Three: The Leaving Game

Fickle, thy name is me.

Should I, shouldn't I? Pros and cons. Vacillation. Pluck petals from a flower. Mull it over long and hard.

I do come to decisions. Decisions have to be made. But once they're made—ay, there's the rub.

A telemarketer with a tantalizing hook—$120 in gas vouchers. "Sure," I said. I can cancel the whatever savings coupons you want to send me and I can still keep the $120 in free gas. That's what they said. But once I was transferred over to the, shall I say, "deal sealer," they started talking about magazine subscriptions and additional shipping costs and—I said, "No, I don't want it anymore." "But Ms. Smith, you can still enjoy the $120 in gas vouchers with no additional obligations and blah blah blah blah." "No, I'm not interested in it anymore." They gave up. They were wasting their breath with this fickle chick. I wanted it and then I didn't want it. I almost fell for it.

I've almost fallen for it. I've made decisions to do it and then regretted it. I've made decisions not to do it and then regretted it. I know what I want, then want what I know I don't want. I know what I don't want, then don't want what I know I want.

But I have to move on.

Once someone asked me, seemingly out of the blue, "You really like to win, don't you?" Then, I was puzzled. Why did he ask me that? Now, I know why. Yes, I like to win. Winning, if you can call it that, is not what you think; it's self-preservation. It's leaving. First.

No trophies, no plaques, no gold medals. Just a decision set in stone and the ambivalence that constantly surrounds it.

Two: My Mouth

My mouth is to blame.

Death and life are in the power of the tongue is what the Good Book says.

It's astounding how many negativities I verbalize on a daily basis, it really is. I knew this, but for the first time in a while, I realized it. It hit me that I've been doing nothing less than speaking death into my own life. If I sit there and think about it for a moment, it's shocking and incredible. The thing about a lie is that it becomes a truth once spoken and believed by the one to whom it's spoken. I've been believing the lies about me, reinforcing them, making them manifest, giving them power with my mouth.

This realization is way past due. I've known it, but I have to act upon it. I'm beautiful, I'm capable, I'm intelligent, I'm talented, I'm important, I'm powerful, I'm loved, I have a purpose, I have a future, I'm a child of God. This is the report I must believe.

One: Those Ladies Who Pull You Out

One of my afternoon students didn't show so I got a smidgen of extra time to come to my favorite refuge of procrastination before my professional development classes this evening.

There are a couple of things I'd like to talk about, but I don't want to just scatter them all over in a sporadic list, I want to kind of essay them out.

Those Ladies Who Pull You Out

In the thick of a Spirit-filled service where everybody is getting their blessing: Women doubled over wailing, ecstatic rolls of speaking in tongues, hands upraised, long-skirted spins and stomps of joy. I've got the victory! In the midst of this divine cacophony, there is a doubter. Not a doubter as in, this isn't real, (though there are those), but one who hangs back. Who affirms with a leaden heart that an emotional response is as substantial as cotton candy. What matters, after all, is what happens when the shouting is over. What do you do, how do you behave, what do you tell yourself when the move is still? Why bother, when you know that your mind is going to meander down the same destructive path? "Getting the victory" is not jumping up and down while the organ wails. It's choosing each and every day not to believe the lies. It's a matter of overcoming inertia. It's a nearly stoic exercise of trudging forward. The doubter doesn't doubt the power of God, but herself. Which is indirectly doubting the power of God.

In the thick of this mentally justified hang-back: Spirit-emboldened ladies prodding, guiding this leaden heart out of the confines of plush conference seats. Lifting the arms from the elbows, a trembling hand between the shoulder blades, eyes squeezed tight, spiritual commands seasoned with King James English. Tears are never hard to come by for this doubter. Nostalgia washes over her rather than a lightning shock of "the victory." She knows that a lightning shock is what the ladies crave. This lightning shock would zap her back onto the bright path. No more sad days! The joy of the Lord is your strength!

Those ladies who pull you out aren't deterred by a possible rejection of their holy advances. They have faith that the doubter still believes in the same God they do. They are the faithful. They are the trusting. They are the believing. They are the hoping. And they care enough to do what they can to breathe that God-given hope back into a leaden heart.

Photo Shoot at the Birmingham Botanical Gardens

I went to visit a bosom (pronounced BOSS-um) buddy for a couple of days in Birmingham. It was my idea to go to the Botanical Gardens, but it was her idea to do what turned into a photo shoot starring me as the model. And no, I am not a model (as someone awkward to the weirdo power asked after inserting himself into the tail end of lunch at a purloined outside table) and am rather skittish about the prospect of being one because of my many imperfections. But I humored my buddy's need for artistic expression (though I did leave out the tree trunk pics . . . forgive me from the bosom, buddy) and I must say they turned out lovely.

