"You have no power over me."

Some of you children of the 80s know what I'm talking about when I mention the movie Labyrinth. It's a muppety, fantasy flick featuring David Bowie as the seductive Goblin King and a teenaged Jennifer Connelly as Sarah, a girl who has to get through the Goblin King's labyrinth to get her baby brother back.

So after Sarah's gotten through the labyrinth, defeated the Goblin King's goblin army with her muppet friends, etc., she has a final showdown with him in this awesome inverted/upside down/winding staircase scene.

But in the end he still tries to get Sarah to give in. "Just fear me, love me, do as I say and I will be your slave," he beckons. The whole movie she's been trying to remember this certain line from a fantasy play (also called Labyrinth) before entering the Goblin City. And she finally remembers it (and sorry, she does briefly use a mild expletive. I forgot about that part. Please skip it if it would offend you):

The Goblin King's game is up. The facade melts away. The key to her success the whole time was realizing the Goblin King actually had no power over her!

In a way, I sort of feel like Sarah after she remembers her line. There are negative things and icky lies that constantly work to bring me down. But I realized anew today, they have no power over me. Not unless I allow them to. To the Goblin Kings, Lord Henrys, Satan and his lying lies: You have no power over me.

The Last Twenty

This is it. Today marks the beginning of my last twenty. This is the last year I'll be able to legally consider myself a twentysomething. What choice do I have but to rock it? Les get it, 29.

This day has been a right pleasant day. I decided to bedeck myself in my all time fave color, purple (lavender, to be exact, but all shades of purple make my world go round):

I also rocked these shoes:

Yeah, baby. Rocked 'em.

I came home to a wrapping-papered door:

Opened a longed-for present:

And helped myself to a nice chunk of pretty ice-cream cake:

Ya'll don't know nothin bout 29! It's allaway live up in dis 29 right herr! On my momma and er'thang I luh we gon do DIS 29, cuz! Train 29 is leaving the station and it's rollin on, honey. It's rollin ON.

Pizza and Cookies

On Sunday nights after church, I go to Publix and get a frozen pizza and Toll House cookies. I could eat pizza every day for the rest of my life, and I will kill for freshly baked Toll House chocolate chip cookies. Sometimes my little bro and I will split it. You get the pizza, I get the cookies.

But last night I went to Publix and had my socks knocked off when I saw this in the frozen pizza section while trying to decide on whether I wanted pepperoni or supreme:

Wait . . . what?! Who read the innerworkings of my mind? How could someone so precisely discern my post-Sunday night church heart's desire? That's so bizarre . . . I mean, pizza and cookies sold together in the same box? But at the same time, it's genius. I thought I was the only one who craved that exact combination. But there must be more me's out there. In fact, there must be so many me's out there that DiGiorno and Toll House were willing to stake their profit indices on it. So I just snagged that sucker and saved myself a trip to the cookie dough/pudding place in the dairy section.

And yes, this begs a metaphor: I'm doing my little routine. La-dee-dah. Having all intentions of doing my normal thing, making my normal stops. But then BAM! Out of nowhere, the unexpected, surprising, almost unbelievable, yet utterly perfect emerges. And I snatch that sucker up. Awww, shucks! Y'all don know nothing bout that! Awww, snap!

God. Dude. If You can infiltrate the minds of the CEOs of DiGiorno and Toll House and incept them with the genius of idea of selling frozen pizza and cookies together to satisfy my heart's desire, couldn't You like, tell that God-loving, tall, bespectacled, educated, handsome guy with a Colgate smile somewhere out there to get a move on? Kthanxbye.

Three: The Leaving Game

Fickle, thy name is me.

Should I, shouldn't I? Pros and cons. Vacillation. Pluck petals from a flower. Mull it over long and hard.

I do come to decisions. Decisions have to be made. But once they're made—ay, there's the rub.

A telemarketer with a tantalizing hook—$120 in gas vouchers. "Sure," I said. I can cancel the whatever savings coupons you want to send me and I can still keep the $120 in free gas. That's what they said. But once I was transferred over to the, shall I say, "deal sealer," they started talking about magazine subscriptions and additional shipping costs and—I said, "No, I don't want it anymore." "But Ms. Smith, you can still enjoy the $120 in gas vouchers with no additional obligations and blah blah blah blah." "No, I'm not interested in it anymore." They gave up. They were wasting their breath with this fickle chick. I wanted it and then I didn't want it. I almost fell for it.

