The King of Pop

Fan or no fan, you must admit that Michael Jackson was a pop icon of international fame whose death sent shockwaves throughout the world.

One of my earliest memories is singing "Say, Say, Say" by Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney as a 2-year-old. It was immortalized on tape. Not even videotape. That was even before camcorders. Cassette tape.

More than feeling shocked, I felt sad. Imagine living the majority of your life under the glare of the public eye. He will be missed. I present to you my 2-year-old jam. All alone, I sit home by the phone, waiting for you, baby, baby.

US Beats Spain in the Confederations Cup!

I'm not much of a sports fan, but this is unheard of.

Spain is ranked number one in the world in soccer. The US, frankly, sucks. We don't even care about soccer on this side of the pond. And everywhere else, they call it football. Our football they call 'American football.' Anyway.

My super Spaniard professor was getting soccer updates via his laptop while a few classmates gave their final presentations. Way to multitask.

I have a special little place in my heart for soccer because the first time I studied abroad in Spain, my host brother would let us watch nothing but soccer on TV. I learned to appreciate it and fell in love with the goalie for Real Madrid, who is also the goalie for the Spain team, Iker Casillas. He's quite a looker, but I know he's got to feel bad for not being able to block a couple of American shots.

The last time I was in Spain, last summer, Spain had just won the Euro Cup. And it was an astronomical deal. My first day there I wore my España t-shirt around town, and I elicited random chants of "España!" from folks on the street because people were that stoked.

But now, ay, ay, ay. The US is like the worst team to get beaten by. Here's to underdogs!

This is what happens.

I'll just be sitting there, or just standing there, when suddenly, the weight of things that have happened in the past, their implications, my position at the time, the awkwardness, the embarrassment, the wondering what I was doing in that situation, the disbelief that I actually existed there, will all come collapsing into the pit of my stomach at once. And I'll sit there, or stand there, transfixed, mentally wishing it away but being oddly drawn to ponder it at the same time. I relive it while wishing it never happened. But do I really wish that? You can't cherry pick. It's an interconnected web. If you wish one thing didn't happen, you'd have to be willing to unlive all the causes and effects connected to it. Like when you pull a thread. I don't like that thread sticking out. I wanna get rid of it. But pull it, and it undoes more than just itself.

Reaching into my brain . . .

Awaking from a hard-slept post 4 o'clock nap to a 9:30 world. Amazed that the helium balloon from my birthday still exists. It used to float around, but now it just hides under my dinette set. Father's Day. Oh, Father's Day. And to realize I lack the least of things, a card. I'm envisioning a nearly empty, picked over WalMart card section. Last-minute Father's Day card buyers as the vultures to the Father's Day card carrion. Obsessed with Beyonce's "Halo": It's like I've been awakened / Every rule I had you breakin' / It's the risk that I'm takin' / I ain't never gonna shut you out . . . I guess that's to my undiscovered angel. I can see his halo, halo. I can see his halo, haloooo. The cynic in me would rather "nonexistent angel," but I'm telling it to shut up. And my heart sinks when I'm reminded of the mean-eyed compositions that lie dormant, ungraded in my NPR bag. Ah, who cares that you listen to NPR? They're just a buncha liberals. Did you know that Obama's a secret Muslim Islamo-fascist-Marxist who wants to gay marry baby killing trees? Right. And that brings me to my red pen. Yes, that's why my compositions remain ungraded. My red pen needs a break after massacring the last exams. Friending me on Facebook does not get you extra credit, buddy. And leaving quasi-flattering messages on my wall in semi-grammatical Spanish doesn't do the trick either. And I love the funky clogs you bought me, Auntie. It's just that one of them creaks when I walk. It's one of those things you don't discover until you're walking down a long, silent hall.

Email Chatter

Wednesday - June 17, 2009 10:51 AM

From: The Boss

To: Grad students

Subject: Meeting today canceled

Dear all,

Today's meeting is canceled. But I still need blah, blah, blah . . . .

Wednesday - June 17, 2009 11:00 AM

From: me

To: My hilarious Buddhist/Jewish/semi-agnostic buddy

Subject: RE: Meeting today canceled

Buddy, why are you shouting hallelujah and dancing? I didn't know you converted to Pentecostalism!

Wednesday - June 17, 2009 12:15 PM

From: My buddy

To: me

Subject: RE: Meeting today canceled

HA HA HA . . . How did you know?! I was on the floor writhing in joy.

Simple Math

Name: Smartgirl Procrastinatus Date: June 16, 2009

Math Quiz

Solve the following equations using the correct order of operations.

1. shower + new razor = legs that would make a baby's butt proud

2. taking a class + teaching / five week minimester = 0.0patience

3. wheat crackers * spinach and artichoke cream cheese = delicious²

4. 2/5(book I was supposed to read) + 2(pg.paper) - desire to do it = forehead smack

5. single girl - suitable guys who exist in her vicinity = helpless shoulder shrug

6. 15(exams)(ungraded) + red pen = ink bloodbath

7. 8 o'clock class - sleep = trainwreck

8. (cap + gown)(stage + diploma) = 10August + 2Excited

This Is What I Wish . . .

Oh, boy. Brace yourselves. If this post were a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, let's just say a lot of peanut butter and jelly may come squishing out of the sides once you bite down on it.

I wish someone would work for me. Jacob style (Gen. 29:20). Someone that wouldn't give up even if something sucky happened (like Jacob getting the switch flipped on him a la Gen. 29:21-28).

I guess I can be kind of too much for folks. It's not that I'm mean and demanding or anything. Actually, I'm pretty nice. I'm generally conciliatory and willing to give most decent guys a chance. But I think some combination of the following usually ends up happening (that is, if I haven't already abandoned ship or not even allowed the ship to dock in the first place):

1. Aw, she's a nice girl. Got a good head on her shoulders and all of that.

2. Uh, oh. She freaks out a little too easily for my taste. Will she just relax?

3. Oh, great. She's crying profusely over something like this? Yikes.

4. Hmm. She's kind of particular about stuff . . . Who does she think she is?

5. Ouch. That really deflated my ego. I don't know how much more of this I can take.

6. (Sigh.) And now she can't make up her mind. Why did I even bother?

It's enough to make some guys say "deuces" and call it a day.

I need someone to work through my idiosyncrasies, indecisiveness, contradictions, emotional nature and overblown expectations (think: Rugby player vs. Bird watcher). Someone who is willing to take abuse from my dad (because, let's face it, even though I'm almost looking 30 in the eye, only daughters aren't easily given up). Someone who knows what he wants (think: Signing the check for a down payment vs. Window shopping). Someone who's got his stuff together (think: Teacher who already has lesson plan done and copies made in plenty of time vs. Teacher who is fumbling around trying to find some activities to do and class is in 5 minutes). Someone who isn't intimidated by me (think: Asking to speak to the manager vs. Pulling two hairs out of your tacos, shrugging, and commencing to eat them). Someone who is willing to do whatever it takes to win me.

My grad school buddies would probably think that last sentence sounds medieval. People who don't know me well may think it sounds rather haughty. But I'm just being for real. I need a brave, persistent dude.

