People, can you please

stop getting married left and right until I at least have a steady boyfriend? What? What do you mean you're not going to put your happiness on hold for me? I mean, come on. Is my self-pity worth nothing to you, then? Well, fine! Go ahead and be happy, you stinkin lovebirds. Excuse me? Get a life and stop comparing myself to you, you say? Hah, that's some classic advice. Yeah, yeah. Paul, shmaul.

For we dare not make ourselves of the number, or compare ourselves with some that commend themselves: but they measuring themselves by themselves, and comparing themselves among themselves, are not wise (2 Corinthians 10:12).

If You Didn't Do Anything Else . . .

God, if You didn't do anything else than send a saved and sanctified clone of Boris Kodjoe my way, I would spend the rest of my life being still and knowing You are God.

Yes, Lord, beautiful is Your creation. Mmmm. (Um, lead me not into temptation?)

Impulsivity?

I consider myself a person who generally mulls things over forever, never one who does anything on a whim. The very idea is a little distasteful to me. Impulsivity usually conveys to me instability.

But one of my main girls in the cold, cold Midwest is going to Mount Rushmore with her singles group over Labor Day weekend. I've never been to Mount Rushmore, and I wanted to go really badly. Not just for the sake of the presidents' faces carved into stone, but because I very rarely get to see her and I know she really wanted me to come. Plus, I have done zero fun things this summer. Seriously. I haven't taken any kind of trips to speak of. Unless you count the Mon-Fri commute to Auburn. So I bit the bullet and bought a ticket.

I know I'm going to have fun and everything, that's not what I'm worried about. It's just that I feel kind of impulsive about having done that. It's not like I'm rolling in the dough now (nor have I really ever been). I've got tuition to worry about, I'm moving out soon and I'm going to start having to pay hardcore bills.

I mean, I'll be okay. I didn't break the bank or anything to buy the ticket, but I hate that nagging little feeling that I really could have used the money for much more practical and necessary things. I don't blow my money. I'm usually very conservative. I thought I could splurge just a little bit this time and now I feel badly because I wonder if this was the best time to "splurge just a little bit."

But oh, well. I bought the ticket. What's done is done. Might as well enjoy it instead of obsess over it.

Miscellania

You know what the priest told me yesterday? That he was at his church and this guy he didn't know came up to him and said, "What does the church need done?" And the priest told the man the various projects and repairs around the church that needed to be done. Then the man said, "Hmmm, that'll cost about 40 grand." Then the guy wrote him out a check for 40 grand, told him to call a certain bank and that it should clear, and left.

I hate feeling like I don't know anything. The longer I live, the more I see that I am ignorant of so much. I don't know the philosophy of Foucault. I've never read Dante's Inferno. How did I get this far without having read that? My knowledge of history is atrocious. Don't ask me about dates or causes and effects of that war or this war. I know nearly zero about cars. I can't even change a flat tire! And the closest I've gotten to knowledge about money matters is listening to Marketplace on NPR. The more I learn, the more I know that I don't know. How Solomonesque.

I need to learn how to shut my mouth. It really is hard to shut up sometimes. Especially when you have all of these really clever rejoinders just itching to shoot out, and on top of everything else, why are you even having this discussion? Everything in you just wants to scream, "Okay, twenty plus five, twenty plus five, I am twenty plus five!" I know I look younger than I am, and I've eventually come to accept this fact as a very good thing. I know I'm the only girl in my family, and maybe that causes a sense of overprotectiveness amongst the elders, but please. Thanks for not ever having to announce, "I'm pregnant"? Thanks for not coming home with a tattoo of a demonic dragon emblazoned on my forearm? Thanks for not blowing my money on crack rock? Thanks for not having to plead with you to bail me out of the slammer? No thanks? Oh, okay. I understand. The very idea is absurd. What's this about being grateful for your not doing things you'd never do? Ca-ray-zay.

Let me tell you about the She Can Handle It Girl. Can't find anyone else to take the place of the person who was supposed to do it? Call the She Can Handle It Girl! She's never busy, never needs down time, and she'll never, never, ever say no! You know all those other selfish people out there who don't always do what everyone else wants them to do? Not the She Can Handle It Girl! You want someone to join you in your endeavor to whatever? Call the She Can Handle It Girl! You want to know the secret to keep her from breaking down? Give her more to do! Don't worry, cuz She Can Handle It!

Someone should write a thesis entitled, "iPod: Reflection of the Self?" lol. My iPod, though dominated by Christian rock and hip-hop, is a strange bird. Classical, Disney musical soundtracks, Portuguese jazz, Spanish pop, and Audrey Hepburn singing "Moon River"? (to name a few abberations).

And lastly, a word to the wise: You know your nails are getting too long when you start unintentionally scratching yourself and others.

Weird/Cool

Okay, so I was in a wedding. It was nice, yadda, yadda, yadda. Established. But I guess the whole wedding thing inspired me to think about what mine might possibly be like in the possible future.

I know it's weird, but I've always wanted a Medieval/Renaissance style dress. Like a Queen Guinevere/Maid Marian kind of thing.

Like this:

Or maybe this:

Or this:

Or even this:

So, anyway, you get the idea. But then I was left with the question of what the groom would wear. If I'm up there looking like Maid Marian and he's in a tux, that wouldn't look right. But I wouldn't want him to wear tights or anything. Eww. What could he wear that wouldn't look ridiculous? I seriously was just talking to my mom about it.

But then today I went to Books-a-Million, intent on getting some reading done for my class. This middle-aged dude on his laptop was sitting behind me. You know how there are some people in the world who don't know you from Adam, but decide to strike up a conversation with you when you're trying to get something done? Well, that guy was one of those people. So anyway, he starts out by complimenting my laptop's wallpaper and starts telling me bits of his life story. I will admit I always feel vulnerable when I'm out by myself and a male that I don't know approaches me. I didn't know who this dude was, he could be some kind of pervert trying to pick me up. But then I felt a little more at ease when he mentioned his wife and kids. But then he started talking about how he does graphic design and he showed me an altered picture of his wife on their wedding day. (He revealed to me about the breakup of his marriage, his abusive ex-wife and how he met his new wife on eHarmony. Why do unknown people seem to single me out as a person to tell their business to?)

But then I realized that her dress was in the style that I wanted! Then he showed me more pictures and he and the whole wedding party were in Renaissance style! "That is exactly what I want!" I exclaimed. I was freaking out. I just thought it was so weird/cool that I was just talking about having a possible wedding in the possible future in that style and then I run into this unknown dude who did just that. Plus he gave me the links to where they bought the stuff on the Internet. "Not that I'm planning on getting married any time soon," I told him.

"It's never too early to plan," he said. Weird. No, I really don't plan on getting married any time soon, but that whole thing was weird.

The Wedding

Ah, the wedding. It was this past Saturday, and it was lovely. I took gobs of pictures, but for the blog, I feel a little iffy about posting pictures of people who aren't connected to the blog for the world to see. "How dare you post my wedding pictures on the Internet!" Yeah. So I'll just put myself on the line.

Pictures

Me the bridesmaid. I loved the color of the dress!

Here's the kind of bouquet all the bridesmaids carried. We cradled them in the crooks of our arms as we walked down the aisle.

Here's what I did with the flowers. Aren't they just lovely? Calla lilies and lavender roses.

Musings

I was so excited about the whole deal . . . it felt like I was getting married. But I was also kind of behind the scenes helping the bride out beforehand, and I also saw the stress the accompanies the big day. The marriage thing is not just, "Oh, baby, we're in love, it's just you and me." No, it's more like, "Yeah, we're in love and everything, but we're going to have to get along with my family and your family and you're going to have to get along with yours and mine while we do this thing." As a teenager, I guess I sort of romanticized the whole falling in love thing. But the more I observe of other people who have taken the proverbial leap, the more I see that it involves SO much more than yourself, the other person, and the way you feel about one another. Seriously.

And, my escort was a very nice guy, but he wasn't the one. lol. So much for Jane Austen.

The Priest and the New Friend

The Priest
There's a priest in my Spanish class. I don't know why, but it seems that he has a kind of attachment to me. I'm not saying he likes me or anything. He's a priest. But he sort of goes out of his way to sit by me, offers to help, wants to work together on little class activities--stuff like that. And that is completely fine with me, he's a nice man, he's not annoying or anything like that, but I just wonder, like . . . I guess because both of us are kind of in the beginning stages of the Master's program, and we both have to commute to Auburn, so maybe he feels some commonality there. Yesterday I asked him if he'd always wanted to be a priest. "No, not always. Actually, I grew up wanting to be a member of the Mafia." He said the Mafia controlled the neighborhood where he grew up in New Jersey. But some priests he knew sort of mentored him and I guess he ended up feeling a calling from associating with them.