Those days I was in Birmingham were flower days. I saw flower babies being born. I saw buds ready to burst. Flowers in pots, flowers in dirt, flowers in hanging baskets, flowers with lips which opened and closed. A daffodil that sprang to life. I even got a sunflower umbrella for Christmasmybirthday. Flowers are quite a beautiful.

Numbers 1-3, 5, 6 and 18 were taken by yours truly and the rest were courtesy of bosom buddy. Enjoy!

Omg! Today is the Ides of March!

How could I?

How could anyone who claims to consider him or herself a Julius Caesar enthusiast dare to almost forget today's fateful date?

I was so caught up in existential angst this morning that I forgot to pay tribute to the day when the Roman Empire was shaken at its core.

Even at the base of Pompey’s statue, / Which all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. / O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! (III.ii.183-5)

The whole play the soothsayer was warning Caesar about the Ides of March. Then when the Ides finally arrive, Caesar sees the soothsayer out on the street and tries to get smart with him real quick:

Caesar: The Ides of March are come.

But then the soothsayer comes back with a zinger:

Soothsayer: Aye, Caesar, but not gone.

Ooh, zing, Caesar! Owned! You got told! NO comeback to that. Next thing you know, he's murked and bleeding at the base of Pompey's statue. Shoulda listened . . .

Here We Are

Spoken

Yes, I'm going back to school again. What am I going back for this time? (chuckles) A PhD. Yeah. In Romance Languages. Well, it's like . . . okay, basically Spanish for me, and I might do like a minor in French. Yeah, in August. Mmhmm, a professor. Well . . . that depends on me, but usually about 4 years.

Unspoken

No, I'm not a cold, ambitious career woman who craves to climb the highest rungs of academia so that I can see my name engraved in whatever. What else do you expect me to do? Go back to teaching in the nightmare of the public school system? "Settle down"? For whom? With what? (or switch those two interrogative words around.) Buy a townhouse in the part of town that is in transition to being "the other side" of town and chill, eating either MSG-laden Chinese food or Golden Corral Sunday afternoon after Sunday afternoon? I have to be able to take care of myself. That's the fact of the matter. And I can't do that well doing what I've been doing. Exhibit A: Juggling gigs and living with my parents ever since finishing my Master's and emerging from my "French experience." Yes, I am painfully aware of my singleness and of my mother's covert grandchild craving. But here we are.

Ooh, real quick

1. Today, drinking over-French vanilla creamered coffee out of a purple-tinged mug I bought at the King Center in Atlanta. It says, "Power at its best is love implementing the demands of justice. Justice at its best is love correcting everything that stands against love."

2. Just realized my city cash at New York & Company expires today. In a nutshell, I can get $30 worth of stuff for just $15 dollars. T'would be a pity were I to let such an opportunity fall to the ground, unexploited.

She don't mind the late night radio . . .

na na na na na, not at all . . .

List-lessness

1. I woke up with matted hair, dreamscapes of escape still lingering in my awakening mind.

2. I drank a cup of coffee with way too much French vanilla creamer in a hulking green mug that says "Amigo."

3. Read about the craziness going on in Japan on NYT and read a review of the newest adaptation of Jane Eyre. Saw a preview. MUST see it. I got flashbacks of a lonely weekend where I devoured Jane Eyre in nearly one sitting. Then I began to wonder if my literary personification situation is not unlike Jane and Rochester (without the somewhat ambiguously happy ending) more than Dorian and Lord Henry.

4. In the shower I sang (with iTunes accompaniment): "Chasing Pavements" by Adele, "La vida es un carnaval" by Celia Cruz, "Just Feel Better" by Santana feat. Steven Tyler, the theme to a Chinese soap opera (I only know the part that says something about "ay chee") and "The Middle" by Jimmy Eat World.

5. I made the trek to Auburn to grace my grad school buddy's daughter's birthday party with my presence. I want to fill every child's life with Curious George, so I got her a book of stories and a Curious George doll. And something is definitely in the water up there. Babies popping out of the woodwork. For real. Mr. Darcy, for the love of God . . .

6. What is it about that straight shot on I-85 that makes me want to reconnect with people?

7. My piano repertoire has eroded down to a fake version of Pachebel's Canon, a horrible rendition of "Send in the Clowns," just the theme of "Fur Elise" now . . . my piano glory days are over. But one of these days, one of these days, I say, Rachmaninoff's Prelude in C# minor shall be mine.

