I Was a Mom Today

for about 7 hours to a 7-year-old and a 4-year-old while the real mom and dad went to church leadership training and ran other errands.

I came prepared with a little craft for them to do. Imagine a table spread with newspapers covering it, paint, those little googly eyes, and multi-colored Popsicle sticks, among other things, scattered about.

I also came bearing a recently-bought-from-the St.James-book-fair-book, A Treasury of Curious George. It has eight stories of my favorite little mischievous monkey, and the kids tell me he is their favorite, too. Imagine a full lap and little arms and legs snuggled up against you, ears listening in wonder as you read the phrase “George was curious” for at least the 10th time.

Settling arguments, explaining “why,” weathering little temper tantrums, playing house, giving hugs, drying tears, boiling pots of spaghetti—is this the stuff motherhood is made of?

I let my mind wander as I put the leftover spaghetti sauce in a Tupperware bowl (they wanted their noodles plain)—am I cut out for it? I like to think and hope that I am. I already have possible names and ideas for that possible phase in my life in the uncertain future. But I guess I realized even more today how all-consuming it must be to introduce a life into the world. More than that, an eternal soul. To nurture that soul and to be responsible for it.

There is a part of me that craves that simple kind of life Gwen Stefani sang about before she went solo, and for some reason, I used to be reluctant to admit it. But how will this craving ever be reconciled with my career woman, travel-the-world bent? Why do I always feel like I’m going to be forced to choose one day? Maybe because I will.

At least it’s not a decision I’ll have to make anytime soon, despite my text-messaged marriage proposal. lol. I will continue to ignore subsequent messages, voice mails and phone calls. There is no earthly reason to respond to any of that in any manner whatsoever unless I would want to prove to him that indeed I am the blithering idiot that he must’ve taken me to be when the ludicrous idea first entered his mind that somehow I would be his ticket to legality in this country. Oh, well. Así es la vida.

¡Ay, Caramba!

It's just a Spanish interjection which is the equivalent of "Oh, my goodness!" or some such variation.

Without boring you with detail upon detail of this whole FTC rigamarole (see previous post for more info), suffice it to say that my decision to end the friendship was one that was made quite rightly. I felt bad and such last night when I tried to (a bit tearily) explain to him why it was best that we stop "being friends." It wasn't so much that I felt so . . . attached to him, come on, I didn't know him for real. It was more that I felt bad for kind of cutting him off because he hadn't really given me an outright reason to suspect his motives of being less than noble. But now after reevaluating some things that perhaps I overlooked and doing a little bit of thinking (which is something I need to do more of these days), and in light of the following recent text message from him, I know without a doubt that womanly intuition or godly discernment or whatever it was that prompted me to say adios to him was on the real. It read (translated by yours truly):

"Forgive me for writing you, but I couldn't sleep from worry, thinking about you. Don't ever leave me, marry me, and I am not kidding. I will await forever a message from you. Take care."

No explanation needed. All I have to say is illegal immigrant seeking a green card by any means necessary.

Another Sunday Night

and here I am, wasting time again, when I should be getting some sleep, thinking over my week.

I don’t want to sit here and type out a what-I-did-this-week post. I really don’t. Perhaps this is not the best time to even write since I’m feeling a tad . . . unexplainable right now.

This is what happens. I always put myself into situations, usually impulsively, and then feel bad and even shed a few tears when I have to sort of somehow get out of them. Not that it’s something so . . . you know, serious or detrimental. But here I am, feeling ambiguous and melancholy (once again), and for something that was all my fault.

In short, I told FTC (see other related stories here and here) that we shouldn’t be friends anymore. I don’t want to go into the whole . . . story. I felt bad because it’s not like he did anything wrong. He didn’t give me any outright reason to suspect his motives of anything ulterior, but he’s like, something that I don’t need right now. There were just too many factors that could have turned an innocent I’m-practicing-Spanish-with-a-hottie thing into a mess. If that makes any sense.

Speaking of Spanish, my pastor, another Spanish-speaking young lady, the Honduran man we’re giving a Bible study to, and I went to the Southeastern Regional Spanish Conference in Atlanta this weekend. It pretty awesome, and the Honduran man received the wonderful gift of the Holy Ghost. It was pretty amazing. And I claim not to be a conference junkie, right?

Last night I ran what you could call a mouth marathon. First I talked to one of my way back buds from junior high and high school. I’ll just call him Brother because he’s like the brother I never had (even though I have two flesh and blood ones already). He’s doing well in med school, and I know that God is really leading him. For that, I am thankful.

I also talked to McD. I’ll be honest and say that at first, there was a part of me that was compelled to put lots of space between us. I tried to convince myself that it was easiest and best, and that eventually my system would be cleansed of any residue. Of course it helped that he is no longer in my locale. But what I’m learning is that once someone has . . . gotten into your system, so to speak, in a certain way, you cannot simply cut them off. Even though I realize our relationship is different now, and has been for about 4 months, and though I know without a doubt that things happened the way that they did for a reason, there is a part of me that always wants the best for him. That wants him to be happy. And once I am assured of that, I am content.

After church tonight, I received a blush-worthy compliment from a dear (married, just so you know) brother. He said that I looked so beautiful that he thinks I’m trying to capture some guy’s attention. I looked around the near-empty sanctuary, devoid of any hopefuls, and knowing that there were none in the foyer chatting with the rest of the church folk either, I simply laughed and said, “Thanks, but, I can assure you, that is not my purpose at all.”

Then he replies with something about some, “Well we’re going to have to change that, I might have to start doing a bit of meddling.”

I told him, “Uhhh . . . I’d rather leave that to God. The Bible says whosoever findeth a wife findeth a good thing, so I’m not on the hunt. I’m just doing my thing until I’m found.” And I should have added, and after I’m found, I’m going to keep on doing my thing!

Hotdogs and Other Musings

Today I was starving. Mom promised to bring home some Chinese food (one of my faves, second only to Mexican), but she had some other errands to run first. Being a supposed adult who has a job and money, I could have gone out and gotten some food on my own if I really wanted to. But I was content to wait. For a while.

Two little kids from church were over the house, and it was up to me to play babysitter until she came home with the goods. In the meantime, “Could you make the kids some h-o-t-d-o-g-s?” Mom spelled after she dropped them off and before she headed back out. They’re still young enough where you can spell stuff out you don’t want to them to necessarily hear and it go unknown to them.

So I made them some hotdogs. I was telling myself just wait until Mom gets back with takeout. In other words, I was trying to tell myself to wait until Mom came home with some delicious, higher quality food than settling for some processed, God-knows-what-all-is-in-there hotdog. But I put a third hotdog in to cook too. Like I said, I was starving. So when the hotdogs were done, I fixed the kids theirs, and, against my better judgment, I put one on a bun, slathered it with mustard and downed it. And not in as lady-like a fashion as I would have liked.

Yeah, my hunger was satisfied. And the hotdog wasn’t bad, in spite of everything. But now, when mom comes home with steaming hot cartons full of shrimp fried rice, chicken lo mein, egg foo young and sweet and sour pork, I may get a little bit, but I won’t be able to enjoy it like I would have been able to had I not eaten that ridiculous hotdog.

Okay, this is going to turn into an analogy, (who knew?) but it’s not as . . . one track as it may seem. Waiting for the Chinese food is not simply an absurd allusion to True Love Waits. Though it does kind of work, I guess. But I promise, it wasn’t even my intention when I first decided to write about eating a hotdog, of all things. I guess I was more thinking about waiting and life in general.

Not that I’ve had such profound experiences in my life that I’m so seasoned and have this Solomon-esque air about everything that happens. But I guess I’m starting to see that many facets of life will require waiting, refusing to settle for the fake, processed stuff and sticking it out until the goods come along—whatever it is that you truly, really want.

Imagine marrying a hotdog guy/girl. Settling for a hotdog job. Having a hotdog relationship with God. Blowing your money on hotdog things. Surrounding yourself with hotdog people and getting involved in hotdog friendships and hotdog relationships. And . . . okay, eating hotdogs on the side when you should have waited for a legally binding, long term, til-death-do-us-part deal with Chinese takeout. lol. What a yucky existence. Okay for the moment, but filled with ground cow and pig and whatever processed leftovers in the long run.

I pray to God that I will never get to the point where I am so undisciplined and impatient that I will be willing to settle for any hotdogs in life. The hotdog is a lii-ya! I have faith that there’s some Chinese takeout waiting in the wings.

The Forum

I think it’s taken me so long to update because I’m still processing all of the info I received at one of the most innovative conferences I’ve ever attended.

October 21st-22nd was the first ever Identity Quotient Forum held at Gateway College of Evangelism in St. Louis, MO. As I’ve explained before, as soon as I got an email from the coordinator of the forum advertising it, I just felt compelled to go. I recruited two other young ladies from my church to join me, and, needless to say, the 8-9 hour road trip from Montgomery to St. Louis was well worth it.

Among the topics: Accountability, Time Management, Christian Bio-Ethics of Stem Cell Research (the speaker of which surprised me with his overall perspective), Islam, Self Image, Transitioning from College to the Real World, Debt Management, Colonizing the Media for the Kingdom, and Creating Your Own Ministry are some of the sessions I attended. As you can see, the topics were fresh, contemporary, and varied, yet all had a sound biblical perspective in their presentation.

What I loved is that this Forum defied all conventional definitions. It was not a singles conference, a.k.a. Pentecostal meat market with an air of desperation—okay, that’s a little extreme, I know; neither was it a preaching conference, a.k.a. go hear Bro. BigName preach to the point of losing his voice, get all temporarily fired up and remain ultimately unchanged—okay, also a bit cynical, but just because I’ve been guilty of it too. Rather than a one-way monologue, each session was a two-way dialogue. Because of the intimacy and the format, all participants could actively engage the speakers.