Sweetly Odd Compliment of the Day

Walking down the militaristic, bleak halls of the Haley Center, I try to brighten things up by at least saying hi to people. I said hi to a lady, walked past her, and then on my way back to the office, ran into her again.

Lady: My, you have such beautiful posture! Are you a dancer?

Me: (flattered, but slightly thrown by the randomness) Um . . . no ma'am.

Lady: Well, you sure look like one.

Me: Oh, well, thank you!

I mean, it was sweet and brightened up by day, but kind of odd and random.

How to Shut an Arrogant Guy Up

Smartgirl had already made plans to have lunch with a friend after church. Arrogantguy waltzes in, unannounced (Smartgirl hadn't heard from him for the longest. He had been "busy."), and after church demands that she join him for lunch.

Arrogantguy: Hey, do you wanna join me and Otherpeople for lunch? We're going to Aplace.

Smartgirl: Aw, sorry, Arrogantguy, I already have plans.

Arrogantguy: (sighs) Are you going with Afriend? Just have dinner with her later!

Smartgirl: I can't. I already told her I couldn't last night because I had to get some stuff done, and she's doing something later on today.

Arrogantguy: No, you're coming to Aplace with us. Just tell her church got out late and you forgot.

Smartgirl: Um, that would be lying. (To others.) Listen to this guy! He's so arrogant. Just expecting people to drop their plans to accomodate his. (To him.) How dare you ask me to lie? And in church? With a suit and tie on?

Arrogantguy: Just come! Just tell her you can't. You're coming.

Smartgirl: (teasingly) So, are you saying you won't have fun without me?

Arrogantguy: (flustered, trying to maintain his macho facade) Um, er, no . . . I . . .

Smartgirl: All right, then. You don't need me to come.

Arrogantguy: (speechless)

Hair looking like ____________.

The video store guy saw me at my worst today when I went to return the movie. Part of me wanted him to be there because I think he's cute, but the other part of me didn't want him to be there because today my hair was looking like whodunit n' whut fo'.

I furtively tried to slip the movie in the slot and leave unnoticed, but as soon as he saw me he lit up with a megawatt smile. I sheepishly smiled back and immediately deuced out. No small talk. My hair!

Aww, I love you, video store guy. You smiled at me despite my hair looking like it resisted arrest and got tasered.

Taken

When I get off the plane in Paris and a cute guy asks if I'd like to share a taxi to save money, I'm going to say NO. Think I wanna end up kidnapped by Albanian gangsters? Shoooot . . . muss be kerzy.

Hiromi

I like jazz, but I don't claim to be an aficionado or anything. However, I am simply mesmerized by the performance of this young lady. To say she's passionate is an understatement. The expression of absolute bliss and complete rapture on her face while she plays grows to a nearly religious fervor when she finishes off this song with her solo. She's in precise, skillful control yet completely untethered at the same time. She and the piano have become an organic whole.



Strangely, her performance reminds me or what happens each time the Spirit of God completely washes over me. I'm completely in control, yet completely given over in ecstasy to Something greater, more profound and more complex than my mind can conceive. And the ability of my mortal, temporal, finite, limited existence to come into contact with Infinity is dynamic.

We cannot grasp God. We can't hold His essence in our hands. But He gives us conceivable things like music, that, in bewildering ways, symbolizes His nature. Who He is. How He functions. How we are a part of His symphony. Or His jazz band.

Say What?

What did the girl who just submitted an abstract and a working bibliography for a yet to be written paper to possibly be presented at a theological symposium if she finishes it who just put a pan of Toll House Ultimate Peanut Butter Cups, Chocolate Chips and Chunks cookies in to bake say?

"In tha buildin!  Yezzir."

I Love the Video Store Guy

I think the video store guy is cute.

Every time I go in there and he's in there, we have a smile fest. And one of the first things I notice is people's teeth. His are quite straight.

This time I got Taken (since I'm going to le France très bientôt). I said "Helluuu" again when I walked up, and when he saw my selection he said, "This one is really goo-oood." I giggled.

Then he said, "Did you find everything you were looking for?" Mmhmm. I just smiled and nodded. Then he asked if I needed a bag. Really? For one DVD? I declined.

'Til we meet again, O video store guy.

I'm such a nerd.

Journey through the Sticks

I love my little bro. He better be glad I love him. Else, I wouldn't have taken a 3 hr+ journey through the sticks to see him. What's crazy is that people kept asking if we were twins. Um, really? I'm 4 years older than this dude.

Anyway, I was amused by the names of podunk towns on the way that I didn't know existed. Locust Fork. Pinson. Tarrant. Oneonta. How do you even pronounce the last one? Then, a few signs on Highway 79 actually read "Hiway 79." Oh, Lord. Then I passed this little convenience store called "Hicks Poor Boy Store." Really? And then I saw a sign for a dirt road called "Hog Walla Holler." I'm not making this stuff up.

Even though I'm not Alabama born and bred, it still annoys me when I'm confronted with the worst Alabama stereotypes from non-Alabamians. But then, I realize that the reason why stereotypes are stereotypes is because they are partly based in truth.

Perezosa

Many times, while pondering, while going to my special place in space, I ask myself: How did I get this far with such reluctance to get things done?

It's déjà vu.  How many strains of senioritis are there?  I had high school senioritis.  Then I had college senioritis.  Then I had job senioritis.  Now I have grad school senioritis.  You'd think I'd have built up immunity by now.

I want to eat something greasy and unhealthy, but I'm too lazy to go out and get it.  Isn't that laziness squared?  Too lazy to go out and get lazy food.

Guess I'm doomed to leftover stir-fry.

Post-Class Naps Have the Crazy

I came home after a long day of class and a mind-numbing meeting (you know those kind of meetings where people feel compelled to tell tangentially related to the matter at hand anecdotes and bring up all kinds of paranoid "what if's"?  Finally, I whispered in a valley girl voice to a co-conspirator next to me, "Like, what if we're in class and someone's head explodes?  Like, what do we do then?"  Then in a calm voice, "Well, first you need to call someone to help you clean it up, then you determine if the student survived the head explosion . . . ").  As soon as I stepped into the door I collapsed into bed and died for a few hours.

I realized that those kind of sleeping sessions produce the most bizarre dreams ever.

Why did I dream about a seasoning packet that, if added to ground beef, would produce creamy, bacon-filled meatloaf?  It was called something like "Creme brulee alfredo with bacon."

Why did I dream about a boy missing an arm with somewhat deformed legs watching people play soccer through a tinted window who stood up and introduced himself as something very bizarre like "Wildorf"?  Why did I then realize he was actually somehow a world-class soccer star and ask him why he wasn't playing?  Why did he then show me his armless stump?  Why did I then counter with, "But you don't need hands to play soccer"?

Why did I dream that I arrived at my apartment at the same time this girl from my program was about to go in and that I asked her where did she get a key from, and she mentioned she got it from some other girl that I didn't know had a key?  Why did she bring in bags of groceries?

Freud would have had a field day with me.

