I Just Wanna Help

Here's an excerpt of an email I sent a friend:

I just wanted to say that I'm very sorry for bringing things up that you don't want to talk about. I say that my intention is to "help" and I sometimes have a twisted sense that I'm supposed to be the helper of all and convince everybody that everything is going to be okay. However, that is NOT my job, and in fact it's kind of arrogant to believe that a bit of supposedly well-reasoned arguments from me is going to convince anybody of anything. It's arrogant to believe that it's my place to "help" and that whatever I say or do would be some kind of a cure-all.

As you know, I'm an analytical person, and despite having a very emotional side as well, my doubts are usually kept at bay, or at least some what helped, with sound logic. But everyone doesn't think the same way I do, and sometimes it's easy to forget that.

I hope you accept my apology, and I hope you realize that I love you and value you very much as a friend. It was brought to my attention just a few moments ago that the best way to "help" is to pray for you, and I ask that you do the same for me.

I really do want to help people. I want to "be there" for people. I want to be the encourager. The person that convinces you that it's going to be okay. I want to change everyone's pessimistic points of view about themselves and where God has them in their lives. It bothers me when people are comfortable in their dissatisfaction. It frustrates me when people stubbornly refuse to hope. (I'm speaking generally here, not referring to this particular friend's situation.)

All right. I have my days when things are "wretched." But even then I know it's not over. I have my days where I give myself over to literally heartrending sobs and I will unashamedly cry until my eyes are puffy, my throat is raw and my head throbs. But even then, in the end, I know it's not over. I don't give myself over to a permanent false reality of hopelessness. It's not that I'm so noble that I wouldn't. It's that I can't. God has done too many crazy it's-GOT-to-be-God things for me not to be convinced that ultimately, He's got me.

But back to my need to "help." Sometimes optimistic arguments are nothing but optimistic arguments. The belief that if only I could convince someone to look on the bright side, everything will be okay and to follow it up with a back-patting reminder that God knows best is misguided, naive and self-important. Sometimes the best way to "help" is to lay aside the need to be a savior and leave it in the hands of the One who is.

Fantabulous

is one of my favorite words. Well, one of my favorite words to describe something positive. 'Fantastic' and 'fabulous' rolled into one! What could be better than that? And it's actually recognized as a word, not just a made up one! (My favorite word for describing something negative is 'wretched,' but that's beside the point.)

Anyway, Rotary scholarship orientation went well. I met a bunch of like-minded, idealistic, multilingual world travelers. I still don't know whether I'm going to Belgium or France, though. I should find out within the next week. I found that when I'm leaving is pretty flexible, so . . . I've got a lot to consider.

Finals are over and done with! I got the final grades on the papers I procrastinated over and subsequently slaved over. The one la Gloriosa helped me with: 92. The one Juan Moreira helped me with: 95. On the Juan Moreira one, my professor wrote that she'd like me to polish it for publication and presentation!

The only sucky thing that mars the fantabulousness I'm presently experiencing is that my lovely laptop is having some technical difficulties and that the Geek Squad is going to charge me out of my eyeballs to get it fixed. The funny thing is that the guy who ran the diagnostic test really was a quintessential geek. He had the jovial yet smug air of the same kinds of nerds I went to high school with. He even had a nasal, high-pitched voice. Only true geeks have the gift of being at once self-deprecating and arrogant. Not in a narcissistic way, but in a matter-of-fact, I-have-superior-knowledge way.

On a random note, I found that I have the former-military brat's gift of sniffing out other military affiliates. At Starbucks, a pack of young, clean-shaven guys with close haircuts sauntered in. Anyone without the military brat antennae could have guessed that they were probably military. But my radar immediately pegged them as not just military, but as Air Force officers-in-training. I couldn't resist testing the accuracy of my radar, so I struck up a conversation with them and found that I was right on the money. Shouldn't I get some kind of monetary compensation for that?

I should be spending this break doing reading for the comprehensive exams I have to contend with next semester, but I can't resist getting a smidgen of pleasure reading in, too. For classic, I plan to tackle Jane Austen's Northanger Abbey (one of the few Austens I haven't yet tackled). For contemporary, Toni Morrison's A Mercy. I've been dying to get my hands on it. Her lyric, haunting prose is addictive.

I shall enjoy my break, indeed. Here's my Christmas jam, "This Christmas" by Donny Hathaway. Enjoy!

Me Want Chicken Biscuit

Whew! Medieval lit is over. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, which is good. Now all that's left is my theater take home final and I can kiss this semester adios.

So, medieval lit was at 8:00 am. Gross. During the test my stomach kept growling and when I finished at about 9:45, I was ravenous. Freudian references are amusing to me (Freudian slips, projection, anal retentiveness, etc.), so let's just say my id started taking over. It kept repeating, "Me want chicken biscuit," over and over, and it got progressively louder as time went on. My ego started calculating: "Okay, it's 9:45 now, you might be able to catch the transit at 10:00 and get back to your apartment in enough time to get your car and go back out to pick up a chicken biscuit combo before they stop serving breakfast at 10:30."

On the way home, my id's cry was deafening. I got to my car. Ten after. Me want chicken biscuit! Okay, okay. Pull out of my apartment. Me want chicken biscuit! All right, all right. Stop light. Me want chicken biscuit! But . . . what? Cop car with lights on behind me? Craptastic. Then super-ego springs up out of nowhere and starts freaking out and feeling guilty. What did I do? I can't afford a ticket! Nooooo! Meanwhile my id is still raging, and I'm slightly blocking traffic. My freak-out-ing-ness was a mixture of really not wanting to get a ticket, feeling really badly that I broke some traffic law, but still really wanting to get to Chick-fil-a before 10:30. Hmm. I guess the cop had reason to keep telling me to calm down. I ran a stop sign? Blast you, id! Me: fumbling in the glove compartment to find my insurance info, "Oh, my gosh! I'm sorry! I didn't mean to!" Cop: "Calm down, Miss Smith. Most people, when they're not paying attention, don't mean to." He took pity on me and let me off with a warning since I didn't have any outstanding warrants or anything to my name.

I got to Chick-fil-a in time, praise the Lord. My heart (and my id) was really set on a chicken biscuit.

Encouraging Words

French final is over! Oui, oui. Next on the list is medieval lit and my theater take home final.

I just wanted to share a letter someone wrote about an article I wrote for 90&9.com entitled Trapped Between Worlds. In short, my article is about tolerance for different points of view within the Body of Christ. A female missionary to the Middle East read my article, and wrote the first letter on this page in response.

It's not something that was just addressed to me, though. It's really to all young women and those who want to reach out to others in our twenty-first century world. It's very encouraging and worth the read.

Life on the Pampas

Setting: The windswept pampas in rural Argentina. Cattle graze the fields. A group of gauchos are sitting around a campfire, playing melancholy tunes on their guitars. Women sit on the porch of the dilapidated house, sipping strong cups of mate, humming folk songs. Suddenly, the tallest, most handsome gaucho gets up and strides over to the women. He's rugged, has a roguish smile, and his eyes gleam like a sharpened facon.

Juan: Oye, Chantellita. You wrote the paper about me, no?

Chantellita: (sighs) Sí, Juan. (smiles shyly) I procrastinated a little bit, but I finally got it done. Thanks for helping me.

Juan: De nada. You did not know about this . . . academic side of the gaucho before, did you?

Chantellita: Well, I guess not. I suppose I thought you guys were just kind of rogue Latin American cowboys who rode roughshod over the pampas, lashing out because of your marginalized status.

Juan: Bueno, just because an hombre is exploited and gets his land taken away doesn't necessarily mean he is ignorant of the, eh . . . how do you say . . . MLA format?

Chantellita: (giggles) Oh, Juan. (She gets up, sidles up to him and whispers) Are all the stories they tell about you really true?