But sometimes I wonder about him. He can never have a wife or a family. He's relatively young, in his late thirties. He seems like he would be a good husband and father, but he'll never have the opportunity. Why does that make me feel sad? He apparently doesn't mind. Maybe I should ask him if he's ever read Pepita Jimenez. It's a 19th century Spanish novel about a young seminarian who falls in love with a young widow and he has to choose between her and his vocation.

The New Friend
There's a guy at my church who works with a young lady who had been asking him a lot of questions about the Bible. He invited her to church and introduced me to her, and we hit it off right away. We have so much in common. Yesterday we met at Starbucks and had a awesome discussion and Bible study. She just opened up to me and she was so open to the things I shared with her about the Word. She is so hungry for God and she is searching for Him sincerely. We plan to get together weekly.

It is so amazing how God places people in our paths. He knows just what we need when we need it, and the beautiful thing is that each person learns and benefits from the other.

Channy the Paper Slayer

On the eighth day of July, in the year of our Lord two thousand seven, the mighty warrioress known as Channy soundly defeated the fearsome, terrible, monstruous fire-breathing 5 page Spanish paper dragon. As it shall be written in the annals of academia, "She who refused to pull an all-nighter faced her fear and at her feet lay procrastination slain."

So shall it be written, so shall it be done.

I Hate Writing Papers

How did I get this far with such reluctance to get things done? A five-pager in Spanish. Due Monday. How did I graduate from college with such procrastinatory tendencies? Did I think graduate school was going to be easier?

It is times like these that I wish I were a go-getter from the get-go. Yeah, come on, let's tackle this sucker! But I'm always the one who slumpingly gets it done, and that probably only because of the twisted high that comes from working under pressure with deadline looming. It's not quite a high, though. It's more a simple motivation to get up off of my junk in the trunk and overcome my inertia to Nike: Just Do It.

Grrrrr . . . I don't want to. I know how Paul felt when he said "For that which I do I allow not: for what I would, that do I not; but what I hate, that do I" (Romans 7:15).

Antithesis

Have you ever been inexplicably attracted to someone who is the antithesis of everything you (thought you) wanted? It's ridiculous. I know this person is totally wrong for me. Everything about him is no-no. Not because he has any obviously unsavory characteristics that would negatively affect me or anything. It's not that at all. It's just that I know that he's not for me. Let me back up and say that this "attraction" is not like a crazy, I-can't-stop-thinking-about-him obsession. It's more of a . . . passing fancy.

The main reason I think I fancy him in this way is not because he's a dapper pretty boy. He doesn't have a magnetic personality that just unwaveringly draws people in. He doesn't have that Don Miller-esque down-to-earth intellectualism that I go ga-ga over. It's more basic than that. It's just that he exudes the perfect mix of masculinity and vulnerability. It's weird. On one hand he's ruggedly handsome, walks with a slight swagger, and has a roguish smile. He's hard. A man's man. But on the other hand, there's an almost boyish vulnerability about his manner. Beneath the hard exterior, there's a gentlemanly sweetness.

Yep. No doubt about it. I seriously need to get out more. Or something. Geez.

Crazy Hair, Blogortunities, and Other Miscellany

Crazy Hair
This is what my hair looks like when I wash it and don't blow dry it straight.

It can get really crazy, even more afro-esque than in this pic, but it's so . . . freeing or something. It's liberating when you can just walk around like, yeah, this is what my hair is like untamed, what? It's nice to not have to worry about the many products that go into my hair to get it to hold and stay "under control," or the humidity or whether my carefully constructed curls are going to fall. It's just there and I can do whatever I want with it without having to care about details.

Blogortunities
July at 90&9 is going to be interesting. There are two new group blogs which will be updated daily by a different blogger. One of them is Notes, whose topic is music and songwriting, and the other, of which I am a member, is Word, a blog which fosters conversation on books, reading and writing. My assigned day is Wednesday. So far the posts on both are highly pertinent and interesting discussions. Check 'em out!

Other
I bought living room furniture from Rooms to Go for my upcoming move in August. Here's the ensemble:

I just thought it was so cute and trendy looking. Yay!

I met this Cuban couple in my Spanish class. They are so sweet and have a beautiful 5-year-old daughter. There is just something about them . . . I just want the best for them. They are doing everything they can to have a better life and to provide their daughter with all the best opportunities. The wife doesn't speak English very well, and we had a conversation the other day where she practiced her English and I practiced my Spanish. A bilingual conversation. lol. She was telling me about life in Cuba. It's a communist country, of course, so a lot of things are completely free--health care and education, for example. But she also said, "But we all share the same misery."

A beautiful young girl who is a co-worker of a guy at church came to service this past Sunday morning, and afterward, we just totally connected. We had so much in common. She has a lot of questions, is so open, and is sincerely seeking God. Hopefully we'll start up a Starbucks Bible study this week!

There's Hope

It doesn't cost a thing to smile,
You don't have to pay to laugh,
You better thank God for that
Cuz there's hope . . .
It doesn't cost a thing to smile,
You don't have to pay to laugh,
You better thank God for that

--India.Arie "There's Hope"

A Substitute Offering

I guess I haven't written lately because I don't want to sound depressing. No one wants to read ad nauseum about some chick's quarter-life crisis angst. Heck, I don't want to write about it. It's broken recordesque. "Oh, my life is blah blah blah, I cried last night about blah blah blah, I don't know what to do about blah blah blah, I feel blah blah blah about blah blah blah." An unoriginal tragicomedy. lol. So instead, I offer you this:

What I'm supposed to be doing right now: Reading a 50 page introduction on Latin American Romantic poetry before my class in 30 minutes. In Spanish.

What I've finished reading not too long ago: Sputnik Sweetheart by Haruki Murakami. I need to review it for Collideoscope. Note to self: Do not read Murakami when you're melancholic. He's a brilliant writer, but everyone at some point in his novels are drenched in this haunting, aching aura of loneliness. Geez, Haruki. Can you please offer more than measly crumbs of hope next time?

What I'm going to read soon: An Amazon ordered book recommended by my go-to book guy called Never Eat Alone by Kevin Ferazzi. And I got Amazon-suckered into buying a "people who bought this book also bought this" book. Urban Tribes by Ethan Watters. Interesting-seeming stuff.

Why my stomach is growling like a big dog: I've only had a caramel latte the whole day so far today. That's it. Maybe that's part of why I'm so cranky. Maybe I need to try to put some meat on my bones or something. Make the older folks who know me happy.

My Spanish professor is really . . . happy. A little flighty. She worried me at first, but she's definitely grounded. Homegirl knows her stuff. And she's more hardcore than I expected. So, I'd better get it together.

Confessions of an Impatient Person

I'm impatient. Yes, I'm coming clean. If I were cast in a Shakespearean tragedy, impatience may be my tragic flaw.

Well, not about everything. If I were hard core impatient, I would have lost my mind as a teacher by now. Elementary + Middle School kids - Patience = Insanity. But in other things, especially recently, I've been maddeningly reminded of how impatient I can be.

While I'm driving, for instance. I have conversations with all the cars around me. "What were you thinking, Mazda?!" "Don't even think about it, Expedition. You gas guzzling landmass." "Aaargh! Just because you're a Volvo doesn't mean it's cool for you to cut in front of me and then go 5 miles per hour!" I hate extra long red lights too. "Oh, come ON!" Usually I drive around by myself. But now that my aunt is here for the summer, I've been driving around more with her. She looked at me kind of funny after one of my outbursts, and though she didn't say anything, I felt checked. I realized that I really do need to chill out and be a more patient driver.

I was also near tears when I couldn't print out my paper yesterday. I know that is ridiculous, but technology is something else I get disconcertingly impatient with sometimes. I was yelling at my dad's computer, "You stupid computer! Why won't you print? The CD worked fine on my laptop, and now all of a sudden there's an error when I try to pull up my paper? What did I do wrong? All I want to do is print out my paper!"

In the end, I brought my laptop to campus, connected to the wireless connection, emailed the paper to myself, and printed it out at the lab. It wasn't the end of the world. Through this "trauma," I also realized that impatient people are usually the most frustrated people. Because things don't happen their way. Because it's not done how they want and when they want it done. That's an exhausting way to live life.

A scramble of stuff

is jumbled in my brain. Okay,

#1. Why does it seem that things are so weirdly connected? For example, I'm going to be a bridesmaid in my friend's wedding, and in the comic For Better or For Worse, Elizabeth is a bridesmaid in her friend's wedding. Yesterday, I went to look at apartments and the girl drove me around in a golf cart to show off the different features of the complex. Today, I went to visit with the lucky gal so she could show me the dress and all of the little details of the wedding, and her parents have a large property and we went around in a golf cart. Comics, weddings, golf carts? Weirdness.