Psalm 23, Gangsta Style

The Lord is all that, I need for nothing.
He allows me to chill.
He keeps me from being heated
and allows me to breathe easy.
He guides my life so that
I can represent and give
shouts out in his Name.
And even though I walk through
the Hood of death,
I don't back down
for you have my back.
The fact that you have me covered
allows me to chill.
He provides me with back-up
in front of my player-haters
and I know that I am a baller
and life will be phat.
I fall back in the Lord's crib
for the rest of my life.

--from The Hip Hop Prayer Book

Feelin'

that blood rush laced with adrenaline

that stomach lurch which stings the armpits

that brain twist which loops the to-be-forgotten on eternal instant replay

that tooth grind which functions as futile mental exorcism

that eye burn which knows sleep too late and wake too soon

that heart rap laced with hope.

This Just In . . .

wheat crackers + sundried tomato & basil cream cheese = Mmmmm!

The Cutest Sunday School Lesson

Okay, granted, I didn't come up with it, I just followed the lesson in the Toddler literature, but what we did today was ridiculously cute.

The lesson was on baptism.  "Does anyone know what happens when someone gets baptized?" I asked.

"Yeah.  It's when you get in that bathtub and hide in the water."  Ah, priceless.

I brought a plastic bin filled with water along with a little furry bear and a little furry rabbit to represent Paul's "friends."  He asked them if they had ever been baptized in Jesus' name or received the Holy Ghost.  I made them shake their heads and say "Uh-uh."  They all erupted in laughter.  Then Paul asked them if they wanted to get baptized in Jesus' name and receive the Holy Ghost.  Then they nodded their heads and said, "Uh-huh!"  Laughter again.  Then I commenced to "baptize" them in Jesus' name in the plastic bin.   And afterward they danced around and were happy.  (Acts 19:1-7 for the non-toddler version.) Of course, every one else got a chance to baptize Paul's friends, too.  

Their snack was milk and cookies and, naturally, we "baptized" our cookies in the milk.

After the lesson was over, a mom met her little boy at the door and asked what he did in Sunday School.  He said, "We bap-a-tized a wabbit."  

My little Sunday School teacher wanna-be mom heart filled with warm fuzzy feelings.

Dreary

It's the only way to describe this Saturday.  93% chance of rain.

Coffee: 2nd cup, caffeinated, creme brulee creamer.  Pretty good.

Scrambled eggs with no cheese: So-so.  At WalMart.  My mind on at least a quarter pound of white American cheese from the deli, only to happen upon hairnetted women spraying the display cases with off-brand Windex.  But, but when do you normally close?  9 o'clock.  It was 8:45.

Croissant: Warmed up for too long in the microwave.  Grrrr.

Just realized: I left a tub of way too creamy hummus in my lunchbag.

Missing: My pseudo-housewife (or rather, a housewife with no kids) life before the summer session started.  Sleeping in leisurely.  Long, leisurely showers.  Doing lunch with a friend every day.  Going shopping often.  Reading non-school related things for enjoyment.

Pondering: The feast or famine phenomenon in my life.  Either I have a whole bunch of stuff due every day, or nothing to do at all.  Either I have dudes sweating me and jamming up my inbox with text messages, or not a peep from a single male soul.  People simply blowing up my phone, or a disconcertingly silent phone.  Rushing around or watching the minutes tick by.

To-do: Work on a series of short stories for Sunday School literature.  Read for my Contemporary Spanish Lit class.  Prepare my Sunday School lesson for tomorrow.  Write some semblance of an abstract for a paper I want to present soon.  Write a survey for Spanish-speaking people who want to take an ESL class given by a church wanting to start a Spanish ministry.

Discovered: Some seriously back in the day cassette tapes that make my heart spread with warm fuzzy liquid nostalgia of lovely sunshine times.

Funny: That I still own a machine which can play cassette tapes.

Heard on NPR: That Bob Dylan proposed to gospel singer Mavis Staples long ago.  She turned him down.  She later regretted it.

On the Morrow

Aaack.  I'm back.

Tomorrow morning I will have to wake up at the crack of the oogliest ungodly hour and splash myself with coffee so that I can be coherent for the 8 o'clock I'm teaching this session.  

But I'm ready to be back in the saddle.  I also found out that there's no 20-pager for the class that I'm taking from a prof who is notorious for 20-pagers.  The Lawd is good and the devil is a liya. 

I've also got a little writing project in the works (well, more in the brain at this point) that I'm excited about that I'll expound upon later.  

For now, I'm going to make my little chicken salad croissant for lunch tomorrow and get my hiney in bed so that my alarm doesn't sound while I'm in the middle of deep sleep.  I'd much rather it go off while I'm in REM sleep so that I'll wake from whatever bizarre dream I'm wont to have.

Come on bring it, 5-week mini-mester.  Yeah, thas right.  Say it to my face and see what happen.

The Church Girl: Sermon Review

Helluuu, this is your friendly neighborhood church girl checking in with a review of last night's home church sermon. Where she attends as grad student girl, there's only one service, so she usually spends her Sunday nights procrastinating on papers and lesson plans, leisurely sipping lattes at Starbucks reminiscing about the old days with friends. But last night, oh, no. Last night she was under the spout where the glory comes out. Youknaaimsayin? She was up in the House of the Lawd (even though her inner critic silently reprimands every hard core "House of the Lord" proponent because the church is not a physical location and insisting that there's a certain place to meet with God causes people to compartmentalize their relationships with Him). She wasn't simply in church. She was havin' CHUCH. And on top of that, it was HOME chuch. Aww, shucks.

To be honest, church girl, although a church girl, has a very discriminating sermonic palate. When it's of the heavy breathing with "ah" added at the end of every word variety, i.e. Lemme tell you-ah, Jesus-ah wants to save your soul-ah! Her brain goes out to play in the meadow. When it's of the repetitive, cheerleading variety, i.e. Let's have revival! How many of you really want revival? Revival ain't on it's way, revival is now! Her brain starts dancing around the maypole with other wandering brains. But when it's of the innovative variety that surprisingly sla-DAPS her in the solar plexus, yeah, you guessed it. Aww, shucks.

Jacob and Rachel and Leah. Rachel was pretty, Leah was oogly. Leah really wanted Jacob's attention and love. Even when Leah started having a horde of kids (sons at that), Jacob was still like whatever. Poor Leah. (Genesis 29:16-29:35, for those interested.) With the first 3 children she had she named them focusing on Jacob. They had something to do with hoping to win his favor. Maybe this time my husband will love me. Oh, maybe this time my husband will love me. But the fourth child, she named Judah, which means "praise." This time she simply said "Now I will praise the Lord." It had zero to do with sweating Jacob. She had totally changed her focus from her problem to God. I had heard and read the Jacob-Rachel-Leah dysfunctional love triangle story a gazillion times, but never heard this particular take on it.

It was so beautiful to me and struck me, almost melancholically. A slice of me felt I was doomed to continue focusing on my lack of fill-in-the-blank and to continue thinking I can just escape by doing things and going places. I'd like the answer to be complicated and involved and adventurous and dramatically revealed. But it's a simple personal mental exercise. Changing focus. It's the answers we already know that affect us the most.