8. Now I have a choice to make: Finish my tedious task of entering professional development hours or curl up into a fetal position in front of a chick flick with a box of chocolates. A million bucks goes to the one who guesses the right choice.

Super Afro Hair

The latest:

I just don't feel like straightening it out right now. I'm gonna let the wildness ride. Then it'll get old and I'll eventually straighten it out again.

My car's automatic door remote has gone bananas. I think it needs a new battery. Like I can't open the door with it, and when I open it with the key, my car alarm goes off. It's so embarrassing. This started yesterday, and I'm taking it to the dealership tomorrow. Fix this thing!

So, Spring Break next week. No special plans, as it were. Here's the thing: I crave do nothing time. Then when do nothing time falls into my lap, I don't know what to do with it. I want to sleep and want more of it when I get it, but now sleeping opportunities are abundant, and I can't fall asleep. Oh, the ironies.

I had Japanese tonight. California roll and a teriyaki scallop bowl. I want leftovers. At 1:09 a.m.

I still have an entire, unopened, heart-shaped box of chocolates from Valentine's Day. From my dad. They should still be good, no? Those bad boys shall be polished off toute de suite now that I've got some time on my hands.

I have a question . . .

If someone does something to try to make you jealous and it's super obvious, is there really anything to be jealous over? Because if someone has to try to make you jealous, that means they're craving a reaction from you. And if they're craving a reaction from you, there's no reason to be jealous.

Mexican Waiter Crush

This is indeed an old, old story.

My mom and I will take a fancy for a certain Mexican restaurant, and I usually can't resist ordering in Spanish. Inevitably, there will be a tall, dark and handsome waiter on the premises, and we'll end up flirting in Spanish while my mom only manages to decipher snatches (she was pretty good in Italian back in the day, so she does have a little insight into Spanish, which is super similar) of what we're saying.

Let's take a walk down memory lane . . . in my college days, it was Alejandro at Los Tarascos. Then there was Jesús at San Marcos (that one had a few twists and turns), then there was this gorgeous Dominican at Dos Compadres . . . I think his name was Rafael. We've now taken a fancy to Ixtapa, and there's a new Mexican waiter in my crush spot. He's super cute.

It always starts out the same way. How did you learn Spanish? Oh, you speak so well! You went to Mexico? Where did you go? Then my mom will suggest that he needs Jesus (to me), and I'll be faced with the prospect of "flirt to convert." Indeed, we had just come from ladies' prayer tonight. I snuck that in there. We had just come from oración. Get him 'bout that Lord, youknaamean? The time before that, he remembered me! Where have you been? You've been gone for a really long time! Ah, 'tis true. I had been away at Auburn, and then abroad in France. That's right, you tall, perfectly toothed, handsome faced, Latino McDreamy. Keep serving up them vegetarian quesadillas.

Back at Starbucks

The same one, too. Finished making out my 9 weeks test for my learning center kids. I'd love to get a summer adjuncting gig at a local college/university so I can get a break and still make a decent amount of money. I've been sending my resume out. No luck so far.

Almost done with putting in professional development hours. It seems like such a simple task, and it is, it's just tedious and takes forever. I keep telling myself that next time I'm not going to wait until it piles up . . . yet here we are.

I cannot do this last minute stuff when PhD time comes. I can't. I was able to slide through undergrad and grad school doing it and still emerged with a 4.0 somehow. But I know this time around, my usual procrastination routine is not going to cut it. What's going to happen is that I'll commence with my wicked procrastinating ways and get a big bad surprise on a paper or something that will straighten me out once and for all. Or . . .

Right now my hair looks like a straight up afro. I've even been inspired to take a picture (yes, I continue to procrastinate) for your viewing pleasure:

I just haven't felt like doing anything with it. Yes, there I am, in my Starbucks corner, not looking forward to doing any more tedious work. But here we are. I'm going to get it done. I shall emerge triumphant, having slain the procrastination dragon once again.

I got my license renewed today,

and my picture came out horribly. Now, not only will I be over 30 when I have to get it renewed again, but I have to live with this God-awful picture of myself for a while. I mean, it was more my hair. My hair is kind of fluffy/wavy right now, and though it does have a tendency to get out of control when it is in that state, I can usually manage things so that it does so in a cute, semi-tamed way. But the camera at the probate office managed to capture the out of control aspect more than the cute, semi-tamed aspect. And I was too embarrassed to ask to take another picture. So, here we are.