#2. I think I saw band director on campus. I heard his voice and saw a little glimpse of him as he walked past a room where I was sitting. But I wasn't going to jump up and scream out his name or anything.

#3. There is a difference between admiration and appreciation. I think I've finally hit the nail on the head. I have been admired in my life. It is a great feeling to be admired by someone. To know that someone has affection for you, thinks you're beautiful, would do anything to make you happy. But that is not the same thing as being appreciated, and I'm not sure if I've ever truly been appreciated. (I'm talking about by a member of the opposite sex in the context of a relationship or potential relationship.) Appreciation carries a connotation of understanding. You can admire the way a Rachmaninoff prelude sounds, but do you understand the technique? Can you appreciate the skill and expertise it takes to be able to play one flawlessly? It takes more than being attracted by a person's looks, ability, personality, or whatever to appreciate them. Appreciation demands the answer to this question: Do you "get" me? No, really, do you have any idea of what is involved in me being me? What I've worked for? What I long for? What I'm passionate about and why? What makes me laugh or cry? I think that's what I crave. More than to be admired, I want to be appreciated.

#4. The lucky guy had the lucky girl's engagement ring made. Did you hear me? He got it custom made. And get this: He's been saving since he was a teenager to buy whomever he would ask to marry him in the future a nice ring. I'm just struck with the curious blend of practicality and romanticism of the idea. His dad told him when he was a boy that that's what he was supposed to do. And that's exactly what he did. Thanks a lot, lucky guy. Now my standards are hopelessly high.

#5. I totally hate having a cut on the inside of my nose. Do you know what I'm talking about? What happens is you have allergies or whatever and you're constantly sneezing and blowing your nose. Then your nostril lining gets so dry it cracks, and voila, inside nose cut. It's not like you can just put a Band-Aid over it. I've been applying Vaseline and the pain relief type of Neosporin all over that sucker with a Q-tip, but to no avail. When will the madness end?

#6. Tonight was the last night of the Alabama District Camp Meeting, and almost every year, it seems, some old lady that I don't know tells me something spiritual. I don't mean to sound irreverant, really, it's encouraging that these random old ladies are senstive in the Spirit and feel moved to pray with me and speak a word to me. But I wonder, is it just me, or is the unknown-old-lady-tells-you-something-at-camp thing a Pentecostal phenomenon?

Scrambled ramblings from a jumbled mind.

My New Abode?

Thursday mornings I have off (before my class in the afternoons). I had to get an oil change, and I wanted to check out the apartment complex I had been thinking about moving into. It's very convenient because it's right up the street from where I work, right next to my favorite park, and actually, off of the same road of the subdivision where I live with my parents now.

Everything looked fine, they have pools, tennis courts, all of the little amenities. In the model I plan to move into, they have a little fireplace and built in bookcase, which is really nice because I have hordes of books. The walk-in closet is also super needed--space is one of the reasons I feel I need to move out. I felt really good about it, filled out the application, and paid the security deposit.

But why do I feel so weird about it now? Why do I doubt my ability to be on my own? That is so confounding. There is no reason why I shouldn't be able to manage. I don't get myself. I'm not moving to another country or another state, or even across town. Mom and Dad will be literally down the street. And I'm 25! In five years I'm going to be 30. Like, if someone had a baby right now, the baby would be going to Kindergarten by the time I turn 30. I'm going to be 30 in the amount of time it took me to graduate from college. (And that didn't seem very long at all.) Isn't it time for me to do something on my own? Seriously.

I have to snap out of it and stop worrying all the time. Perhaps part of it is that I don't know what I'm going to be doing a year from now, around the time the lease will be up. Stay in Montgomery? Move to Auburn and finish the Master's I've started by going full time? I hate how everything is so uncertain. It's really draining. It's like, give me something to go on. Give me some assurance that something is going to work out. Being in a constant state of not knowing really starts to wear on you. I know I'm probably exaggerating things. (I'm really good at that.) But that's how I feel a lot of times, and I really am trying my best not to let it get to me.

Methinks She Doth Protest Too Much

I'm not worried about it. Naw, I'm not even worried about it. No, really, I'm not worrying about it at all. Seriously, it hasn't even crossed my mind . . .

I'm going to be a bridesmaid this summer. Next month. I am so excited about it, I almost feel like I'm getting married! I've known the lucky gal since we were in junior high together, and I knew the lucky guy when he first met the lucky gal when we were all attending the same college and the same church together. So, I know the ins and outs of how they got together. I knew that it was going to be a sure thing. I saw it coming from a mile away. This will have been the first time I've ever been in a wedding. Well . . . there was that time I was a flower girl when I was 5 or 6 and instead of gently tossing the flowers, I ended up throwing the flowers so forcefully that people were ducking as I made my way up the aisle. But that doesn't count. I'm going to be a bridesmaid!

Another special thing about the wedding is that the bridesmaids' dresses are my all time favorite color. Lavender. That beautiful, soft, light pastel purple. Nearly everything I own is lavender. Desk lamp, pajamas, toothbrush, hordes of articles of clothing, shoes, bedsheets, journals, scarves--if it is something commonly owned, chances are I own it in lavender. During the fitting, I ended up being the model. I stood on the block while the seamstress pinned and poked and tried to help the bride decide how she wanted the trimming to go, and how far she wanted the sleeves to be hemmed. Everyone oohed and aahed and told me how great I looked in the dress. Inner monologue: This is not your wedding! This is not your wedding! Oh, but the dress is beautiful.

I love the lucky guy and lucky gal. They are so made for each other. They balance each other out perfectly. It's like, God really knew what He was doing when He brought them together. That is how I really feel, and I am so happy for them. But the lucky guy seems to be almost as eager to see me get married as he is to get married himself. He nearly prophesies to me every time we start chatting about the wedding that God has someone for me too. Actually, he mentioned that his best friend is a groomsman. And it seems that we're the only ones in the wedding party who are not related to the bride or groom. And I think I'm supposed to be matched up with him in the procession. The lucky guy playfully mentioned that he was single, attractive, educated, very available . . . I laughingly waved him off. I'm not worried about it. Naw, I'm not even worried about it.

But, oh, once a seed as tantalizing as that one has been planted into the mind, one can't help but think about it. Wouldn't that be hilarious? What if "the one" were your escort at your friends' wedding? While you were wearing your favorite color walking down the aisle? Oh, the mirth. Geez, I hate that. Unfortunately, I'm "a victim of circumstance," a friend told me after I related to her the situation. "It's perfectly natural for an English major to think that way. You know, to romanticize things. But people meeting at weddings? It happens all the time." Why must I get all Jane Austen about everything? Blast you, English major side of my brain! But my Spanish major doesn't help out much. Daydreams about the curly-haired Spaniard in my class is enough proof of that.

No, really, I'm not worrying about it at all. Seriously, it hasn't even crossed my mind . . .

Way Weird

I was driving by a local Pentecostal church and saw this on their sign! Who would do such a thing?! I was flabbergasted! I mean . . . like, the church okayed this? I mean, did they think it would bring in the harvest or something?

Okay, okay. I did it. At www.churchsigngenerator.com.

Which Sports Car Are You?

I'm a Mazda Miata!

You like to soak up the sun, but your tastes are down to earth. Everyone thinks you're cute. Life is a winding road, and you like to take the curves in stride. Let other people compete in the rat race - you're just here to enjoy the ride.

Take the Which Sports Car Are You? quiz.

I must give credit to Jay at I Write the Blogs for this cute little quiz.

Joy

My aunt came down from Philadelphia to get a change of scene, and in her words, to get her life together. She was hungry, seeking, and open.

Tonight at church, she was filled with the Holy Ghost. Soon afterward, her brother, my dad, baptized her in the name of Jesus Christ.

It was pure joy. The way it happened so plainly. A woman, tired of her life, reaches out to God, and He fills her and gives her a new life. It's the beginning of a beautiful story.

My Split Classroom Personality, Smokers, and Friendly Gay Guys

My Split Classroom Personality
When I am in the classroom, as a student instead of the usual teacher, there are two mes. The first me is a flat out, bald-faced nerd. I sit near the front, raise my hand to unashamedly ask and answer questions, and have this burning, almost incontrollable desire to make a comment if something is said that somehow relates to my experience of the subject at hand. Now, so far, that sounds like the kind of person who elicits inward groans each time she raises her hand, right? So far, I'm the kind of person who is responsible for thinly veiled eye rolls and sniggering snorts following the instructor's placatingly benign rejoinder, "Um, yes, that is interesting." But I haven't told you about the other me yet. The other me's modus operandi is "be as unnoticeable as possible, do NOT call attention to yourself." The other me's job is to silence and control the first me, or rather, to make her more palatable to others. When the first me is itching to raise her hand one too many times, the other me jumps in and holds it down. When the first me has a comment burning on her lips, the other me shakes her head menacingly with a finger over her lips. When the first me wants to know more about the difference between aquí and acá, the other me nudges her in the ribs and hisses, "Is that really necessary?" No one personality reigns. The two mes simply balance each other out.