That was your review of "When Praise Was Born" by your friendly neighborhood church girl.

The Critic

Usually, Shakespearean tragic heroes have one tragic flaw that lends to their downfall.

I couldn't have been one, not only because I'm a woman and my part would have been played by a boy anyway, but because I have so many tragic flaws that I never would have been a hero in the first place. Ahem.

There are lots of things that bother me. There are lots of things that I don't like. There are lots of things I don't think are good ideas. Add to the mix a smartypants attitude and an arsenal of words with which to convey a variety of shades of disdain, and you have me at my worst. A snobby critic. A critical snob. A snobical crit.

When I go into snob-critic mode, my mouth becomes disembodied from my face and goes on pessimistic, snarky autopilot. How un-nice. At the time, I think I'm right and witty. Later, I think I would have done better keeping my piehole, if there is such a thing, cerrado.

Here's something I'm learning: It's not always worth it. You have to pick your (verbal) battles. If people want to think something I don't agree with, they still have the right to think it, don't they? I'm not the thought police. I'm learning how appointing myself to the position of enlightener isn't always the best idea. It usually ends up causing contention more than it does fostering dialogue. The only thing that is advanced are hot puffs of exhaled air.

For example, I think doorknocking is outdated. To people who read this and don't come from a conservative, Evangelical background, that's going door to door inviting people to your church. A la Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses. I think it worked in 1950s America when John and Martha would drop by uninvited to Glen and Susan's for casserole and apple pie, but now it's just an opportunity for folks to get annoyed and/or mistake you for Jehovah's Witnesses. (No offense to Jehovah's Witnesses.) People barely know their own neighbors nowadays, and an uninvited knock on the door is usually cause for slight alarm. Unless you're a Girl Scout with cookies in tow.

What I feel is more effective (and what people would be more likely to want to get involved in) are activities that demonstrate your church's involvement in the community—Blood drives, free car washes, setting up a booth at a city-wide activity, volunteerism, health fairs—stuff that says "I am contributing to and am a part of the community that I am trying to reach as a member of the Body of Christ" rather than "Here's a tract, hope to see you in service."

You see what I mean? Although I think I have valid, productive points, the disembodied snark mouth can express this and it come across like a negative smartypants meanie head. I guess I'm still learning how to get my point across without critique being the centerpiece of my statement.

An Exercise in Hypothetical Futility

Why he likes me (if he did, if he existed)

1. I cut him down to size, but give him just enough ego-boost to want to be around me.  Since he's handsome, he's used to girls constantly pumping his ego.  In contrast, if I think he's being arrogant, insensitive, immature, silly or petty, I'm not afraid to tell him so.  But neither do I slam him all the time.  I build him up where he's the most vulnerable.  The combination of a girl who will tell him about himself yet still makes him feel good about himself is intriguing.

2. I'm not needy.  He's used to girls who need his attention 24/7, and I don't.  I'm independent and smart and accomplished and instead of being intimidated by it, he's impressed by it.  He knows that I wouldn't smother him because I have my own stuff going on.

3. I'm a listener.  He's used to girls who go on and on about themselves, but in this case, I know more about him than he does about me.  He feels comfortable confiding in me and values my feedback.

4. He can tell I'm serious about God.  He's also discovered that we share a lot of the same ideas about the church and what should be the focus in our spiritual journey.

Happy Future Mother's Day

That's what I texted both of my best friends while on the way home to spend time with my dear Lovely yesterday morning.

I dunno, it's one of those silly/annoying things that I always said to other childless young ladies like myself after church on Mother's Day that for some reason always amused me. In the same way that putting unsuspecting bunny ears on people while they're talking to someone else or right before a group picture always amused me. I suppose I'm easily amused. Anyway.

I was pondering the prospect of future motherhood. And, I know, though I have to find a man first (or rather, he should find me, right? In my little butterflies-sunflowers-rainbows-Curious-George world, that's what the perfect guy would say to me—"I finally found you!" or no, how about, "I've found you at last!" as he alights from his trusty steed and I'm temporarily blinded by the sheen of his shining armor) and all of that before future motherhood could reasonably and realistically be considered, Mother's Day, aside from being grateful for my own mom, makes me think about what kind of mom I'd be. (And that's not a run-on sentence. Although it might have been red-lined "wordy" by the English teacher we dubbed The Goddess of English in high school. And, yes, the sentence before this one is a sentence fragment. And, no, technically you aren't supposed to begin sentences with 'and.')

There are two little boys I absolutely adore at my home church. It's so cute how the younger sibling always copies the older. I remember when that same phenomenon happened between my younger brothers. Near the tail end of altar call, I spied them asking their father if they could come over to me in the pew (I wasn't up front. Lawd have mercy on mah soul.) and they both ran over and stood on either side of me, clinging to me like cuddly toy soldiers. Gosh, my future mother heart melted, and I tousled their hair and showered them with kisses as they told me about their toys and their boo-boos (one of them, caused by a bike tire, happened to be on one's "biscuits," which I declined to view) and eventually filled their mouths with my last pieces of berry-flavored gum.

I think I may call up their mom and ask if I can come over sometime this week and read them stories or something. If one of your friends has a book you'd like to read, you ask to borrow it. If you need a power drill for some reason and know a buddy that has one, you can access the benefits of a power drill though you don't own one. So, I'm a future mother. I don't have kids, but I can borrow those of others from time to time. Perhaps my future mothering skills will become so acute that I'll be a good real one.

I thought it was beautiful and had to share.

"Do you know what a nebula is? A cloud of dust and gas which form a star. That's how I feel. Like a pile of dirt. Although I'm bruised and broken I know God's been putting elements inside of me together, that one day will radiate with his mercy and grace . . . I'm glad you shot across my cloud. You're a great person."

Doubt

Ding-a-ling! The door chimes announced her entrance into the rather frigid Movie Gallery. Finals were over and she had a lot of free time on her hands. This was the weird thing about her: When she had lots to do (as usual) she became a neurotic complainer. However, when she had leisure time, she didn't know what to do with herself. A most annoying paradox.

She marched over to the "D" section in "New Releases" because she had been looking forward to watching Doubt with Meryl Streep. She liked Meryl Streep. The last thing she had seen her in was The Devil Wears Prada. From icy fashion maven to belligerent nun. Anyway, Doubt had garnered a lot of Oscar buzz and she was looking forward to seeing Viola Davis's performance as well.

Unfortunately, she found all of the Doubt spaces empty. Blast! She was also the type of person that wants what she wants and nothing else. She wanted a particular movie, and if they didn't have it, she couldn't settle for anything else. (Another annoying idiosyncrasy of hers.) Instead of leaving, though, she sauntered around, half-heartedly eyeing the other new releases and then, out of nowhere--BAM--she spotted it. An out of place Doubt. It was in the "A" section. Like it was waiting for her.

She scooped it up and went grinningly to the checkout counter. A boyishly cute video store guy was busying himself behind the counter and didn't notice that she had walked up.

"Helluuuu," she said, goofily.

He laughed, turning towards her.

"Sorry," she smiled, "I didn't mean to disturb you there."

"No, it's my job," he said with a grin, as she laid her selection down. "Will this be all?"

