Results

This morning started out listlessly. Tired of it, skipping every song on my iPod on the way to class because I had heard it already, musing over the fact that everything I've done since high school has been temporary. I got tired of school. Found a job. Got tired of my job. Went back to school. Will I ever be satisfied? Now that this gig is almost up, I easily get mired in existential ruminations. Especially while I'm on the transit. The whole methodical repetitiveness of people getting on. Bus stopping. People getting off. People getting on. Bus stopping. It increases the sense of the mundane and of being trapped in an inescapable, inevitable system.

Then I pondered the blank stares of my students after I explain a grammatical concept to the best of my ability, writing clear examples in blue chalk, and then ask, "Hay preguntas? Any questions?" Their faces scream question marks, but what can I do? Explain it again. Give more examples. Do more communicative activities. And I still have to grade their compositions and listen to their pronunciation recordings and . . .

Later on today the grad student grapevine informed me that we'd be getting our results back from comps today. In our boxes (grown-up cubbie holes). At 2 p.m. Imagine the stress of Deal or No Deal without getting to choose a suitcase number. Whatever suitcase is in your box you have to open and live with.

I tore my suitcase open, praying that I didn't have to retake any more than I previously supposed. Relief. I passed everything except for, well, the section I didn't answer. Smile. Somehow, listening to pronunciation recordings isn't so bad.

Teachable Moments

You park. You put money in a parking meter. You go on your merry way.

You come back an hour later. You find a red and white parking ticket stuck on your windshield, flapping in the wind.

But, but I . . . No buts. Moral of the story: Even though you put money in a parking meter, you'll still get a ticket if you don't put it in the right one. As in, the parking meter that corresponds to the spot where you actually, er, parked.

Patriarchs, Prophets and Pick-Ups

Last week, a guy named Moses asked me out. Yesterday, a guy named Hosea asked me for my number. Is it me, or is there a pattern emerging here?

I must have a newly acquired signal which transmits at a frequency that only men who are the namesakes of Jewish patriarchs and prophets can hear. I guess I won't be surprised if some dude giving me the eye sometime soon turns out to be named Zephaniah.

And, only slightly unrelated, but why do I think that "So, what do you do for fun?" sounds like a creep's question? I mean, there's nothing inherently wrong with it. It's just a harmless attempt to find out what someone likes to do. But the sensitive little snob that inhabits a tiny corner of my mind always feels slightly violated when someone asks me that. Maybe violated is too strong a word. It's more like, the snob feels like it's such a pedestrian, sophomoric, unimaginative, predictable, so obviously "I'm trying to pick you up" question. The snob feels that falling back on that question is indicative of a weak game, and automatically garners a thumbs-down boo.

Or maybe I just don't like answering that question because I don't like telling people I don't know about the nerdy/snobby/boring things I like to do.

Anyway, that type of reasoning is why I try my best to keep the little snob shoved away in that tiny corner. If she called all the shots . . . (sigh) nevermind.

Sanity Regained: An Unwieldy, Self-Indulgent Extended Metaphor

Alone, on a sterile, starkly white surgeon's table lies a brain. Usually, one would imagine a brain to be slick and pulsing with brain juice, but this one is dry. Almost shriveled.

Attached to the brain is a little tube which is connected to a glass jar. One wouldn't think that a tube leading from a brain to a jar would have any label at all, but it does. It's labeled "Comps."

The glass jar is full of juice. Considering the circumstances and the surroundings, one would imagine it to be labeled "Brain Juice," but it isn't. It's labeled "Sanity."

Suddenly, someone enters. One would imagine him to be a person donned in latex gloves and a sterile, white lab coat, with a surgical mask around his nose and mouth. But no, it's a young woman in a denim skirt. She's gangly, with puffy hair and a cleft chin. She looks like a grad student. Stealthily, she goes over the the table. She fights the waves of nausea from the sight of a dry, disembodied brain and the unfamiliar, briny odor of the juice. "But I must," she says, and takes out an eyedropper.

Drop by drop, she re-moistens the brain. It takes her an entire week. If a week could have a label, it would read "Spring Break."

The Upside of Down

This will probably not be as funny to other people as it is to me and the people I studied for comps with.

Tuesday was fine, but today was real. Today was where some of us got hurt up. And we still have Saturday to contend with. Well, first, the funny part. We told ourselves that if we got a question that we didn't know anything about, we would start humming the tune to this song from Glory and throw up our hands and say, "I'm out." (This is a great movie, by the way, about the 54th regiment that fought in the Civil War. Fast forward to about 2:28 if you want to skip directly to the song):

Anyway, the way I've gone about this program is non-conventional. The first year I started, I was still working as a teacher, so I took whatever classes I could that would fit into my schedule . . . very few of them literature classes. That's fine credits-wise, but not so great comps preparation-wise. Then I went to Spain over the summer for more credits (which I had to do in order to graduate within a year full-time). Again, that's fine credits-wise, but not so great comps preparation-wise. A month of study in a certain area does not prepare you to take a section of comps in that area. All of that to say that I had to throw up my hands and start humming "Oh my Lord, Lord, Lord, Lord" and deuce out when I looked at the Post-War Spanish Lit section questions today. I was prepared for some of the prose, and it just happened that none of what I was banking on showed up in the questions. I wrote my professor a polite note, apologizing for not being prepared, but affirming that I'd much rather retake the section than insult his intelligence by trying to bluff my way through it.

Instead of feeling devastated, though, I feel weirdly upbeat and unburdened. It's like, okay, I know that I didn't pass this, and I know what I have to do to be ready for the retake. The pressure is off and the uncertainty is over. Saturday is the last day. Lord, I'll be glad when this is over. Mmmhmm . . . Mmmhmmm . . .

Time's Up!

Comps week has officially arrived. This is it.

A series of 9 essay tests. Three sections per day. 90 minutes per section. Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday from 12:00-4:30.

I'm trying to breathe and realize that, no matter what, everything is going to be fine. No one has ever NOT graduated because of comps. In August, I'm walking across the stage. That's the bottom line.

I guess what makes me slightly nervous is the prospect of failure. Though I feel confident about the majority of the sections, there are a couple I don't feel quite as confident about, and I know there is a possibility that I could fail those sections and would be required to retake them. If that were to happen, the cool, rational side of me realizes that it's actually common to fail a few the first time, and that I wouldn't be the first.

But the manic, emotional side doesn't even want to fathom the prospect of failure. I want to pass everything this week and be done with it. Besides, nerds and failure just don't get along that well, even if the nerd will be allowed to retake and eventually pass. Just the idea of failing something makes me feel sick.

But I need to get over it. I need to be confident, trust God, and do the best I can.

All of that to say, if I get sucked under this week, you'll know why. Pray for me!

Apartment Morning

Man sneezes. Man sneezes.
Through cinderblock walls
Throat clears. Baby wails. A Chinese lullaby.
Outside, scraping dragging
Last night they ate grilled.
Throat clears. Nose blows. Faucet on. Off.
Shuffling feet in the morning
Shuffling clothes in the morning
Hangers scrape a screech song in the morning.
Above, trampling bulks. A TV murmur.
Scenes reel in the mind.
Lazy, morning-coated tongue.
Pillows rumpled, blankets tepid
An indifferent red display of now.