Overall, I think the session that most inspired me was Creating Your Own Ministry. So many times, some people’s definition of “ministry” is limited to preaching, singing, and piano playing. These are undoubtedly ministries, but at times it seems that if your abilities do not include one of these three then you are limited. So, I was challenged to create my own ministry if I have talents that God can use that sort of fall outside of the already established box. A little light bulb went off in my mind. As soon as I get my ideas in a formal format to present to my pastor, I will begin giving free conversational Spanish lessons at my church. It’s a small door, but to my knowledge, Jesus only needed a child’s lunch to feed a multitude.

Not only was I informed and inspired, but I had the awesome chance to meet people of like faith and interest and to make connections. Of course, nothing is set in stone about . . . anything, but I know that this is not the last time that I will make a trip to St. Louis, and now I’ve established a rapport with people who could help me should St. Louis become a more permanent part of my life’s plans.

My traveling companions and I got the chance to do a little bit of sightseeing after the conference was over, and we also got the awesome chance to chat with whom I would like to call one of the “new pioneers.” Kent Curry (executive editor of ninetyandnine.com) and his wife Nita were the main coordinators of the Forum, and it was such a delight to meet them. Through ninetyandnine dealings, I had corresponded with Kent over email since I was a freshman in college, so in a way, it was like I already knew him. Our conversation just flowed like we were old friends. It is always so refreshing to be able to connect with people so easily and talk about things that resonate within you because you’re on the same wavelength.

They’re planning one for next year. (Sigh.) Despite my protests about conference junkies and professing not to be one, the IQ Forum may have to be one of the exceptions to the rule.

A little photo gallery follows:


Me and the legendary Gateway Arch!


Oh, I'm in love with a cardboard soldier who lives at the top of the Arch . . .


Me and the bridge


Downtown St. Louis at night


City view from the top of the Arch


Me and Alicia--one of my Montgomery traveling companions. She did the driving!


Yours truly along with Kent and Nita Curry--a treat to meet!


Me and Tanya--my other accompanying Montgomery friend--post-conference. We made it safely home!

Great Expectations

Ever read that book back in the day? Pip and his benefactor. Miss Havisham and her moldy wedding cake and her twisted protégé, Estella. Nevertheless, my expectations have nothing to do with 19th century England or any fictional characters that inhabit it. It’s just that tomorrow morning, I will be taking a long road trip to a place I’ve never been before—St. Louis, MO.

As I’ve said probably 15 or so times already, I am so not a conference person. So, why is the prospect of going to the IQ Forum so titillating? I don’t know . . . I guess maybe because I’ve been on this personal quest to find some sort of niche where I actually fit in somewhere, and somehow, I have a feeling that going to this conference is the beginning of my answer. Excerpt from my personal journal (after getting into an argument with my dad and being branded as a “liberal” by him once again):

“Me and my “liberal tendencies.” A liberal Pentecostal. What a tormented oxymoron. A sad and twisted intertwining of supposedly seemingly polar opposites. Out of sorts in the big globe, out of sorts in the little bubble. But does there exist some sort of Aristotelian golden mean in this free-floating limbo that mashes your heart and brain over and over until they are indistinguishable masses of human tissue?”

I do not claim to be a “liberal.” I am not a bleeding heart Democrat, or a wannabe member of the ACLU and I don’t have soapbox-smelling bumper stickers all over my car. I will admit, however, that I did not vote for Bush and do not think he’s the best thing since sliced bread. I will admit that the whole Iraq business went very sharply against my grain and that I don’t think Affirmative Action is nothing but reverse discrimination. Is it possible to be anti-death penalty yet pro-life? Is it possible to be politically left of center, but to be . . . so religiously “right” that many consider my lifestyle near fundamentalist extremism? But my mixed feelings concerning politics are just the tip of the iceberg in the “free-floating limbo” I find myself in.

I really didn’t mean to get so political. It’s just that I’m tired of falling into the “no one understands me” mode, when at the core, I know it’s not true. I know that I’m not alone. Not that the niche I seek is one where everyone is “left of center” politically—not at all. What I seek is a . . . network, if you will, of like-goaled people. People who think, people who are about education, people who believe that logic is not necessarily something to be shunned, yet people who are about living for God and people who are about dedicating themselves to furthering His kingdom. Another oxymoron? I beg to differ.

FTC, Installment 3

Oh, right now, I’m listening to Coldplay’s newest CD, X&Y. It’s so classically Coldplay. You know how some groups experiment and deviate so far from their solid original sound that endeared them to you in the first place? Not so with my fave British blokes. Chris Martin’s haunting falsetto soars above the driving drums and the melodically melancholic guitar. (sigh).

I bring to you the third installment of Flirt to Convert (FTC). For backstory, see here and here. Tonight, at FTC’s suggestion, another Spanish-speaking friend and I met him at Olive Garden. His Mexican chivalrousness refused to let us foot our part of the bill. We had an exquisite dinner and had a good, if not profound, conversation. Again, he gave neither of us any reason to suspect his motives of anything ulterior. We talked about many things, ranging from the atrocities that many Mexicans endure to try to cross the border into the US to having an intimate personal relationship with God. Actually, he was the one to bring up “religion.” And though he didn’t, you know . . . fall out speaking in tongues or whatever after our conversation, I could tell that he was taking it in. Maybe this is the first time he’s ever talked with people so frankly about spiritual matters. Something that he asked that sort of caught me off guard was, “Why do you think the three of us are here together right now? Do you think there’s a reason?” Yes, there’s a reason, but we don’t always know what it is. Some things we may never know in this life.

And I finally, finally, finished translating the Bible study that my pastor wrote into Spanish. Well, actually, I didn’t do the initial translation, but I sort of revised and corrected grammatical and stylistic errors. And boy, did it take forever. But I finally finished it. Now I just need to get it off of the dinosaur of a laptop that I own and onto the sleeker and CD-burning-capable computer that my family owns so that I can get it onto a CD, give it to my pastor, and eventually get it into print. Pentecostal Publishing House, wassaaapp??

I’ve got a new group of 6th, 7th and 8th graders this week. Today was our little intro day. With one rotation already under my belt, I feel a little more equipped this time. I think I have a bit of a better group than last time, too (especially of the 8th graders). At the beginning of the rotation, after the bell rings, and they’re all sitting expectantly in their seats wondering, “What’s this new Spanish teacher all about?” I look at them all and start rattling off in Spanish: Me llamo Señora Smith, y soy la profesora de español. Vamos a aprender muchas cosas en esta clase . . . lol. I just love the wide-eyed look it produces from each of them. But then I give ‘em a break and translate what I just said. But it sure gets their attention and lets them know that I do know Spanish for real. Señora Smith’s ready for you this time, baby. Bring it on!

The World as We Know It

I used to have this recurring dream that I was flying above the city where I live. It was like everything was spread before me--everything that was familiar to me, but just from an aerial perspective. I can't believe it's been 5 years since I've written this. It doesn't really seem like that very long ago at all.

I have to go far, far away from this place . . .
Away from the world as we know it,
And never come back—ever, ever.
Give me the wings of the morning,
Let me fly
Guided by the light of the dawn,
Floating, soaring in the bliss of flight.
Let me gaze upon the city below and take in the beauty—
Take and share the pain of the people
So that I can reach out.
I want to kiss a star and laugh with the moon.
Let me delve into the deepest parts of the sea,
Uncovering new treasures and unknown wonders.
I have a need to roll in the bare, sacred earth of a wide, open plain,
Each spinning turn eroding layers upon layers,
Stripping away, exposing parts deeper and deeper,
Until there’s nothing
Left but
Me.

September 26, 2000

It Rained Today

The sky was heavy and gray, and there was a generous downpour. Teacher bag in tow, and flimsy light pink umbrella my only shield. I smartly wore my hair up (else, it would have been a disaster), but not-so-smartly wore my new beige heeled sandals. Once inside, brown paper towel pats saved my leaking feet.

The elementary lesson was about the Amazonian Rainforest. “But what does the rainforest have to do with Spanish?” I asked them. I had to make sure they could make the connection. They laughed till red-faced at my quirky animal voices when I read them the story of how a man almost cut down a Kapok tree. The toucan stole the show.

The middle schoolers: oh, what a delight. 7th grade was cool, 6th grade questioned me out (as usual), but 8th grade burned me up. Written in blood red on the papers of two boys who sit next to each other: “It was quite obvious that you turned this assignment into a ‘group project.’ 0/20. If you want to talk about it, see me after class.” Neither of them did. Did they think I was brainless?

The late afternoon greeted me with a sinus headache. After lollygagging a bit, I finally settled down to sorting out the best of the colored, cut, assembled, and pasted-onto-construction-paper faces each class created for my two gargantuan bulletin boards. (We learned body parts last week.)

I sat in one of the window seats of the elementary school library during our 45-minute joint faculty meeting. I let the emerging sun warm my back as I listened to the headmaster talk about short-term and long-term goals for the school. The future. I let my mind wander (I often do) and I pondered short-term and long-term goals for myself. My future. I snapped back into the present when the room filled with laughter as the headmaster presented a German proverb on his PowerPoint slide: “If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans for the future.” Yes, I cracked a smile.