"Mmhmm," she giggled as she whipped out her debit card. "You know, I found this out of place. At first I thought they were all checked out, but then I was happy when I found it in the wrong place."

"Well, that's great. You found the movie you wanted, and I don't have to go back and put it in the right place. It's a win-win." They both laughed.

"Do you need my ID?" She slid out her driver's license and handed it to him. He read her name out loud to himself as he checked it against her account.

They both kept smiling at each other and laughing while she declined damage protection and signed her name on the dotted line.

"It's due back Tuesday," he finally said. She nodded and waved farewell.

I'm probably several years older than that guy, she thought as she started up the car. She used to hate looking younger. Especially when she was 18 and people assumed she was 12. But she was in her late twenties now so she had definitely grown to like it. The ability to benignly flirt with guys who had no idea how old she was was kind of amusing.

But then she remembered that he had taken a look at her driver's license. Was she on the road to Cougarville?

Me Happy Now

Me get A on final paper for golden boy.

Me have no more finals.

Me go to church.  Me sing.  Me pray.  Me hear preacher.

Me go to friend party and have fun time.

Me happy now.

The Downswing

Oh, boy.  Here we go.

What is it that makes my mind's theme song go from this

to this?

I may need to steer clear of the keyboard for a little while to avoid sloshing melancholia all over the place. Boo to soggy blogs.  

The Demythification of Cinco de Mayo

Myth: Cinco de Mayo (May 5) is Mexican Independence Day.

Fact: September 16 is Mexican Independence Day.

Myth: Cinco de Mayo is celebrated widely in Mexico.

Fact: Cinco de Mayo is celebrated more widely in the US than it is in Mexico.  The only place in Mexico where there is a big to-do for Cinco de Mayo is in Puebla, where the Battle of Puebla was won against the much larger and better-equipped French army in 1862 on . . . you guessed it, el cinco de mayo.  September 16 is a much bigger deal in Mexico as a whole and is celebrated like our 4th of July with food, fireworks, etc.

Well, then, why is Cinco de Mayo a big deal here?

I'm glad you asked.  Well, let me put it this way.  Americans have a habit of co-opting things for their own purposes.  Much like we've done with St. Patrick's Day co-opted from the Irish, Cinco de Mayo for many has become a Mexicanly co-opted excuse to get plastered. Okay, to be fair, some Mexican-Americans observe it as a celebration of Mexican heritage, but I'm sure that's not the answer you'll get when you ask my underaged students how many of them are planning on downing muchas margaritas tonight.

Today Is Pretty Day

Yes, you read that right.  Not today is a pretty day.  Today is pretty day.  Today is the day where things become pretty.  Exhibit A:  

My feet.  Indeed.

My feet are usually not one of my high points.  Even in the post-French pedicure picture above, I'm sure you can tell why.  My big toes are disconcertingly larger than most big toes out there, and the rest of them look like elongated Vienna sausages.  Add to that crustiness and other things that happen to the feet of extremely flat-footed high-heel addicts, and you can surmise that it ain't pretty.

But today is pretty day.  And as I slipped my wedge sandals back on and stepped out into the sun, I realized that today is a day I'm proud to call my feet my own.

Exhibit B shall be my hair.  Ever notice that special "ethnic hair care" section in WalMart? (Let me break it down for those who've never ventured down that aisle.)  That's where girls like me who have hair like mine who don't have $60 to spend on gettin they hair did go to pick up a relaxer kit.  It's called do-it-yourself for $5.94.  One of my colleagues with natural hair calls it "creamy crack," but whatever.  She do her thing, I do my thing.  But I must say I do a right fine job.

Today is pretty day.  Bask in the beautification!

Sk8er Boi: The Remix

He was a boy

She was a girl

Can I make it any more obvious?

He was at a study abroad meeting

She was at Starbucks

What more can I say?

He was to come by

After his meeting

Meanwhile she caught up on her reading

But the meeting ran late

He had to get back

He sent her a text in profound apology

Chorus:

He was a sk8er boi

He said see you later girl

Gotta get back to Montgomery

But she didn't mind too much

At least she got reading done

She needed to get out of her apartment anyway

The original (skip it if you don't like maddeningly catchy pop rock that will never get out of your head):

Swine Flu: The Hypochondriac's Dream Come True

I'm not very freaked out by the swine flu. I mean, really, it's nothing new. Mad cow disease, SARS, that bird disease or whatever it was, and now this.

News organizations get on my nerves with hyping it up like it's the dawn of the apocalypse. But, uh, hello, the plain ol' regular flu has always killed thousands of folks and nobody's crying "pandemic."

But what annoys me more than anything are hypochondriacal people who deep down inside want to get the swine flu. They get an almost indecent pleasure each time they hear another confirmed case in another country and they have to wipe away the drool that slips when they turn on Fox News and see a world map with all affected countries lit up in blazing, hellfire red. They're the weirdos who think their sneezes should make local news. If they happen to be church folks, they testify like this: "Thank the Lord for healin' me cause I've been kinder sick, and I'm still feelin' a little under the weather and I hope it ain't the swine flu cause it's been killin' folks in Mexico and I hope I don't spread my germs to any of y'all. Praise the Lord."

So annoying.

Google Chrome Rocks!

I'm always behind the times.  Out of the loop.  I'm sure most people have already tasted the awesomeness that is Google Chrome, but I'm just now getting into the game.

I'm impressed.  All my pages load at lightning speed, and the web browser is also a search engine.  Sweetness.  Just had to give a shout out.

The Seven-Pager Blues: Coffee with Skater Boy

This is another one of those posts that I've posted a million times. Same circumstance, different occasion. Paper is due tomorrow, I haven't started on it, and I don't feel like writing it.

It'll get done. Somehow. It always does. I'm probably going to use a paper I wrote last summer on the same short story as my base and sort of springboard off of it, adding sources and other points to expand it. I will briefly procrastinate by sharing this story:

A while ago, during my last year of teacher life, I found myself at Starbucks chatting with a friend about Spanish. A jolly, effeminate older man sitting nearby overheard and he happened to be a Spanish-speaker too, and we starting going at it in Spanish. He regaled me with stories of singing opera and wistfully related the time he sang with Leontyne Price. As an addendum, he gifted me with a burnt copy of an Il Divo CD since it featured a few songs in Spanish. He offhandedly mentioned that one of the baristas was a Spanish-speaker as well.

Impassioned, I bounded over to the counter to share in the Spanishy goodness and introduced myself to the barista. He was into Spanish! So am I! He was thinking about going to Spain! To the same place I went when I studied abroad! Omg! We had so much to talk about. He told me about this teach English abroad program he'd heard about. Sweet.

I don't know why, but he didn't strike me as the Spanish type. I don't know what I think the Spanish type is, but he seemed . . . I don't know. He gave off the air of a skater dude. With the piercings and the faux-hawk and all. He definitely didn't seem to be the type to want to have anything to do with me outside of small talk about studying abroad in Spain for the time being.

But I was wrong. He asked me for my info and gave me his and suggested I look him up on Facebook so that he could send me the info about the teach abroad stuff. "We should go to lunch sometime," he said. Ka-puzzlement? Skater boy wants a lunch date?