Smokers
Is there some kind of correlation between Spanish majors and tobacco consumption? No, seriously. Like half the class (professor included) has a daily pre-class smoke break. Once I found myself out there, finally meeting and talking with my classmates, the latter politely blowing smoke away from me as they inquired about my academic plans and offered sympathy when I explained to them my necessary commute. I finally met the darling Spaniard of the class, with his lovely Spanish lisp during my foray into the smoke break world. I, for some reason, always experience a nostalgic feeling when confronted with the image of smoke being politely blown away from me. Perhaps it's leftover from my time in Europe where the general public would laugh you to scorn if you hinted at the possibility of there being such a thing as a non-smoking section.

Friendly Gay Guys
I usually get to Auburn maybe 20 to 30 minutes early so I can take a breather before class and read in a shady spot outside. Today, I spotted a tobaccophile from class, or rather, he spotted me. We began to chat, and he totally opened up to me. He told me the story of how he was a Poli Sci major in undergrad, but his senior year the department wouldn't let him do the project he wanted to do, so he told them "f-you" (to paraphrase) and changed his major to Spanish. He still managed to graduate on time. "Wow, that's quite an accomplishment," I said, blushing. We continued talking and he invited me to sit in the air-conditioned GTA office while he finished his composition (due today). We were given two options: "When I was young" or "My family." I asked him which one he chose. "Well, my family is pretty boring, and so is my childhood, so I asked the professor if I could write about something else and he said 'sure,' so I'm writing about my ex-boyfriend. He doesn't really care what we write about. I am totally not doing Kevin justice," he muttered, half to himself. I smiled politely and went back to my book. Other GTAs from class popped their heads in and he introduced me to them, like a friendly big brother or something. I even got to offer the darling Spaniard my calculator so that he could finish up the grades for the section he was teaching. (Who else but a nerdy teacher would carry a calculator around?)

My dad and I always get into arguments over his seeming impression that I'm some kind of gay advocate or something. I'm totally not, but what's the use of harping against an "agenda" that has been around since Genesis? It highly annoys me when people jump up on the "the gays are taking over" bandwagon like homosexuality is some kind of especially insidious vice that trumps all evil. What about people who lie? Hypocrites? What about heterosexuals who sleep around? Most Evangelical Christians haven't a fear that the "fornicators" are taking over. I mean, seriously. I do not condone anything that the Word of God speaks against. But neither am I going to lambast people instead of trying to reach out to them.

Summer Reading on Collideoscope

90&9 hosts a blog called Collideoscope whose tagline is "Where Christianity and culture intersect."

In the heart of covering and discussing culture, I was asked to do a series of reviews where I simply discuss the books I'm reading this summer. I love reading, and I love talking about what I'm reading, so, I heartily agreed. I've posted the first one already--check it out here.

Hebrew Wisdom Literature

I have a big block of free time at work. And really, I'm going to get down to exporting my grades in just a minute, but I have to share this incredibly insightful post I read a minute ago by a fellow blogger who is in seminary. He talks about the ideas behind terms we toss around in our society such as "balance" and "extremist" and how they hold up through the lens of the Proverbs, Ecclesiastes, Psalms and Job. Interesting stuff. Check it out here.

This Is What I Know

1. I need sleep. Like a big dog.

2. My room looks like a drunken rock band had a thrashing party in it.

3. I really need some sleep. Today when I woke up, I thought it was Wednesday.

4. Somehow, I'm still coherent enough to read and comprehend books. I finished On Beauty by Zadie Smith the other day.

5. The interior of my car is slowly attaining the characteristics of my aforementioned room.

6. I need to start looking for an apartment if I want to move out in August.

7. I need to do some serious cleaning and sorting if I want to move out in August.

8. My summer break is not going to be much of a break. Doing summer camp part-time at my school and taking summer classes every day amongst other things aren't going to give me much of a chance to take one! Ah, well. So is life.

Advanced Spanish Syntax

is the name of the class that I'm starting at Auburn tomorrow. Conveniently, this class starts at 3 p.m. tomorrow while my place of employment doesn't let out for the summer until next Thursday, and I usually don't get to leave for the day until 3 p.m. Auburn is a 45-minute drive away. Um, conflict?

My supervisor graciously allowed me to rearrange my schedule so that I could leave by 2. And most of the afternoons so near the end of school my usual classes will be busy having end-of-the-year parties and the like, so there wasn't much rearranging to do at all, thankfully.

But I'm nervous. I have no clue why. It's not like this is new to me. I've only been out of college 2 years. And I took a graduate course (a theology one at that) last summer, so it's not like I'm out of touch or whatever. I guess maybe I have this unnerving feeling that I'm going to be . . . behind or something. I have this fear the class is going to be chock full of advanced, serious native speakers who can quote lengthy sections of Pedro Calderón de la Barca and who can conjugate irregular verbs in every tense known to the inhabitants of Romance Languagedom and who can syllabify effortlessly (using all the correct linguistic symbols of the International Phonetic Alphabet) and I'm going to be left, trembling and coughing, in their Spanish dust.

But I'm trying to take it easy. I'm trying to remind myself that God really does have a purpose in my staying in Alabama, commuting to this school, and spending a fortune on gas in the process. He must.

I had to fight back tears today

at school. No, it wasn't because my students were being hellions. I'm very blessed to work in a place where I can be a teacher rather than a disciplinarian. I've never come close to being in tears for that reason, thank God.

But it was a child, a new student in first grade. He walked in shyly with the rest of the class and his teacher stopped him and introduced him to me. He was a pudgy, round-faced, Asian boy. He was brown-skinned, Filipino, maybe? His two front teeth were a little gapped and ever so slightly protruded. He looked up at me expectantly. I suddenly found myself blinking back tears. What is wrong with me? It wasn't that I pitied him or anything. It was just that I was suddenly struck by his innocence. There was something about him that awakened some weird, protective/maternal feeling in me because of the simple fact that he was small, sweet, soft-spoken, and innocent. He was beautiful.

I teach plenty of cute kids. Some of them are downright gorgeous. And this little guy wasn't overwhelmingly attractive, so it wasn't like I was awed by sheer cuteness. It was more than that. But still, I was surprised at my response.

Two Roads

I wrote a book review for 90&9.com comparing The Road by Pulitzer winner Cormac McCarthy and Through Painted Deserts by Don Miller. Check it out here.

Calling All Short Story Lovers

Check out this short story by Zadie Smith featured in The New Yorker.

I must admit

that I do love flowers. I love all kinds, but especially sunflowers. I am very appreciative of them, regardless of the source.

Received today from a 5-year-old . . .

A small bag of peppermint candies with a note attached that reads, "You have 'MINT' a lot to me--thanks for being such a great teacher!" Awwww . . . warm fuzzies.

Single people, please read this

People, I almost gave a tongues and interpretation when I read this. Thank you, Brittanie, for awakening the single masses to this much needed exhortation.

More Don

Don Miller. I cannot get enough of this man. I've finished the last book of his I hadn't read yet, Through Painted Deserts, and now what do I do? Start back over with Blue Like Jazz?

This book was the most fun of the others. Well, I'll just say it was less theological. In a nutshell, it's his recalling a road trip he and a friend made in a Volkswagen van from Houston to Portland. It made me want to go camping. Can you believe I've never gone camping before? Well, I've stayed at one of those camp places, in a bunk in a cabin, and did the whole canoeing and roasting marshmallows over a campfire thing, but I haven't gone bona fide, sleep in a tent outside camping. I've never purposely watched the sunrise. Can you believe it? I'm not saying I've never seen it rise. Of course I have. But I've never purposely gotten up before dawn, gone outside, found a spot to get a good view and sat down to watch the sun rise.

Reading this book made me jealous. It really did. There are worlds completely untapped by me. There is so much of which I haven't even begun to scratch the surface. This book made me want to forget this routine life, just scrap it all, become a nomad, and find God out in the wilderness, on the road. Reading this book made me want to plug my ears to the same old, same old, clap, clap, clap, turn to your neighbor and say blah-blah-blah, come on and get excited everybody stuff. Reading this book made me want to marvel in the why, it made me want to be content with just knowing that God is good. It made me want to kick my obsession with the how in the rear end. Bffff! There it goes, flying out the window.