Professorial Praise

Part of what makes me a nerd is my deep-seated craving for professorial praise.

Everyone likes to hear "good job." It's how we're wired. However, the professorial praise I crave the most is a particular kind. Although I smile if I get a good grade in any class, what gives me an adrenaline rush is when I get a good grade or a nice comment from a professor who is known to be an ungenerous grader and sparse with praise.

There is a professor I'm taking a class from this semester who is, simply, a genius. He's like the golden boy of the department. He's young, has a diverse educational background, and is passionate about what he teaches. He sets the nerd center of my brain on fire. Like, I eat this guy's class up. I sit right up front and I ask questions and make comments liberally. I know that I may annoy some of my classmates who just want to know what they need to know for the test and nothing else, but oh, well. To me, learning is more than "Just tell me what I need to know and shut up." Anyway, genius golden boy professor is known for being a hard grader.

We got our papers back today. I was afraid to turn to the last page to see the grade because he had just given us this speech about the first paper not being the best one and how we'll improve for the next one. But more than that, I really wanted to impress him and his little preparation speech made me think that he wasn't overly impressed with anyone's work. I breathlessly turned to the last page. Here's what I read: Excelente ensayo, Chantell. Escribes muy bien. Excellent essay, Chantell. You write very well. A.

Be still, my heart.

Impression, Sunrise in March: A Good Sign?

Last year I had a sunflower calendar. Surprise, surprise.

This year I have a Monet calendar. Monet is one of the main artists associated with Impressionism. In fact, there is a painting by Monet which is considered the inaugural Impressionist work. Indeed, the movement's name was taken from the title of this work (in English), Impression, Sunrise.

I used to want to be a painter. An Impressionist painter. I wanted to be Monet. It used to be that I wanted oil paint and canvases for Christmas . . . those are days gone by. But Monet and the idea of wanting to be an Impressionist painter and Impression, Sunrise all have a special place in my heart.

So, how delighted was I to find that the Monet painting featured for this month, the month of comps (next week), and the month of my birthday, is Impression, Sunrise? Very. I like to think that it's a good sign.

Don Miller at the Airport

Most normal people wish for things like finding a $100 bill or a brand new car or a free trip to any city in the world. I wish to happen upon Don Miller at the airport.

It's kind of a quirky wish, but I could see it possibly happening. Like, he'd be on his way to one of his speaking engagements or book signings, I'd be on my way to see a friend or something, and we'd both have a layover in the same city. The great thing is that we'd both have some free time to talk, and I'd have him all to myself. The thing is, while he's famous for his writing and was at the top of the New York Times Bestseller List and all of that, he's not a paparrazzi-hounded celebrity. Like, people wouldn't be swarming around him and taking pictures of him with their cellphone cameras and stuff at the airport. While many people have heard of him and Blue Like Jazz, many people wouldn't recognize him. But I would.

I can just picture it. He's sitting in the airport Starbucks or in some tranquil waiting area reading a book, whiling away time during his layover. Wandering around with nothing better to do during my layover, somehow, I spot him. Is it really him? I tentatively approach.

Me: Um, (clears throat) . . . Don Miller?

Don: (looks up from book, then breaks into a smile) Yes, that's right.

Me: (feels adrenaline rush) I-I always hoped I would meet you here. At the airport.

Don: (chuckles) Is that so? Why don't you have a seat, uh, what's your name?

Me: (laughs nervously) Chantell.

Don: Chantell. That's a pretty name.

I take a seat across from him, not believing that this is actually happening to me. That my wish is actually coming true!

Me: (laughs nervously) Thanks. (pause) I've read all your books.

Don: Even To Own a Dragon?

Me: (looks down shyly) Yes. It's . . . I just love your writing. I read your blog all the time. I have you blogrolled on mine.

Don: Oh, a fellow blogger.

Me: Yeah . . . it's nothing serious. My blog is not nearly as entertaining and insightful as yours . . .

Don: (laughs) I don't know about all of that. I'll have to check yours out sometime. What's the site?

Suddenly, I inwardly panic. If he goes to my blog, he might come across all of the gushy stuff I've written about him in the past!

Thankfully, this is just a pretend conversation. Maybe if I do meet him for real, I'll omit the fact that I have a blog too so he wouldn't discover the depth of my obsession.

The Coolest Music Video I've Ever Seen

This video is so cool . . . like, you want to keep watching it over and over because it looks so cool, and you know it took a lot of time to put it together. Okay, back to lesson plan making. Enjoy!

Snowy Day Fun

The depressing rain turned into falling snow. It was snow that actually stayed, too! I woke up this morning and was delighted to look out my window to see a winter wonderland. Snow is so rare in these parts, I couldn't resist going out to play in it.

Rainy Day Rock

Whenever it rains, I think of this song:



I was scared, I was scared, tired and underprepared, but I'll wait for it . . .

Uncannily reminiscent of comps, that. Aside from depressing me, rainy days also make me want to snuggle up and read. How convenient.

Obama to Congress / Jindal Response

Okay, as busy as I am, I can't resist throwing in my political $0.02 now and then. And if you're reading political commentary from me, you can usually bet that it's going to be, if not pro-Obama, a day or two late.

However, I'm not going to go on and on about Obama's speech. Honestly, it was nothing new. He gave some explanations, some of which was (understandably) defensive, but really, if you're in Congress and you voted against the stimulus bill, there's really nothing at this point that's going to change the ideology that went into your vote. I think the purpose of this speech was more for the American people to see confidence from the President about his plans. My favorite part, though, was when Obama announced he was going to put Biden in charge of an oversight committee because "nobody messes with Joe." Biden's slap-happy showman reaction was priceless:

This still cracks me up. He's like a little kid who finally got recognition from his cooler, popular older brother. Biden is sharp when it comes to admin, but he's nuts. He's a gregarious uncle while Obama is an aloof golden boy. The Odd Couple.

And I can't resist commenting on Jindal's response. I didn't go to super liberal MSNBC. I picked up this baby from sympathetic Fox News (via youTube, of course).

Have you ever seen 30 Rock? There were lots of comparisons with Kenneth Parcell the Page. Personally, I was thinking he was going to ask "Won't you be my neighbor?" at some point.

Honestly, I think Jindal is a sharp guy. He's someone whose politics I generally disagree with, but who I'll listen to because he's highly intelligent and not a reactionary. I was surprised at how canned he sounded. And one last question, WHY would he bring up Hurricane Katrina? (In the full version of his speech, the "story" is about Katrina.)

That's my political $0.02 of the day. Back to my regularly scheduled reading and studying my brains out. I have a midterm today from a professor who is known for being a tough grader. Gulp!

T Minus 2 Weeks . . .

It's coming down to the wire.

I can't complain. I signed up for this thing. I can't say I didn't know what was coming.

It's a little demon that all graduate students must exorcise at some point or another called comprehensive exams, more affectionately known as "comps." For me, it's a set of 9 intense essay tests over a 3 day period that tests your knowledge of basically the whole canon of Spanish and Spanish American literature from medieval up to present day. Oh, and there's a section on linguistics/teaching methodology/history of the Spanish language too.