Fast forward to today. Ah, Facebook. It just so happens he's coming to town later on this week for a study abroad meeting with the golden boy professor (for whom I'm supposed to be writing this paper). We settled on getting coffee at the student center after the meeting. Church girl meets skater boy for coffee to talk Spain and all things Spanish. This should be interesting.

My Weekend

Friday, April 24
Church hair was had, and subsequently, so was church. I was always a 2nd soprano kind of girl (always soprano, but preferably low key), but after being charged with alto on some songs, I had an epiphany. I kind of like the sultry jazziness of harmonizing.

Saturday, April 25
Auburn City Fest! Armed with newly minted church t-shirts we set up camp and gave out free water, the New Testament on CD, and bunches of other free gifts. Go, Gateway!

Sunday, April 26
I'm a little Sunday School teacher now. Bible words: "Jesus loves me very much." Lesson: Jesus tells the disciples, "Cast down your nets and follow me." Craft: Sticking foam fish onto "nets" of pieces of mesh laundry bag. Snack: Goldfish crackers. Of course.

Post-church: Lunch with a buddy.

Post-lunch: Montgomery for clothes washing/hearing Pops preach/eating cookies and drinking chai tea with Lovely while watching Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. How many more times am I going to get to watch corny musicals with my mom before I gallavant off to yet another far away land? Observe the best dance sequence (with Italian subtitles and smatterings of voiceovers during the speaking parts):



Now:
Off to lesson planning and sucking it up to write a 7-pager tonight. It's the last week of classes, baby! (And then I can catch my breath before the summer session descends.)

My Church Hair

Aww, shucks! I went and got my church hair on tonight. I'm really excited because I haven't seriously gotten my church hair on in a while. I just hadn't felt like it. But tonight, I felt inspired.


Pre-ready front view


Pre-ready side view


Pre-ready back view


Post-ready front view

Time to get mine praiseth on. Go, church hair! Show the devil if it falls you don't care! Halleluyer.

And now comes doing what I despise

and that is grading papers. I know, I've gone on this rant several times, but I can't help it. I actually don't mind teaching. I like it. One of my students told me this week, "Wow, this was a great class!" and it totally made my day. But I hate grading papers. Especially compositions. Waaah! I've procrastinated to the point where I'm down to the wire (surprise, surprise). I've GOT to get them graded tonight. However, reflecting on my paper grading aversion brings to mind other things I absolutely despise doing:

1. Turning people down because I'm just not that into them.

2. Accidentally scratching the blackboard while writing with an uber-short piece of chalk.

3. Swallowing a gulp of expired milk.

4. Sweating.

5. Having to confront people about things.

6. Burning something I was really looking forward to eating.

All right. I can think of many other things, but that's enough.

On a random note, I've fallen even more in love with my golden boy professor. He's got a bit of cocky swagger, and he has every right to because he is literally a genius. Today he announced that he was going to refer to a paper he had written in undergrad about a work we were reading in our class during the discussion. I offhandedly asked him (in Spanish) what grade he made on it. He smiled, leaned over and said (in Spanish), "What do you think I made on it?" My heart skipped a beat. Why did I think that was sexy? I am SUCH a nerd.

And I'm really trying to practice non-overanalysis. Honest. But I can't help but ask what it means if someone sends you a picture of himself to ask what you think of his new haircut?

Overanalysis

It drives me nuts. Why must I have an overactive brain that won't stop?

No matter how many glasses of Tropicana Peach Orchard Punch I try to drown it out with, it buzzes on. (Yes, I went to WalMart today.)

Things get to the point where I ruminate over things so much that I miss enjoying them for what they are. Not everything has to be categorized, chiseled with draconian precision. There's this unending taxonomic process going on in my mind, and it must stop.

A text is a text. A smile is a smile. A compliment is a compliment. A conversation is a conversation. A borrowed book is a borrowed book. I used to hate this phrase, but in some cases, it fits the occasion: It is what it is.

Details

I like when guys notice details like hair.

I did a little something different with my hair today . . . I mean, it's not the first time I've ever done it, it wasn't anything radically new.

I guess I assume that guys don't usually pay attention to details like purses and shoes and hairstyles. So a simple, "I like your hair like that," made my day today.

But of course, I couldn't let on that it made my day.

Pepita Jiménez

Pepita Jiménez is a 19^th century Spanish novel by Juan Valera. The story is about a young seminarian (priest-in-training), Don Luis de Vargas, and a passionate young widow, Pepita Jiménez, who fall in love. Don Luis, then, is forced to choose between his vocation and his love for Pepita.

I had to read an excerpt of it in a 19^th and 20^th century literature class I was taking while studying abroad in Spain. I was so entranced by the excerpt that I bought the book and read the entire thing. The book has a special place in my heart, not only because I loved the story, but because it was the first time I was able to read an entire work in Spanish on my own. I had finally gotten to a point where I didn't need a dictionary—I was able to read, understand and enjoy a work of literature in a foreign language. It was one of the most exciting experiences in my life.

I let someone borrow the book a while ago and when I finally got it back yesterday, I immediately succumbed to the urge to find the passage in the book that first enamored me. They're the impassioned words of Pepita after Don Luis suggests that the only way they can love each other is through a pure, spiritual, divine love of the soul after they get to Heaven (translated by yours truly):

"Oh, Don Luis!" replied Pepita, completely disconsolate and sorrowful, "Now I know how vile is the metal of which I am forged and how unworthy I am of that which penetrates and moves the divine fire. I will declare to you everything, divulging even unto shame. I am an infernal sinner. My crude and ignorant spirit cannot achieve those subtleties, those distinctions, those refinements of love. My rebellious will negates what you propose. I can't even conceive of you apart from what makes you. For me, you are your mouth, your eyes, your dark locks; which I wish to caress with my hands, your sweet voice and the pleasant accent of your words which literally wound yet enchant my ears; your whole bodily form, in sum, that enamors and seduces me, through which, and that only through which shows me the invisible spirit, vague and full of mysteries. My soul, unwilling and incapable of those rapturous mysteries, cannot ever follow you to those regions where you want to bring it. If you rise to those places, I will be left alone, abandoned, plunged in the deepest affliction. I prefer to die. I deserve death; I desire it. Perhaps upon dying, detaching or breaking these dreadful chains which detain my soul, it will be able to love with the kind of love you wish us to have. But kill me first, so that we can love that way; kill me first and, then, spirit freed, it will follow you everywhere and will travel with you invisibly by your side, watching over you in your sleep, thinking of you in bliss, penetrating your most hidden thoughts, truly seeing your soul, without the interference of the senses. But alive, it cannot be. I love in you, not only your soul, but your body, the shadow of your body, the reflection of your body in mirrors and in the water, your name and your last name, your blood, and all of which makes you don Luis de Vargas; the timbre of your voice, your gestures, the way you walk and I don't know what else to say. I repeat that you must kill me. Kill me mercilessly. No, I'm no Christian, but rather a carnal idolater."