Juan: Ay, sí, mujer. Believe it. A man once owed me 10 thousand pesos and I brought him to court over it. The judge was a crook and called me a liar! Caramba! I swore vengance on the judge and told my debtor that if I ever caught him I would stab him for each peso he owed me! (Juan takes out his facon and stabs the air, reenacting his bloody deed.)

Chantellita: Ay, Juan! You are so valiente!

Just as Juan takes Chantellita into his arms for a kiss, shots ring out. Horses' hooves thunder onto the pampas, disrupting the bucolic calm.

Don Francisco: Juan Moreira! Sí, señor. Did you think you would escape the law after such a heinous deed? Seize him!

Men surround him on horseback. Juan draws out his facon, ready for a fight even though he is outnumbered.

Don Francisco: Juan, put down the facon, and no one gets hurt.

Juan: (still brandishing the facon) Cowards die many times before their deaths, the valiant never taste of death but once. Aiiiiiiii!

Juan rushes blindly towards the surrounding men with his facon. Shots ring out once again, but this time the target is Juan. When the smoke clears, his bullet-ridden body lies lifeless on the ground.

Chantellita: (sobbing violently, screaming) Didn't you hear him, you fools? He quoted Shakespeare! How can you shoot a man who just quoted Julius Caesar? He helped me with my paper! He knows about parenthetical documentation, for the love of God! How could you be so cruel?

Don Francisco: Pues, señorita . . . I hate to break it to you, but your dear Juanito was a bandido and a murderer.

Chantellita grabs the cup of mate she left sitting on the porch and splashes the remnant of it into Don Francisco's face. Don Francisco wipes his face with a handkerchief and he and his men gallop off. The men around the campfire get up and take Juan's body away. One of the men remains and plays a mournful tribute to Juan. The sun sets. THE END.

The Third Time's the Charm?

Well, well, well. I've been elected once again to the honored role of bridesmaid.

I'm not being sarcastic. I really do accept it as an honor. I love my friend to death and am elated to share in her happiness. This will be my third time as a bridesmaid, and my second time as maid of honor. It will also be my third summer in a row being in a wedding! I kinda have this thing down.

Now, I know that although this is a happy time, this is also a time for mommy-worry. Mommy-worry arises in many forms, more than my dear one would probably care to admit, but this particular mommy-worry is "Oh, no, my daughter is feeling super pressure now that all her closest friends are married or about to be!"

It's not an irrational mommy-worry. It's not unfounded. But to this mommy-worry, I want to say, "It's okay." Though there are many things that inspire me to think oh-poor-me thoughts, the thought of my friends getting married isn't one of them. First of all, I love my friends so much that their getting married makes me happy because they're happy. Second of all, my friends' getting married makes me hopeful that one day I will too.

In reality, what makes me feel sorry for myself sometimes is the thought that I'm such a different person on so many levels that no one is up to the challenge of dealing with me and relating to me. lol. Okay, what do I mean?

1. I'm Apostolic, and I'm pretty insistent on the man that I marry and myself sharing the same set of core beliefs. Not because I'm hard core and he must agree with me on all counts, but because I want to be in one accord on the way we raise our kids. The Bible is also pretty clear on that one for me. How can two walk together except they agree? That knocks a significant number of fellas out of the game from the get go.

2. I'm educated and opinionated. This gives some of the fellas left some definite pause.

3. My views are non-conventional. How many Apostolics do you know who voted for Barack Obama? See what I mean? And my political views are just the tip of the iceberg. I'm not saying the poor guy has to check all of the same ideological checkboxes I do. But I would really like him to be at least sympathetic and not get all Sean Hannity on me over the views I hold. And the existence of undogmatic non-ideologues willing to be with a "liberal" girl like me seems rare.

4. My race and the way I've been brought up makes for some interesting, sometimes appalling tension. Let me throw a disclaimer in there and make it absolutely clear that I am proud of my heritage and would have it no other way. And I'm not so naive not to see that the "tension" is partly borne of my own perception. My blackness is peachy for Apostolic brothas who are looking for an Apostolic sista. But even that can be problematic because of how I am sometimes perceived. I had a black guy tell me I wasn't what he was looking for because he felt I didn't have a heart to reach out to other black folks. Like, seriously? However, for some fellas of other ethnic persuasions, my blackness is a liability. You're a nice girl, but. You're a nice girl, but my parents would go bananas. You're a nice girl, but word on the street is that you would hurt my ministry. It's nuts, but this type of thinking exists.

Wow. Anyway, the original purpose of this post was to say that I'm excited about being the maid of honor once again, and that it isn't the prospect of my friends getting married that gets me down. I'm hopeful despite my self-pitiful worries. I'm looking forward to the day when they're proven wrong. As I mentioned, it'll be the third summer in a row I'll have been in a wedding. They say the third time's the charm, right?

I LOVE Gyros

Omg. I am craving a gyro like nobody's business. They are so good. If you've never had one, you haven't truly lived. Oh, lucky me, there's a Mediterranean place down the street. I get mine with extra tzatziki sauce. Mmmmmm. And I'm about to tear one up. Let's go!

Argh. I wanna Zzzzzzz.

It was hard to get up this morning.

This weekend's going to be a tough, cold one. I still have that wretched paper to contend with. Yep, the same one of last week, except this time, the final, polished, "perfect" version is due. At least I'm on page 5. Of 10.

I have a French oral exam today. Ah, that reminds me. I have to email my professor because I have to take my final early because I have to drive to Tennessee next Friday for my Rotary Club orientation. Ah, that reminds me. I need to call the Rotary Club orientation guy to make sure they've got all my registration info. Ah, that reminds me. I have to call the Montgomery Rotary Club sponsor for possible reimbursement info. Ah, that reminds me. I need to call the apartments I moved out of over 4 months ago to see if they'd sent my security deposit check to the right place.

In a matter of minutes I have to put on a smiley face and introduce a "verb wheel"activity to the freshmen. Each person rolls a dice and whatever number you get, choose the correct panel on the corresponding verb wheel and use each bit of info to create a sentence with the correct verb in the correct tense. Hip-hip-hooray!

I have been trying to go to bed earlier. I really have. Early to bed and early to rise makes a woman healthy, wealthy and wise. But no matter what, I still wake up feeling sleep deprived. Boo. Finals are next week. I can make it. I can make it . . .

How Thanksgiving Dinner Could Be Considered Weird

There's a Chinese guy who lives in my apartment complex that I talk to sometimes while waiting for the transit in the mornings. The first reason I'm fascinated by Asian culture is because people's names mean something. Not to say that American names have no significance. Most traditional names mean something in the language they originate from, and many times our names are chosen out of a family tribute (my middle name is my paternal grandmother's first name), but many times our names are chosen because they sound nice. I just think it's awesome that many Asian names have a direct meaning in their own language.

It's also fascinating to me how much is sacrificed in order for a foreign student from a country like China to go to school in the United States. He has no family here. He is the only one out of his family who has ever traveled to the US, and many people are counting on him back home. Failure is not an option. Can you imagine not being able to see your family for years at a time? He can't just go home for Christmas break. Like, I can't fathom that. The longest I've been on my own in a foreign country is a few months.

He had only studied English for a little over a year before coming, and speaks extremely well, seems to understand easily, gives presentations in class. Imagine if I had to do the same thing in Chinese after only about a year. Caramba. French is hard enough, and Spanish took years to master.

I asked him what he did for Thanksgiving, and he said he had dinner with an American family. I asked if he liked the food, and he was pretty much like . . . "It was okay." He said he liked the turkey. lol. He said that any meal without rice as a significant part of the meal is weird to him. Like, to us, rice is an occasional side dish. But to the Chinese, it's eaten with everything, all day, every day. That was so amusing to me. For Thanksgiving food to be completely out of cultural context and foreign because of the decentrality of rice.

Paper Procrastination Post # 9873835: Nicknames

My name has never been one to facilitate a nickname. Like a serious one. I guess I prefer it that way.

But I have a few playful ones.

My dad used to call me "Chawny." Aww.