It's crazy. Every time I look at the reading list, I get weak in the knees because there is no way . . . the task is more than daunting.

It's not like we're expected to have read every single solitary work on the list. But we need to be at least familiar with everything on the list. ::cough::summariesandarticles::cough::

Surprisingly, I'm not freaking out as much I thought I would be. Sometimes I wonder if I should be freaking out more. I've been more serious about getting stuff done, at least. If I keep it up, I should have my bases covered. Even if I fail a few sections, I will have the chance to take them over. But I don't even want to fathom the prospect of failure.

If I can just get through this, the rest of the school year will be beautiful. I may even pick up a part-time job when comps are over because this semester we're not getting paid boo.

**Bonus**
An attempt to answer the million dollar question: "What are you going to do after you graduate?"

I graduate in August. And though I wanted to leave for France as soon after graduation as possible, it looks like it will be more reasonable for me to wait until January 2010 to leave. What that means is that I'm going to have to figure out what to do with myself from August-December. What would be fabulous is if I could stay on as an instructor at Auburn. If that doesn't work out, maybe I could find an instructor position at a college in Montgomery. After that, it'll be on to France for 6 months. After that, I might join the Peace Corps. Or I might go to seminary. Or I might apply to a PhD program. Or I might decide to work abroad. It's frustrating not knowing what I'm going to do. But I'd rather not know what I'm going to do due to an abundance of options than not know what I'm going to do because I've run out of options.

My Ghetto Phone

People nowadays have long since had camera phones. But now, Blackberries are all the rage along with iPhones, and other mp3 player, Internet browsing, built in GPS system phones . . .

My phone is ghetto. Fresh out of the basic phone from 2005 world when AT&T Wireless was still Cingular. Old, played out, scratched up, cringingly behind the times, and just plain, down home, uncompromisingly ghetto. It don't have no camera. Attempting to surf the net on it is like attempting to use a mimeograph machine. The key pad is scratched up. The LCD screen has a few spots of gel which oozed to the surface because it's had more than its fair share of drops. I could easily get a major upgrade and get with the times, but there's something in me that won't let me. I can't give up on my phone. I can't let old girl go.

She's been with me through too much. All the boys (which sounds sort of ludicrous because there have been so few) who managed to get my number since 2005 have called me on this phone. This phone has tasted many tears. It's heard me rattle off pieces of my mind in Spanish. It's been blasted with my bursting laugh. How could I just cast her off for a newfangled bauble, like some sort of despised techno-Velveteen rabbit, when she serves her purposes just fine?

I know the day will come where she'll give up the ghost or become obsolete and I'll be forced to upgrade. But for now, I'm willing to suffer the humiliation of owning her, of constantly seeing her crass, broke down ghettoness stand in embarrasing contrast to slicker, more techno-savvy phones. I just can't let old girl go.

I dunno what it is . . .

maybe it's the remnants of Valentine's Day rolling around in the corners of my mind. Maybe it's the fact that one of my closest friends is planning a wedding. Maybe it's the awareness of babies being born and the sweetness of one falling asleep in my arms.

It's nuts. I mean, this line of thought would be somewhat rational had I, say, at least a significant other. Maybe the fact that comps are looming so sinisterly is causing me to slowly lose my mind. In any case, my red light daydreams lately have been about my wedding recessional song. I know. Nuts.

I want my recessional song to be non-traditional, lovely, spunky and fun. I'm trying to decide between the following (like there's any need to decide any time soon):

"A Thousand Winters Melting" by The Myriad

The chorus is is so LOVEly.

"Godsend" by dcTalk

I had a borderline obsession with dcTalk back in the day, and I've always adored this song.

"What a Wonderful World" by Louis Armstrong

I think this is the happiest song ever.

"I Believe in You" by Il Divo and Celine Dion

I absolutely love Celine Dion's voice, and I LOVE the French part. The song is gorgeous.

And lastly, "Wonderwall" by Oasis

This is only somewhat of a love song, but I like the way he sings "I don't believe that anybody feels the way I do about you now." In my head, the song is about the couple's journey together up to right before the guy asked her to marry him. Okay, maybe that's a stretch. I just like britpop.

Valentine's Day 2009: Letters from the Past

I went to an art activity sponsored by a student organization last night. The picture posted here is the result of a small canvas, an array of oil pastels, and a bit of inspiration. I think of it as my Valentine's Day present to myself.

I'm a sentimental pack rat. The items in my collection range from a box of (now extremely stale) French candies from a handsome Parisian I met during one of my trips abroad to a Christmas card from a guy I had the biggest crush on when I was 16, from stories that I wrote in Kindergarten to letters to the editor that were published in the campus newspaper.

I don't think my sentimental collection habit is extreme . . . I rarely revisit things. I just keep them packed away. To be honest, I have this fantasy that after I'm long gone, one of my great-grandchildren will be rummaging through the attic one day and will stumble upon a box full of cards, letters, journals, pictures, drawings, stories and newspaper clippings and will begin to fit together the little pieces of my life she's discovered.

Among those little pieces are a few warm and fuzzy missives. I'm too self-conscious to post any would-be love letters I've written, but I will post a few excerpts of the sweetest things people have written me in the past. Emphasis on past. I cannot emphasize enough the fact that the ones who wrote these things have since moved on. I'm leaving out any identifying details or clues to how long ago they were written.

* * *

"When we first met, I had no idea that I would feel the way I feel about you now. In the past I may have taken your friendship for granted, but now I'm here wishing that we could be more than friends. I feel like I've searched everywhere for the 'perfect one' but now I see that the perfect one may have been right in front of me all along."

* * *

"You're the most upstanding that I've ever been with. Being with you taught me selectiveness. You are a very good idea of the kind of person I'm looking for. Sometimes, (in the past), I wonder if I ever had an idea of what I was looking for in a woman. I learned that I don't have to 'catch the first one along.' I also learned that intelligence and beauty can be found in the same person! You've been a true friend, talking to me, being my friend, not knowing what/if anything would come of the friendship. I don't know what you think I'm thinking, but I love you, too. I'm doing well, and I hope you are, too."

* * *

"Thanks for not having a 'but.' I suppose it's my insecurity that was making me wait for one, but I don't feel insecure anymore with you."

* * *

"Thanks for your wonderful friendship, keep those beautiful smiles. And a big hug from me to you!"

* * *

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone! A big hug from me to you.

Why I Don't Hate Valentine's Day Even Though I'm Single

I love love.

I know, that's so . . . whatever, but I do. Though there's a part of me that often sees things in hues of blue, I'm still entranced by the prospect of passion.

I'm single. Everybody's getting married, I'm round three for bridesmaid, everyone has a boyfriend, I don't, I'm single, boo-hoo-hoo, blah, blah, blah. I'm single. But I love love. I'm a romantic. Yearning and sighing and hoping and melancholy and optimism and wishing and patience and longing are all a part of it.