So, I found out this week that I scored the Graduate School Assistantship. ::does silent Yesssss gesture:: What that essentially means is that I won't have to teach the 1st two years, will get more money, will be given research opportunities with a faculty mentor, and will get support over the first summer. Sweeeet. Les get it.

I posted another letter to Lord Henry, but I took it down. I think it's just enough that I wrote it. Writing letters, whether to literary characters, actual people, or some maddening combination of both is so therapeutic. You get to say everything you have to say in a well-thought out way, and you don't get interrupted. When will I get to start writing letters to Mr. Darcy?

I thought that sitting in an uncomfortable chair at Starbucks would give me inspiration to actually get some work done. We can see how that's worked out for me. I must do something to have some feeling of triumph this weekend. I must.

Sing

This video is my latest obsession. I can't stop watching it. It's kind of bizarre, I know, but it seems like I pick up a new detail every time I watch it. It seems I've always had a penchant for bizarre, futuristic Blade Runner-esque stuff. I've never been into My Chemical Romance, but I watch Glee and they did a cover of this song, so, of course, I, like I'm sure many others, went to check out the original. And I discovered this little gem. And it doesn't hurt that the song is incredibly catchy.

So anyway, UGA this past weekend was lovely. I mean, the visit couldn't have gone any better. I met lots of people, was able to kind of get a feel for the department and was able to talk with people who are interested in the stuff I'm interested in. I picked up many reading suggestions and a few journal articles as points of departure for this idea I have in my head for a possible dissertation topic. But I've got time for that. I'm looking forward to getting started in the fall. Time to strike out into new territory again.

I will admit that part of my reluctance comes from a little liar who comes around and tells me that if I start a PhD program, my chances of ever meeting anyone will plummet even further. But then I kind of shake myself and reason things out this way: If starting my PhD is supposed to take me further from meeting the (within truly exaggerated air quotes) man of my dreams, how is NOT starting a PhD program going to bring me closer to meeting him? I've gotten up to this point without pursuing a doctorate without having magically happened upon him, so . . . (the plausibility of magically happening upon him to be discussed at a later date).

Anyway, I've never known what I wanted to do. I still don't. But I know I've always been pretty cool with my state of affairs when I've been in school. I dunno. School is just something I've always been good at. I would love to be a professional student. But it's just dawned upon me that I can be. As a professor. I would teach (which I adore when my students aren't recalcitrant ingrates) but I'd also research, and keep learning stuff. I like being a nerd. Why not get paid for it?

I had a teacher moment last night. Tears almost sprang to my eyes. In my Intermediate professional development Spanish class last night, one of my students blew me away with how much she'd learned! Their homework was to write a paragraph introducing themselves, telling what they do for a living, describing their families and the places they go during the week. Just an attempt to help them review the many things they'd learned in the Beginning class as well as the new things they've learned in Intermediate. The thing is, it's not like she'd created some fancy, perfect composition, using complex verb tenses and an extensive vocabulary. She simply took the basic things we'd learned in class and went all the way with it. It was fabulous.

The other day I was in the copy room and an incredibly cute, braided, beaded little girl who was supposed to be taking a diagnostic test in another room wordlessly wandered in and encircled my waist with her little girl arms and rested her head against me. Lord, my ovaries.

I think I'm going to get a pedicure today. My toes are up for a little pampering. The weather is demanding they be presentable.

Embark

Ahem.

It has been a little while since this little blog baby has gotten some TLC. Here I sit, nursing a bowl of lukewarm oatmeal, trying to figure out what I'm going to wear on Monday.

Today, I'm heading out to spend time with some friends in GA for the weekend, and then Monday, I go up to UGA for a little departmental visit. The department is reimbursing me for all my travel expenses, food and hotel stay. Sweet. I should look professional, but don't want to be overly dressy.

There's a lot going on, and a lot I have to do. I feel unprepared. What kinds of questions am I going to ask? I have to strike a balance between confidence and humility. I have to come across like I have something to bring to the table. I can't just be this wide-eyed, gushing little girl.

Where am I going to live? Where am I going to go to church? I'm going to visit around a little bit this weekend.

And then there's Lord Henry. What I have to realize is this: Moving to start my doctoral program in August could be turning a clean, new, unfettered page, or it could be the beginning of another downward spiral. It simply cannot be the latter. I've suffered enough and have overcome too much.

I was gleeful to get my Word Aflame Press check in the mail. Remember those stories I was talking about? I got those suckas finished off and submitted. And ya girl got paid.

I also have a slight cough that tastes like Ramen noodles. I never get sick. At least I didn't wake up this morning like I did yesterday feeling like a weed-whacker went crazy in my throat. I don't claim it. I don't claim it in JAY-sus name!