Here's a paragraph just as he ends the book. He's sitting with his road trip buddy, watching the sun rise over the mountains:

It is a wonder that those exposed to such beauty forfeit the great questions in the face of this miraculous evidence. I think again about this small period of grace, and thank God for it, that if only for a season, I could feel the why of life, see it in the metaphor of light, in the endlessness of the cosmos, in the miracle of friendship. And had these mountains the ability to reason, perhaps they would contemplate the beauty of humanity, and praise God for the miracle that each of us is, ponder the majesty of God and the wonder of man in one bewildering context.

I want to be able to just be content with awe. To not understand God or myself, but to be able to be okay with that. I think there's something about nature, God's creation, that helps us do that. Today I sat outside for a while. Under a tree, on a blanket, reading and journaling in the shade at my favorite park. It's a manicured bit of nature, nothing like Don's roughing it through the Grand Canyon, but it's still beautiful. For minutes at a time, I would stop reading or writing to drink in my surroundings. I would stop and breathe and feel alive and, for a few minutes, forget about the swirling trivia that unduly hogs my brain. I need to do that more often, I think.

Life is like . . . a book?

The following was forwarded to me from a friend I consider my go-to book guy. They're pretty hilarious. My favorites are numbers 1 and 4, because they're so . . . fiction writer.

From the latest Powell's Books enewsletter:

The trouble with reading a good book is sooner or later you have to come back to your own life. And isn't everything just a little more disappointing after that?

Forthwith, my list of Five Reasons I Wish Real Life Were More Like a Book:

1. On your dullest day, when absolutely nothing of interest happens and every single person you meet is boring or irritating, you could still be praised for your "evocative prose."

2. If at any point in your life it's crucial that you receive an unlikely nugget of information without which you simply cannot proceed, you will always stumble upon a hushed conversation around the corner that will conveniently reveal everything you need to know.

3. Female scientists are incredibly gorgeous and sexy. Male scientists are impossibly rugged and handsome. Everyone who isn't beautiful is a villain.

4. The simplest of tasks, from searching for a match to biting into a cookie, can trigger a massive wave of vivid recollections and crisp memories that will take you over every major event of your entire life in only five or ten seconds.

5. When you say something stupid on a first date, you can always fix it with a rewrite.

Here's one I'd like to add, as one who often talks to herself aloud:

Talking to oneself would be appreciated as "stream of consciousness" instead of questioned as "Who are you talking to?"

BD Sighting No. 30583

I see BD like, once a month, if that. And each time I do, I'm unprepared. Like today, he walks into the middle school office while I'm sitting there chomping on a handful of M&M's. I couldn't even give a pleasant hello; I could only offer a nod of acknowledgement because I had a mouth full of masticated chocolate. I mean, why?

Anyway, he lingers, hair freshly cut, to eventually talk with the principal, and we finally exchange pleasantries. His last official day of work will be like a week before mine since he doesn't give final exams (and doesn't teach elementary school). His summer plans? Going to summer school. And mine? Oh, the same. It hits him. "Oh, wait, you'll be at Auburn too, right?" Sho' nuff. (He even asked what classes I was taking!)

I shan't speculate on this. I shan't attribute anything more to this than is needful. I ain't gonna do it, no siree Bob.

Roach + Screaming Kids = Chaos

When you're a teacher, you have to be in control of yourself. You cannot let the sight of a flying granddaddy roach set you off.

I had my room sprayed earlier this year, and it's been fine ever since. I don't know if it's worn off or because it was rainy today, but in the middle of a game with a group of 4th graders, it emerged. I screamed, and then all the girls screamed (imagine 4th grade girl shrieks) and jumped up on the tables, and then the boys fell all over each other trying to stomp it. It escaped. I smartly snatched out my emergency can of Raid in case it was crazy and decided to come out again.

Once I finally got a semblance of order going on, it had to poke its barbarous head out again, and fly this time. Shrieks. A rush of boys bumping into each other. One grabbed the can and finally got it. It died. Then some boys picked the nasty thing up by its antenna and decided to swing it a little to spook the girls even more. "Throw it in the trash!" I tried to yell over the din.

In the end, I said, "Forget the game, we're having quiet time for the last five minutes. We've had enough excitement for one day, haven't we?" The nasty boys who touched the nasty thing lined up beside my desk for squirts of hand sanitizer. I shuddered at the thought that they could even fathom touching that cursed creature with their bare hands.

On the way out, one of the boys, roguishly grinning, said, "We had a good time today!" I can just imagine the dinner conversations tonight:

"What did you learn about in Spanish today, Johnny?"

"Not much. Our Spanish teacher freaked out when she saw a roach and the rest of the class was a disaster. But boy, we sure had a good time."

Happy Birthday, Will!

I had a dorky Creative Writing instructor in college (on whom, inevitably, I had a pedagogical crush) who would always refer to William Shakespeare as Willie the Shake. That is painfully corny, but at the time I thought it was cute.

Anyway, today is my boy's birthday! It dawned on me when I was teaching my middle schoolers how to say today's date in Spanish. Hoy es el veintítres de abril. Today is April 23rd. Wait a minute! Isn't it William Shakespeare's birthday? The look my 6th graders gave me said that they couldn't care less. They seemed a little more interested when I told them he also died on his birthday, though. What a birthday present, huh?

So, here's to you, man before your time, brilliant above many, creator of many loved and revered works of literature, the one and only Bard, William Shakespeare. Happy Birthday!

Citronella

Once I was talking to this guy, and a bug flew directly into my mouth.

This would only happen to me, of course. It was after church. I was in the midst of awkwardly trying to explain myself, having one of those conversations that one doesn't exactly reminisce about when dealing with members of the opposite sex--trying not to make him feel bad and trying not to make myself look dumb, when a bug flew into my mouth. I think I screamed and then started spitting, quite unfemininely, into the grass beside us. I must have been yelling, "Ugh! A bug flew into my mouth!" because, as I found out later, one of the observant, big-mouthed five-year-olds who witnessed these acts ran into the church and began loudly proclaiming them to everyone in the foyer within earshot. I think I also tried to regain my composure by apologizing and coolly saying, "Excuse me," and I don't think he knew how to react. Do I laugh? Act like it didn't happen?

Boy, these things are so much funnier in retrospect.

Anyway, I had put that episode in the "do not wish to remember" drawer in my brain. It happened maybe a month ago, so I really had put it out of my mind. But tonight, said guy hands me a box with four Citronella candles in it and says that he really felt impressed of God to give this to me. What? Citronella candles? He asks if I know what Citronella is for. I warily answer that they're for warding off bugs, of course. I'm still clueless. He said that I'd understand it better by and by and walked away. Then it hit me. Omg. Ol' bug in the mouth, back to haunt me! But at least I was laughing, gasping for air. It was funny. I'll give him that.

Thanks to regular coffee and a late afternoon nap

I'm up at 11:59 p.m., rambling online. Two things are on my mind right now.

Number one: I don't want to think about the Virginia Tech shootings because it makes me feel sick. People in this world are so twisted, it defies all human rationale. And why was I shocked to find that the shooter was Asian? As much as I hop up on my soapbox, blasting away at human tendencies to buy stereotypes, I realize that I'm human too and harbor some of my own. Yes, the angry, young, sociopathic white male (the Columbine guys and Timothy McVeigh come to mind) is a stereotype too. May God help and comfort all of the people affected by this senselessness.

Number two: I was thinking about how much I love the accuracy of descriptive words. Like, instead of saying "he walked across the street" why not say "he ambled across the street" or "he loped across the street" or "he strode across the street" or "he shuffled across the street" or "he strolled across the street" or "he pranced across the street" or "he limped across the street" or "he cavorted across the street"? Each word has a different shade of meaning. I was thinking about how much I love that aspect of language. I also like when people use words that are more familiarly used to describe certain things applied to something else outside of that sphere. For example, we don't normally use the word "manic" to describe the behavior of characters in fairy tales, but if you think about it, it is such a fitting label for Rumplestiltskin's theatrics after the princess guesses his name correctly. When I read the aforementioned reference in an email today, it was that much more amusing because of that word. Manic. And it's also so much more fun to describe dumb actions using descriptive words. Like, instead of "that was dumb," why not say "that was asinine" or "that was imbecilic" or "that was inane"?

Look, I know I'm a nerd. I own up to it. I never denied it.

Auburn Trek

So, yesterday, I drove a 45-minute, rainy trek to Auburn U. Formerly known as "that other school." I had a meeting with the Graduate Director of the Spanish program to see when/if/how I could start taking grad classes this summer. My heart was throbbing heavily on the way. I was nervous. Hoping I'd get there on time and not get lost and be able to find a parking spot (if parking is anywhere near the way it was at UA).