This is what I know about me: I'm headstrong, I'm indecisive, I'm impulsive, and I'm emotional. This makes not a good combination when mixed with not the right guy. I feel badly for the guys that somehow got it in their heads that they were interested in me and went for it. Sometimes I feel badly for me when I think of the times that my heart literally hurt. Sometimes I wish things had worked out. But I don't feel badly that thus far, nothing has worked out. Each experience has left me a little wiser and has helped me understand myself a little more and each time I've come a little closer to discovering what it is that I really and truly desire.

This is what I also know about me: I'm young, I'm intelligent, I have a toothy grin, a boisterous laugh, and a lot going for me. I'm hopeful. I'm hopeful that someone, someday will appreciate what I have to offer and will love me in spite of me, and that I will love him, as he is, in return.

Valentine's Day gives me the same sensation that I feel when a child approaches me with outstretched arms. She isn't mine. I have no children of my own. But I can't help but to embrace her.

Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life (Proverbs 13:12).

Just a Really Quick Question

Why do guys use so many sound effects in their conversation?

A "Conservative" Contradiction

The reason I put "conservative" in quotes is because, for reasons I can't exactly grasp, people don't like to call themselves Republican anymore. It's almost like "conservative," and, in the same manner, "independent," have become euphemisms for Republican. I also put it in quotes because I'm using it in the political sense, not in the general sense. Most people would say I'm uber-conservative generally, but definitely left-leaning politically. Now that the preliminaries are out of the way . . .

I just realized this while pondering a conversation I had with a "conservative" who's pretty sharp and into politics as well. On one hand, people say that they are uncool with Obama because he's "all talk and no substance. He says a lot but never gets specific. What does he really stand for?" But in the same breath they'll say, "I don't think Obama's a bad guy, I just don't support his policies."

So, how can you not know what he stands for, but at the same time not support his policies? If he has policies (which you don't support), that means he stands for something specific (which you just happen to not agree with).

I'm definitely not without my own contradictions, so, I mean, I feel you. But I just had a revelation and wanted to share.

And This Is News Because . . .

Okay, so why would somebody write a report on this? Like, seriously? The next headline will be, "President Obama coughs up a loogie." I mean, I could see if he knocked himself senseless or something, but it was "ever so slightly."

I mean, I am a confessed Obamamaniac, so I'm not going to front and act like I don't care to know details about the Obamas. (I especially like reading stuff about Michelle's wardrobe and hair because I think she's a classy lady.) But I'm just wondering why the above-linked was a story on the CNN Political Ticker. I wonder if the reporter who wrote that really felt it was worthy political news. I wonder if he or she took it seriously or if it was meant as kind of a joke. Because I couldn't have done it with a straight face.

Cure for the Pity Partyful

This morning I woke up and immediately I knew it was one of those Saturdays. One of those Saturdays when you know you have a boatload to do and little motivation to do it. One of those Saturdays when, even though the sunlight is filtering in through your yellow curtains, you don't feel that bright, and you feel the weight of contradictions and uncertainty bearing down on you. In that hazy, I-just-woke-up morning light, all you can hear are the sounds of silence and the only thing certain is that you're alone. The perfect ingredients for a pity party.

The only thing about a pity party, though, is that you can only have one by yourself. The focus is solitary and inward, and you and you alone can enjoy a table spread with narcissistic self-obsession. And there's nothing that gets the party going like a tearful call home.

The reasonableness of the cure finally hit home today. I always knew it, but this seems like the first time I immediately did something about it. Why don't you do something to get the focus off of yourself?

So I put a batch of cookies in the oven to bring over to the new pastor and his family, and I invited an exchange student over for dinner. I'm cured! Pity party over. It's not hard to stop thinking about yourself. Because you are outnumbered by other people who could use your mental energy and empathy.

Er, Did I Just Make You a Christ Figure?

I absolutely love this guy in my program. He's part Jew, somewhat Buddhist, somewhat agnostic, completely cynical, and totally hilarious. The main thing we share is our support of Obama and love of rehashing the side-splittingly funny things that tend to happen in Golden Age Lit. However, when it comes to matters of faith we have some obvious disagreement, but interesting conversation.

He expressed to me his dislike of the hypocrisy and pushiness of the so-called Christian Right. I agreed. There's definitely enough hypocrisy on the part of some well-known Christians to go around (Ted Haggard, anyone?), and I could sympathize with his gripes about grandstanding and self-righteous rhetoric, and I conceded that federally funded faith-based programs blur the line between the separation of church and state. But what I tried to get him to understand is that the Christianity that he sees portrayed in the media and in politics is not what Christianity is truly about. I told him that Jesus himself reserved his harshest criticism for the "Religious Right" of his day, the Pharisees, for the same reasons he mentioned.

"So, you're making me a Christ figure? Wow! Thanks. I really appreciate that, Chantell."

Musings on My Boy

All right. So, my boy is dealing with his first big boo-boo RE: The Tom Daschle fiasco. He already used up a little bit of political capital on getting Geithner through (whose tax-forgetting sins weren't nearly as egregious as Daschle's, but still, Treasury Secretary forgetting to pay taxes? Boo.) He couldn't afford to use up any more.

I know he's probably like, "D'oh!" a la Homer Simpson right now because he was really depending on Daschle to get health care reform business underway. Oh, well.

But this is why, though I'm not as starry-eyed about my boy as I was say, after the Democratic National Convention speech, I'm still giving him a thumbs-up:

1. He realizes the importance of the confidence of the American people in government, and he doesn't want to give the impression that people of power are held to different standards than ordinary folk. He ran on a campaign of change and higher standards and transparency, and if Daschle hadn't resigned, the cynicism-meter would've shot up.

2. He actually owns up to his mistakes. And right away. He literally told Anderson Cooper (and a slew of other reporters) that he "screwed up" in allowing the Daschle thing to get this far. He's owning up to his mistakes and is taking responsibility for them. That in itself is a breath of fresh air.


I love the way he says "Look." It's SO Obama. (I also think Anderson is one of the hottest reporters on the news. I love how he furrows his brow and confidently asks tough questions.)

A Quote and a Couple of Links

I saw this "quote of the day" on my Gmail header and liked it:

"Patience is the art of hoping." -- Luc de Clapier

An article I wrote for the latest issue of 90&9:

When Being Right Isn't Enough: Speaking the Truth in Love

Another one I wrote several years ago that's being run just in time for Valentine's Day:

The Quality Woman: What She Wants, What She Will Not Accept, and How to Win Hear Heart

Enjoy!

The Facebook Snob: It's Not You, It's Me

Really. Don't take it the wrong way if I don't accept you as a Facebook friend. I'm admittedly a Facebook snob, and I won't confirm you as a friend unless I know you or have communicated with you in some recognizable way.

It could also be that I do know you, and for that very reason don't want you up in my Facebook business. Not that there's anything juicy to hide. (Seriously. If anything juicy were going down, I would not be posting it on no Facebook.) I just don't want you up in my grill, looking at my pictures, and don't want you to have the power to leave any asinine comments on my wall.

It's not you, it's me. Don't take it personally, m'kay?

February, we need to have a talk.

How dare you get here so fast, February?!

Don't you know that I have a lot of scary things coming up that I feel woefully unprepared for? Arrgh. I want to take you, ball you up into a wad, and fling you back in time. Comps are coming up in March, do you hear me? The second week in March. And you're already a short month! (sigh.)