One of my friends calls me "Chantellus." It comes from my preoccupation with one of the conspirators in Julius Caesar named Metellus Cimber. I LOVE that name. So she started calling me "Chantellus Cimber" and eventually just "Chantellus."

Another one of my friends calls me "Channy," well, a lot of people do, playfully, but she says it with an Old South accent, in a raspy, dirty-old-man imitation. The story that goes along with that one is hilarious, and that's probably about all that needs to be said. lol.

One my classmates, a balding, hilarious guy with a roguish charm calls me "Chanty."

Another one of my classmates, Pic, calls me "Chanteezy." But he usually says it in this context: "Chanteezy, in the heezy, keepin' it greasy, what's your situation?"

Paper Procrastination Post # 9873834: Can I get you a coffee?

(sigh.) Back at it. After Jesus's kind intervention yesterday, I know I have to get with it. I was good. I packed myself a lunch last night so that after class this morning I could head straight to the library and get on the ball. I'm sure I'll come up with some imaginary screenplay starring the brave yet misunderstood and marginalized gaucho Juan Moreira and me as his lady love depicting some snippet of our rustic, tumultuous life on the Argentine pampas. But I have to get to at least page 5 or 7 or so before I'll allow my brain to take another procrastinatory break.

Anyway, before getting down to business, I wanted to reflect on kindness. It's amazing to me how rare it must be for someone to just do something even marginally nice for someone else these days. What I mean is, why do some people act shocked in the face of kindness, and why is it hard for some people to accept? This morning after a classmate came to do her language lab time right after mine, I decided I needed a latte to perk me up before medieval lit. I asked her if she wanted a coffee too. She said that sounded like a good idea and immediately began digging in her purse for money after I asked her what she wanted. She started freaking out after I told her not to worry about it, that it was on me. She couldn't fathom the idea that I simply wanted to get her a coffee without any expectation of anything in return. "But, but, a cup of Starbucks coffee is like five dollars!" she protested. "Please don't worry about it, it's your Christmas present," I joked. She finally relented.

I didn't think of it as any big deal at all. It wasn't like I had offered to do some kind of heroic deed. A cup of coffee? Come on. But we've become so hardened that we automatically assume that lurking behind even a small token of kindness is an expectation of something in return. I can honestly say I don't think that way. If you give expecting something back, I don't think that's giving in love. When I came back with the two lattes, we spent the 30 minutes before my medieval lit class chatting about our families and what we want to do after we graduate. She's not someone I normally interact with much, and she's usually kind of withdrawn. But something said just offer to get her a coffee too, so I did. And I'm glad I did.

Why I Feel Fabulous

1. In spite of my lazy, wretched, procrastinatory ways, Jesus came through for me. I had this paper I kept putting off (surprise, surprise), and my professor had the genius idea to make the rough draft due the Monday after Thanksgiving break. That's inhumane. Anyway, Sunday rolled around and I had zilch. Nada. Bupkis. It took the energy out of every cell in my body to produce an outline, an intro and a few highlighted lines of sources I hadn't gotten around to reading yet. I dragged my carcass out of bed early this morning and could only squeeze out three pages. Of a ten page paper. Caramba. I arrived to the GTA office to find that a couple of my OCD classmates had finished theirs. Grrr. But upon my sheepish admission to others that I had only eked out three (in the end, three and a half) pages, I got: "Aw, I'm so glad you've only done that much!" Uh, yeah . . . you're welcome. Anyway, it turns out I wasn't the only one with a struggle. Mind you, today was not the day that we had to have it finished and polished. It was rough draft/peer editing day. Professor would evaluate us also, though, and I prayed that my measly three pages (the extra half was a bit of detailed outlining of the rest of my paper + conclusion) wouldn't besmirch my grade. In the end, I got docked a little for my lack of, er, completion, but my "inhumane" professor wrote, "Three and a half pages, but well thought out." I ended up with a 91 for my overall evaluation. Let's go!

2. I made the most gorgeous salad you could ever conceive of. It was beautiful. It was like an uber-chef's salad. Baby spinach greens, sauteed bell pepper and onions, real bacon bits, bits of ham and cheese, slices of boiled egg, almond slices and topped off with raspberry vinaigrette. It was really divine. And I broiled a piece of salmon to go with it. I wanted to immortalize my dinner tonight.

3. I bought a book of all of Don Miller's greatest hits—Blue Like Jazz, Searching for God Knows What, and Through Painted Deserts—rolled into one on sale! (I'd given away my previous originals). It was originally $24.99, was reduced to $12.79, and on top of that I had a 25% off coupon. Let's go!

4. I'm going to sleep good tonight. Gooood.

Advice from a Soul Brother

"Don't force the fit. If you do, your feet will hurt after a while."

Priceless!

Home

Instead of working on my paper, I've spent a good part of my break reading a fabulous book suggested by my go-to book guy. Every single book he's suggested has been well worth the read. What was the book? Home by Marilynne Robinson.

She won the Pulitzer Prize for a book I read and blogged about a long time ago, Gilead. Home is sort of the sequel, but only in that it was written after Gilead. It actually takes place during the same time frame of the first, but from a different perspective.

The novel is set in the late 50s. Basically, there's a ne'er do well son, Jack, who comes home to rural Iowa town Gilead where he reunites with his youngest sister Glory and ailing father after a 20-year absence. It's bittersweet. The sweet joy of the prodigal's return intermingled with the bitter regret and resentment and longing of the silent years of his absence.

Whenever I read a book, a good book, I put myself in it somehow. At some points I imagined myself as Glory. I recognized the mixed emotions she had towards Jack. I identified with her fears and feelings of vulnerability when she pondered her past experiences and her future. At others, I imagined myself as Jack's distant love, Della. Though she wasn't a main character, I could imagine her inner conflict as her loyalty to family was tested.

Good books make me think. This one made me think about what it means to love. Though I certainly don't consider myself an expert on the topic, I've heard lots of definitions and theories. But Home made me think this: That loving someone is giving someone permission. Permission to do two very powerful things. You give them permission to bring you joy while at the same time giving them permission to bring you pain. Allowing someone to make you wildly happy is accompanied by allowing them to possibly hurt you profoundly. The only reason Jack was able to cause his family so much pain was because they loved him so much. He continued to hurt them with his actions and eventually his absence because they wouldn't give up on him. But when he returned, he caused considerable joy and relief. A letter or a phone call from Della was the world to Jack. But returned letters and silence? An unbearable blow.

Loving someone is giving them power. It's not some fluffy, sappy game. It's relinquishing control. The prospect is at once scary and wonderful.

Thanksgiving 2008 Pics

Awww!

I don't care who you voted for, anyone with a heart must admit that this picture is criminally cute:

cnn.com

Thanksgiving Texts from a Wannabe Revolutionary

First: "Happy mass turkey consumption day!"

Then: "I've received a lot of backlash. It can hurt fighting the man. Especially on the holidays. But I'm on the Native American's side. I don't understand why we celebrate breaking bread with them when we later performed mass genocide to steal their land. The first winter at Plymouth marks the rise of the evil empire!"

This kid is great. His idealism and bright-eyed desire to stick it to the man are priceless.

Thanksgiving Eve

I usually take this day to, whilst fulfilling my usual duties of baker's assistant, make a list of the things I'm thankful for:

1. A family who loves me: brothers who make me laugh, a mother who is also a friend, and a dad who reminds me of my value.

2. Having a relationship with God such that I can speak to Him and I know that He hears me.

3. Children: their hugs, smiles and innocence.

4. The opportunity to pursue an education.

5. The chances I've had in the past and the chances I'll have in the future to travel the world.

6. Having the ability to speak a foreign language.

7. Reliable friends.

8. A car that gets awesome gas mileage.

9. Straight teeth.

10. The hereditary gift of not having to watch my weight (yet).

11. My health.

12. Sunflowers.

13. Scarves.

14. Chai tea lattes.

15. Good books.

16. Lively, intelligent conversation.

17. Genuine, all-encompassing hugs.

18. My boy winning the presidency.

19. People that make me belly laugh.

20. My youth and having my whole life ahead of me.

Brothers

Aww, my middle bro is so sweet. He took me out to lunch today. He's basically a hulk. Like, he could effortlessly snap me in half like a toothpick. And imagine, I used to be able to push him around.