Linger

I love words. There are so many things about them. Several words can mean the same thing generally, but have different minute shades that add variety and color. I’m such a word nerd; I have a thesaurus handy at my little desk. For example, some variations for the word “linger”: tarry, saunter, lag, vacillate, dawdle. I have this lingering cold. I have this lagging cold. Ha! I have this dawdling cold. I like that one better.

I finally went to the doctor after having this cold for 2+ weeks. It’s been ridiculous. I never get sick, and when I do, I get over it promptly. “Your body’s getting used to being around all of these kids,” the old teachers say in their been-there-done-that tone. But 2+ weeks is way too long for a cold, and I’m not exactly keen on developing bronchitis or worse, so to the doctor I went. My preconceived notion of a doctor was shattered when he was not the middle-aged white man I was expecting, but a surprisingly young and Asian one. As much as I ascend my soapbox about not making generalizations and following preconceived ideas, God always reminds me that I have a few of my own. At any rate, my mom should be happy now; she was starting to freak out and lecture me about how I’m not taking care of myself and such.

But, speaking of lingering, this cold is not the only thing. Lately, I have been reexamining lingering thoughts and lingering feelings. It makes me wish that I could literally call God up and be like, “Hey, God, so . . . what was up with that?” And then He would, ever so calmly and God-like, answer my every concern, speaking audibly. That would be so awesome.

And, speaking of words, I wrote a poem (or something like one) about words. As much as I love them, they’re so transitory, so ephemeral, so fleeting. (Told you I was a word nerd.) Our words:

Our words
have time limits.
Hourglasses tipped and
shifting sand.
“I love you” today
does not equal love eternal.
Our words
aren’t God-words.
Never caused existence.
Just describe
what already was
wish into being what isn’t,
and speculate on what will be
until the last
sand grain
falls.

Trippin’ in Tusky

As I mentioned at the end of my last post, T-town time was so overdue. This weekend I graced ol’ Tusky with my presence, as well as that of my little bro (okay, he’s not little for real. But he used to be).

Ahhh, it’s so weird. A few months ago, pre-graduation, the Gump was my haven away from the doldrums of T-town. Now, T-town has somehow magically transformed into this glittering city of escape. I don’t get it.

Well, I suppose it has something to do with the fact that my friends and associates still reside there. A couple of them are in for the long haul in grad school. I was thinking about doing that, but I was nearly burnt to a crisp after 5 undergrad years. The world of work was beckoning. I had to make sure Education was really my calling before jumping into a Master’s or more. A couple of others are continuing on their undergraduate journey, or going back for another round of undergraduate life. And here I am, little teacher, the creator and giver of schoolwork instead of being on the receiving end. But then I have to grade all the mess I assign. So, I don’t exactly get off scot-free.

Nevertheless, I’m slightly envious. The doing work part, I don’t really yearn for, but it’s the whole status, the whole collegiate atmosphere that I miss. Going to art shows and readings. Hearing the latest gossip on inter- and intra-departmental spats. Running into professors at Wal-mart. Writing letters to the editor of the campus newspaper. Getting free t-shirt after free t-shirt as a Resident Assistant. The suspense over how much money I’d get from selling my books back at the end of the semester. Learning how to write my name in Japanese and Russian at Starbucks with international students. Seeing free foreign films during international movie series. Wide-eyed and innocently reminding the mechanic about the student discount while paying for an oil change after flashing my ACTion card. Free food at Bama Blast even though it’s just for the freshmen. Supposedly. Getting a new life every semester. Dining Dollars. Those are the things I miss. Yep, the grass is always greener.

Oh, but I had a good time. Friday night, I came bearing brownies. Homegirl and I met up with McD, went to Applebee’s and then went Crimsoning (Crimsoning = going to the Crimson Café). After spending the night at Homegirl’s new apartment, the next morning we went Wal-Marting for the fixings of an Italian dinner party and invited the crew over Saturday night. Oh, and in-between Wal-Mart and dinner, I got a pedicure. It was fabulous. At first I was a little skittish about this smooth-talking, bespectacled Vietnamese guy handling my feet, but I calmed down and enjoyed the massage chair and the jet bubbles. He said that out of all of the feet he’s handled, mine were the best—that I had baby feet and didn’t have all the “leftovers” that other people’s feet have. Empowered by my newly prettified feet, I bought shoes and shirts and such on sale with Sam (female) at University Mall. Saturday night post-dinner I spent with Sam, and we ate brownies and ice cream watching a movie. Sunday morn was a walk down memory lane at First UPC of T-town. Everyone was glad to see me, and I was glad to see them too. I had to wake McD out of his church-oversleeping stupor. At least he made it for the preaching. My lovely weekend culminated with the crew again, over at Sam’s place this time, for post-Sunday-morning lunch.

Good friends, good times. Now, it’s back to the grind . . .

Take Time Out

Sometimes we have to do this. Take time out. When we don’t have time, we have to make time. (sigh) I feel so inundated lately. I just love that word. Inundated. It conveys the sense of busyness, of being immersed in the world of “having to do.” That was a phrase I introduced to my 8th graders today. Tengo que. I have to . . . whatever.

On one note, Spanish-ministry dealings have heightened significantly. Another Spanish-speaking young lady and I are doing a Bible study with a man from Honduras, and I’ve been Ms. Translator lately because he’s starting to come to church regularly. I’m also feverishly working on trying to finish the Spanish version of the two-day Bible study my pastor wrote. There’s a group of Hispanics from another city close-by that may begin to come to church as well—I’m excited about what God is doing on one hand, but on the other hand, God’s work . . . well, it takes work.

On another note, Flirt to Convert (FTC) guy is still hanging on in the picture, so to speak. However, the FTC focus of the guy has sort of shifted away from me and toward the other Spanish-speaking young lady. Go figure. She met him when we went to the restaurant where he works a couple of weeks ago. She was not enthralled at all by his Hispanic charm (as I will admit I was a little bit at first)—smart girl. Anyway, he still claims to want to come to church; however, I hope it’s for the right reasons. Time will tell.

I’m super fired up about this Young Adult conference going on in St. Louis next month. I’ve never been like this huge conference person, but I don’t know . . . there’s just something about it that really captured my interest, and I’ve drafted two other young ladies from church to join me. And the thought of the conference brings me to another thought . . .

McDougal. I hope he doesn’t mind. It’s been a while since I’ve used his pseudonym. He’s still in the picture, too, albeit in a different form. I always jokingly tell him how we have completely switched places. Like, literally. Now I’m immersed in the working world, and he’s the poor college student. This conference will have been my first time in a Bible school environment, and this is his first time in a secular college environment . . . well, at a major university. And the thought of college environments brings me to another thought . . .

This upcoming weekend is T-town time. It is so past due. I haven’t been up to old Tusky since graduation in May. I used to always look forward to when I had time to escape to the Gump. Now I’m sneaking away from the Gump to T-town. When will the madness stop? Shall we ever be satisfied? It should be fun.

Oh, and I finally got a cell phone after surviving perfectly fine without one for several years. Ooh, I’m super cool now. Worthy to join the hordes of unlimited night and weekend minute gluttons. Oh, well. Excuse me while I end this procrastinatory rambling and mourn the wilting of my sunflowers.

Today I Got Flowers

They’re sitting right here, brightening my reclaimed room as I type. If you know me, you know what kind they are. Bright yellow-orange petals. Big, circular, dark-chocolate brown center with the little fuzzies in a swirly pattern. Little green leafies with pointed tips that round the flower head. Long, stalky, fuzzy green stem.

Ah, sunflowers.

There’s just something about them. And I’m so happy the person that got them for me thought enough about me to want to get them for me. This is the first time I’ve ever gotten real, live sunflowers before.

To be honest, there have been times when I really didn’t think very highly of this person. Filled with adolescent angst, I thought this person was not the most attractive kid around, and didn’t really have much to offer. But as I got older and matured, I finally began to see this person in a new light. Eh, not too bad, I thought. I began to appreciate this person more than I ever had before. I realized that I could indeed love this person and that, as a result, my life would have a more positive, brighter, and more fulfilling outlook.

Who is this person? Eh . . . not exactly Mr. Wonderful.

Rather, it’s me.

Sunflowers on sale at Publix. A bunch of three for $3.27. Oh, who could resist?

The Voices

There are these voices that have this running commentary going on in my mind. Not for real (lest it be thought that I’m in need of professional help), but . . . well, it’s a funny idea, anyway.

The first one is named Melancholia. She is clad in black. She is a writer and an accomplished lyre-player. She usually sits brooding in the corner of my mind, either writing her latest depressing poem or playing some medieval ballad in a minor key on her lyre, and when she decides to come out, she usually does so at the most inopportune times. She likes Coldplay. Her ultimate wish is to be able to play Rachmaninoff’s Prelude in C sharp minor on the piano in its entirety because she just loves the darkly romantic, brooding melody. What books line her library shelves? The Complete Anthology of Edgar Allan Poe. Tess of the D’Ubervilles by Thomas Hardy. The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway. She has a collection of all of Shakespeare’s major tragedies. She does read her Bible though, surprisingly. What are her favorite books? Lamentations, Job, and Ecclesiates. Her favorite scripture? Ecclesiates 1:2, “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” Her eyes are perpetually swollen because she does a lot of crying. Sometimes she doesn’t even know why. She just sits there, absently strumming her lyre, tears slipping down her tragically beautiful cheeks.