The only good thing about you is Valentine's Day. Perhaps I have hope of acquiring a few morsels of friendly chocolate? (Since I won't be getting any more-than-friendly chocolate. Hate on Valentine's Day if you're single if you want to, but chocolate's chocolate, youknaaimsayin?)

All right, February. You win. Let's face it, you're already here. No use getting all bent out of shape about it. I guess your coming is an indication that I need to get on the ball. Thanks, February, for putting things in perspective for me. We're still dawgs.

The Handbag Meme

I've been tagged by Jewel over at "Down in My Little Valley" to do this short and sweet little meme. Whenever Jewel tags me with a meme, I always want to do it. I think it has something to do with the homey, comforting feel of her blog. Her blog is like homemade blueberry muffins, fresh out of the oven. Like sipping hot cocoa topped with whipped cream while wrapped in a snuggly blanket, warming yourself by a cozy fire. So, here's my current handbag:

Truth be told, this bad boy cost me nada. Zilch. Bupkis. Nary a cent. It was given to me as a gift by a . . . more well-off-than-me benefactor. I didn't use it for months after it was given to me because, honestly, I'm not really into the hype of brand-names. I was fine with my previously worn street vendor tourist trap purse I bought for 5 euros in Spain:

I switched over because out of the blue, I felt the urge to match my purse to an outfit. Because I normally don't obsess over matching purses and such. I'm a girly girl, but not exactly a fru-fru, everything-must-match girl. Guess I was too lazy to switch back.

But my favorite purse (and the one that gets the most compliments), hands down, is this one:

I got it for two dollars at Goodwill. Sho did. (You better believe I hit up Goodwill. Unashamedly.)

I hereby tag Kim and Shana. Now, I KNOW y'all have some purse stories. ;-)

The Georgia State Trooper Blues

Cue the soundtrack for this post, the oh, so appropriately titled "Trouble" by Coldplay:



Okay. I just dropped my friend off at the Atlanta airport. It's gray, rainy, and depressing. Coldplay songs like this one are rolling through my head. I started out the day with vivacious waves in my hair but because of the blasted depressing rain and humidity, I was already on slumping with matted chunks. I was imagining the confused looks on my student's faces while attempting to explain to them the differences between the two past tenses in Spanish, the preterit and the imperfect. But, why did God create me with a lead foot? Why did I buy a car sans cruise control? Like, how did that happen, as road trip prone as I am?

I'm sure you can guess what happened next. Yep. Got served up a blue light special. Georgia state troopers are quite cunning. The last few speeding tickets I've gotten were in Georgia. And I live in Alabama! At least he didn't write it for speeding in a construction zone, which would have been double. (Yipe! Thank ya Lordy.)

O no, what's this?
A spider web, and I'm caught in the middle,
So I turn to run,
The thought of all the stupid things I've done . . .

Blago is Wacko

I was almost brought to tears laughing this morning after reading about Gov. Blagojevich's impeachment hearings beginning today. He's taken to the TV circuit in the meantime, though, and this is what he had to say about his arrest on the Today Show (according to this article on cnn.com):

"I thought it was actually a friend of mine who was playing a practical joke," he said of his arrest. "Unfortunately it wasn't. And then the day unfolded and I had a whole bunch of thoughts — of course my children, and my wife — and then I thought about Mandela, Dr. King, Gandhi and tried to put some perspective in all of this and that's what I'm doing now."

Like, seriously? Nelson Mandela, Dr. King and Gandhi compared to you getting arrested for trying to profanely sell the Illinois senate seat? Yeeaa—no. But this is when tears sprang to my eyes:

He told ABC that he had been considering many candidates for the position, including TV talk show host Oprah Winfrey.

"She seemed to be someone who had helped Barack Obama in a significant way become president," Blagojevich said. "She was obviously someone with a much broader bully pulpit than other senators."

THAT'S funny. Come on. Oprah as a senator? Even Oprah was floored when she heard that one. It just seems like he's making up outrageous stuff as he goes along to milk as much as he can out of the rest of his pre-impeached life. Man, I needed that laugh.

Prove Me Wrong

These are the lyrics to an ancient song by Caedmon's Call. I forgot how much I love it. Click here to hear it in its entirety.

Prove Me Wrong
Sometimes I fear maybe I'm not chosen
You've hardened my heart like Pharaoh
That would explain why life is so hard for me
And I am sad Esau hated
Crying against what's fated
Saying father, please, is there any left for me
Chorus:
Cast out my doubts, please prove me wrong
'Cause these demons can be so headstrong
Make my walls fall, please prove me wrong
'Cause this resentment's been building
Burn them up with your fire so strong
If you can before I bail, please prove me wrong

I fear maybe this is all just a game
Our friends and our families all play too
Harness the young and give some comfort to the old
(Chorus)
Don't let my doubts prove true
Draw me close and hold me near to you
Keep me still until the day you
(Chorus)

Today God proved me wrong. It never ceases to amaze me when He does. He cares about my concerns and doubts. He knows I'm headstrong, knows I'm a skeptic, knows I'm emotional. But none of that is off-putting to Him. He cares. God, continue to prove me wrong.

My Cabinet Crush in Action

Here's my cabinet crush debating an energy bill June 26, 2008. This is what I'm talking about right here. Tellin it like it is! Authoritatively laying the parliamentary smackdown! I love it when he refuses to yield and I love it when he gets really passionate near the end. Super sexy.

My Cabinet Crush

Okay . . . I'm going to finish this abolitionist-feminist post-colonial Latin American novel in a minute. It's uber-Romantic. Not as in Valentine's Day, but as in the literary movement. Lots of sighs, melancholy, fits of passion, exclamations, rapturous obsession, self-absorption. Kind of reminds me of this blog. Har, har.

Anyway, as I am wont to do, I am briefly procrastinating at Panera Bread before getting down to business. (Free wi-fi. Heard you.) I'm trying to figure out what it is about Obama's Chief of Staff, Rahm Emanuel, that is so appealing to me. He's an incredibly sexy Chief of Staff, but why?

He's got rugged good-looks, distinguished-looking salt and pepper hair, and he's kind of a bad boy. You know, he has a reputation for being brusque and foul-mouthed and sort of thuggish in his approach. This NYT article may be proof that he's cleaning it up a little, which is fantastic, but still, it's got to be more than his hair and his bad boy edge. The power that he wields and the legend that surrounds him is intriguing.

Most of all, I think it's that, when I see a picture of him, something communicates that he's handling it. That he's got it under control, and that whatever he wants done WILL get done. That authoritativeness is what I find attractive about him.

God help the guy I end up with, but whoever he is and wherever he is, he must have a backbone. I want him to have a little bit of, "Honey, I'm handling this." But not too much. Naw.

My Boy Gets Testy

I'm very happy with my new president. I think he's doing the right thing to begin the process to close Guantanamo Bay. Whoever you voted for, I think most can agree that it wasn't exactly the paragon of American justice. I will admit that there is a bit of policy I'm not exactly jumping for joy about (I'm pro-life), but I knew that going in. Anyway, I was trying to think of something I didn't like about my boy specifically. Like if someone said, "Tell me what you don't like about Obama right now, or I'll slash your tires," I'd probably say my boy could work on not getting testy.