I finally met with the gregarious Cuban director, and he told me that everything was good to go. He looked over my transcripts and GRE scores, he said everything looked great and that I've been accepted. All I needed to do now was enroll. Did I have any questions? Wow. That was . . . easy. No stress, no agonizing wait. That was it. I couldn't think of any questions then, but, "I'm sure I'll think of a million on the way home," I said jokingly.

He leaned in conspiratorially. "Let me tell you something. You are too smart to be a teacher, dealing with brats all day. I've seen your grades and your scores. You can and should be doing much, more more. You have the potential to go very far, you know that?" I laughingly explained that I really love my job, that it's great for now, but no, I never intended to work indefinitely, and that's why I'm here to further my education. I'm not going back to school because I'm trying to get out of teaching, like I feel it's beneath me. I love it, but I want to do more.

Just then, a tall, bronzed, modelesque guy strolled in. Wow, God, is this a sign or something? It turns out that he was a Spaniard, from the Canary Islands. He didn't have the Castillian lisp of the madrileños (inhabitants of Madrid), of course, but his accent and manner were unmistakably Spain Spanish nonetheless. His girlfriend wanted to go on the study abroad in Spain trip over the summer. Is it possible for her to go with Auburn since she's graduating from her school in Florida in May? It was wonderful to hear Cuban director and Spanish student engage. It was also refreshing to know that I could understand everything. Whew, I haven't lost my Spanish edge.

So, all I have to do is enroll. Director gave me the info on the classes they were offering during the Summer and Fall terms. I called Registration and got my PIN. Call director if I have any questions. That's it. But on the way home, other questions tumbled around as I gazed through windshield wipers. But the commute? (Don't even get me started on the ridiculousness of gas prices.) Classes starting a week before teaching school is over? Money? And then in the fall . . . teaching while taking classes? And . . . money? I'm pleased that I was accepted and that everyone was so friendly and helpful and that the whole process was a breeze. But now I have other decisions to make and other things to face and other plans to work out as a result.

Oh, and interesting postscript: BD is leaving our place of employment and going back to school too. Back to—yeah, you guessed it—Auburn. I have a feeling our paths will cross even less than they do now, though. I mean, Spanish and Microbiology have even less to do with one another than Spanish and Band. I have kept him abreast, and he's politely expressed excitement and congratulations for my desire to join the "War Eagle!" chant. But that's it.

I (Heart) Don Miller

It’s finally happened. I’ve fallen head over heels, completely, deeply, in love. I have developed a seriously passionate literary attachment to Donald Miller. Yes, Donald Miller. Of Blue Like Jazz fame.

I inhaled his book Searching for God Knows What a week or so ago, and I was inspired by another avid reader/blogger to read To Own a Dragon, a book Miller wrote about growing up without a father. I devoured it like it was Sara Lee strawberry cheesecake ice cream with a graham cracker ribbon. And if you know me, you'd know that means a lot. I also picked up his book Through Painted Deserts, a chronicle of his road trip from Houston to Portland, which I’m sure I’ll down in similar fashion.

There is something mesmerizing, raw, and alive about the way he writes. It grabs something deep inside of me that makes my gut ache with recognition. I know that pain. I know that doubt. I know that insecurity. I know that revelation. His writing makes me tear up with yearning. I want to find my place in His story. I’m tired of checking boxes—I really want to know Him. I want true relationship. I want to fall in love with Him. He always cautions against tearing the poetic out of the spiritual. I don't want to reduce it to a formula.

There is something so sexy about a well-read man who has a way with words. Not just well-read, not just a way with words, but gutsy and honest. Earthy and sensitive at the same time. The fact that the subject at hand is God-centered is important too. One who probes the theological to try to come to an understanding rather than one who flatly and patly belts it out as though he’s got it all figured out is also attractive. But not just attractive, it’s real. And I don’t even know Don Miller for real. Yet, I’m smitten.

Perhaps, weirdly, I, the indecisive, ever-fickle me, am coming to a slow realization of what I really want. What really and truly matters to me. It’s not Don Miller per se. But maybe the tip of the iceberg is that it’s the essence of him, of what he’s passionate about, that so unwaveringly draws me in.

No, Parent

No, parent. My classroom is not your cell phone-talking hangout just because my door is open and I have a break. No, parent. I mean, you can come in and check out my room (which I’m more than happy to show off), but flippantly meandering in here, mouthing your need of a pen (without a greeting), invading and poking (while still talking) and finally eliciting an annoyed, “Um, do you need something to write on?” from me is not cool. No, parent.

Blind

I know it's kind of unoriginal to post song lyrics, but this song by Third Day (Have I mentioned I love Third Day?) has been ringing through my mind for the longest:

Each and every single day

I was throwing life away with questions

Searching for a better way

Always looking in the wrong direction

My heart I could not trust

'Cause it lies to me too much

And my mind just couldn't

Understand it all

Chorus:

How could I have been so blind to not see You?

The more I look the more I find

You've led me to the truth

That I am nothing if I'm without You

You opened my eyes and helped me to find

How could I have been so blind?

I have fallen once again

Evidently made the wrong decision

Stumbling in the dark

Now I need you here to be my vision

My heart I cannot trust

'Cause it lies to me so much

And my mind just cannot
Understand it all

You took my heart and You changed it

With your words of life

You took my eyes and You opened them

And gave me sight

Birthday Eve

I am trying not to freak out about the prospect of turning a quarter of a century. How in the universe did I get to be this old? Now, I know I'm not old. In the big scheme of things, I guess I could still be considered a spry little whippersnapper. But this snuck up on me.

When I look at old people, I mean, seriously old people, as in, bent over and toothless, I think, I will never get that old. Ever. I can't even fathom myself not like the way I am now. I've looked the same for a long time. Or, maybe I just think I look the same. When I look at my friends, they look the same. But maybe that's a mind thing too. What does one consider on the last day of twentyfourdom? Here are a few things rolling around in my mind . . .

To Move or Not to Move
I'm about to be twenty-stinking-five years old. I still live with my parents. It's been a lot more palatable since my little brothers have moved out (I love my bros, but I can't even begin to tell you about life sharing a bathroom with them), and my parents are generally pretty cool. They give me my space, they don't pry (pssh, as if I had any juicy business to pry into), and above all, we're pretty close. My mom and I are more like friends than mother and daughter. We shop and do lunch and share and all of that estrogen-laden stuff. And my dad is cool too. He's Mr. Fix-it, he's Comedy Central, he's Dr. Practical Advice, and we swap "You won't believe what my kids did at school today" stories. And despite my dad's complaints that I skyrocket the water bill with my luxurious shower habit, neither of them are exactly eager for me to go. And free rent? Hello-o?

But I'm old as dirt. And my quarters are not exactly spacious enough to accomodate the junk I've accumulated over 25 years. Money-wise, I could do it. No, I wouldn't get into teaching for the money, but it's adequate. And perhaps it's seriously time for me to be a big girl. I figure by getting an apartment I'd give myself space to see what it's like to be on my own. And I can finally get a dog and name him Marcus Antonius. But . . . I won't be able to save up money like I have been, and I'm afraid that I might be (dare I say it?) lonely on my own. I'm still on the fence about what to do.

I'm Mean
I never thought I could be this intentionally, but I've found that I can be. I don't like that. There is never any excuse to be outright mean to people who have not even given you a reason to be. This is out of character for me. But there is a reason. An uber dumb and stupid reason. And it is that I want to push someone away. I don't want someone to like me. So I've been a silly mean girl. How's that for about-to-be-25 maturity?

I Want to Go to Spain . . . Again
I've been wanting to go back for the longest, and I'm trying to figure out when and how. I do have some bucks saved up. But I can use it for less . . . leisurely causes. I have a friend who is going to be up there this summer studying abroad, and I have some other friends I've kept in touch with as well. And I still haven't been to Barcelona! What in the world? How can you go to Spain twice and not go to Barcelona? (sigh) But I can't do everything. And I've never been one to just blow my money. And I'm talking about taking summer classes and moving out? Can I please make up my mind?

I Want to Have a Baby . . . One Day
Everyone and their grandmother is having a baby. Seriously, everywhere I turn, they're flying out. I am not kidding. I know I'm in no position now to even fathom it, but it's been in my face so much lately, I can't help but think about it. I'm content with working in the church nursery my one Sunday a month, and getting slobber on me from holding other people's little ones and getting germ-filled hugs from my rascals at school for now, honest. It's just that I really, really don't want to be a 40-something first-time mom. For real. I don't want to have to pray for a Sarai-turned-Sarah miracle. Naw, dawg.

That's enough rambling for now. And just when I thought I couldn't decide between an iced chai tea latte and a frappucino, they went and invented a chai frappucino. What if all the decisions I had to make could be so conveniently combined? Off to Starbucks!