And the weather, oh, the weather. Thank you for warming up, weather. Warmth makes things brighter and happier.

Snippets

While procrastinating on putting in my Spanish students' credit hours into the professional development system (by watching Glee and Community on Hulu), it dawned on me that I pledged to make brownies for a Sunday School bake sale. Oh, frobscottle.

I still need to get my life together. I have a visit next weekend to my future home of higher learning, and I need to make arrangements. The prospect of moving and doing a long-term new thing is trickling down into my psyche. I have the chance to be a new me. Why continue stumbling along when I can stop, take a deep breath and start walking tall?

I got my hair did (yes, "did") and want to whip it back and forth.

I ate my entire dinner last night with chopsticks. I'm pretty good with them.

I really don't want to go out into the cold to get brownie mix. Plus I might run into someone I know yet don't want to see at the supermarket.

Update: Mom had already bought brownie mix (score!) and I'm also making heart shaped gingerbread cookies from mix left over from Christmas. Hearts because of the impending Valentine's Day. All of that to say I didn't have to go out into the cold.

Speaking of the impending Valentine's Day and being out in the cold . . .

Agh. Nevermind.

On this dreary Friday morning, I reflect.

Middle brother's going to Iraq today. Again. Not out of obligation, but out of choice, which really burns my biscuits. I could see if he was a patriot or something, but he's chasing that paper. That's it. I love the kid and I know he has his reasons. But he's stubborn. It's flinty-edged. I know what I'm doing. I'm a man. I have to do what's right for me. I'm doing it despite what you think. I'm. I. I. I. Well, I'm big sister, and I'll always be. I know France and Iraq are worlds apart, but why I went to France and why he's going to Iraq coincide like the middle part of a Venn diagram. And I tried to tell him. Running away from it will never resolve it. It'll follow you there. And it'll still be there when you get back.

Last night, I wanted Cheezie's pizza. Pepperoni and cheap and good. They close at 9:00. The Lord sent green light angels and gave my car the wings of the morning. I got there at 8:55. The lone pizza guy there was young and my smile softened his heart. He just happened to have made one pepperoni pizza too many. It was the will of God. I told the pizza guy that, too.

I just have to accept the fact that if anyone of the opposite sex in my orbit ever shows up on my father's radar, he will scrutinize every single thing. There will always be flaws. They will never measure up. Even if I have previously rejected the person as a serious contender myself, my father will remind me of the flaws and accentuate them and exaggerate them. No matter who it is or how I old I get, my father will do this. My father will also act hard core if a situation arises where I won't be around (i.e., getting accepted into a PhD program a state away). He is proud of me, but he can't be effusive about it because he is a dad. And I am a daughter.

I have a good car. I love my good old car. The only times I've had to take it in for anything serious was because of something dumb I did. My check engine light came on when I got into my car the other day. The next day the light was off. If it comes back on, I'll take it in.

My official acceptance letter came in the mail today. Forms and forms and forms. O ye of no health insurance and out-of-state status.

Life doesn't go as planned. It just doesn't. So what's a girl do to?

1. Have a meltdown every time it doesn't.

2. Enjoy the ride.

I'm shooting for #2.

My Moment

So, I had a moment this morning. I had a couple of moments.

Today was the phone interview with the department. There's really only so much you can do to prepare. I was informed beforehand that we would discuss my academic goals and interests as well as my teaching experience. I made a few notes and read up on the professors who would be interviewing me. But today, panic set in. The bigness of it all began to loom and I felt super intimidated and insecure and unprepared.

I had a moment (i.e., a mini-meltdown involving tears and snot). They come (more often that I'd like to admit), but they go. I eventually pulled myself together before the call came right on the dot.

I've had interviews in the past where I know I nailed it. Where I felt confident and in my element. I did not feel that way after this interview. I didn't feel like I blew it, but I felt like I rambled and that my responses weren't as specific and serious-sounding as I would have liked. I felt like I answered the questions, but I didn't feel like I did so impressively. At all. And it was conducted in Spanish, and even though I usually feel comfortable speaking it, it's still not my first language. I didn't sound as fluent and as confident as I would have liked. When they asked if I had any questions, I asked them very practical questions about the conditions and the requirements of the teaching assistantship, if I were offered one.