When reporters ask him questions that get under his skin, he gets a little testy.

Wanting to be left alone on his vacation:


(It's funny though. He says "just trying to be left alone" almost cheerily. I also think the way he says the word "scripture" is SO Obama.)

On asking about his "change of heart" concerning Hillary (about a minute into the clip):


(I would have hated to have been that reporter. "The fault, dear reporter, is not in your stars, but in yourself, that you are an underling. I dismiss your question with a presidential chuckle.")

On asking about filling Senate seat:


(I would have hated to have been this reporter too. My boy's basically just like "I'm not even gonna let you finish asking it. SEET down." Burn.)

I'll admit it makes me snicker, but ultimately, it's something he could stand to work on. I don't want him to lose his reputation for being cool under fire.

Delight

Just finished my lesson plans for Elementary Spanish II. When one of my students called me Miss Smith the other day, I had a flashback from my former life. The life where I made a little more money and lived in the "real world."

Out of the responses I got in trying to peg the moral of my coat story, the one that gave me the most hope was, "Delight thyself also in the LORD; and he shall give thee the desires of thine heart" (Psalm 37:4). I hereby crown Jewel Queen of Spiritual Implicationdom. lol.

I've heard that promise all my life. It's something I do hold to dearly. It's something that has been fulfilled at various times in my life. And the fact that it has been fulfilled before gives me hope that it will continue to be.

Here I am in my present life. Lowly GTA, pressing towards the mark of the Masters degree, juggling laborious reading and teaching responsibilites, wondering what my next life will entail. I have a couple of ideas swimming around in my gray matter. Well, there's France. I doubt I will follow a classmate's advice to become an existentialist. But after that? I want a change of scene. I could go for the gold (the PhD) as many have suggested I do, and I've even considered going to seminary (UGST), hoping I'll figure something out there. There's so much I could do. But there's a part of me that is craving an ethereal beam of light to illuminate what it is that I should do.

(Points to anyone who can tell what that's a picture of! Hint: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.)

Happy New President Day!

I witnessed a piece of history today. Live. (Not in person, of course, but watching it live is close enough.) I'm glad that I didn't have class or any other commitments today during that time so that I would be able to.

My boy's speech was much more somber than I expected it to be. I suppose he felt it appropriate for his tone to match the gravity of some of the hardships our country is experiencing. I appreciate the fact that he emphasized responsibility and sacrifice, and I feel that he captured the seismic mindset shift of this era with the messages he had for other parts of the world:

"To those leaders around the globe who seek to sow conflict or blame their society's ills on the West, know that your people will judge you on what you can build, not what you destroy.

To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history, but that we will extend a hand if you are willing to unclench your fist.

To the people of poor nations, we pledge to work alongside you to make your farms flourish and let clean waters flow; to nourish starved bodies and feed hungry minds.

And to those nations like ours that enjoy relative plenty, we say we can no longer afford indifference to the suffering outside our borders, nor can we consume the world's resources without regard to effect. For the world has changed, and we must change with it."

The world has changed, and we must change with it.

As a child of the postmodern, I have a tendency to connect the external with my personal experience. Obama's speech, more specifically, his reflection on our country's ideals accompanied with a call for a different approach, made me reflect on my faith.

The world has changed. But the principles that the United States of America was founded upon have remained the same. What it means to be an American has remained the same. The rights and reponsibilities of American citizens have remained the same. But, as Americans, the way in which we respond to the world must.

The world has changed. But the principles of the Word of God have remained the same. What it means to be a Christian has remained the same. The blessings and the responsibilities of being a member of the Body of Christ have remained the same. But, as Christians, the way in which we respond to the world must.

Changing with the world is not, as some fear, disturbing the solid foundations that define us as a people, be it as Americans or as people of faith. Changing with the world means adapting method and mindset without compromising message.

(P.S. To participate in a contest of "spiritual implications," scroll down or click here.)

Happy MLK Day!

An individual has not started living until he can rise above the narrow confines of his individualistic concerns to the broader concerns of all humanity.

--Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

(P.S. Scroll down to participate in a contest of . . . spiritual implications.)

Name That Spiritual Implication!

I'm not usually a person who thinks that every minute thing that happens has a spiritual implication. But in this case, I do. And I'm going to need your help.

The Story

I wanted this coat SO badly. (But in black.) I saw it at New York & CO and fell in love with it. But 1. I didn't need it because I have a couple of other coats, and 2. I need to save my money.

A few weeks later I was at the mall with my dear mom, and saw it again. This time it was 50% off. "Aw, mom," I gushed. "I loooove this coat." I tried it on. I sighed. "But I don't need it."

A few weeks later, I go home for the weekend, and I still have my mind set on that coat. I tell myself that if it's still there and in my size, I'm going to take it as a sign that it was meant to be. I go to both New York & CO's in town. All sold out. Dejected, I look online. None in the color I want in my size. I even called a couple of stores in Birmingham. "Sorry, we're all sold out." I wanted that coat! Waahh! I even cried to dear mom about it. (Not literally. Come on.)

After I finished pouting, I came to the mature, rational, spiritual revelation that I didn't need it. It's a material thing. How could you get upset about not being able to find a dumb coat? You already have more than enough coats. You don't need it. I let go.

Today, before I leave to go back to Auburn, Mom comes home from the mall. I walk in the living room to see The Coat lying on the sofa. In the color that I wanted. In my size. "Mom!" I cried, "How did you . . . where did you get this from?" She calmly replied that she got it from the mall. Apparently, someone had returned one. It was still 50% off, and she got it for an extra 10% off because it was missing a button. It had an extra attached, and she expertly sewed it on for me.

"I don't mean to spiritualize everything," Mom begins, "but I think this has a spiritual implication."

"Yeah, I know! I was thinking the same thing!" I exclaimed, and I began to relate what I thought the moral of the story was.

My Take

Okay, so I wanted this coat really badly. I went all over town, on the Internet, and even called stores in other cities to see if they had it. I realized the vanity of my desire and let it go. But God knows our needs and our wants and He cares. I was trying to do it on my own, but He wanted to show me that He cares so much that He can make things happen once I gave up trying to do it in my own might.

Mom shook her head disapprovingly. She related what she thought the moral of the story was.

Mom's Take

I think it has to do with passion. You were so passionate about wanting to find that coat, weren't you? You went all over town, looked on the Internet and even called stores cities away to try to find one. Well, if you can get that passionate over a coat, you should be that and more over the things of God.

Dear Reader

Dear mom has a point, even though I like my version better. And this is where you come in, dear reader. I'm still convinced that this story has a spiritual implication. I'm less concerned with whose take makes more spiritual sense than I am with whether there is some other deeper interpretation that neither of us considered. (Although you may feel free to judge which one of the already givens makes the most sense if you'd like.)

If I happen to get some interesting responses, I will choose the most convincing and crown the winner King or Queen of Spiritual Implicationdom.

So, have at it. What is the moral of the story to you?

Obama et moi

Oui, nous pouvons!

Taking Care

Okay, this post may edge toward girliness. You've been forewarned.