The second is named Manica. She has this really loud, wide-mouthed laugh that just bursts from her belly. People sometimes make fun of her for it, but she doesn’t really care. And most of the time she laughs at stuff that most people don’t think is all that funny. And don’t let her get a little sleepy. Then she laughs at everything. She likes Curious George, the PowerPuff Girls, butterflies, and big, yellow smiley faces. She’s energetic, perpetually upbeat, and likes to bounce around to Christian rock on a pogo stick, pretending she’s Tigger. She always takes her vitamins. She’s sort of impulsive, too. She says things to people on a whim, and sometimes does silly things she may not have done had she thought about it for a second longer. But part of that impulsiveness explains her willingness to try new things, especially food. She’s tried things from snails to squid to sheep brains. She’s also the queen of procrastination: she puts things off till the last minute, then does it all in one sitting in the nick of time in an especially manic burst of energy. She doesn’t have as extensive a library as Melancholia, but at least she reads—the Comics section of the newspaper. And she does get a bit of Bible reading in, too. She’s not a complete heathen—unfortunately, it only consists of leafing through Song of Solomon and snickering to herself.

Next, we have Sarcasma. To say that she’s a smart aleck would be an understatement. She’s always rolling her eyes and coming up with quick quips and comebacks. She’s confident (some of the other voices thinks she’s too confident) and she knows what she wants and refuses to settle for less. She’s always arguing with the other voices and reminds them in little snide ways that she’s an educated woman. She’s spent five years at an Ivy League, has two-and-a-half majors, 3 minors and is certified in Deep Sea Diving. She also spent a year in the Philippines and speaks near-native-level Tagalog. She relishes a good debate, can really get fired up about politics and has a polite disdain for those who disagree with her. She’s a bit left of center. No “I refuse to believe the liberal media” bumper stickers on her car. She’s kind of a know-it-all and is unintentionally patronizing when she gives advice. She’s been there and done that. She is a big reader, among her favorite authors Kurt Vonnegut and Margaret Atwood. She reads the Bible too—Proverbs is her favorite.

Last but not least is Obsessa. The other voices call her OCD and Anal-retentive. She worries an awful lot about what people think about her, therefore, she always gives her opinions and explanations with a preamble—a “disclaimer” if you will, and it drives the other voices nuts. “Just spit it out!” they yell. She flosses her teeth at least twice a day (sometimes three times) and feels incomplete if she doesn’t. Sometimes she lies awake at night, rehearsing every conversation she’s had that day and each time she remembers that she said something that she would have liked to have said differently, she turns on her bedside lamp, takes out a pocket calendar and pencil, and writes down a little minus sign next to the date. For lunch, she cuts up pieces of cantaloupe, and uses a ruler to ensure that each piece is a perfect square. When she makes a sandwich, she always cuts it diagonally. She would have it no other way. She always feels that she’s not doing enough on her job, and always feels that she’s forgetting something every time she takes a trip. She seeks constant approval to make sure she’s doing things “right.” Her reading consists of “How To” books because she always feels that she’s in need of improvement and is forever trying to minimize her seemingly overwhelming flaws. She tries to read the Bible through once a year and always obsesses when she fails to meet her goal.

For the most part, my voices get along. Funny how they each have at least a little piece of what makes up the real me.

Hurricane Katrina vs. Payday

Today was payday. But how in the world can I be happy-go-lucky about my first professional paycheck when people's houses are underwater? I mean it's like . . . ugh. I just can't fathom it. How can I be like, "Ooh, I'm gonna use that 30% off coupon at New York & CO this weekend" when people are just about killing each other over food and stuff? When floating dead bodies are being passed by to try to save people who are in even worse danger?

Oh, any time things happen like this, I feel so detached, so . . . out of touch. Because I feel like I can't relate and I feel spoiled and uncaring because I don't have to deal with it. I can sit in front of my laptop and reminisce and think about eating an omelet. Crazy.

Well, at church, we took up a special offering, because there were so many people connected to the church in these areas that were affected, and at least I put my 2 cents in. The least I could do, really. I just pray that God will help and comfort these people who are in such a dire situation right now.

Real Sex and Flirt to Convert Part II

I meant to write a review on this book a long time ago because I finished it a long time ago. It's called Real Sex:The Naked Truth about Chastity by Lauren F. Winner. I promise you, it's not another one of those "just don't have sex, okay?" kind of books. And even though it was written by a woman, it is addressed to members of both sexes. It was the most eye-opening, most beautifully premised book about this subject that I have ever read in my entire life. Really. I wish that all young people such as myself who are trying to live their lives according to God's Word would read this book. It was so refreshing. One of my blog buddies, Wendy Scoggins, has written a review of it on her blog and does a better job of explaining why this book is so great than I have. Check it out.

Now for a brief Flirt to Convert (FTC) update. (See here for the backstory.) And, sorry, there are no juicy details. lol. Without putting all my business out there on the street, suffice it to say that I had to (well, didn't have to, but anyway) sort of cancel out on a dinner invitation that I had previously accepted. But all is not lost. He was very understanding, we chatted some more, and still, I have no reason to believe that he is not on the up-and-up. So, in the end, I guess I'm glad that I didn't "nip it in the bud." If, in the future, I do meet with him, though, for precaution's sake, I will not do so alone. And, for the record, I really am not a true believer in FTC--I just like the phrase because it rhymes and because it is seemingly fitting to the situation. Emphasis on seemingly.

And, though one of my worst fears is to ever be labeled as a conference junkie, there is a tentative upcoming conference that I hope becomes set in stone that I would seriously make the effort to attend. It's called the IQ Forum and will be held at Gateway College of Evangelism in St. Louis. It seems like something that is right up my alley and I think would be worthwhile to attend. I could definitely get a sub for work since I know ahead of time, and, thanks to finally entering the real working world, I should have the resources. We'll see!

Flirt to Convert

I got this phrase from a comment left on another blog that I frequent often. It’s a doctrine that some Pentecostal girls and guys subscribe to for lack of available fish in the pond of believers. “Flirting to convert” in its more advanced stages is called “missionary dating.” And if the conversion doesn’t happen before the wedding date, it’s called “unequally yoked.” So, for reasons that need not be detailed, I’m not a subscriber.

However, I have found myself in a circumstance that may lead others to believe that I am a subscriber, and I do protest that I am not. But, lest I run the risk of protesting too much, I will describe the circumstances and let them speak for themselves.

It all started with a quesadilla.

My mom and I are lovers of Mexican food, and we frequent a restaurant called San Marcos. Tuesday night, we went out for quesadilla dinners. Now, every time we go to a Mexican restaurant, I order in Spanish. Oftentimes, when I do, I get the attention of the Spanish-speaking waiters, and things get a little flirty. I know this. But I do it anyway. Sad, but true.

So, Tuesday night was no different. This time, one of the busboys sort of eased on over to where my mom and I were sitting and started chatting in Spanish with me, telling me about Mexico and discussing cultural differences between Mexico and the US. Eventually he got around to wanting my phone number. Why? He claimed that he didn’t have many friends and that he really needed help with his English. I laughed.

(In Spanish) “You’re telling me you’ve been in the United States for 6 years and you work at a restaurant with plenty of people from your country and you don’t know any English or have any friends? I don’t believe you.”

He proceeded to promise that he was telling the truth. “That’s why I can’t work as a waiter—because I can’t speak English.” He then went on and on about how he really just wants someone to talk to, he wouldn’t bother me or ask me to go out . . . I was skeptical even when he said that he was 24 until he showed me his ID. He looked to be more in his late twenties. I will admit, though, that he was a hottie. And taller than most men his persuasion. Side note: I’m almost embarrassed at how easily I am attracted to Hispanic men. Even so, I kept telling him, amidst his protests, that I didn’t think it would be a good idea for us to be amigos. Still, he persisted. Finally, Mom suggested that I invite him to church. I hadn’t thought of that. (Bad me.) So, I told him that I would give him my number if he agreed to come to my church. He lit up. He said he would love to come . . . yadda yadda yadda. Before we left, he said he would call Sunday afternoon to get directions so that he could make it to the Sunday night service.

Sunday afternoon, he calls. I give him directions to the church in my not-so-perfect Spanish. I have a feeling that he’s going to be a no-show. I don’t know why.

Sunday night, he’s a no-show.

Sunday night post-church, he leaves a message. As I get the phone to call him back, it rings. It’s him. In his rapid, non-stop Spanish, he explains how he got lost and how he went back and tried to find it but couldn’t, he’s sorry, but he tried . . . as I suspected. But then we ended up talking for a while on the phone. He still claims to just want to be friends, it’s so rare for him to have an American friend because he can’t speak English, and on and on. (sigh) I feel myself slowly starting to give in. Aw, give the guy a chance. Maybe he’s not a typical guy just out to see what he can get. Maybe he does just want a friend to talk to and to help improve his English.

Part of me says, "Nip it in the bud, you're making yourself look desperate. A Mexican busboy?" But the other part of me is intrigued and is like, “Why? You're not trying to get with him or anything. You could use a bit of brushing up on your Spanish anyway.” How do I get myself into these quandaries? Next time I go to a Mexican restaurant, I’m keeping my mouth shut.

Poem

today I got torn
a piece of me
I never knew would leave
such a token of
its greater existence.
a flesh skin rip
a love blood rivulet
and all I could do
was watch, water-eyed
as it trickled and dripped,
will it to heal
and wish it the best.

La Conferencia

As soon as I walked into the doors of the church where the Spanish Conference was being held, before I could even find a seat, I was approached by five tall, fine Hispanic men, one after the other, and was asked for my número de teléfono.

Yeah, right.