Sometimes I'm glad I had brothers and no sisters. We never competed with one another, never got jealous of one another, never argued over borrowing each others' stuff. (I'm not saying that stuff never happened between my brothers themselves, it just never happened between us.) The only fights we got into were literal. Not prissy "I'm not talking to you anymore" fights.

While having brothers toughened me up, it also spoiled me. I didn't have to share. I existed in my own category. But at the same time, it made life harder, especially since I'm also the oldest. Boys will be boys, but girls will be good (and the oldest will be responsible). And not allowed to do anything.

Oh, well. Things are different now that we're older. My brothers are cool and got my back and would beat anybody up for me. That's what brothers are for.

Future Mocha Mom?

Okay, I wrote this yesterday, and then I read this today on cnn.com. Weirdness!

Update @5:50 PM: Yikes, I just read some of the comments on this article and am kind of weirded out. Maybe "Mocha Moms" is corny (certainly not "racist"), and perhaps heralding the idea of Michelle Obama as a stay-at-home mom is exaggerated, but I liked it simply because I like the idea of a woman pursuing education and using it to raise her children.

My Babies!

(sigh.) I miss my job.

I'm back in my hometown (well, as much of a hometown as I'll ever have) for Thanksgiving break. One fabulous thing about Auburn is that they give us the entire week off. Not just rinky dink Wednesday through Friday. The downside? I still have a wretched paper to contend with. So instead of procrastinatory imaginations about la Gloriosa coming down, I'll regale you with procrastinatory imaginations of rugged Argentine gauchos and their romantically rustic lives on the pampas.

Anyway, I'm here and I have the week off. I couldn't resist the temptation to go by my old place of employment and visit my babies. The truth is, I super miss my job. I miss being around children. Since going back to school, I deal with big people all day. I deal with big people things all day—research, scholarly journals and MLA style, papers, the specter of comprehensive exams, methodologies and approaches . . . I miss the innocence and simplicity and hilarity of working with kids.

I felt like a celebrity today. Seeing my awkwardly sweet middle schoolers' faces light up and the bright, gap-toothed smiles of the little ones upon seeing me never got old. It almost made me cry to see how happy everyone was to see me and how much everyone had grown. One 3rd grader wrapped her arms around me, buried her face in my sweater and said, "I miss your sweet smell." lol! That is ridiculously priceless.

I was swarmed with hordes of kids at church this Sunday, too. I guess it comes with being a former children's church teacher and occasional Sunday school teacher substitute. "Have you been good?" I ask. I always get vigorous affirmative nods in response, knowing that they've most likely been the opposite. Those darling rogues. Those human incarnations of Curious George. Children. I do want some of my own one day. I can't help but think that my various experiences—studying, teaching, traveling, etc.—will help me be a good future mom to my future kids. [Cue sappy, overblown, sentimental score. Cut to scenes of a 30something me teaching my 3-year old to say "leche" and "lait" while handing him a sippy cup of milk, reading Curious George stories, making finger paintings of animals we saw at the zoo, and lastly saying prayers together before turning on the radio to NPR's "Evening Jazz" to lull him to sleep.]

From a Classmate

I thought my little poem about the Glorious One coming down and finishing my paper for me was pretty clever, so I sent the link to one of my fellow classmates in medieval lit who I knew would get a kick out of it. He's also taking Latin American modernist poetry and this was his reply:

"Je je, nice one Chantell! I will now be asking for her assistance in my paper for Dr. _____. Does she help with modernist, feminist suicidal Uruguayan poets, too? ;-)"

Priceless!

I Like David Brooks

He's a New York Times columnist who makes me think of an intellectual Mr. Rogers. Mild-mannered, thoughtful, right-of-center. He's conservative but not hawkish. He can praise without fawning. He can criticize without condemning.

But today he invented a word that made the logophile in me go ga-ga. In describing with a tongue-in-cheek air the intellectual prowess of members of Obama's cabinet he writes:

"Even more than past administrations, this will be a valedictocracy — rule by those who graduate first in their high school classes."

'Valedictocracy' is the best word ever! I don't know why I like it so much. It's a word that's funny in a rib-poking sort of way, but at the same time a word that admires the way that Obama is valuing intellect in putting together his cabinet.

Read the whole column here. His articles are always well-written and he's one of the ones I always read. I have to say my all-time favorite is Maureen Dowd, though. Even though sometimes she's a little more hit-and-miss. But she is SO funny, I forgive her.

Oh, and I discovered a new feature on NYT that made me cry with pure delight. If you highlight a word, a little question mark pops up and when you click it, a window will pop up with definitions! Almost as nifty as Google's "define" feature.

The Last Milagro

There once was a girl going out of her mind

wondering if ever of this paper the end she'd find.

She was tired as heck, for sleep she pined,

because on the morrow, back to the daily grind.

"Oh, Glorious One," she cried, "will you have mercy

on a poor grad student as tired as me?

I've been writing about your milagros, you see

So why not do another, cuz this junk ain't easy."

Then, like a flash, a miraculous sight!

The Glorious One appeared bathed in radiant light!

She said to the girl, "Never fear, all wrongs I make right,

what would you like me to do for you tonight?"

The girl blinked and said, "I must be delirious.

The Virgin? That's crazy! This can't be serious!"
She had to admit, though, she was kind of curious . . .

if the Glorious One finished her paper, she wouldn't be furious.

"Hail, Mary, umm, if you're so full of grace

would you mind finishing my paper at a more rapid pace?

Besides, you were the one who made the milagros take place.

I figured I'd ask, you know, just in case."

The Glorious One sighed, "Girl, you're lazy as all.

And you're not even Catholic, yet I answered your call.

I'll have mercy this once but, I declare, what gall!

Next time you have a paper, you better get on the ball."

She made the sign of the cross, the sign of her Son

over my laptop then said, "Ha, that was fun!"

The Glorious one then disappeared, the victory won.

I looked at the screen. My paper was done!

Paper Procrastination Post # 9873833: 20somethings

(sigh.) I'm almost done with page 2. Look, some progress is better than none, okay?

You know your 20something years are slipping through your fingers like sand when you find yourself as big sister to another 20something.

I had every intention of making a big dent in my paper when I'm visited by an intense, uber-idealistic kid who's spearheading a Bible study group along with me and another young lady from church. The other young lady wasn't able to make it, but he still wanted to meet.

He whirs through roommate problems, spills ideas he has for the Bible study, and spouts his views that are scattered across the socio-political and theological spectrum. He's a human Energizer bunny, fidgety, teeming with ideas and plans and insight.

I want to pat him on the head. Pinch his cherubic cheeks. He reminds me of the old days when I wanted to save the world. When I wanted to be a vegetarian and join the PeaceCorps and thought Communism wasn't such a bad idea.

I pleaded with him . . . "I have a paper to write."

"When's it due?" he countered.

"Thursday."

He gasped. "You shouldn't even be started on it yet!"

I sighed a wise, world-weary sigh. "Graduate school is different. You'll learn one day."

Paper Procrastination Post # 9873832

(sigh) There's something about having to write a paper that makes me incredibly prolific on this blog.

Me: Who wants to know what I'm writing about?

Everybody: Meeee!!

Me: All right, everyone, gather round. Let Mama Channy tell you all about a lovely medieval Spanish novel, Los Milagros de Nuestra Señora. Okay?

Everybody: Yay! We love medieval Spanish stories!

Me: Oh, goody. Now, there was a man born around 1196 named Gonzalo de Berceo. Can everybody say that? Gonzalo de Berceo.

Everybody: Gonzaaalooo de Berceeeooo.