My priest friend Padre is back in one of my classes this semester. He's really busy and has a bit of a drive to get to class. Our class starts at 6 p.m. and I know he probably doesn't have time to eat anything before getting to class, so I delight in bringing him stuff to eat.

Before class I was all in the kitchen, toasting bread to make a perfect sandwich for him. I also packed him a granola bar, some wheat crackers and a couple of cookies. I was so happy, because I knew he would probably welcome the snack.

I'm sitting here laughing at myself because it seems . . . I don't know, funny that I would be so happy at the prospect of bringing someone food. But I like it. I like doing little things like that. But really, I like the idea of taking care of someone.

Here's where the girly part comes in . . . one of these days, I'd like to have someone to take care of. To do little special things for them. And I suppose I'd like to be taken care of too. Awww. Warm Curious George lavender sunflower chai tea caramel snuggly chocolate chip cookie fuzzies.

What Kind of Muffin Are You?

I found this quiz over at, well . . ."What the Muffin?" How pleasantly appropriate. It turns out that I'm a chocolate chip muffin. Mmmmm . . . .

You Are a Chocolate Chip Muffin

You are an interesting set of contradictions. You are innocent yet bold. Funky yet predictable. You are a bit dramatic and showy. You love attention. And you know how to charm people into giving you what you want. You are very determined and ambitious... but you're also lazy. Success tends to come easily for you. You often "luck out".

What Kind of Muffin Are You?

Blessings (Thank ya)

1. First I was scheduled to teach Spanish 1010 at 8 a.m. I wanted to teach Spanish 1020, and I didn't want to teach that early! Before the semester started, I was switched to teaching Spanish 1020 at 2 p.m. Thank ya.

2. I had a gazillion books to buy for a particular class I'm taking. It just so happens that a classmate of mine who'd already taken that professor lent me all of the books I needed. Thank ya.

3. When stress abounds, my face retaliates unmercifully. This semester is even more stressful, work-wise (taking two classes and teaching one) and program-wise (comps!), but I wake up every morning and am pleased to see a zitless me. Thank ya.

4. My procrastinatory side has taken a backseat this time around. I'm keeping up with class reading and lesson plans, and I've got a good start with preparing for comps. Thank ya.

5. I have some direction about what I'm going to do with myself when this gig is up. I'm excited about the future rather than unsure. Thank ya.

6. The people in my program are so funny and supportive. I had one of the best laughs ever after Golden Age lit today. Tears were running down our cheeks. It's nice to be able to work with a great group of folks. Thank ya.

7. I'm not worried about things as much anymore. Thank ya.

8. Thanks to my little cousin, my Curious George now has a big brother. Thank ya.

I Felt Like Getting Ghetto or How I Can Relate to Rumpelstiltskin

Okay, I have a pretty little watch that has needed a battery for aeons, so I figured I'd handle it while on a random swing by Wal Mart.

I hereby dub the lady at the jewelry counter the most unhelpful jewelry counter lady EVER.

Lady: (mumbling, barely audible, and unconcerned) Canihelpyou.

Me: (Bright and cheery despite her nonchalance) Hi! May I get a new watch battery please?

Lady: (Takes my watch, looks at it briefly, then hands it back) You didn't get this here.

At this point, I'm not taken aback or anything. A while ago, I went to a Wal Mart for a watch battery change, and the person said she couldn't put it in herself, but sold me the battery and gave me the little pop-off tool to do so myself.

Me: Oh, okay. But can you give me something to help me so that I can do it myself?

Lady: No, 'cause you didn't buy yo' watch from here.

Me: (A little perplexed now) What? So, you can't even sell me a watch battery?

Lady: (rolls her eyes and sighs) What kind of battery you need?

Me: (starting to seethe inwardly, exasperatedly blinking) How long have you had this policy? I mean, I've bought a watch battery and had help changing it at a Wal Mart before.

Lady: (unblinking) We had this policy for a while now.

I begin to unsuccessfully pop off the back of my watch with my thumbnail to see what kind of battery I needed. I mean, how many different kinds of watch batteries are there? Fearing a broken nail (which would have increased my exasperation), I stop. I lost hope in unhelpful lady and walked off in search of the toilet paper aisle muttering "This is ridiculous."

I'm usually kind of like 'whatever' about stuff like that, but this time, for some reason, a part of me rose up and wanted to go off on old girl (sans profanity) and demand justice. I felt a rare tide of ghettoness rising up in me. What? I know you ain't talkin to me like you crazy. GIMme that watch battery pop-off thing 'fore I pop off on yo' head, must be crazy talkin' 'bout some "We had this policy for a while" like you can't sell me no watch battery and I'm at Wal Mart. Ol' UNHELPFUL behind.

Though I walked away calmly muttering, deep down inside, there was a teeny-tiny Rumpelstiltskin-esque miniature me stamping her feet, throwing a tantrum, sobbing hysterically, "I WANT MY WATCH BATTERY!"

Okay, it's over. I can officially move on now.

The First Semester of Spanish Spanish Love Song

This semester I'm teaching Elementary Spanish II. Basically, the second half of the Elementary Spanish textbook. After going over the syllabus and going through all of the preliminaries yesterday, I played this youtube clip for my students before they left and said, "I hope you guys learned more your first semester of Spanish than this poor guy." If you've ever taken any Spanish, you will completely relate, because this is actually the kind of stuff you learn to say first starting out. It's HILARIOUS. And his awful prounciation makes it even funnier. My favorite line is when he sings, "No remembro how to say eleven." Enjoy!

Don Miller: Speaking Something into Nothing

So, I'll add this blog post to the litany of reasons I love Don Miller. Here's an excerpt from the post that spoke to me the most:

I often find myself thinking complaints about life, about business or politics or relationships. Anymore, though, when I complain, I am starting to realize that, in part, every ounce of nothingness in life is my fault, because I always have the ability to speak something into it, to create a different reality. A theory that life is meaningless is just an excuse not to try. It’s safe. It’s risk free. It may end in ruin, but it is a ruin we can control, and we know with certainty what will happen. We will be bored. Or worse.

Reading this is such an encouragment to me on the day I head back to Auburn. The day I resettle into my grad student life, rife with work and stress and wondering. But it could be a life of productivity, learning, discovery and opportunity. It all depends on how I choose to view it.

Despite my procrastinatory nature, getting work done has always happened for me. Making the grade, acing the test, all the nerdy brick and mortar things that go along with being successful in school have happened for me. But the hardest thing for me to do is to change the way I think. It's confounding that mindpower has been one of my greatest assets, but also one of my greatest limitations.

I realize that there are many circumstances beyond our control. But I'm tired of letting those things be my excuse to sit idly in resignation. I'm tired of letting them be my excuse to not even try. I can't_____, because I'll just end up being disappointed. That's garbage. Like Don Miller said, that type of thinking is safe and risk-free which = controllable and certain. Even if it sucks, it's a suckiness you're comfortable with. I don't want to be that way anymore.

I have the ability to speak something into nothing and to create a different reality.

New Year

2009. Newly waltzed into my life, ladened with great expectations, promising a sharper sense of direction, intoxicating all in its path with the romance of beginning. Of starting. Afresh. Anew.