Anyway, I had a grand time. Another young lady from church and I got up at the crack of dawn and made the three-hour-drive to Foley, Alabama. Hearing the sanctuary filled with Spanish renditions of “Praise the Lord, oh, yes, He is good! Give the Lord a hand-praise!” brought back so many memories. Many of the choruses that we sang were ones that I had already learned from going to church during my time in Spain. Most of the Spanish-speaking people there were Mexican and Guatemalan. The ministers were bilingual, so they would say a little something in Spanish, translate it into English (for the non-Spanish speakers there for support), say a little something else in Spanish, repeat it in English—it was amazing how they could do that and keep their thoughts straight. I met some folks, practiced a little bit of Spanish, got the Search for Truth Bible study in Spanish, and got my mouth burned up by some spicy post-church guacamole.

There is such a need for ministries that reach out to Spanish-speaking people, without a doubt. The Hispanic population is exploding in Alabama. We don’t have one at our church yet, but the groundwork is being laid, and I want to be ready!

As I Sit Waiting

I still haven’t read Faulkner’s As I Lay Dying. A terrible admission for a Language Arts major, I know. But I have read Dr. Seuss’s Oh, The Places You’ll Go! In fact, I read it all the time to a certain adorable little girl who spends a lot of time at our house. She’s only three, but we’ve read it so much that she can look at the pictures and approximate pretty well what the words are.

There’s a point in the book where the little protagonist is going along in his life’s journey and after some “bang ups and hang ups,” he reaches The Waiting Place. In the picture, all of the little Dr. Seuss-looking figures are standing in line, sitting perched by a telephone, watching a pot, doing anything that involves having to wait. Oh, I so feel that I’m in The Waiting Place right now.

It gets monotonous. Lord, what is it that I’m waiting for?

It’s not that I don’t have enough on my plate to keep me busy. In-service for new teachers starts Wednesday, and the rest of the week is for all teachers culminating with the elementary school open house Friday afternoon. The first day of school, next Monday, is breathing down my neck. “Are you ready? Are you excited?” everyone asks. Upon learning that this is my first year teaching, all of the older teachers pat me on the shoulder saying, “The first year is the hardest, but you’ll get through it.” What other choice do I have?

I meant to tell the minister who preached last night that the message was for me. It really had me written all over it. He talked about trusting God, trusting that He has a plan for our lives, seeing that He has a reason for why things happen, believing that “he which hath begun a good work in [me] will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ” (Philippians 1:6), knowing that if we can hang on and endure, that one day we will see how all the pieces of the puzzle fit.

As the altar call was given, I didn’t go up there like I knew that I should have. It seemed like he was talking to me when he said several times, “Don’t be embarrassed to come. It doesn’t mean that you’re backslidden or anything negative about you. I would just like people who have questions about what’s going on in their lives or anyone who just needs a little extra boost of encouragement to feel free to come to the altar.” I just sat there, feeling like I had had more than my fair share of boo-hooing sessions at the altar lately. God can touch me right where I am. I realize now that that was just my pride getting in the way.

I have so much to be thankful for. I know that I do, and I thank God for what He has done for me. A million people would probably love to exchange places with me. I don’t ever want to fall into complaining. If I look at the big picture, honestly, truly, things could be a million times worse, and I am grateful that they aren’t. I know deep down inside that I just need to be patient, focus on things that have been set before me (i.e. my job) and be content with where I am at right now.

“But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run and not be weary; they shall walk and not faint” (Isaiah 40: 31).

These Are a Few of My Fa-vo-rite Things . . .

Think Julie Andrews during Christmas time. Yeah, that song. Nothing exciting is going on, and I’m procrastinating as usual, so why not make it fun? These are in no way in order of importance, or favorability. (I just love making up words. Hey, Shakespeare did it, so why can’t I?):

1. Curious George. He is the cutest thing ever. I have a stuffed toy, a flashlight, various posters, a calendar, he even serves as my laptop’s wallpaper . . . it’s a bit on the juvenile side, I know, but I can’t help it. I guess he kind of reminds me of me: He wants to do the right thing, but somehow always ends up getting into trouble. lol. At least it all works out in the end.

2. Mary Higgins Clark. Her murder mysteries are must-reads. No, they’ll never win the Pulitzer Prize for literature, I know, but they’re so . . . classic. Her trademarks? A professional, single, beautiful woman who is the main character somehow gets mixed up in a murder investigation and becomes the next target. The killer is always 1. a surprise, 2. male, and 3. stalkerish and psychopathic. Gotta love ‘em.

3. Iced Chai Tea Lattes. We’ve gone there.

4. Shakespeare. He was simply brilliant. No facts to back it up, but he’s probably the most quoted man in history. He was also way before his time. Just read Othello, and you’ll know what I mean.

5. Lavender. It’s such a soft, feminine color that I’m always told compliments my skin. I have many lavender-colored articles of clothing, lavender journals, a lavender desk lamp, lavender note cards, lavender flip-flops, a lavender hole-punch and a lavender toothbrush. I would have it no other way.

6. Coldplay. We’ve gone there with them too, but I just have to brag on my favorite British blokes. There was an article about them in USA Weekend last Sunday, and this sentence pretty much sums them up: “The resulting album [their newest one, X&Y], filled with standard Coldplay themes of love, loss and longing, goes far in satisfying fans’ yearnings for understanding and empathy in the form of Martin’s haunting falsetto.”

7. Sunflowers. They’re so encouraging, bright, and lovely. I keep warning people that I’m going to have a sunflower wedding bouquet. Okay . . . maybe not like, sunflowers and nothing else, but at least have sunflowers in it. I don’t care what anybody says, a sunflowery wedding bouquet would be the bomb.

8. Spain and all things Spanish. I could go on and on and on, but just suffice it to say that Spain became my home away from home—studying abroad was a blast. I know I have to go back there someday, I will. I also love being able to enter into another culture because I have a command of the language. It’s one of the most awesome feelings in the world.

9. Glasses. I cannot and will not attempt to describe the fixation I have with them. There is just something intelligent, distinguished, and refined about them. I’m always fascinated when people who wear them go through the glasses-wearer ritual of taking them off, massaging the bridges of their noses, examining them, wiping them off, and putting them back on. Whooooa. (Said in a surfer dude voice.)

10. Sally Hansen’s Hard as Nails. I got tired of having chipped, pantyhose-snagging nails. And let me tell you, that stuff is the best nail hardener in town. Come on, the clear kind, of course!

Of course this isn’t it. You know, it’s just a little list of random favorites, not by any means all of the favorites that exist. If these 10 things suddenly ceased to exist, I wouldn’t die. No, I know I would make it somehow. But if they were to cease to exist, rest assured that the world would be a smaller, darker, colder place.

A Way with Words

Disclaimer: For those who do not care for Shakespeare and/or do not want to be further convinced that I am a hard-core nerd, read no further.

It was time for a change of scrolling screen saver quotation, so I gleaned from one of my most treasured pieces of literature, my favorite Shakespearean play of all time, Julius Caesar. You probably thought I was going to say Romeo and Juliet, what with all of the melancholia that’s been floating around in my blog lately. But no, it’s Julius Caesar, hands down.

What is it about such a seemingly stuffy play written in such archaic language that moves me so passionately? There’s no love story, very little comic relief. Much of the dialogue consists of speeches and soliloquies. A bunch of ancient Roman statesmen gang up on the play’s namesake and stab him to death. Whoopdie-doo.

But there’s one central element of the play that moves the whole plot and that simply fascinates me: Rhetoric and the power of language. How simple words can persuade great men to err, and incite the least of men to violent action. It’s so powerful. And the character that best embodies this central element (also my favorite literary character of all time—I will be naming my future dog after him) is none other than Marcus Antonius, more popularly known as Marc Antony.

I wrote my 11th grade research paper on his funeral oration. Nothing else. The whole paper was about Marc Antony’s speech over Caesar’s bloodied body. It’s the best part in the whole play. At first, the plebeians are pretty cool with the fact that Caesar was offed. But Antony is so smooth, he understands the mechanics and the power of language so well, that he takes the plebeians from thinking “good riddance, Caesar” to “let’s get the guys who killed Caesar!” Amazing.

“Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears,” he begins. And in the end, he sits back with a satisfied smirk as the plebeians rush off to riot: “Now let it work: mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt!” Antony knew words, he loved words, and understood their power so that he accomplished his goal without lifting a finger. Though Antony was manipulative in his approach, I still admire him for his skill.

Marc Antony makes me think about why I couldn’t choose between Language Arts and Spanish. I was compelled to study both because they’re both about language. Language connects people, language allows you to understand culture and ways of life, and language is made up of words. There’s just something about people, literary or real-life, who have a way with words. They thrill me.

I tell you that which you yourselves do know;
Show you sweet Caesar’s wounds, poor poor dumb mouths,
And bid them speak for me: but were I Brutus,
And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony
Would ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongue
In every wound of Caesar, that should move
The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.

--Marc Antony (Julius Caesar, Act III, scene ii)

Relapse

re·lapse vi. to slip back into a former state, esp. into illness after apparent recovery—n. a relapsing

I had a relapsing Saturday afternoon. And I state this fact with a slightly self-deprecatory snicker. I can always do that in retrospect.

It all started post-our church ladies’ hair seminar. Ladies’ hair seminar. I could almost say that phrase with a snicker, but I won’t because I will admit that I got some helpful hints. Anyway, there is a very nice church sister who is extremely encouraging and whom I love to death. She called the other day “to make sure I was okay,” but we didn’t get a chance to chat because I was out and about for most of the day. So, post-hair seminar we chatted a little bit, exchanged niceties and social apologies for not getting back with one another that day, and she mentioned that she was just “checking in on me.” She is privy to the demise of the cake, and I realize that I have been withdrawn and a little extra-weepy during altar call lately (not to mention my little tissue-filled moment during Thursday night prayer), so I thought I should give her a little reassurance that I was okay, or at least doing better.