After it was all over with, I semi-devolved back into sniffles and tears, and in the middle of talking it out with someone, I checked my email, not even 30 minutes later, to find this from the graduate admissions director:

Dear Chantell,

I am delighted to inform you that the Spanish Admissions Committee has recommended that you be accepted into the PhD program, and that you be awarded a teaching assistantship. Final approval must come from the Graduate School, but I wanted to let you know right away that the Commitee was very impressed with your application and your telephone interview.

In fact, your dossier is so outstanding that I am going to nominate you for a Graduate School Assistantship. This is a special award that provides 21 months of support (two academic years plus the summer in between), and allows students to do research under a faculty member's direction. After the first two years of your program, you would continue to be supported through a departmental teaching assistantship.

These are highly competitive awards, but you definitely qualify! We should know the results by the end of February.

In the meantime, please accept my warm congratulations. We truly hope to welcome you to our graduate program this coming fall.

You're kidding me, right? Like, I JUST got off the phone with them and thought my interview was not even close to impressive. And THEN they're nominating me for a Grad School Assistantship too?! (Which is fancier than the departmental one.) I had to stop and laugh at myself for being such a doubting crybaby. And I had to stop and thank God. I think He's trying to show me that I really need to chill out. For real. That I really am going to one day have to trust Him to take care of me.

I was kind of ambivalent about this whole thing at first. But now I'm looking forward to it.

You Procrastination Slave, You

Another quick list:

1. Gotta get a lesson together for my Intermediate Spanish class. Blast me for always waiting until the last minute! (Least I got copies made and squared away for Beginning already. Bless the industriousness that does eventually emerge from time to time.)

2. Gotta finish writing my short story series before midnight this Saturday. Blast me for being a glutton for time crunch punishment!

3. Junior Bible Quizzing tournament Saturday morning. And guess who's an assistant coach . . .

4. Got a phone call back from the Romance Languages department! Director of Graduate Admissions told me I was a fabulous candidate, that my resume looked great and that they wanted to interview the strongest candidates first! The interview (phone interview) is this Friday and will be conducted entirely in Spanish. Downside: Fluffy answers about wanting to "explore" blah, blah, blah won't cut it. I have to be specific about my interests and goals. They need to know that I'm serious, and be left with no inkling that I might be a wanderlust-laden, indecisive girl-woman. I can't say, "I've always been good at school and I don't know what else to do with myself, so I figured I'd give a PhD a go." Let's pray the good Lord lays something on my heart before Friday afternoon.

After this I have to keep writing my stories.

1. I have a friend with whom I can play pick-a-language when we talk on the phone. We start out in Spanish, usually, spend a little time in French, and end in English. It's amazing when I stop to think about it. He's the only one I can do that with.

2. My side-job Spanish classes seem to be a hit. I got a really sweet email from a student saying she loved my enthusiasm and enjoyed the class. I had people who aren't in the class tell me they heard about how good it was. Wow. The downside to such praise is that now I have to keep it up.

3. I am trying so hard not to think about turning 29 in a couple of months. It's not a big deal. People turn 29 every day. But it's taking everything in me to fight off a spreading sense of panic. I'm living at home and I have stuffed animals on my bed, fuzzy bear slippers on my feet and wear college t-shirts over pajama bottoms with hearts on them. My future is hinged on entering a PhD program which I'm ambivalent about. The only official relationship I've ever had was embarrassingly long ago, and the history after that been strewn with ambiguous disappointments and inappropriate disasters. I cannot afford to let this quicksand pull me under again. There are only so many times you can bounce back.

4. I'm a teacher. I'm a math teacher who majored in Spanish. I'm also a Spanish teacher who originally majored in English. I teach teenagers (Miss Smith). I teach adults (Chantell). I teach children (Sister Chantell). I teach toddlers (I wan sum appo duce). It's what I've always done.

5. Sometimes I find myself in the middle of doing something, and I'll feel outside myself. Like I'm not the one doing it, but I'm watching myself do it from an imaginary psychological distance. Sometimes I'll be struck with the fact that I am myself and that I will always be myself and that the world will only look to me the way I see it and that I will never be able to see it through any other eyes, gender, race, culture or experience and that no one else will be able to see it through mine. At no time will being me be over, and then I'll move on to the next thing. This is it.

6. I feel abject when I have nothing to do, when I'm not working towards something. So I fill my coffers up with tasks and get involved with things. Then I feel pressured because I have a lot to do and deadlines loom and showtime arrives and evaluations hover. Because there is always a reckoning.

7. I get annoyed with myself because my existential quandaries are nothing unique to me. There's not some special, weird thing about me or the situations that arise or the things I think about them or the ways I cope with them. It's actually standard procedure. It's not an everlasting problem needing a solution. It's just how it is.