Me: Very good, everyone. Mama Channy is so proud of you. Now, Gonzalo de Berceo had the novel idea of putting together a collection of stories of miracles that the Virgin Mary did. Some of them included some downright scandalous characters. There are tales of fornicating clerics, drunken monks, and even pregnant abbesses!

Everybody: Ooh! That's bad, Mama Channy.

Me: Yes, I know. But the important thing is that nobody is perfect, and according to Berceo, as long as you're faithful to the Virgin, she'll come down and help you out even if you've been naughty.

Someone from the group: The Virgin is nicer than Santa. If you're naughty, Santa puts you on his bad list and gives you nothing but coal for Christmas.

Me: Err . . . that's one way to look at it. Anyway, Mama Channy is writing about the intended audience of Berceo's tales. So she's including evidence of orality, references that would have appealed to laymen making pilgrimages, as well as references that would have appealed to church leaders without formal training or education. She's also going to provide evidence that overall, Berceo's work had didactic purposes.

Everyone: What's 'didactic'?

Me: Oh, well, it just means that it was meant to teach something.

Someone from the group: So, then, why not just say that instead of using that funny word?

Me: Oh, you sweet dears, Mama Channy is in graduate school, and no graduate student worth her salt gets by without peppering her papers with funny words. Using funny words in papers is a graduate student rite of passage. And Mama Channy has to use big words in Spanish, on top of that.

Everyone: Wooooww!

Me: (smiling) That's right.

Someone else from the group: But, Mama Channy, aren't you supposed to be writing your paper? It's due Thursday, isn't it?

Me: (nervously laughing) Well, aren't you an observant one? Ahem. Mama Channy better be getting along now.

Everyone: Awwww!

Me: Now, now. We'll have a chance to procrastinate together again soon. Don't worry. Ta ta for now, dear ones.

Everyone: Bye, Mama Channy!

I Hate Complaining

I hate complaining. I especially hate writing down my complaints because when I read back over them later, I sound like a petulant child.

But I have to be honest. Writing a ten-page paper about Los milagros de Nuestra Señora is the most unattractive thing in the world. Unless you were my medieval lit professor who gets excited over obscure latinate words that aren't even used in modern Spanish anymore. But see, the thing is, he's passionate about it. Though I'm not excited at all about medieval Spanish literature, and especially not about the prospect about having to write a ten-page paper about miracles performed by the Virgin Mary, I'm glad that I'm taking this class from my particular professor because he loves it.

I, too, want to do something that I love. There's nothing more satisfying than being completely enveloped in a world of doing what you're passionate about. But the bratty little kid in me throws a tantrum at the idea of having to do things you frankly detest in order to possibly do what you love. The romantic in me rebels against the idea of something being a mere means to an end.

I want to love whatever I end up doing. I want to love what I'm doing now. I wish I had the spirit of one who tackles every task with gusto. I wish I had more faith, that I had a steelier spine, that I had a sharper sense of purpose. Because right now, I'm just a sulky twentysomething pouting over a lot in life that many would love to exchange with me for their own.

15 Things I'm Not Afraid to Admit

I've been tagged by Sis. Jewel to do one of these nifty little memes, so here goes . . .

I'm not afraid to admit . . .

1. that I want to get married and have kids (preferably while Barack Obama's president, and a second term is not guaranteed, so, Mr. Wonderful, get on the ball!).

2. that I have songs downloaded from the first High School Musical on my iPod.

3. that I bring my Curious George doll on trips with me. He's like my traveling companion.

4. that I floss my teeth every day. I'm obsessed with flossing. When I run out of dental floss, I go mad.

5. that I make to-do lists and get profound satisfaction from crossing things off of it. In fact, if I finish a task that I forgot to put on my to-do list, I'll write it down so that I can then cross it off.

6. that I think Barack Obama and his newly-appointed chief of staff Rahm Emanuel are both kinda hot.

7. that I often say "Blast!" with slightly raised fist if something doesn't go my way.

8. that I'm a borderline pyromaniac. I get a gleam in my eye every time I light my scented candles.

9. that when I was little, I hated Shaggy from Scooby Doo. He was SO annoying with his whiny voice and cowardly demeanor. He was also extremely greedy and useless and never helped to solve the crime. He just got in the way. And he was never funny either.

10. that I don't know how to drive a stick shift.

11. that I'm a sucker for intriguing accents.

12. that I laugh when people trip.

13. that my current ringtone is "Unwritten" by Natasha Beddingfield.

14. that I like using big words.

15. that I have a weakness for the underdog.

You know you're in Alabama when . . .

you can unashamedly walk around barefoot at the main university library. C'mon, its a nasty, rainy day and my ballet flats got soaked! The only thing worse than barefeet is wet feet, and there's nothing more annoying than producing moist squishy sounds while trying to be inconspicuous walking amongst the silent stacks.

One of My Fleeting Fears

I was afraid that everyone would be communicating in exegetical hermeneutical theologo-speak and that I would be left behind, coughing in their Holy Ghost-filled academic dust.

This is all I want to know . . .

Has anyone ever worn their glasses for you?

I'm being contracted out

My blogging abilities are being contracted out (on a volunteer basis, of course) to my favorite webzine, Ninetyandnine.com.

I'm currently talking about election stuff over at A Month in the Life, and I'll be liveblogging the upcoming UGST Symposium in St. Louis this coming Thursday and Friday at Collideoscope.

Enjoy!

P.S.-Don't forget to vote today!

This is horrible!

Omg, this is awful. Obama's grandmother passed away. His father died in a fatal car accident, his mother died of ovarian cancer at a relatively young age, his grandfather has long since passed and now his grandmother, the last living one who raised him, on the day before Election Day.

This is so horrible. Imagine the stress he must be under right now. I cannot even imagine. Regardless of your political affiliation, our prayers need to be with this man right now.

http://www.cnn.com/2008/POLITICS/11/03/obama.grandma/index.html

Par-tay!

Yeah, I know, I've dressed up as a cowgirl in the past. But in economic times like these, a girl's gotta work with what she's got and costume recycling is definitely in order. The peeps in my program are a pretty cool bunch. Enjoy!

I LOVE The Mentalist

I love The Mentalist. Patrick Jane (Simon Baker) is super sexy. It's not even that he's that good looking, he's just got this . . . mesmerizing presence going on.

Let's Be Cryptically Clear

I was trying to borrow from my boy's rhetoric. He likes to say "let's be clear" when he's trying to set the record straight. I can't wait for him to win.

Yes, I'm that sure he's going to pull it off. However, I wasn't so sure that someone else would be able to pull off converting a well-known standard bearer with his upcoming presentation. Indeed, I doubted his powers of persuasion so much that I said I'd vote for John McCain if he were successful. The only problem with that proposition . . . Election Day will have already passed by then. Guess I'll have to go ahead with my plan to Barack the vote, then. Sorry, but that's the way it is.

Now then, I will admit that sometimes my fingers itch to give someone a pseudonym. There's a Where-You-Can-Find-Me-ish urge to shine the blogular limelight upon his yet unintroduced soul. But the more staid part of me resists. It prefers to continue to allow the blogosphere get but cryptic glimpses of his existence. It prefers to instead allow him to be seen through a glass darkly and to be spoken of in parables. Each time the overindulged blogger in me wants to lift the curtain, the ascetic rationalist in me arises and appeals to restraint. A friend of mine once called me a 'walking dichotomy' and I laughed about it for days. My tendency towards cryptic clarity reminds me of that. Everyone's got some kind of tension to reckon with, I suppose.

But anyway, the occasion of my non-update this time is the fact that a week from today I will sail away to a far away land to escape the doldrums of grad school existence for a couple of days in a more natural (albeit colder) habitat. And as fate would have it, I shall meet again with the non-updateable one, among others, and will, if the polls concerning the probability of an Obama win could somehow be indicative in this case as well, have fun.

That is the hope. Yes we can!

Conservatives for Obama

Interesting . . . oh, so interesting.