Have you ever been presented with a word or a phrase or an image repeatedly in random contexts and wondered if there was any greater meaning behind it? Take, for instance, "argyle sweaters." The first time, I was laughing heartily at my having conjured the image of a leering old man donning an argyle sweater in my lament over attracting weirdos. Next, I was presented with a description of a college classmate wearing an argyle sweater in Barack Obama's memoir, Dreams from My Father. Then, a rather stylish lady from church comes over in a sweater quite similar to one I own, and even though the brand was different from mine, "It's the pattern," she said. "Argyle. It's that argyle pattern." Argyle. Why has the image of argyle sweaters dominated my mindscape lately? Is there some kind of cryptic, celestial, spiritual message behind which I will uncover my ultimate destiny? Must I crack the argyle sweater code to get a glimpse of what 2009 will bring?

I've settled on a New Year's Resolution. I used to be hardcore and would draw up a dutiful list, but in recent years, I've slimmed it down and turned the focus from checklist/task-oriented to big picture/state of mind-oriented.

I will trust God.

Simply put, yet deceptively difficult to do. Or is it actually deceptively simple? Why is it so hard to convince myself that God knows what He's doing? It seems like a no-brainer. Omnipresent, omniscient, omnipotent being versus a temporal conglomeration of cells. Which would you rather trust? Common sense says go for the being. But the conglomeration is exasperatingly stubborn.

Maybe this is it: I'm used to seeing Him through my life. Good things happen = Good God. Bad things happen = Mean God. I don't know what's happening = Silent God. I have to switch that around and starting seeing my life through Him.

I need God. I'm reminded daily in whispering ways of my insurmountable need for Him. My need for Him has never changed. But my point of view must.

Happy New Year, everyone!

Tours

In the swirling tide of uncertainty that is my life, there has been a rare emergence of certainty which, I must admit, is quite thrilling.

I'm going to France.

I got an email today detailing my assignment at a language institute in a city called Tours. I did a quick Internet search (with the ubiquity of Google, it's impossible not to) and found that it's an hour by train from Paris, and that the French spoken in that region is widely considered the purest, devoid of any distinguishable accent. Like "Walter Cronkite" English, but French.

I'm excited, but why is there is still a niggling worrywart in my brain that, despite my most earnest pleas, won't shut up? There's the question of when I'll go . . . right after graduation or work for a few months, and then go next January? The romantic in me wants to go ASAP. Carpe diem, my twenties are slipping through my fingers like sand, all that jazz. Go west, young woman! But the pragmatist in me is rolling my eyes, reminding me that I don't want to go there broke and neither do I want to come back broke. It might do me some good to move back in with the rents after graduation, find a fair-to-middlin job for a few months, and save some money while paying off some graduate school-induced debts. It basically comes down to a question of whether I want to spend Christmas 2009 or my 28th birthday in France. (My 27th is coming around the mountain. At least I look 10 years younger, according to some.)

I have a sinking feeling the pragmatist will win. She usually does. The romantic gets her hopes dashed too easily. C'est la vie.

There are a litany of other things concerning next semester that the worrywart keeps rattling on about, but I'm learning that my best bet is to ignore it, trust God, and keep it movin.

Christmas was fabulous, my little cousins are darling, and I forgot my blasted USB cord to upload pics. Ah, well. I shall enjoy my last week of freedom before the new semester descends.

Thanks, Old Crazy Man

I've posted previously about how I attract weirdos.

I've decided that instead of lamenting it, I should embrace it. When life hands you lemons, make lemonade.

Today, while wandering around the porcelain/dinnerware section of JCPenney, I saw a middle-aged man giving me the eye. Oh, brother.

A few minutes later, he approached me, staring at me the whole time. He stopped right beside me. I acknowledged him with a curt "Hello."

He smiled and said, "You sure are beautiful," and then walked away.

Aw, thanks, old crazy man. That was sweet.

I Would've Voted for Colin Powell

What I especially like about Powell's remarks is his critique of his party's tendency towards polarization during the latter part of the election.

Of course, the tendency towards polarization is not somehow limited to the GOP--else, some Dems wouldn't have flipped out over Obama's choice of Rick Warren to lead the invocation at his inauguration.

My point is that "us-versus-them" is tired, antiquated, and resonates with few in the 21st century. And this goes beyond politics. It impacts the Body of Christ as well.

What do I mean? This article does a wonderful job of explaining how politics impact church:

The Future of the Apostolic Movement: The People of (Political) Principles

Attention Tension

There's usually disappointing yet entertaining tension present between who I'd like to notice me and who actually does.

Who I'd like to be noticed by
Good-looking guys
Professorial-looking guys
Philosophical-looking guys
Tall, bespectacled guys with Colgate smiles
Dashing older guys
Intelligent, bookish, witty guys

Who notices me
Grizzled, lewd garbage men
Old Mexican waiters who have the audacity to ask for my number
Way-too-young boys who have no clue how old I really am
Weird guys with glazed over eyes who stare and make awkward jokes
Guys who must think "Pssst, ey gul" is actually going to make me stop and walk up to them
Crusty guys in argyle sweaters hunched over a latte, leering from a solitary table

I wonder: Is it in my stars or in myself?

My Boy and Rick Warren

My political commentary always comes a few days late. I guess I do it so that I don't have to give an involved recap of what the hubbub is all about. I can just assume everyone's heard it over and over already so that I can just calmly place my $0.02 in the can without too much ado.

So, yeah, Obama chose Rick Warren of mega-church, The Purpose Driven Life fame to deliver the invocation at his inauguration. (Okay, okay, I'll include a link to the left-leaning Huffington Post just in case you missed out, here. It's worth the read because it covers how seriously people are flipping out, and provides other links afterward that offer a variety of points of view on the issue.) Ultra liberals are pitching hissy fits (or if you were a Southerner, you might say "conniption fits") because of controversial stuff Warren has said about gays, and how DARE Obama choose such a bigot to lead a prayer at the inauguration!?

This is why I am head over heels for my boy. He is not afraid to take heat from his base. He is down with reaching out to people whose views are contrary to his own. He knows that alienating evangelicals is political suicide, no matter what the most liberal wings of his base say. He understands the value of dialogue and recognizes the emptiness of rhetoric.

There are more shrewd, less idealistic observers who say that Obama's move is nothing but a bit of calculated political theater. Okay, granted. I won't count that out as a part of his motivation. He is a politician, after all. It's not like Rick Warren saying a prayer at the inauguration is some sort of conservative Christian victory. I'm sure Obama's peeps have got Rick on lock—he won't be able to go one millimeter off script. I understand all of that.

But what's giving me the warm fuzzies is the fact that Obama signals an openness to foster relationships with those outside of his bubble. What makes me swoon is the fact that Obama represents a break from the old guard, us-versus-them politico. What gives me butterflies in my stomach is that he's not afraid to push the envelope with his own folks.

The poor guy can't win for losing can he? To some, he's the most liberal incarnation of humankind with shady associations and a dearth of experience, and to others he's now a panderer to bigots and wing-nuts. But you know what? My boy remains unfazed.