8. I think I'm addicted to pepperoni pizza. I never tire of it, and I crave it quite often.

Life Nuggets

Why does so much of my bloggery revolve, in some way, around Starbucks? The Bucking Star. It's just that place I go to, and leave smelling like coffee grounds.

I've been waking up better, steeling myself less, involving myself more. Trying to take care of and move forward in the now, trying to spend less time conjuring the unforeseeable future. I remember in high school calculus, learning about imaginary numbers. Imagine that. The square root of a negative number which doesn't exist, isn't real, but has concrete application. The square root of my future doesn't exist in this plane. I've resolved to stop trying to make it a real number.

This, of course, from a Spanish teacher turned math teacher out of necessity. (The square root of which was choice.) Well, math, science, ACT review, Spanish and everything-in-between-teacher-tutor-in-one. It's what I've been summoned to do at my new learning center gig. It'll do. Even when I see faces from my public school past reappear for after-school homework help. Hey, Señorita! Our new Spanish teacher is really strict. She took up my phone the first day! Well, praise the Lord. Someone permanent, experienced in teaching Spanish, and "mean." Just what your unruly behinds needed.

When I write stories, I snatch nuggets from my own life and coat them with fictitiousness. (sigh.) That's what I should be doing now. Coating life nuggets with fictitiousness.

Enter a girl in Starbucks, alone.

Enter a girl in Starbucks, alone. She sits at a table, with laptop open, intent on getting started on a short story series. Enter a balding, bespectacled, 30ish man.

Man: Is this seat taken?

Girl: No, go ahead, not at all.

The man takes the chair and sits at a table in front of her. Facing her. He sets out his laptop as well. One of the baristas calls out a drink.

Man: Is that your drink?

Girl: (slightly puzzled as to why the man is addressing her) Um, no . . . I already ordered mine.

The girl's cell rings. She talks to a family member about her whereabouts, mentions what she's working on, promises to meet said family member in a few minutes.

Man: So, are you a writer? I'm sorry, I couldn't help but overhear your conversation and I'm curious.

Girl: (Giggles self-consciously) Well, no . . . I-I mean, not professionally . . .

Man: Well, I guess we're all writers somehow, right? I guess I could say I'm a writer too, with these papers I have due. So, what do you write about?

Girl: (Again, she giggles self-consciously, not really wanting to answer.)

Man: I know, I'm sorry I'm being nosy. I'm just curious because, well, you're really cute and you seem like a really interesting person.

Girl: (Flattered yet unsettled, wondering how this man could consider hitting on her. What makes him think I'm his type? He's older, white, balding and short. Don't people tell me I look younger than I am? Shouldn't this be a deterrent?) I write Sunday School literature for teens.

Man: (Not sure how to respond.) Oh . . . that's cool.

Girl: (Attempting to turn the tables on him.) So, what do you write?

They strike up a mildly interesting conversation. She learns that he's an officer in the Air Force taking military science courses on base. He learns that she's traveled a bit and speaks Spanish and French. She becomes slightly more interested when she learns that he has a Masters in International Relations because she considered going that route. He tries to prolong the conversation even though he knows she's about to leave. She thinks he talks too fast and is trying too hard. She has a sinking feeling it's going to happen in 3, 2, 1 . . .

Man: I know you have to go, but um, I think you're such an interesting person and wanted to know if maybe we could get together for coffee sometime.

Girl: (Hoping her voice conveys regret, shaking her head.) I have a lot going on.

Man: (Getting it.) Oh, you do? (pause) Well, hopefully I'll see you around sometime.

Girl exits from Starbucks, alone.

"Ice" Day

Southerners always flip out at the very wisp of a threat of bad weather. Always better safe than sorry, I suppose, but the case, more often than not, is that reality falls short of the hyped up forecasts. Then again, I'm in Montgomery. Things are worse the further north you go.

So, I've been treated to a three-day weekend. What must I do in order to feel productive?

1. Write letters to my friends in French. I know . . . I could just send them messages on Facebook, but I'm stubborn and old-fashioned and need to practice my French. Plus, I think it's special when you write things out by hand.

2. Begin writing a series of short stories for Word Aflame Press Sunday school literature. I wrote a series for Youth last year and it was fun, so I've been entrusted with another one.

3. Get into some Harlem Renaissance books I purchased from the Schomberg Center when I was in NY.

4. Gear up for my professional development Spanish classes starting back up next week.

Here's to productive "ice" day Mondays!

Hash It Out

Writing here gives me a way to hash it out.

I realized that I didn't even formulate a New Year's Resolution.