Cynicism, Anti-intellectualism, and Getting Stuff Done

The problem with cynicism

I will admit that at times I don the mantle of the cynic with perverse pleasure. It allows me to comment from the position of the holy underdog, the misunderstood minority, the intellectual martyr. I'm observant and critical and make no apologies for it because there are things that need to be critiqued, and it takes the eyes of an observer to make an astute critique rather than a reckless one. However, cynicism presents a problem because cynicism by default negates action. What defines cynicism and allows it to thrive is viewing action to remedy whatever ills are present as ineffective.

It is easy for me to allow my criticism to slide into cynicism because it is easy to snarkily and haughtily comment on the unfairness and backwardness of something without doing anything about it. It's easy to complain and feel sorry for myself because I'm soooo misunderstood and "nobody" gets it. But it's hard to do something concrete to be the change I want to see.

The church and anti-intellectualism

Having said that, I will very tentatively ascend my soapbox and try not to be unwarrantedly snarky as I sound off.

It makes me want to scream when some ministers debase higher learning by putting it in opposition to the "wisdom of God." Let me back up and say that yes, I realize the danger of becoming prideful because of acquisition of knowledge. I realize that an impressive educational resume cannot even begin to compare to God's infinite wisdom. But to imply that somehow the more education you get the easier it is to fall away from God is woefully erroneous. The idea that bettering yourself through going to school is just a bunch of highfalutin' excess and all you really need is Jesus, in my opinion, needs to be tweaked a little.

Let's back up some more. Who wrote the overwhelming majority of the New Testament? A guy named Paul who had more than a Strong's concordance and "the anointing" to guide him. In fact, most Bible scholars agree that the had the modern day equivalent of a PhD. My point is not that God couldn't have used one of his unlearned fishermen apostles to do the same. God can do whatever He wants. But I do believe Paul was chosen because his preparation was fitted to his task.

Because of my liberal, secular, humanistic education, I'm able to translate during the preaching of God's Word so that a Spanish-speaking someone who doesn't understand English will be able to receive it. Not that God couldn't choose any old monolingual average Joe Sixpack out there and impress upon him the gift of tongues and interpretation so that he could miraculously do the same thing I do without having studied abroad. Heck, it happened on the Day of Pentecost, right? But my point is that what some debase as superfluous and even, in some instances, somehow working against the true and greater wisdom of God is actually what God can use to do His work and fulfill His purposes.

You can have all the education in the world, and be empty without Him. What does it profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his soul? But if you're walking with Him and decide to better yourself and use your education for Him, how can that be considered in opposition to Him?

I have to do my thing, God's thing

Lately, I've had a series of existential crises dealing with various and sundry points of tension. (I say that in an I (Heart) Huckabees way). My response has generally been that of pity party. Why, oh, why have I been placed in the thick of such tension? Oh, God, You're so unfair. Why torment my mind with such complexities?

My forehead is already etched with an "11" because I furrow my brow so much. But as I mentally chisel away at these granite blocks of the unknown, the form of an answer is slowly starting to take shape: The way forward in unchartered territory is always met with resistance.

Knowing me, I will probably continue to critique and occasionally spout off with snarky rants. But I can't stop there. What good would that do? I can't get so busy feeling sorry for myself that I don't do what I'm supposed to be doing, and not just doing it, but doing it to the best of my ability. Because God requires no less. I have to concentrate on getting my stuff done and doing my thing, which, if I'm doing it as I should, is God's thing.

Little Girl Wants Puppy Dog

A little girl and her mother enter a pet store.

Little Girl: Ooh! A puppy dog! I like this puppy dog. It's fun. It makes me laugh. It's cuddly and cute. I want this puppy dog. Mommy, I want this puppy dog!

Mommy: Sweetie, why do you want this puppy dog? There are so many other kinds of puppy dogs out there. This one, well . . . Daddy and I don't really think this is the puppy dog you should have. Don't let it bother you that all your friends are starting to get puppy dogs. Not having a puppy dog doesn't make it any less fun playing hopscotch and jump rope and freeze tag and hide-and-go-seek, does it? Besides, you're just a little girl. Enjoy being a little girl.

Little girl picks up the puppy dog and cuddles it.

Little Girl: But Mommy, I want this puppy dog. And I'm not a little girl. I'm a big girl! And big girls can have puppy dogs, because big girls are big enough to take care of them. And I want this puppy dog, Mommy!

Mommy: Sweetie, what did Mommy say? Not this one. You can get a different one another day.

Little girl: No, Mommy, I'm a big girl! And I want this puppy dog!

Mommy: Put the puppy dog down, sweetie. Not this one. Another day.

Little girl: No, Mommy!

Mommy: Listen to Mommy, sweetie. Mommy said no!

Little girl: No!

Mommy makes a motion to take the puppy away, and Little girl clutches it tighter. She begins to cry.

Little girl: No, Mommy, no! It's not fair! I'm a big girl! I'm a big girl!

Little girl gets hysterical and starts pitching a fit. Mommy thinks for a minute.

Mommy: (sigh) Okay, sweetie, you're right. You really are a big girl. Daddy and I have to realize that.

Little girl stops crying and looks at Mommy quizzically.

Mommy: If that's the puppy you want, Mommy is not going to say anything else negative about it.

Little girl: You—you're not? But, but . . .

Mommy wanders off to look at the parakeets. Little girl looks at the puppy in her arms and begins examining it.

Weary and Frustrated

Why is it that one minute a really awesome thing like winning a 6 month scholarship to study in a foreign country happens that sends you to cloud 9, and the next minute, the most frustrating situation in the universe rears its head once again and sends you way, way down?

I am thankful for what God has done. I really am. He's done literal miracles in my life. But He also knows well that I didn't want to have to go through the emotional wringer again, and He's putting me through exactly what I begged Him not to put me through again in this area of my life, but this time it's even worse.

The last time, it was kind of like, I knew better. I was hoping against hope for the wrong reasons, and I blame myself. But this time, what have I done wrong? It almost feels like I've been set up or something. The stress is overwhelming, and stress is what I need the least of right now. And I can't even sit through class without tearing up? It's wretched.

I would ordinarily blame me, but I can't see where I went wrong this time. My human impulse is to blame Him.

I'm Freaking Out! (In a Good Way)

Ahem. Where do I begin . . . ?

Let me take you back to . . . maybe it was March? Or was it April? I got an email through my AU student account about study abroad scholarships offered by the Rotary Club International. One particular scholarship caught my interest. It would send you to a language institute, all expenses paid, to study a language that you aren't familiar with and to study in a country in which you haven't studied abroad previously for more than 5 months combined. Spanish and Spain were out. I've done that. This time around, I had my eyes set on French and France.

See, with my Master's program, one of my requirements is that I also be proficient in a language other than Spanish or English. We can fulfill the requirement either by taking a proficiency test or by taking a first year sequence of another language. I chose French. (It probably would have been easier had I chosen Italian, though. It's closer to Spanish. But it's not spoken in near as many places as French.) I don't want to stop at the elementary level, though. If I'm going to learn another language, I'm going to learn another language. And what better way to do so than to spend 6 months in a country where that language is spoken?

However, I had doubts. I printed out the application and sat on it. I was sort of wondering if I really wanted to continue to be a world traveler. I had this whack idea that I wasn't sure if I were going to apply because, well, there's no other way to say it, the girly side of me wants marriage and motherhood, and how could I do that if I'm gallivanting around Europe? But then the common sense side of me slapped the taste out of the mouth of the girly side of me and said, "Um, are you outside of your everlovin' mind? Six months is nothing. Do you realize you're cheating yourself out of an opportunity because of whether something you don't know will happen will happen?" The problem is that common sense me waited until the due date to knock some sense into girly me. After getting approval from the district director to apply anyway, I went for it with gusto.

Fast forward to last Monday. I had an interview. Eleven people, four scholarships. Two of them were one-year, the other two were 6-month (what I was applying for). I never knew how many out of the eleven were applying for the 6-month. But I went in there, looked people in the eye, answered questions candidly, and had fun. "You should hear something from us within 7-10 days," they said. Standard answer.