Here Pepita made a long pause. Don Luis didn't know what to say and was quiet. Tears bathed Pepita's cheeks and she continued, crying:

"I know; you look down upon me, and you do well in looking down on me. With this just contempt, you shall kill me better than you would with a knife, staining neither your hands nor your conscience with blood. Goodbye. Free yourself from my contemptible presence. Goodbye forever."

Having said this, Pepita got up from her seat and without looking back, her eyes filled with tears, beside herself, with hasty steps flung herself towards the door to the rooms within. Don Luis felt an invincible tenderness, a fatal pity. He was afraid that Pepita would die. He rose up to stop her, but he was too late. Pepita had passed through the doorway. Her figure was lost in the darkness. Swept up by what seemed a superhuman power, propelled by what seemed an invisible hand, he went after Pepita into the shadowy chamber.

P.S. After I translated that, I discovered that there is an online translation of the entire novel here. Of course, I went to Chapter IX of Part II (starting with para. 35) and compared my translation to it. I didn't do too bad. I guess mine is more literal whereas the online one took a few more liberties than I did so that it would flow better in English.

I'm Lazy, I'm a Whiner, and I Want It to Be Over

Aaargh! I am SO lazy.

I feel like the laziest person in the universe right now. I don't feel like doing anything. At all. I have this marathon of a presentation/final exam day to contend with tomorrow. (Yes, tomorrow, as in Saturday.) There's a PowerPoint that goes along with it, and I don't feel like finishing it. I guess marriage in colonial California could be considered somewhat of a sexy topic. But at this point I just feel like who cares about everything. So, the indigenous peoples practiced polygyny. So, the Spanish missionaries thought they were a bunch of fornicators. I just want it to be over.

I am SUCH a whiner. All I want to do is eat Cheez-it crackers and guzzle cream soda and watch 30 Rock, Kings, The Daily Show and The Mentalist online. I want to daydream. I want to allow my eyes to glaze over as I overanalyze my latest idiosyncratic attachment. I don't want to grade badly written compositions. I don't want to put participation points in an Excel spreadsheet. I don't want to print out items analysis. I don't want to articulate any more reasons to use the present subjunctive.

I want it to be OVER. I want to sleep and wake up when I want to. Sing in the shower until all the hot water runs out. Make mugs and mugs of honey vanilla chamomile tea. I want to finally finish reading Dreams from My Father. Barack Obama's been in Kenya for like 3 months now. I want French pedicures. I want bliss. I want a smile from a handsome stranger.

No more slathering myself with Suave powder fresh lotion. No more donning a wrinkled denim jacket, burdening myself with an NPR bag full of academic minutiae, stuffing my ears with white earbuds and listening to the same songs over and over again while I sulkily eat an apple staring out the bus window. No more, I say.

I want to wrap myself in a comforter cocoon and emerge a sunflower-colored butterfly.

Yeah. Which means it's time to finish my PowerPoint. Sexy.

I cried

by the end of this video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY

I would have embedded it, but embedding is disabled. Forgive me if you've already seen it. It's the new Internet/YouTube sensation.

But I loved it, and I watched it over and over. Just see how people laughed at her and completely discredited her at the beginning because of her appearance. But then she blew everyone away.

I've always had a weakness for the underdog. Somehow, this lady's day in the sun makes me feel like there's justice in the world. Like everyone, creatures great and small, one day, will have their day in the sun.

Aww, Snap!

Note to pirates:

If you take a US cargo ship captain hostage, my boy will give the okay to have you taken out.

Note to people talking smack about my boy claiming he's milquetoast:

How you like them apples?

The Procrastinator's Guide to Studying for a Comps Retake

Given:

• What was on the initial test will not be on the retake.
• What was on the initial test I didn't know.

Therefore:

• What I didn't know will not be on the retake.

So hopefully:

• What I do know will be on the retake.

And usually:

• The retake is "easier."

*Addendum @4:12 PM*

My procrastinatory logic proved sound. Yeah, baby! The comps nightmare is officially ovah!

Dude!

So, I got a random refund check in the mail from Charter Communications for $24.84. Something about a credit on my account from where I lived previously. Sure. Whatever you say. Just gimme my money, youknaaimsayin?

What can I get for $24.84? A nice juicy steak dinner (cooked medium rare)? A cute pair of ballet flats? Several bunches of sunflowers? Some Love Spell lotion and body spray? The possibilities are endless. Wait, I think I've settled on it . . . $24.84 may not foot the whole bill (pun intended), but it's a healthy contribution towards a French pedicure.

In economic times like these (sucky) and in an occupational station like the one I find myself in (grad student), every extra buck is like a shining nugget of pure gold.

Reflections on Easter Weekend

I love The Passion of the Christ. Most people I talk to that have seen it have told me, "Once was enough," but it is so well-done and powerful to me. I love the fact that it was done as realistically as possible (original languages, etc.) and it shows exactly what it was that Jesus went through.

I remember the first time I saw it, I was overwhelmed and cried almost the entire time. But now that I've seen it a few times, the parts that make me cry are when Peter realizes he denied Christ, when the Sanhedrin tear at their clothes because they are outraged at the blasphemy of Jesus claiming to be God, the whipping scene (which is brutal), and while carrying his cross Jesus tells his mother "I make all things new." I watched it on Good Friday.

Saturday was lovely. I played with a puppy at the park and had some friends over for dinner.

Sunday was fabulous. I'm really starting to get involved at the church here. I'm one of the praise singers now, and I participated in a signing thing and a song presentation with dowel rods. It was great. Though the church is super small, everyone is so dedicated, and it's rewarding to participate, work together, and see God do great things.

Then I went home and spent Sunday afternoon with my folks. Mom made a huge pan of tiramisu. (One of the consequences of spending 6 years in Italy is learning how to make homemade tiramisu.) You better believe I brought home a whole lot of it.

Listening to country music on the way home (something I never do), I thought about the fact that Jesus conquered Death. I thought about what that meant. When He rose, He gave every single one of us hope of a resurrection.

You lived/ You died/ You rose again on high/ You opened the way/ For the world to live again/ Hallelujah/ For all you've done.

I Want a Puppy

I want to take care of a living creature. Other than myself.

I'd like to have kids, but that's kind of impossible (okay, unlikely) seeing I'm

1. husbandless
2. in grad school
3. broke as a sick joke

So, the next best thing is an animal. A cute wittle puppy I would name Fitz (for Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy) or Marc Antony (for Marcus Antonius). But that's kind of impossible (alright, unlikely) seeing I'm

1. in an apartment complex that doesn't allow pets
2. in grad school
3. broke as a sick joke
4. not to mention leaving the country in the not too distant future

So, what is a girl to do? Have friends who do have living creatures and play with them. Like today, I'm getting to play with my buddy's black lab puppy at the park. Yay!

Propinquity

Sometimes I've wondered if people were attracted to me just because I was there. Sometimes I've wondered if I were attracted to others just because they were there. Well, here's proof that my little musing is probably true.

From Wikipedia, the Internet authority of knowledge:

In social psychology, propinquity (from Latin propinquitas, nearness) is one of the main factors leading to interpersonal attraction. It refers to the physical or psychological proximity between people. Two people living on the same floor of a building, for example, have a higher propinquity than those living on different floors. Propinquity can mean physical proximity, a kinship between people, or a similarity in nature between things.