Let’s go off on a tiny tangent and allow me to make a confession. I am a big fat crybaby. I wish I could explain the triggers that turn my eye-faucets on, but it happens. A lot. I’m one of those cry-when-you-laughers too. So I have avoided discussion of anything cake-related for those reasons.

So, back to the encouraging sister. I started out with a half-hearted, “I’m doing okay,” and progressed to a series of unfinished, broken explanations of why I still feel the way I do sometimes and then they started slipping. The throat constriction, the heightening of voice pitch, the facial heat and ocular stinging.

“See, that’s why I don’t really like to talk about it . . .” I trailed off, forcing a smile and quickly brushing the wetness away.

“Well, just know that I’m always here if you need to talk,” she smiled.

On the drive back home, I tried to keep a stiff upper lip. Suck it up, suck it up, suck it up. But, inevitably, I ended up sprawled across my bed, burying my face into a pillow, swelling my eyes up and giving myself a headache. I have nothing better to do on a Saturday but confine myself in my room and wallow in self-pity! Oh, boo-hoo-hoo. Boo-hoo-hoo. And nobody understands! Oh, boo-hoo-hoo. Boo-hoo-hoo. And I’m 23! Oh, boo-hoo-hoo. Boo-hoo-hoo.

It’s amazing how irrational the snowball effect really is. But despite my overly emotional and, at times, irrational ways of coping, I will not underestimate the power of having a good cry. It’s so releasing and cathartic. Even though I look like a monstrosity afterwards (or “lookin' like who done it and what for” as my brothers would say), I will admit that I do feel better. Afterwards, I can take a step back and start to look at things rationally. Start to reorder my thoughts and my outlook.

Thou tellest my wanderings: put thou my tears into thy bottle:are they not in thy book? (Psalm 56:8)

Change

is something I can almost smell. It’s like the wet earthiness of the air outside when it’s about to rain. I can tell when it’s about to happen; rather, I can feel when it already has and the beginning stages of its effects have already started to take place, though perhaps unnoticeably to others.

It’s not a negative thing, necessarily. More often than not, it’s a good thing. Life is wrapped up in it. It depends on it. If things were the same all the time, nothing would ever grow. But for some reason, it’s always bittersweet to me. It always gets me teary-eyed and unable to articulately express myself. It’s always an unexplainable feeling that possesses me, that inhabits the outside lining of my heart that just aches and yearns.

The feeling will pass—it always does—and I’ll begin to think about the newness and freshness that the future can bring. Not just the immediate future, but the future that’s a bit further off too: Starting a new job, taking on responsibilities that I’ve never had before, complete independence, maybe moving to a new city, traveling to places I’ve never been, meeting new people—who knows what the future holds for me? The possibilities are thrilling.

But then the feeling washes over me again—it always does—and I begin to think about the fact that change always involves a loss of some sort. A tadpole loses its gills on its way to becoming a frog. The members of a married couple lose their sense of complete individuality on their way to becoming one. A person who moves will lose the closeness to the people he or she leaves behind. The feelings flood me when I wake up in the morning, while I’m driving, while I’m watching a beautiful little boy that I’m caring for eat spaghetti.

I’m not a bona fide pack rat, but I do have piles of sentimental junk that I just can’t seem to let go of. I save letters and notes and cards and pictures and newspaper articles and napkins embossed with my name from my 16th birthday party and old yearbooks and address books with outdated contact information and graded papers from when I studied abroad. I always have a tendency to want to revisit the past. Walk down memory lane. Ah, the memories.

Sometimes I wish I could rid myself of that . . . tendency. To dwell on things, to turn them over and over in my mind. To wonder about the what ifs and whys. To wish to live in that time again. Would I have done things differently? Even while I’m doing it, I know it’s purposeless. Similar to the feeling I get when I’m speaking Spanish and I can hear my own American accent.

But when all is said and done, I resign myself to the fact that God is in control. No matter what. “And we know that all things work together for good to them that love God, to them who are the called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28).

Would the day be as sweet
If it had no end?
If you never knew an enemy
Oh, could you understand
The worth of a friend?

--from “Beautiful Broken World” by Warren Barfield

Red Shoes, Cakelessness, and Bustin’ a 185

As much as I claim to love shoes and shopping as much as any other red-blooded girl, (well, of those red-blooded girls that like shoes and going shopping . . . I know there are some of us that don’t, oh, and there are guys out there who like shoes and shopping too—see what these politically correct times have reduced me to?) there is one article of the essential that I have always lacked until today—a red pair of heels.

The other day I got this awesome red suit on sale. I mean, it was crazily on sale. 75 percent off. It ended up being only $30. And thanks to my mother’s graciously relinquishing to me her 20-something-dollar Dillard’s credit that she was going to use to buy something else after she took something back, but didn’t use because she couldn’t find anything else, I only ended up spending 10 of my own dollars to get it. Awwwright!
I was excited about it. But since this was the first article of red clothing to ever grace my closet’s presence (well, with the exception of a red Alabama Crimson Tide t-shirt), there was a teeny-tiny problem. No red shoes to match.

How could I have gone this long without ever owning red shoes? Beats me. For the longest time I just thought that red wasn’t my color. Maybe after reading The Scarlet Letter back in the day, I developed a subconscious aversion to red. But, today, armed with a late graduation gift of a $20 gift certificate to Eastdale Mall, I was determined to break the color barrier. Of my already owned shoes, that is. Heh, heh.

Now, why is it that when I’m just kind of looking around, purposelessly buying stuff, I can find everything under the sun, but when I’m determinedly bent on finding a specific item, it becomes some sort of commercially endangered species? It’s like every size 8½ wearer in the city had conspired to raid Eastdale Mall and buy out every style of red shoe in existence. Ah, but lucky for me, the conspirators failed to raid one store—JCPenney.

Now I’m not like a diehard JCPenney fanatic, but as soon as I found the shoe department, I spotted them. Classically red. Stylish yet tasteful. Nice heel, but not so high that I would risk breaking my neck if I attempted to walk in them. On sale. Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!

In other news, I am learning to cope with my cakeless state. Yesterday evening, feeling restless, I ventured out to the park. I sat under a little covering affectionately known as ‘the house’ and wrote in my journal while listening to Hootie and the Blowfish on my Discman. It started raining, and it was cool watching the rain hit the water (‘the house’ sits over a man-made lake). I started seeing little turtle heads pop up and wrote, “The turtles are bathing their aged faces in the raindrops.” I laughed to myself and then I remembered an email that McDougal had sent me a while ago. Feeling pensive, he had come to the same spot and watched the rain fall on the water, too. I just sat there watching, listening to Hootie’s distinctive crooning: “Time, why you punish me?” It was a sublime moment.

That moment reminded me of an entry in another blog that I frequent that tells a beautiful and heartfelt story about dancing in the rain. “The pain is worth the dance in the rain,” she says. Another way of saying “‘Tis better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all,” I guess. And I agree.

But no, I shan’t be classically Channy and end this sucker on a melancholy note. No ma’am and no sir. There is cause for a bit of celebration! Remember the Praxis II test that I ranted and raved about having to take? Well, I took the Spanish Content Knowledge one earlier last month, and I finally got my scores back. The highest possible score was 200. Homegirl made a 185. ::high fives buddies:: I was very pleased. But only because I felt like I did horrifically after taking the test. Now I must take the Language Arts Content Knowledge test next month. I just had to be a nerd and double major, didn’t I?

The Iced Chai Tea Latte

is one of the best consumable things known to man. The Caramel Frappucino used to reign in the kingdom of my favorites, but I’m afraid it has met its match. I know, to some, the Iced Chai Tea Latte says nothing but cold, milky tea. But to me it speaks volumes. It tells the wonders of how such seemingly unfamiliar elements such as ice, milk, water, tea, sugar, and a bunch of Indian spices can come together in a plastic cup and bond, and somehow, inexplicably, become delicious best friends.

This is not to say that the Caramel Frapp has been altogether dethroned. Not at all. It just means that I’ve found another café drink that moves me. But each drink moves me in a different way. Each has its own particular effect upon me.

When I’m feeling upbeat, when I’m longing for the shock of a caffeine buzz, spiced up with some caramel and whipped cream action, the Frapp is my friend. The Frapp is for those days when I’m on cloud nine. The days when my life is spread before me like a new and exciting waiting-to-be-lived adventure. The days when I wake up and the sun is shining and I bound out of bed screaming, “Bring it on, life! Bring it on!”

The Chai Tea, on the other hand, has more of a calming, consoling purpose. I need it in times of feeling chill and of feeling pensive. It’s the kind of drink that’s my companion during long café conversations. The milky, cinnamony sweetness is a gustatory reminder that everything is going to be okay. The mellow spiciness is a good friend giving me a big hug. It’s for the rainy, cloudy days when I know my hair is going to fall and that if it’s windy as well as rainy, my flimsy, travel-sized umbrella just might get blown inside out.

Now, I am certainly over-generalizing the feelings and images I associate with these café creations. It would perhaps be closer to the truth to say that sometimes I just feel like a Frapp and other times I simply feel like a Chai. It’s just that I’ve been on a Chai kick lately and I wanted to pay it homage. But at the same time, I didn’t want the Frapp to be left hanging. We go way back. Way before the Chai ever entered the picture. Even so, the Chai still gets major props. I don’t care what anybody says, Chai. I don’t care that you are at times rejected for your exotic coldness. You are somebody. Say it with me: I am somebody!