I've almost fallen for it. I've made decisions to do it and then regretted it. I've made decisions not to do it and then regretted it. I know what I want, then want what I know I don't want. I know what I don't want, then don't want what I know I want.

But I have to move on.

Once someone asked me, seemingly out of the blue, "You really like to win, don't you?" Then, I was puzzled. Why did he ask me that? Now, I know why. Yes, I like to win. Winning, if you can call it that, is not what you think; it's self-preservation. It's leaving. First.

No trophies, no plaques, no gold medals. Just a decision set in stone and the ambivalence that constantly surrounds it.

Two: My Mouth

My mouth is to blame.

Death and life are in the power of the tongue is what the Good Book says.

It's astounding how many negativities I verbalize on a daily basis, it really is. I knew this, but for the first time in a while, I realized it. It hit me that I've been doing nothing less than speaking death into my own life. If I sit there and think about it for a moment, it's shocking and incredible. The thing about a lie is that it becomes a truth once spoken and believed by the one to whom it's spoken. I've been believing the lies about me, reinforcing them, making them manifest, giving them power with my mouth.

This realization is way past due. I've known it, but I have to act upon it. I'm beautiful, I'm capable, I'm intelligent, I'm talented, I'm important, I'm powerful, I'm loved, I have a purpose, I have a future, I'm a child of God. This is the report I must believe.

One: Those Ladies Who Pull You Out

One of my afternoon students didn't show so I got a smidgen of extra time to come to my favorite refuge of procrastination before my professional development classes this evening.

There are a couple of things I'd like to talk about, but I don't want to just scatter them all over in a sporadic list, I want to kind of essay them out.

Those Ladies Who Pull You Out

In the thick of a Spirit-filled service where everybody is getting their blessing: Women doubled over wailing, ecstatic rolls of speaking in tongues, hands upraised, long-skirted spins and stomps of joy. I've got the victory! In the midst of this divine cacophony, there is a doubter. Not a doubter as in, this isn't real, (though there are those), but one who hangs back. Who affirms with a leaden heart that an emotional response is as substantial as cotton candy. What matters, after all, is what happens when the shouting is over. What do you do, how do you behave, what do you tell yourself when the move is still? Why bother, when you know that your mind is going to meander down the same destructive path? "Getting the victory" is not jumping up and down while the organ wails. It's choosing each and every day not to believe the lies. It's a matter of overcoming inertia. It's a nearly stoic exercise of trudging forward. The doubter doesn't doubt the power of God, but herself. Which is indirectly doubting the power of God.

In the thick of this mentally justified hang-back: Spirit-emboldened ladies prodding, guiding this leaden heart out of the confines of plush conference seats. Lifting the arms from the elbows, a trembling hand between the shoulder blades, eyes squeezed tight, spiritual commands seasoned with King James English. Tears are never hard to come by for this doubter. Nostalgia washes over her rather than a lightning shock of "the victory." She knows that a lightning shock is what the ladies crave. This lightning shock would zap her back onto the bright path. No more sad days! The joy of the Lord is your strength!

Those ladies who pull you out aren't deterred by a possible rejection of their holy advances. They have faith that the doubter still believes in the same God they do. They are the faithful. They are the trusting. They are the believing. They are the hoping. And they care enough to do what they can to breathe that God-given hope back into a leaden heart.

Photo Shoot at the Birmingham Botanical Gardens

I went to visit a bosom (pronounced BOSS-um) buddy for a couple of days in Birmingham. It was my idea to go to the Botanical Gardens, but it was her idea to do what turned into a photo shoot starring me as the model. And no, I am not a model (as someone awkward to the weirdo power asked after inserting himself into the tail end of lunch at a purloined outside table) and am rather skittish about the prospect of being one because of my many imperfections. But I humored my buddy's need for artistic expression (though I did leave out the tree trunk pics . . . forgive me from the bosom, buddy) and I must say they turned out lovely.

Those days I was in Birmingham were flower days. I saw flower babies being born. I saw buds ready to burst. Flowers in pots, flowers in dirt, flowers in hanging baskets, flowers with lips which opened and closed. A daffodil that sprang to life. I even got a sunflower umbrella for Christmasmybirthday. Flowers are quite a beautiful.

Numbers 1-3, 5, 6 and 18 were taken by yours truly and the rest were courtesy of bosom buddy. Enjoy!

Omg! Today is the Ides of March!

How could I?

How could anyone who claims to consider him or herself a Julius Caesar enthusiast dare to almost forget today's fateful date?