Searching for God Knows What

is the name of the book I just finished reading by Don Miller. I devoured his earlier Blue Like Jazz, and equally loved this one. I wish I had it in front of me so that I could post some deep quotations from it, but honestly, what I gathered from all of it is that at the core, living for God is all about relationship. Relationship. Not formulas. Not "I'm right and you're not." Not a system for patting ourselves on the back because we're the good guys and for demonizing the bad guys. Relationship is all about knowing God and falling in love with Him.

The last chapter was especially cool. He gave very convincing (to me) analysis of how Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet is an allegory of salvation and true union with Christ. I never thought of it that way, but it made sense, especially now that I'm also reading Will in the World, and have an understanding of the crazy Catholic-Protestant pendulum that was swinging during the era which indelibly characterized Shakespeare's time.

On that note, I'm supposed to be starting a book club with the youth at church, and I was previously charged with suggesting a book for the youth committee to read. I suggested Blue Like Jazz. So far, a guy in the committee I thought would love it was like, 'whatever' about it, and other people are like, "It's . . . interesting, " lol. We'll see. We're supposed to meet to discuss it next month. As far as the youth, I think my best bet will be to first see who is interested in joining the club, to ask what kinds of things they like to read then and go from there. It would be a disaster if I suggested something that everyone would be 'whatever' about.

On another note, God is awesome. He is so awesome, it's ridiculous. Many times I have prayed, written, and spoken aloud that I wish I could hear the audible voice of God so that He could tell me what in the world is going on, and it just dawned on me that God has spoken directly to me in an audible voice before. It was just that He used the voice of my pastor to say it.

Now, I'm not one of those who breathes, eats and sleeps my pastor. Perhaps my cynicism is showing, but those kinds of people bother me a little bit. It's like their whole modus operandi is receiving approval from the pastor; they're mentally and emotionally dependent upon it. They can't dig a glob of wax out of their ear unless they tell him about it and get the green light from him. Actually, more than being bothered by them, I feel sorry for them. But that's beside the point. I see my pastor as an instrument, and I am grateful that he allows himself to be used by God.

This past Sunday was not the first time God has used the preached word to speak directly and very specifically to me in certain situations to let me know that He has heard me. It is really scary the way this happens. What I mean is, it happens in such a way that there is absolutely no doubt that it is God. Instead of detailing everything, suffice it to say that it is such a comfort, such a relief, so amazing and marvellous that the Creator would deign to answer me.

Yarmulke Man

I had a Spanish tutoring session with a Psychology major today. In the midst of my pedagogical utterances about the imperfect vs. the preterite, in walked a tall, striking, honey-skinned, smoky-eyed man. He had on a black fedora hat, and as he passed, cast a lingering glance my way. Adrenaline-jolted, I had to refocus, lest my psychologied pupil accuse me.

When he took off the hat, I saw that he wore a yarmulke. Jewish guy. Even more mysterious and interesting.

As we left, I stole another glance, and once again, smoldering eyes locked with mine. I smiled a smile one smiles when one feels a mixture of embarrassment and flattery, and demurely nodded in acknowledgement. This time, my psychologied Spanish pupil, being a Psychology major, took note of this particular brand of social interaction and sarcastically claimed I would scurry home to blog about my "mohel." Does one sense just the tiniest whiff of . . . hmm, perhaps I shan't say it, lest any eyes which just happen across my blog read it and think I think I'm better than everyone. ::laughing uproariously::

Regroup

When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.

Lemons
Ugh. Rejection is bitter. And I question myself. Like, if my goal was to go to graduate school, get a change of scene, all of that, why did I fixate on one place, and one place only? Most people apply for at least 2 or 3 other places when considering graduate school. But the way I zeroed in on Wash U was almost obssessive-compulsive. There are certainly other quality schools in the St. Louis area. Why didn't I consider any others?

And when I get back to work, I'm going to have to explain over and over again that I didn't get in (I will feel especially crunchy doing so to BD), and graciously accept condolences and pats on the back while smiling when they say, "But at least we get to have you for at least one more year!" But the smile will be genuine. Honest. I'll just say, "Yeah, and I'll get to work with great people for at least one more year!" And I'll mean it.

Lemonade
My employers (and co-workers) really are great people. During my whole uncertainty stage, they assured me that no offers would be made until I let them know for sure what my plans were because their first choice was to have me stay. That really, really meant a lot. Many people do not have such reassurance when dealing with possible job changes. And it's a good thing when you're able to say that you love your job. I'm teaching what I love--Spanish, I have a variety of ages to keep me busy, I have a lot of freedom and flexibility in what I do, I have a very supportive administrative staff and parents to work with, the children allow me to be a teacher instead of a disciplinarian, and, unlike many teaching jobs, mine is highly unstressful. I know at times that I probably take that for granted, but I really am very thankful for my ideal position. (It's not a bad thing, either, that the school is a 2 minute drive down the street from where I live and I can super save on gas.)

The agonizing wait is over. I know something for sure. And though the answer was not what I hoped for or expected, it feels so great to be out of that unnerving state of limbo. Now my face can begin to recover from stress-induced breakouts. Ick.

I'm still in a place of familiarity, which is not always a bad thing. I won't be starting a brand new scary life (yet). I can use some of the money I was saving up to transfer to instead get out of my parents' house and be a big girl on my own.

When God closes one door, He opens another.

One door
Washington University in St. Louis. Perhaps they found that my interests didn't exactly line up with what they offered. Perhaps as you move on up the educational ladder, you find that people are more like you (i.e. "accomplishments" are the norm, not exceptional) and the playing field is a lot more level and more competitive. Perhaps God was just shaking His head, wagging his finger and going, "Uh-uh," as He closed the door.

Another
::cough::Auburn University::cough:: I know, sacrilege to a Bama grad, I know. But I doubt Bear Bryant will turn over in his grave or anything. Besides, I bought one of his trademark hats when I went to Tuscaloosa earlier this week. So, he should be appeased. It's the closest college (about a 45 minute drive away) that has a graduate program in Spanish.

I have a confession to make. God was pushing me towards an open Auburn door last year, and I wasn't too eager to go. (I vaguely posted about this as the 90&9 blogger back in May.) No, not because I'm a die-hard, foaming-at-the-mouth Bama fan, but because I didn't want to have to juggle job and school. I didn't want to have to teach, commute, go to class . . . I didn't want that whole rigamarole. And above all, I didn't want to be here! I wanted to quit work, move (far) away, and jump headlong into the thick of a program instead of taking a piecemeal approach. Even so, I began to look into it and chatted with the program director and he let me know they would be willing to work with me, and that it could be done, even with my job. God spoke, but after I went to STL, I became so starstruck that I tuned Him out. Now, I'm back to where I started. Lesson learned: Listen to God. Sheesh. Like you could somehow go wrong.

Always have a Plan B.

Okay. ::sighs pensively:: This is my (still in formulation) plan. Get with Auburn ASAP and plan to start taking classes this summer. Take a class or 2 per semester while teaching during the upcoming school year as my schedule allows. After next year, quit, and go to Auburn full time to finish up the M.A. in Spanish. From there (who knows what my life will look like by that time, but anyway) make a more judicious choice about schools to apply to for a PhD.

For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the LORD, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end (Jeremiah 29:11).

I'm Out

Remember this?

Well, strike three has been called.

Dear Chantell:

I am sorry to inform you that you have not been accepted to our graduate program in Spanish.

I'm floored. I'm flabbergasted. I thought . . . well, you thought wrong.

I'm just at a loss. I don't even know how to react. I don't think it's really hit me yet, like a delayed reaction or something. I called a few friends to let them know. I'll have to let everyone at work know once we get back (we're on Spring Break now) so the rumors can be sufficiently doused.

I wanted so desperately to get out of here. I wanted to leave. I wanted to move away from this suffocating place and start over, independently afresh, in the grand somewhere else. But God (and Wash U) said no.

Maybe I had my priorities mixed up. Maybe I went about this all wrong. Maybe I shouldn't have put all my eggs in one basket. Maybe I shouldn't have been so singleminded. This is what I want, I want what I want, and I don't want anything else. Maybe God is doing His thing as usual, and I'm clueless as usual.

I know I am temporal, fallible, carnal, and self-absorbed. I know that I am a piece of microscopic dust compared to God. I know that His ways are higher than our ways. I know that making demands of an all-knowing, all-powerful, ever-present, eternal being is out of the human league. But I don't want to know the mysteries of the universe. I don't want to see the future. I just want to know what in the world I'm supposed to be doing, right here, right now. Because right now, I don't know. And right now, I'm back at square one. Directionless and unsure.