Fast forward to today. Exactly seven days later, I got an email and a phone call of congratulations! I was freaking out. I mean, seriously, I almost didn't apply, and I won it? I was so happy today. I will spend 6 months either in France (my first choice, please, please!) or Belgium (my second choice) sometime after July 1, 2009 to study French. I can't say that I don't know what I'm going to do after I graduate anymore, can I?

But he knoweth the way that I take: when he hath tried me, I shall come forth as gold. (Job 23:10)

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)

Passed on by a fellow pundit

Palin on SNL. Hilarious!

Colin Powell Endorses Barack Obama for President

Powell is a highly respected, experienced, grounded figure. He gives a compelling and balanced rationale for his decision. I know that a lot of people may say that Powell is deciding to endorse Obama based on race, (which is something Brokaw asks him about in the full version of the interview) and not only is that insulting, but if you listen to this segment, you will understand that it isn't true. Why is it that no one wonders if white endorsers of McCain are endorsing him because he's white? When looked at from that perspective, the absurdity of it is seen a little clearer. Perhaps we're not over the race thing. Perhaps we never will be. I'm not one of those bleeding heart, wide-eyed innocents who thinks Barack Obama as president will cleanse our country of its racial woes. Please. But I'm very hopeful that we're making progress.

You're kidding me, right?

You have absolutely GOT to be kidding me. Like Obama's campaign, I have no comment.

Obama as Stand Up Comedian

If he loses the presidency, he might be able to make a good living as a stand up comedian. This is hilarious!

Joe the Plumber Speaks!

A-zing-a-ling-a-ling!

That's what Pic says when someone gets a good zinger in there.

I'm up so early because I just finished creating a test for my faculty mentor that was technically due last night, but whatever, as long as she wakes up this morning with it sitting in her email inbox, she's cool.

I went to a debate watching party last night hosted by Pic. He posted it as an event on barackobama.com on a whim, and someone contacted him and brought two other people with her! In all there were 8 of us, including Pic's mom. I will admit that I felt like a part of something new and awesome, I guess because of the people's response to Pic's party posting online and because we were a racially and culturally diverse group all brought together by a common desire—we want to see Barack Obama in the White House.

This debate was by far the best. McCain definitely stepped up his game. I have to be fair and hand it to him for that. This was his last chance to do it big, my friends. (And he only said "my friends" once! Egads!) He dropped the first zinger when he said, “Senator Obama, I am not President Bush. If you wanted to run against President Bush, you should have run four years ago.” A-zing-a-ling-a-ling!

But then we gave a standing ovation when our boy came back with, “The fact of the matter is that if I occasionally mistake your policies for George Bush’s policies, it’s because on the core economic issues that matter to the American people — on tax policy, on energy policy, on spending priorities — you have been a vigorous supporter of President Bush.” A-zing-a-ling-a-ling!

But McCain was tenacious. We all went "Ooooh" when he threw down the gauntlet on Ayers. Everyone was in suspense, wondering if he was going to go there, and he did. But whenever he does go there, he always looks bad because it's negative and irrelevant. Seriously. Most folks don't care about what "a washed-up terrorist" (as McCain referred to Ayers) did when Obama was in 2nd grade. Um, economy? Er, health care? This was the best zinger of the night: “I think the fact that this has become such an important part of your campaign, Senator McCain, says more about your campaign than it says about me.” A-zing-a-ling-a-ling!

I wish someone in the media would get on the ball and find Joe the Plumber. (I started singing "Joe the Plumber" to the tune of "Bob the Builder" and drew good laugh.) I'd love to know how he felt about being referred to as some kind of icon over 24 times during the debate, but most importantly, who is he going to vote for? The Joes are the ones who are really going to decide this thing.

The Return of Padre

I have tons of work to do tonight. I mean, when do I not? Oh, I wish I were a go-getter. I'm anal about a lot of things, but I wish I were more anal about getting my work done. (sigh.) Anyway, I was overjoyed today because I saw Padre out of the blue. I hadn't seen that man in so long. I was so happy. It really made my day. He was all worried about a test he had to take and was all like, "I'm not going to do very well," and I told him, "Have faith, Father." LOL. It was funny at the time. Okay, back to work.

The Confidant

Is there something about me that makes people want to tell me things in confidence? What can you do when the only thing to do is listen? (In my case, listen and cry?) There is a reason I switched from Social Work to Education in undergrad. Otherwise, I'd be crying every living day. That would not be good.

Reasons to Be Happy

1. God loves me, understands me, thinks I'm special, and knows what's going on with me.

2. I found an outrageously cheap plane ticket to get to St. Louis in time to see my friend present his paper.

3. I think my interview for a scholarship to study abroad in a French-speaking country went well. I should know by next week whether I made the cut!

4. I was able to get from Montgomery to Auburn, change, find a parking spot and get to the Haley Center in time for my observation. A matchless feat!

Here's a story . . .

“A ship owner was about to send to sea an emigrant ship. He had seen that she was old, and not overwell built at the first; that she had seen many seas and climes, and often had needed repairs. Doubts had been suggested to him that possibly she was not seaworthy. These doubts preyed on his mind, and made him unhappy; he thought that perhaps he ought to have her thoroughly overhauled and refitted, even though this should put him to great expense. Before the ship sailed, however, he succeeded in overcoming the melancholy reflections. He said to himself that she had gone safely through so many voyages and weathered so many storms, that it was idle to suppose that she would not come safely home from this trip also. He would put his trust in Providence, which could hardly fail to protect all these unhappy families that were leaving their fatherland to seek for better times elsewhere. He would dismiss from his mind all ungenerous suspicions about the honesty of the builders and the contractors. In such ways he acquired a sincere and comfortable conviction that his vessel was thoroughly safe and seaworthy; he watched her departure with a light heart, and benevolent wishes for the success of the exiles in their strange new home that was to be; and he got his insurance money when she went down in mid-ocean and told no tales.

What shall we say of him? Surely this, that he was verily guilty of the death of those men. It is admitted that he did sincerely believe in the soundness of his ship; but the sincerity of his conviction can in nowise help him, because he had no right to believe on such evidence as was before him. He had acquired his belief not by honestly earning it in patient investigation, but by stifling his doubts…”

— William K. Clifford

The Ethics of Belief (1874)

Biden is nuts . . . in a good way

This guy had me in tears this morning . . . from laughing so hard! When he took off his jacket, I lost all composure. He's nuts! What, you got somethin to say? Say it to my face!

To Remain Inside

“In my sealed world, a problem person who crossed over to the outside was briefly mourned and soon forgotten: an enemy all knew how to handle. They stood away from such a person. But a problem person who chose for whatever reason to remain inside became a feared and troubling liability, and ultimately a demonic presence. They didn’t know how to relate to you because you were inside and outside simultaneously; you blurred the lines of separation; they didn’t know what to tell their children.”

—from My Name is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok

My Take on Prez Debate #2

Oh, boy. This one was more exciting. Again, not a game changer. In fact, at this point, I'm doubtful that anything would be a game changer, with the exception of some hidden scandal or salacious details suddenly brought to light. Neither of them said anything startlingly new about their policy ideas. After we've heard the same thing several times over and everyone knows where the candidates stand and know where they differ (contrasts were drawn even sharper last night than they were at the first debate), the debates become more of a show. I don't say that negatively--we want to know the facts and details, but Americans want to see a show too. How do the candidates temperaments play out? What kind of connection do the candidates make to voters? Who gives off a more presidential air? All of these things were being considered last night.

The 'Straight Talk Express' Lost a Wheel
Obama said that last night in reference to McCain's representation of one of Obama's policies. But it sums up perfectly what happened to our maverick last night.

Mistake #1 First, when Tom Brokaw asks who McCain would appoint to the position of treasury secretary if elected, he says, "Not you, Tom." Ummm . . . that kind of took me off guard. It just seemed out of place. Maybe he was trying to be funny, but it made him look crotchety.