I was so caught up in existential angst this morning that I forgot to pay tribute to the day when the Roman Empire was shaken at its core.

Even at the base of Pompey’s statue, / Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. / O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! (III.ii.183-5)

The whole play the soothsayer was warning Caesar about the Ides of March. Then when the Ides finally arrive, Caesar sees the soothsayer out on the street and tries to get smart with him real quick:

Caesar: The Ides of March are come.

But then the soothsayer comes back with a zinger:

Soothsayer: Aye, Caesar, but not gone.

Ooh, zing, Caesar! Owned! You got told! NO comeback to that. Next thing you know, he's murked and bleeding at the base of Pompey's statue. Shoulda listened . . .

Here We Are

Spoken

Yes, I'm going back to school again. What am I going back for this time? (chuckles) A PhD. Yeah. In Romance Languages. Well, it's like . . . okay, basically Spanish for me, and I might do like a minor in French. Yeah, in August. Mmhmm, a professor. Well . . . that depends on me, but usually about 4 years.

Unspoken

No, I'm not a cold, ambitious career woman who craves to climb the highest rungs of academia so that I can see my name engraved in whatever. What else do you expect me to do? Go back to teaching in the nightmare of the public school system? "Settle down"? For whom? With what? (or switch those two interrogative words around.) Buy a townhouse in the part of town that is in transition to being "the other side" of town and chill, eating either MSG-laden Chinese food or Golden Corral Sunday afternoon after Sunday afternoon? I have to be able to take care of myself. That's the fact of the matter. And I can't do that well doing what I've been doing. Exhibit A: Juggling gigs and living with my parents ever since finishing my Master's and emerging from my "French experience." Yes, I am painfully aware of my singleness and of my mother's covert grandchild craving. But here we are.

Ooh, real quick

1. Today, drinking over-French vanilla creamered coffee out of a purple-tinged mug I bought at the King Center in Atlanta. It says, "Power at its best is love implementing the demands of justice. Justice at its best is love correcting everything that stands against love."

2. Just realized my city cash at New York & Company expires today. In a nutshell, I can get $30 worth of stuff for just $15 dollars. T'would be a pity were I to let such an opportunity fall to the ground, unexploited.

She don't mind the late night radio . . .

na na na na na, not at all . . .

List-lessness

1. I woke up with matted hair, dreamscapes of escape still lingering in my awakening mind.

2. I drank a cup of coffee with way too much French vanilla creamer in a hulking green mug that says "Amigo."

3. Read about the craziness going on in Japan on NYT and read a review of the newest adaptation of Jane Eyre. Saw a preview. MUST see it. I got flashbacks of a lonely weekend where I devoured Jane Eyre in nearly one sitting. Then I began to wonder if my literary personification situation is not unlike Jane and Rochester (without the somewhat ambiguously happy ending) more than Dorian and Lord Henry.

4. In the shower I sang (with iTunes accompaniment): "Chasing Pavements" by Adele, "La vida es un carnaval" by Celia Cruz, "Just Feel Better" by Santana feat. Steven Tyler, the theme to a Chinese soap opera (I only know the part that says something about "ay chee") and "The Middle" by Jimmy Eat World.

5. I made the trek to Auburn to grace my grad school buddy's daughter's birthday party with my presence. I want to fill every child's life with Curious George, so I got her a book of stories and a Curious George doll. And something is definitely in the water up there. Babies popping out of the woodwork. For real. Mr. Darcy, for the love of God . . .

6. What is it about that straight shot on I-85 that makes me want to reconnect with people?

7. My piano repertoire has eroded down to a fake version of Pachebel's Canon, a horrible rendition of "Send in the Clowns," just the theme of "Fur Elise" now . . . my piano glory days are over. But one of these days, one of these days, I say, Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C# minor shall be mine.

8. Now I have a choice to make: Finish my tedious task of entering professional development hours or curl up into a fetal position in front of a chick flick with a box of chocolates. A million bucks goes to the one who guesses the right choice.

Super Afro Hair

The latest:

I just don't feel like straightening it out right now. I'm gonna let the wildness ride. Then it'll get old and I'll eventually straighten it out again.

My car's automatic door remote has gone bananas. I think it needs a new battery. Like I can't open the door with it, and when I open it with the key, my car alarm goes off. It's so embarrassing. This started yesterday, and I'm taking it to the dealership tomorrow. Fix this thing!