Song from Back in the Day

There are very few Christian artists today whose careers outlast the “new artist” buzz. Whatever happened to Big Tent Revival? What about that swing/ska group called The W’s? I could name many, many more who got their equivalent of 15 minutes of fame and then went on to join the rest of Contemporary Christian Music’s has-beens.

However, one such artist has always occupied a little special corner of my heart, and that is Nikki Leonti. “Who?” some may respond. That’s okay. Sometimes, the more unknown, the more special . . . or something like that. Anyway, the song that I think she is (or was) most well known for was titled “Everlasting Place.” Don’t you wanna come with me/ To an everlasting place?/ No tears, no pain, forever we’ll remain . . . okay. But anyway, the song that always stuck with me was one that was not as popular, called “It Will Come to You.” Not only does she have a nice voice, but also the lyrics to the song have always uplifted me and warmed my heart when I’ve been feeling like I have been lately. In fact, I had this crazy idea that I was going to get online and hunt down the soundtrack so that I could sing it at church or something one day. I got desperate and emailed one of the representatives of her label, Pamplin Records, asking if there were any soundtracks available of that particular song. I got a reply, and the person told me that there never was a soundtrack made of “It Will Come to You” and that all of Leonti’s stuff was being sold out and discontinued, etc., but that they did have a book left over of all the sheet music (piano, voice, and guitar) of all of her songs. They sent it to me for free. I still haven’t sat down to pick out the piano part, and that was several years ago, but oh, well. I still have the song downloaded and I just finished listening to it, and I know things are going to be okay.

Verse: I know you’re waiting/ For the light at the end/ Of this tunnel that you’re going through/ Anticipating/ What lies round the bend/ Wondering what he has in store for you/ Rest in His will/ Keep the faith in prayer until you see what He provides.

Chorus: It will come to you/ Like a beacon into view/ There’s a light that will shine through/ It will come to you/ Seek Him first in all you do/ And when you least expect it to, it will come to you.

Verse: Looking back through/ The pages of your past/ There’s a story of His faithfulness/ When you come to/ The chapter’s end at last/ You will see it turn out for the best/ It will be alright/ Even in the darkest night, just hold out for the dawn. Chorus a couple more times. End.

The Cake

I wish there were one word in the English language that could describe how I’m feeling right now, but there isn’t. So why not do what many so-called writers do and explain it to you on metaphorical terms.

Imagine something that you and someone else have painstakingly made. Okay, let’s say that you and your mom worked together to make a pound cake (the only thing I can make, as I’ve mentioned many times before). You both wanted it to be good. But your mom was especially cautious; making sure you put exactly the right amount of sugar and vanilla in it. She personally creamed the eggs and butter together before you added the other stuff in. Your mom wanted this to be the best cake you’ve ever made. She wanted this cake to be the one. You, on the other hand, though you wanted the cake to come out great too, were more caught up in the experience of making the cake itself. You liked the whirring sound the mixer made when you blended everything together. You liked getting your hands all powdery when you greased and floured the pan. You wanted to lick the bowl and spoon and mixer things clean of the sweet pound cake batter.

So, you bake the cake and it comes out really nice. Your mom even dusts it with powdered sugar to give it a special touch. Your dear mother then instructs you to take the cake to the new neighbor across the street. To be honest, you’re sort of hesitant about going across the street; you’ve never actually met this new neighbor, and aren’t sure if you really want to. But you’re still in la-la land over the whole experience of making the cake in the first place, that you kind of push your hesitancy aside and you’re not so careful as you start your journey across the street. In fact, you’re so careless that you accidentally tip the plate over too far and the cake slides off and plops squarely in the dust of your front yard. You’re left there, transfixed, staring at the wasted cake. All of the hard work and emotional energy you and your mom both put into making that cake was all for naught, it seems. And it was your fault. You should have been more careful. You should have remembered that the purpose of making the cake was to take it across the street to the neighbor, not just for you to feel all warm and gooey inside while you licked the cake batter out of the bowl. You know that you can’t scoop it up off the ground and put it back on the plate and continue your journey across the street. So, you slowly go back inside and let your mom know what happened.

In real life, but still using my metaphor, I just got finished “letting mom know what happened” not too long ago.

The little girl = me.
The mom = McDougal.
The cake = our relationship.
The neighbor = the point in the relationship where I didn’t really want to go.
Letting mom know = breaking up.

This metaphor may seem lighthearted, but it is only a feeble attempt to get out of such a wretched mood. Of course, this metaphor is not exact by any means. McDougal never formally asked me to take the cake across the street. We talked about taking the cake sometimes, but he, in fact, always let me know that if I decided that I didn’t want to take the cake, to let him know and that he wouldn’t hold it against me.

But the part about my being preoccupied with making the cake itself is true—hearing the whir of the mixer, licking the cake batter, smelling the sweet goodness that makes a pound cake what it is. But those aren’t valid reasons to decide to make a cake with someone. Neither is the fact that you’ve never actually made a cake before but always wanted to.

I suppose I could try to explain myself more, but it is no matter. I am sorry for my carelessness. I am sorry for my immaturity. I am sorry for my selfishness. It hurts. And I feel ugly inside to know that I’ve caused someone else to hurt too.

It's So Hard

I never really thought about how hard it would be to move back in with parents and siblings after five years of quasi-independence until it actually happened. And let me tell you, it is hard.

It's like, too many grown folks living in one place, you know? I'm 23, my brothers are 21 and 19, and my parents, are . . . my parents. We're a close-knit family, you know, we get along, we're not dysfunctional or anything, we go to church together and all of this. But things are not the same as when I lived there pre-UA. Naturally.

For starters, my brothers, I think, will always treat me like big sis. No matter how old I am. It doesn't matter that I have a Bachelor's of Science in Education, it doesn't matter that I've had a wonderful college experience, and that I've matured, and that I will start a grown folks' job in a matter of months. I am Big Sister whom they don't have to listen to, whom they don't have to respect, and whom they can annoy till kingdom come. And don't get me started on life sharing a bathroom with them. See, my parents have their own since they have a master bedroom bathroom thing going on, so they don't see the unpleasantries that I have to endure. I clean like a madwoman, but somehow, the bathroom still eventually finds its way to less than stellar conditions. "Have you no dignity!" I wish to scream at them with a British accent in righteous indignation.

The 'rents are okay. I mean, they give me my space for the most part. But I think it's just hard for them to begin to let go. Especially Pops. I mean, I will be the first to admit that I am a super daddy's girl. I love my pops to death, but mind you, I am the first child, and I am the only girl. Imagine an overprotective father times 10. Okay . . . maybe I'm exaggerating, just a tad. But especially with this McDougal business going down, I have to be like, "Pops, please. I am 23!" It's hard even for me to believe. I mean, that I'm 23. Mom is cool too, but sometimes it's still like, you know . . . especially when it comes to my music. I've just had to resign to never playing what I want to listen to within anyone else's hearing.

I keep telling my family to enjoy me while they can, cuz next year around this time (if I can make it) is when I'll break away. Finally. So, when things get a little conflicty with my folks, I just keep thinking this is temporary, this is so temporary, I can make it!

Waaaaah!

My blog baby has been sitting and crying desperately for attention for an extended amount of time. Most blog mommies would pick their blog baby up, comfort it, feed it, see if it needed to be changed--just showed it some much-needed attention. But what have I done? I've just left it there, abandoned it to wallow in its unhappy, untended state. Isn't that terrible? Ugh.

Things with me, though, are going fine. My mind has finally landed and I'm regaining my focus once again. I wish I could divulge and tell the world about a wonderful person who cares about me, who appreciates me for who I am and who truly wants nothing other than the best for me. It's an awesome feeling when people can be honest and truthful with one another without fear of what the other will think. It's amazing when you can look at a person and see nothing but them. But perhaps now is not the time.

My dad is outside talking to a couple of Mormons who knocked on our door this afternoon. They've been discussing for almost two hours now, I'd say. "Daddy, those guys are just as sincere and earnest about what they believe as we do, " I mentioned as we saw them from afar approaching the house. Needless to say, my father is just as earnest and sincere about sharing his beliefs as as they are as well. Hence the ongoing discussion. I love my pops to death.

I have conditioner in my hair (Suave Humectant Conditioner smells absolutely heavenly) with a towel wrapped around my head, and I need to rinse it out. There's also a Mary Higgins Clark murder mystery I checked out waiting to be delved into. What a lovely, Memorial Day afternoon.

Spacy

That word super sums up how I am feeling right now. My mind won't come back to earth. I have a feeling that I'm going to have a sleepless night tonight, my mind reeling and pondering over many things.

I've also had a loss of appetite. I've been eating kind of sporadically. It's a good thing that my mom cooks and we all have a sit down dinner sometimes, else I probably wouldn't eat anything good the whole day.

I've been listening to Coldplay lately. Their British, mellow melodic rock sound just captures the emotional, slightly melancholy smorgasbord of feelings that have been swimming around in me. Excitement, the prospect of drama, the uncertainty of the future, and it's all happening so fast.

Tomorrow, I'm going to slow down and catch up on some much needed Bible-reading. My God time has been sorrowfully lacking lately.

And I finally finished my thank you cards today. I'm going to mail off the ones that need to be mailed off tomorrow, and I'm going to hand out the local ones tomorrow night at church. Procrastination hasn't gotten the best of me just yet!

Meanwhile, I'll be waiting for my mind to safely land.

Today I Did Something I Hadn't Done in a While

and that is that I took a long, hot, glorious bubble bath. It was so fabulous. I lit candles and had relaxation music playing and such. It was like my own personal day spa. I can't get too used to doing stuff like that, though . . . it'll just make it that much harder to get used to having to do things again.