Mistake #2 Then he speaks a bit condescendingly to a young African-American man who asked a question about the economy. In answering his question when talking about Fannie and Freddie he said something to the effect of, "I'll bet you've never even heard of Fannie Mae or Freddie Mac until recently." Er, kind of a gross assumption. That sort of took me off guard, too. Anyone who's ever taken out a student loan is somewhat familiar with at least Fannie.

Mistake #3 He makes another lame attempt at humor when talking about health care and refers to himself as perhaps needing a hair transplant. Um, boooo. Not EVEN funny. It was kind of painful how flatly that joke fell. It was just awkward.

Mistake #4 And then, he commits the mother of all his mistakes up to this point when he refers to Obama as "that one." Ewww and yikes. I'm not suggesting any racist intent. Come on. But it just looked and sounded reaaallly bad. Let's just say his (perhaps inadvertant) objectifying of his opponent did not play in his favor. Oh, at not all, my friends.

Though this is not exactly a "mistake," it also didn't look good when he and Obama were kind of parrying for more time than they were allowed. Though it would only be fair that they both be allowed the same amount of time, somehow McCain came off as whiny when he insisted that he have a chance to follow up, too. Have you ever been babysitting two siblings and gave them each a scoop of ice cream after dinner? One normally cries, "No fair, he has more than I do!" That was McCain's tone.

And lastly, it looked bad when afterward, he and Cindy got the heck out of dodge, leaving Barack and Michelle to work the crowd alone. It was pretty telling, if you ask me.

'That One' Won
Okay, okay, I'm biased. To be fair, Obama had some shaky moments. Foreign policy isn't quite his forte. Obama also has a tendency to get into speechifying mode instead of directly answering the question, and when he gets too wonkish, he loses people. But other than a few moments that could have used a bit of smoothing over, he seemed pretty confident and collected overall. I daresay he seemed presidential.

Look, both of them have reputations--Obama has a reputation for being cool and collected, and has even been criticized by the media for being too cool, for not springing to action fast enough and hard enough. McCain has a reptuation for being hotheaded and impulsive. Both of them lived up to their reputations in obvious ways last night. McCain popped off with some awkward, testy comments, and Obama sat back and smiled, allowing McCain to sink his own ship.

Chris Matthews, during some post-debate commentary, made a comment about the two candidates' smiles. Obama, he said was "gifted with a wonderful smile", while McCain's smile has a "menacing quality." Okay, he's obviously biased too, but that was funny. No? Judge for yourself:

My New Favorite Song

I love it when a song communicates a feeling for me that I can't put into words myself.

When the world has fallen out from under me/ I'll be found in You, still standing/ When the sky rolls up and mountains fall on their knees/ When time and space are through/ I'll be found in You . . .

Wanted: Paper Spokeswoman?

I don't know what I want to do when I graduate. But I've really been mulling a few things over.

It seems that I may have a knack for concisely explaining the points of nerdily theologically complex papers. Let's say you had a nerdily theologically complex paper to present. And let's say you explained the nuts and bolts of your paper to me. I would, in turn, become the spokeswoman for your paper. Any inquiries as to your general state of being would become the starting point for an exposition of your paper. I would talk it up amongst the masses and explain in concise and easy-to-understand terms the heart and soul of your paper, thereby disseminating your ideas into the world at large.

It's just an idea I've been kicking around lately. I should try googling the average salary of a paper spokeswoman. Hmm. No hits. Maybe it's just something I could do on the side.

My Beautiful Cookie Children

If there is one thing that I cannot tolerate, it's burnt cookies. When I say burnt, I don't just mean the whole cookie being burnt to a crisp. To me, 'burnt' is if any part of the cookie is overdone, especially the bottom. What good is a pretty cookie on the top if the bottom is unattractively crunchy?

Just the idea of burnt cookies makes me want to scream. Cookies are meant to be enjoyed. They're meant to be sweet and comforting and indulgent. Taking such a delicious, nurturing image and prefacing it with 'burnt' is a travesty. It's criminal.

Oh, but when they come out perfectly . . . it's so great. There is an art to cooking them just the right amount of time. I may have perfected it. Note that I didn't say that I may have perfected the art of actually making the cookie batter. I mean, why bother when you can just buy those Toll House packages of jumbo cookies, break the little perforated cookie dough squares apart, neatly arrange them on a cookie sheet and pop them in to bake? I was so happy when I rescued my cookie babies out of the oven at just the right time. They're so beautiful! ::sniff, sniff::
Little things make me happy.

The Veep Debate

It's been endlessly dissected and masticated by the media, so my observations are nothing new. But allow me to sum it up.

Palin did better than expected, and Biden gave a solid performance. I was proud of him for not jumping all over his opponent in moments where it would have been easy to.

This is what kills me, though. Some people are gushing about how well Palin did. Let's be clear. It wasn't that she did well, it's that she didn't totally blow it. All she had to do to be a success was not screw up. The bar was set excruciatingly low. She definitely beat the spread by clearing it, but let's get real and not chalk it up to an overwhelming victory. To her credit, she brought up some points where Biden and Obama had differences of opinion in the past. But to her discredit, she repeated vague talking points a lot, and skirted questions by redirecting the conversation to what she felt comfortable talking about (energy), even at one point outrightly refusing to answer. She also hammed it up a little too much with gee-whiz, folksy rhetoric, winking, and cutesy little comeback lines (i.e. "Oh, say it ain't so, Joe"). Come on. You are running for the vice presidency of the United States, not for homecoming queen of Hickville High.

Biden, thank God, reigned it in. He didn't come off as sexist, but neither did he treat her with kid gloves. He pulled it off by not attacking her, but by attacking McCain. He spoke in specifics, and rattled off some pretty salient stats. Our country spends in three weeks in Iraq what we've spent in Afghanistan the whole 6 1/2 years we've been there? He established himself as knowledgeable and having a grasp of the issues, and criticized specific points of McCain's proposals that Palin wasn't able to rebut. He even had an emotional moment while talking about the loss of his first wife and daughter. Palin could have gained some points acknowledging his loss and seeming sympathetic, but instead she rattled off more talking points and tired attack lines.

That Biden won is not anything to gloat over. He had the obvious advantage as a senior statesman. That Palin didn't mess it up is only something for the Republican base to rejoice over. Because that's all she did--reassured the base. It didn't change the game. Because in a race this close, the game is left up to the swingers. States and voters, that is.

Telemarketer Tales

Okay, so I get a unknown number call, and it's a recording saying that I have no problem with my credit card account, but if I'd like to lower my interest rate to 6.8%, press one. Sweet. I pressed one. A real lady answers, and I ask about lowering my credit card's interest rate. Then she asks, "Are you in credit card debt of $4,000 or more?"

I admittedly said,"Noooo," laughingly. I realize it's not uncommon for people to be in credit card debt of those proportions, so my laughter wasn't derisive, but just out of relief that I'm not. And she immediately hung up! Aw, but I wanted to lower my interest rate.

It reminds me of a time a while back when this guy called the house and he said, "Hello, this is Kermit with blah blah blah company. We can do blah blah blah and blah blah blah--"

I felt a torrent of laughter about to break forth. It took everything in me to hold it in for long enough to ask,"Wait a minute, wait a minute. Did you just say 'this is Kermit'?"

He paused and hesitatingly said, "Yes."

I couldn't help myself after that. I mean, come on, the guy's name was Kermit! Like the frog! I went into hysterics and finally said, "Mom, Kermit is on phone for you!"

When my mom got the phone she said, "Hello, Kermit? Please forgive my daughter . . . "

Extrathisblogular Writings

Here are some articles/posts of mine in other writing venues if you care to explore:

Trapped Between Worlds--Uncomfortable with Like-Minded Believers
(Cover article on this week's ninetyandnine.com)

Pentecostal Biography: Aimee Semple McPherson
(Latest bio on Azusa Remixed)

Enjoy!