So, Spring Break next week. No special plans, as it were. Here's the thing: I crave do nothing time. Then when do nothing time falls into my lap, I don't know what to do with it. I want to sleep and want more of it when I get it, but now sleeping opportunities are abundant, and I can't fall asleep. Oh, the ironies.

I had Japanese tonight. California roll and a teriyaki scallop bowl. I want leftovers. At 1:09 a.m.

I still have an entire, unopened, heart-shaped box of chocolates from Valentine's Day. From my dad. They should still be good, no? Those bad boys shall be polished off toute de suite now that I've got some time on my hands.

I have a question . . .

If someone does something to try to make you jealous and it's super obvious, is there really anything to be jealous over? Because if someone has to try to make you jealous, that means they're craving a reaction from you. And if they're craving a reaction from you, there's no reason to be jealous.

Mexican Waiter Crush

This is indeed an old, old story.

My mom and I will take a fancy for a certain Mexican restaurant, and I usually can't resist ordering in Spanish. Inevitably, there will be a tall, dark and handsome waiter on the premises, and we'll end up flirting in Spanish while my mom only manages to decipher snatches (she was pretty good in Italian back in the day, so she does have a little insight into Spanish, which is super similar) of what we're saying.

Let's take a walk down memory lane . . . in my college days, it was Alejandro at Los Tarascos. Then there was Jesús at San Marcos (that one had a few twists and turns), then there was this gorgeous Dominican at Dos Compadres . . . I think his name was Rafael. We've now taken a fancy to Ixtapa, and there's a new Mexican waiter in my crush spot. He's super cute.

It always starts out the same way. How did you learn Spanish? Oh, you speak so well! You went to Mexico? Where did you go? Then my mom will suggest that he needs Jesus (to me), and I'll be faced with the prospect of "flirt to convert." Indeed, we had just come from ladies' prayer tonight. I snuck that in there. We had just come from oración. Get him 'bout that Lord, youknaamean? The time before that, he remembered me! Where have you been? You've been gone for a really long time! Ah, 'tis true. I had been away at Auburn, and then abroad in France. That's right, you tall, perfectly toothed, handsome faced, Latino McDreamy. Keep serving up them vegetarian quesadillas.

Back at Starbucks

The same one, too. Finished making out my 9 weeks test for my learning center kids. I'd love to get a summer adjuncting gig at a local college/university so I can get a break and still make a decent amount of money. I've been sending my resume out. No luck so far.

Almost done with putting in professional development hours. It seems like such a simple task, and it is, it's just tedious and takes forever. I keep telling myself that next time I'm not going to wait until it piles up . . . yet here we are.

I cannot do this last minute stuff when PhD time comes. I can't. I was able to slide through undergrad and grad school doing it and still emerged with a 4.0 somehow. But I know this time around, my usual procrastination routine is not going to cut it. What's going to happen is that I'll commence with my wicked procrastinating ways and get a big bad surprise on a paper or something that will straighten me out once and for all. Or . . .

Right now my hair looks like a straight up afro. I've even been inspired to take a picture (yes, I continue to procrastinate) for your viewing pleasure:

I just haven't felt like doing anything with it. Yes, there I am, in my Starbucks corner, not looking forward to doing any more tedious work. But here we are. I'm going to get it done. I shall emerge triumphant, having slain the procrastination dragon once again.

I got my license renewed today,

and my picture came out horribly. Now, not only will I be over 30 when I have to get it renewed again, but I have to live with this God-awful picture of myself for a while. I mean, it was more my hair. My hair is kind of fluffy/wavy right now, and though it does have a tendency to get out of control when it is in that state, I can usually manage things so that it does so in a cute, semi-tamed way. But the camera at the probate office managed to capture the out of control aspect more than the cute, semi-tamed aspect. And I was too embarrassed to ask to take another picture. So, here we are.

So, I found out this week that I scored the Graduate School Assistantship. ::does silent Yesssss gesture:: What that essentially means is that I won't have to teach the 1st two years, will get more money, will be given research opportunities with a faculty mentor, and will get support over the first summer. Sweeeet. Les get it.

I posted another letter to Lord Henry, but I took it down. I think it's just enough that I wrote it. Writing letters, whether to literary characters, actual people, or some maddening combination of both is so therapeutic. You get to say everything you have to say in a well-thought out way, and you don't get interrupted. When will I get to start writing letters to Mr. Darcy?

I thought that sitting in an uncomfortable chair at Starbucks would give me inspiration to actually get some work done. We can see how that's worked out for me. I must do something to have some feeling of triumph this weekend. I must.