Today my 20-year-old brother said something to me that, though it made me feel kind of bad, really made me kind of think constructively about myself. And things he says to me (or about me, rather) don't usually make me do any thinking at all. I normally turn my brain on to the "ignore" channel until the moment passes. But today he said, "Out of all the girls that I've known, YOU are the one who has the worst mood swings ever!" Then he goes on to say how one minute I'm laughing and everything is so funny, and the next I'm telling everyone to leave me alone. "I really feel sorry for whoever your husband will be. That man's gonna always be thinking 'What the heck is wrong with you?'" he said.

(sigh) I know I can be moody sometimes. It's one of the things I know I need to work on. But it also kind of brought home to me that the way I behave affects everybody else around me. Whatever I do is going to affect or influence others. It made me realize again that nothing is ever "just me." John Donne's words from Meditation 17 of "no man is an island" fame are really true. "Because I am involved in mankind." I'm not trying to get overly philosophical here--I'm mainly referring to how we are involved with family and friends and with members of the Body of Christ.

Sometimes when I think about the many, many young people from church I have grown up with and when I think about and wonder where they are now, I also begin to wonder: what is it about me that has caused me to stick around? It's not because I'm a super-spiritual demigoddess. It's not because I have heard the audible voice of God or have seen visions of Heaven or have had revelations of the deep spiritual things of the universe that would blow the mind of any mere mortal. None of those things are in the least bit true. But maybe, just maybe, in the back of my mind, there was something that always reminded me that decisions that I make concerning my spiritual well-being were bound to affect people that know me and care about me and even look up to me.

Funny how a fraternal insult brought these musings about.

Frank Peretti, Master of Christian Fiction

I love Frank Peretti. I was hooked for life after reading the first few pages of the book that made him big, This Present Darkness. The beginning of the book described two ordinary working-class men, dressed a bit shabbily, walking through a carnival filled with people. They sidestep people, spilled popcorn, etc, and they finally come out into a clearing and make their way over to a small, simply built church. I remember thinking, Who are these guys, what is this leading up to? They enter, unnoticed, into the church and find a solitary man kneeling at the altar. All of a sudden, their shabby clothes melt away, and they become bathed in light as their wings unfold and they begin to minister to the praying man. They're angels! I remember feeling warmth and awe at the realization that those ordinary guys were beautiful messengers of God.

Since then I have voraciously read all of his adult novels. (He's done a kid's series too). He is so awesome, not only because he's a good writer, but because he has a way of getting a message across that doesn't seem so . . . message-driven. It's not fluff and stuff (my former complaint about most Christian fiction), but neither is it obvious and heavy-handed. He's real. (And it seems that he has a Pentecostal background, too). Right now, I'm reading his newest book Monster, and though it has been a long while since he's come out with new stuff, he hasn't lost his touch. I could gush on and on . . . I remember lending his last book before he came out with Monster, The Visitation, to someone at church. I think everyone needs to read that book--it's basically about the struggles of a burnt-out pastor who is disillusioned with the church and how he faces a false-Christ character who begins to decieve the members of his small town. But anyway, the guy that I lent the book to was up all night reading it, and gave it back to me the following day. He's really that good.

Well, back to my reading!

Paperwork

Lord, have mercy, I went by the school today to sign on the dotted line, and get a mountain of paperwork handed to me in return. It's the way of the world. Welcome to the real one.

I am super excited, though. I'm like a grownup for real, now. Well, I may be able to say that next year once I have my money saved and I'm officially moved out and completely on my own.

I thought I'd have this summer to take a break . . . I was even toying with the idea of not getting a job and just volunteering or visiting out of state friends, or taking an art class or something. But how can I say I've got nothing to do when there are thank you cards waiting to be written, paperwork to read and sign and insurance information to review? And not to mention getting Spanish lesson plans together for the little kiddies in the fall?

But I am going to get back into one thing that I sort of missed during this past school year, and that is pleasure reading. I already used up my Family Christian Bookstores gift certificate and bought the new Frank Peretti book Monster, and another book about purity. I usually don't go for those another-version-of-true-love-waits type material because frankly, it's been done and it's played out. Nothing I haven't already heard. But this particular book really caught my eye and I bought it sort of on impulse and so far, I'm not sorry that I did. Book reviews will be forthcoming!

Tomorrow Is the Fated Day

Oh, yes, the end is near. Tomorrow at 6pm, I will make the transition from super-senior to alumnus. I've been checking all the girls out of their rooms like crazy today, and I'll have a few more tomorrow morning--tomorrow morning at 10 am is the deadline for them to all be out, out, out! Then I have to do a final walk through of all the rooms with my Hall Director. (oops, backstory: I'm a Resident Assistant at the biggest female freshman dorm on campus). After that I will have to be ready to face family and friends at 12, and make sure all my stuff is all packed and ready for my truck-driving friend to load and take back to the Gump for me.

It's going to be mayhem, so I'm bracing myself for it. At least we're spending the night here and will be going to church one last time here in T-town before we head back to the Gump. I'm happy I'm graduating, but I'm not exactly looking forward to all of the hullabaloo that surrounds it. But right now, I need to do some last minute cramming for my Spanish Phonetics final. Details will be forthcoming!

I Am the Bomb

I just have to write about this. I was supposed to meet a friend at "El Rincon" today for lunch. Jump in the car, turn the key. Nothing. Oh, great, did I leave my lights on or something? Hadn't left my lights on. I think I know what the problem may be . . . they say that if you turn your key and nothing happens, that means it's something with the battery. But if you turn the key and it makes a sound but still doesn't start up then it's the starter or something worse. Now, bear in mind, I am SO car clueless, and I hate taking my car in to get looked at because I know that the mechanic or whoever looks at me and sees the car cluelessness written all over my face. But I have a hunch it's the battery because my power lock didn't work either. Something similar had happened to me before, and I called the on-campus motorist assistance people, and the guy lifted the hood and saw that one of the battery things had popped off. He popped it back on and that was that. I could have done that! I thought. Anyway, today, I call the friend and ask her if she can come pick me up instead of meeting me there because all of a sudden my car won't start. I would deal with the car trouble later.

So after a lunch of quesadillas, rice and beans, I head back over to my non-starting car, determined to get to the bottom of this. I raise the hood all by myself. That was my first small victory. I then examine the battery. No little thing popped off. Hmmm . . . what else could it be? I sort of fiddle with the little battery things to make sure they are on securely. I step back, give my car a once over (like I knew what I would even be looking for) and then shut the hood. Please, please, please . . . I insert the key and turn. It roars to life. Hence, the title of this post.

I Was Going to Write Some Other Stuff

But I feel SO bad right now. Without going into detail upon detail, I will admit that I blew off one of my best friends in the world for something insignificant that could have waited. The slight was not intentional, but I didn't realize how uncool it was until it was too late. I've apologized, left messages on his home and cell (because he didn't pick up) and sent him a very apologetic email. We go waaaayyy back, so I don't think this folly of mine has dealt our solid friendship a death blow. (I surely hope it hasn't.) But it has given it a little boo-boo that I hope will heal quickly. Kevin, you're the best and you always will be, will you find it in your heart to forgive me?

Now I will spend the rest of the night wallowing in self-dislike. But this too shall pass.

The Countdown Begins

It's coming . . . the day where my 5 years of university life finally come to a close. This week is finals week, and since I've been student interning all semester, I don't really have many finals. I do have a Spanish Phonetics final (the class I should have taken while studying abroad), and a College of Education Exit Exam (for certification purposes) both on Friday, neither of which I expect to be very difficult. So, I'm spending this week chilling, packing up the rest of my stuff and getting ready for Commencement--just 4 days away.

A Few Things That I Have Packed Away Today
You can tell a lot about a person from posters and little knick-knacks they have lying about, can't you? A few of mine:

1. A poster of that says Kermit Clein in bold showing Kermit the Frog in saggy jeans showing the top band of his undies that say "Kermit Clein." It's black and white and of course a spoof of those ridiculous Calvin Klein ads--when I first saw it I just lost all composure doubled over in laughter so I had to get it for those days that I feel a little down.

2. A collage of Curious George pictures from an old calendar that served as the background of my bulletin board. I just LOVE Curious George. He's the cutest thing known to man. He's a mischevous little guy, but he has a good heart. He wants to do the right thing. I also have a small collection of CG posters, a little CG stuffed doll, a CG flashlight, and he serves as the background on my laptop. I know, borderline obsession. At least I admit it.

3. Various poems that decorated the bulletin board on my door: "The Negro Speaks of Rivers" by Langston Hughes, Shakespeare's Sonnet 116, "Meditation 17" by John Donne, a poem written by a Spanish graduate student after the train bombings in Madrid last year, and one by yours truly entitled "Mind Wanderings."

4. A hilarious "expose" of the 24 hour diner on campus by the Crimson White that was posted on my bulletin board. It's complete with grainy photos taken by cell phone cameras (ungloved hands circled in red), and testimony from students whose service at the diner was less than sanitary and professional. Though the tone of the article was serious, the way it was presented was just too much so I had to cut it out and save it. Another one of those "for those days when I'm feeling a little down" things.

I could write more, but . . .

What I'm about to Do Right Now
Eat the "Crimson Meal Deal" (7oz cheeseburger with the works, baked potato with sour cream and butter, cookies and 32 oz sweet tea all for $6.99!) I ordered from Steak-Out while I watch Spanglish. Boy, I could really get used to having nothing to do.