The propinquity effect is the tendency for people to form friendships or romantic relationships with those whom they encounter often. In other words, relationships tend to be formed between those who have a high propinquity.

Quote of the Day

"Think wrongly, if you please, but in all cases think for yourself."

-Doris Lessing-

Birthday Present from Lovely

Disclaimer: This post will be a sentimental, gushy testament to filial love. Even though it's not Mother's Day. Yet.

My mom is my friend. She gave me a magnet that says "A daughter is a little girl who grows up to be a friend" and I have it on my refrigerator. Awwww. I have little names for her like "Lovely" and "Lady." Most of the time she calls me "Daughter" and people within earshot think it's so sweet. Aww, gooey lovey dovey gushy warm and fuzzies. We won't talk about what we call each other when we get mad. That'll be for another post. (Right.)

I told her I would post about the present she got me for my birthday. I've posted about my Monet obsession before. She knows I like his paintings and that at one point I wanted to be him, and though she couldn't find Impression, soleil levant, she did happen across Bassin D'Argenteuil, and I was quite pleased. So, here's what it looks like:

And, mom, here's where I put it in my apartment:

You see what I'm saying now? Fantastic.

Do Not Hold Over People

I noticed this little admonition on my coffee pot this morning. Why do people need to be warned not to hold a coffee pot over someone else's head? What is our world coming to?

Thank You, Mr. President

Although many feel that Obama is the most liberal president since . . . whatever, I've long held that at the core, he is neither liberal nor conservative. He is a pragmatist.

A pragmatist is someone who will do whatever works and will do whatever it takes to get the job done. He sees both sides of an issue and often strikes a Solomonic balance. In this clip, for example, Obama admits to American arrogance, but he doesn't let Europe off the hook.

If he were a pure bleeding heart, he wouldn't have said anything about European anti-Americanism, or continued Bush's faith-based initiatives or done a host of other things that have gotten under the skin of his liberal base.

To the extreme, however, a pragmatist becomes Machiavellian, as in, the end justifies the means. But he hasn't worried me on getting out of whack with his pragmatism so far. It's just a relief to have a president who makes sense and who is making an effort to change the way things have been done.

The Writer(ess)

I wrote this story years ago as a tribute to an extended inside joke between myself and my friend who is a writeress.

However, I've decided to repost it in her honor. Especially in light of recent events. Oscar Wilde said, "Life imitates art far more than art imitates Life." She is The Writeress. We'll leave it at that. To see the original post, (with original comments) click here. Otherwise, enjoy!

Originally posted December 6, 2005:

One of my best friends, Homegirl, and I have this running joke. We always remind each other that we could never marry a writer because it just wouldn’t do to be with someone who would be more dramatic and emotional than we are. Of course, this writer we are talking about is a stereotypical one. He wears black-rimmed glasses, is a caffeine-a-holic, is always brooding, and always intensely releasing the agonies of his soul through his writing. Here is a fully fleshed-out account of the content of our joke:

Brooding in a dimly lit corner in the study of an apartment, in a student-ghetto complex filled with graduate students, sits the writer.

The only light in the room consists of the glow of his laptop screen and the streetlight that shines through the window, creating an eerie cast over his pale skin and black-rimmed glasses. He runs a hand over his unruly dark hair and sighs deeply as he stares at the blank Word document screen before him. The cursor blinks unceasingly, taunting him.

He rubs at his bag-laden eyes, red-rimmed from lack of sleep. Scattered about are empty venti-sized Starbucks cups, drained of coffee he could barely afford to drink. He is trying to do what he supposedly does best—write. But inspiration is lacking. His muse has been uncomfortably silent. He has nearly spent himself, trying to reach into the depths of his tormented soul—tormented by the same demons that torment writers and artists and musicians and all those of the creative bent—to draw out that one nugget of raw, unadulterated impetus that he could always depend upon to get him going, to get his thoughts rushing from brain to fingertips like adrenaline-laced blood through his veins.

But lately, he has turned up nothing. Every attempt he makes seems futile, and, there, in the solitude of his study, mesmerized by the emptiness of the Word document, he finds himself sinking deeper and deeper into the abysmal abyss of losing his writer-identity forever.

A timid knock at the door jolts him into existence. He remembers his girlfriend said she would come over at about this time. She was a waif of a thing, almost like the wind could blow her away, he thinks, remembering the time they met at the reading held by the Creative Writing department. He could feel her eyes burning into him as he read an excerpt from his unpublished novel. Though she had the air of a complacent child at times, her intensity about things, about life, was what had initially attracted him. But no, she is not what he needs now. Not right now. Not when his grasp on the craft that has become a part of him is so weak. Not right now, he almost says aloud as he opens the door.

“I brought you some peanut butter cookies,” she whispers. “Your favorite.” She hands him a freezer bag bulging with them. He takes them and mumbles a greeting as he stands back to let her inside. It is as if he forgets she is even there as he goes back into his study to take up staring at the empty screen again. She cautiously follows him. “Are you uhh . . . going to try some?” she ventures. His back is to her as he sits slumped before the computer. No answer. “Baby, what’s wrong? You can tell me.” Her voice is soothing, almost musical, and she lays a soft hand upon his shoulder. He stiffens.

“No.” She doesn’t realize that his “no” is not really a refusal to tell her what is troubling him. At this moment, it’s more of a refusal to entertain any living entity in any manner whatsoever.

“Oh, it’s okay, baby, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. It just seems as if--”

He suddenly lifts his hand to silence her. “No . . . not now,” He says brusquely. Doesn’t she understand? His identity is slipping away from him and all she has to give in response are empty words and peanut butter cookies? He just needs to be left alone.

Tears well up in her eyes. How can he just shut her out like that? She has always been there for him, been his emotional support. She was always able to calm him, to soothe his mental anguish. “But honey, I--”

“NO! LEAVE ME ALONE!” He spins around in his chair to face her. Though his voice is harsh and bellowing, one could sense a tinge of desperate pleading in it.

She flees the apartment, sobbing, and slams the door behind her.

Brooding in a dimly lit corner in the study of an apartment, in a student-ghetto complex filled with graduate students, sits the writer, alone.

(That was for you, Homegirl. Love ya much!)

Extremely Hypothetical: Younger Guys

I have always thought older guys were the way to go. Part of me still does. Mature, established, experienced, stable. Dashing, distinguished. lol. And I'm not talking about a dried up grandpa sugar daddy, either. Please. I just turned 27, so I'm talking 30s.

However, how would I respond if a younger guy tried to mack? Like early 20s? I think I would freak out. Especially if he were around the same age as or younger than my kid brother (who of course, is in his early twenties, but who will always be my kid brother). Blech!

But then another part of me says that's being unfair. Should you discount a guy just based on age?

But then my rational side says there are other factors connected to age such as maturity level and stage in life that must be considered. And it also says that you shouldn't even want anything to get to the point of "considering" in the first place.

My rational side can be mean, but many times it's right.