Heedings to the Dire Warning

Like a dork, I texted "Beware the Ides of March!" to a few friends today. Some responses:

"lol"
"Why? What treachery have u planned?"
"Surely I am an honorable um, er, person . . . you are the best!"
"Lol thanks for that blast from the Chantellean archives"

And my personal favorite . . .

"What are ides?"

I had hoped something fate-deciding (as in, knowing the status of my application for admission!) would come to pass on such a fateful day, but alas, 'twas not to be. The Ides are just about gone. Et tu, Wash U? Then fall Channy.

Beware the Ides of March

I cannot even explain how ecstatic I am that one of my bestest buddies reminded me that tomorrow is the Ides of March. And you would have no idea why I would be so overjoyed to be reminded about so fateful a day if you didn't know that I am a William Shakespeare's Julius Caesar addict. It's classic, and it has so many classic lines. Seriously, there are so many quotations from Julius Caesar that people use commonly, and they don't even realize it came from that play! "It was Greek to me"? From JC. "There is a tide in the affairs of men"? From JC. "The fault [dear Brutus] is not in our stars but in ourselves that we are underlings"? From JC. Okay, maybe they're not used that commonly. But you've got to love the play's grandeur. All the Roman statesmen and rhetoric and honor, and Marc Antony! (He's my favorite literary character of all time.) "Friends, Romans, countrymen; lend me your ears." (sigh) The stuff of legend.

Though Antony is my favorite character, I have a favorite conspirator as well: Metellus Cimber. Why, out of all of them, would I like him the most? I think he has like, two lines in the whole play. I think the only significant part he has is when, just before the assassination, he asks Caesar to repeal his brother's banishment, and Caesar is like 'whatever' when he responds, "I am constant as the Northern star." But Metellus Cimber is awesome. I mean, just his name rolls off of your tongue so stately, so crisply and gallantly. In fact, the bestest buddy I referred to earlier calls me Chantellus Cimber (or just Chantellus) due to my idiosyncratic attachment. I even said I was going to make a t-shirt that said 'Chantellus Cimber' just to throw people. I haven't done it yet.

But I LOVE these lines:

Caesar (flippantly says to the soothsayer after not heeding his warnings): The Ides of March are come.

Soothsayer: Aye, Caesar, but not gone.

They just send chills up and down my spine. It's like, Caesar, dawg, wake up! You 'bout to get murked, yo! He's so oblivious, even up until the moment he's killed.

So, dear ones, heed the dire warning. The Ides of March shall come on the morrow, but do not cease to be wary 'til they are gone. Aye, forsooth.

Three Strikes, I'm Out?

Okay, so I’ve been praying, hoping, waiting, whatever, over this whole Wash U thing. To recap, there are three things I’ve applied for. Number one: admission to the Spanish graduate program. Number two: a fellowship designed for minorities. Number three: a fellowship designed for women.

As posted earlier, I called admissions and mid-March was the time frame I was given to receive notice of whether I’ve been accepted. So, checking the mailbox lately has been an adrenaline-laden event each time. And my knees literally start to go weak if I see a Washington University envelope present. That has happened twice. And twice, they’ve been rejection letters.

The first was a letter informing me that I didn’t win the women’s fellowship. I wasn’t too worried about that because I applied for that one just because. The minority fellowship was the really nice one that I was banking on. And besides, what I cared about above all is whether I’ve been accepted.

The second was a letter informing me that I didn’t win the minority fellowship. That was a bit of a blow because it would have been nice. But, I understand that I’m only entering a Master’s program. Both of the fellowships I applied for are designed for people who are entering a full-blown doctoral program. And with the way that the Spanish program is set up, I must first earn a Master’s and be approved before I can even go on to the doctoral stage. However, I was told in an email from the minority fellowship program director that a fellowship had been awarded to an applicant who had only a Bachelor’s before. He was eligible because his ultimate goal was a PhD. So, based on precedent, I was encouraged to apply. But I’m sure that people who are officially entering a doctoral program had priority.

I’m not used to rejection. Perhaps that’s an egocentric admission, but it’s an honest admission nonetheless. I’ve always excelled academically, and I’ve become accustomed to getting recognition because of it. I used to think that my 4.0, summa cum laude, 1340 GRE score, studied-abroad-in-Spain, fluent-in-Spanish, filled-with college-extracurricular-activities, scholarly-article-published detailed resume was my ticket to whatever I wanted to do. I used to think that intelligence was the ace up my sleeve; the card I could play that would bail me out every time. In the past, it has. Now, I’m not so sure.

I know that everything’s not set in stone yet. As of now, I still don’t know whether I’ve actually been accepted. And until I know one way or the other, I’m kind of at a standstill. If it happens that I am accepted, there are other ways I can finance my education, although it will be more difficult. But this is what is bugging me:

1. The rumor that I could possibly be leaving is blazing around my place of employment like wildfire. I can’t go a day without at least three people cornering me with “Is it true?” I. Don’t. Know.

2. The possibility that I am irrationally placing my entire reason of being on whether I get accepted into an obscenely expensive private university is gnawing at me. Is that what I’m doing?

3. I know we don’t always get to do what we want, but people’s reminding me that “Jesus didn’t want to go to Calvary” is unnerving. I know that my Lord and Savior went against His human will to save all of humanity. But how can you compare that to a girl just wanting to move on with her life?

So far, two out of the three pieces of proverbial bread I’ve cast out upon the waters have returned unto me with “We regret to inform you.” But, even with two strikes against me, I can’t give up until I know the last bit of crucial info that will help me make any subsequent decisions—have I been accepted?

Pancakes, Picasso, Pedicure

Pancakes
Today was the Band Booster's Annual Pancake Breakfast fundraiser at Applebees. I will not be untruthful and say that band director's (other BD related posts: here, here, and here) possible presence at the event was not a motivator. Ahem. But who doesn't want pancakes on a Saturday morning? Anyway, as soon as I come in, Mom in tow, dimpled smile, perfect teeth, long lashes and just everything in the world exuding cuteness and gorgeousness rounds the corner and says, "Congratulations on going back to school!" Aw, even HE knows. And I don't even know if I am for sure. Blast you, unsent acceptance letter! But rumor has it he is skipping out too. And as he confirmed, to finish his degree in Microbiology. What? Okay, not only are you deliriously musically talented, but you also have the smarts to fight epidemics in Africa with the World Health Organization? (I kid you not, that's what he wants to do.) ::sigh:: Golden boy, indeed. Still, I couldn't keep that silly grin from spreading all over my face when he asked me to let him know as soon as I hear back from my school.

Picasso
My mom and I love the Jewish Food Festival a local synagogue puts on every year. Latkes and challah bread (Sabbath bread) are the bomb. They also have a flea market-type "Treasure Market," and I got a Picasso reproduction of The Three Musicians for $16. Definitely not one of the stolen originals! I couldn't help but get some hamantaschen, fruit-filled Haman hat cookies, common pastries during the upcoming Jewish celebration Purim, commemorated because Queen Esther's bravery saved her people. (Yes, I'm still obsessed with the movie.)

Pedicure
There are some things I don't like about myself that I can't do anything about (aside from surgery. And um, no). But there are some things I don't like about myself that I can do something about. Two of those things are my feet. And a pedicure is a lovely solution. These things should be prescribed as therapy, no joke. But I have to really try hard not to twitch/laugh when they scrub with the little pumice thing. It tickles! Now that the weather is starting to warm up, I can display my little hot dogs with confidence. Another burden eased from my mind.

"Dumb Blonde" jokes usually annoy me

because they're stereotypical, played out, and typically not that funny. And plus the "Dumb Blonde" in the joke is always a woman. If having blonde hair gave one a predisposition for spaciness, why aren't there any jokes being forwarded about some airheaded blonde dude's judgemental errors? Anyway, having said all of that, I shall share a joke that, IMHO, is an exception. No, seriously, I don't normally laugh out loud at forwarded jokes but this one was so funny to me. Man, I nearly busted a gut:

A blonde calls her boyfriend and says, "Please come over here and help me. I have a killer jigsaw puzzle, and I can't figure out how to get it started." Her boyfriend asks, What is it supposed to be when it's finished?" The blonde says, "According to the picture on the box, it's a tiger." Her boyfriend decides to go over and help with the puzzle. She lets him in and shows him where she has the puzzle spread all over the table. He studies the pieces for a moment, then looks at the box, then turns to her and says, "First of all, no matter what we do, we're not going to be able to assemble these pieces into anything resembling a tiger." He takes her hand and says, "Second, I want you to relax. Let's have a nice cup of tea, and then . . ." He sighed . . . "Let's put all the Frosted Flakes back in the box . . ."

And oh, the subject line was "This is Grrrrreat!"