bills wi dat junk. Gon pay sum loans wi dat junk. Gon pay sum cret cards wi dat junk. Gon buy me sum shoes wi dat junk. Gon buy me sum lotion wi dat junk.

You'ont eeeven know. Shoooooot.