There are two big things that I need to work on: trusting God and being consistent.

Frankly, 2010 was a year of a series of bad decisions. It would be unwise to enumerate them here, but I have to own up to the fact that I made many decisions based on fear and lack of trust in God which have resulted in an emerging pattern of inconsistency. If I plan on ever finally facing my demons and overcoming them, this cannot continue.

There's no golden ticket. No one is going to rescue me. If I'm ever to regain ground, I have to do it on cold, hard, realistic terms.

It doesn't have to be so grim and dire. I need to learn to accept the fact that life never stays within the lines and that just because bad decisions can't be undone it doesn't mean that we cannot move forward or that God is not still in control.

I was reading Genesis during a bible study the other day and was struck with the beauty of the creation story. God spoke things into existence. They were good. He gave things a name. He separated the light from the darkness. He created order out of the void.

I got an email the other day from the Romance Languages department of where I'm applying to enter the PhD program. All materials have been received. Soon they'll schedule a phone interview to be conducted entirely in Spanish. I need to be ready to give specific answers about my goals and interests.

There are so many bright spots I can focus on. My life is being lived right now.

Sometimes . . .

a jazzed up frozen pepperoni pizza popped in the oven that comes out fresh and bubblin' is enough.

One of Those Posts

I hate writing posts like this, but there's an irritating part of me clamoring to express itself and will not cease until I relent. You've been warned. I'm so sorry.

I cannot express how much I wish I could just relax about things. I'm so hard on myself. Everyone tells me I'm too hard on myself and I realize in more sober moments that it's true, but that doesn't stop me from doing it.

I wish so badly that the most insignificant things didn't make me tear up. I wish I could take things like a G, suck it up and soldier on. But the least little thing that doesn't happily follow along with the way it's supposed to happen in my head makes my eyes water. It's so annoying and spoiled and just ridiculous. I am too old to react to life this way. When is it going to register in the depth of my being that the last time I was a 12-year-old girl was a little over 16 years ago? What is it going to take for something to slice through my constant formulation of impossible expectations to reveal the fleshy, raw fact that it's never going to happen the way it's "supposed" to? It's just exhausting, but most of all, utterly unnecessary.

I suffer from an irrational, debilitating fear that springs upon me like a panther that I will never be satisfied. That the idea that I'm going to finally arrive at this golden place is a fraud. That I'm sinking deeper and deeper into a self-fulfilling prophecy that I'm afraid of never being happy therefore I never will be. Like I'm watching a train wreck about to happen from afar but at the same time, I'm in it.

I hate that I can't seem to sit still. I flit and flutter and rove and wander. I hate that I consistently second guess myself. I hate that I can't see the forest for the trees because I'm so blinded by the present.

Please. Open my close-minded eyes. Please. Lift me out of my complacent egocentrism. Please. Give me a desire to choose life every day. Please.

Aromatherapy

You'd think that eucalyptus and spearmint scented body wash and lotion would smell like medicinal Doublemint. Imagine my surprise when I opened it up and got a whiff of sweet blues.

Tomorrow is the beginning of the rest of my life.

So, I got back from NYC in one piece. It was lovely seeing my buds.

I'd say the highlight was going to Harlem and going to the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture on Lenox Avenue. Yes, the Lenox Avenue.

Down on Lenox Avenue the other night

By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light

He did a lazy sway . . .

He did a lazy sway . . .

To the tune o' those Weary Blues.

But now I'm back here, and back in that place. In that place where I'm kind of starting over, starting something new, starting a new chapter and don't know where it's headed. But first the old one has to end.

Tomorrow I have to drop off some lesson plans and collect my stuff. Am I going to see people who are going to ask me stuff? I don't like explaining stuff. I can imagine that feeling that's going to settle over me when I turn the key, struggle open that jammed iron door, and smell that high school building smell and hear my footsteps echo down the too-early halls. When I sweep my dusty, gum-speckled wooden floors and memories and hurts seep through.

And my side job . . . I'm pretty sure the gig's still on, but how is it going to materialize? What if not enough people sign up this time around? And my supervisor.

And the new job. Do I really know what I'm getting myself into? We've all heard of jumping from the frying pan and into the fire. From sizzling to burnt.

And me + PhD? My professors finally slid their recommendations into pre-deadline home plate, lucky me. Everything else has since been cast upon the waters. What shall I find after many days? I'll find out in February or March.

Here's to tomorrows.

La Noël et autres détails de la vie

Christmas was lovely. I'll treat you to this pic of my brothers and I. We are so old but still act like brothers and sisters. And my brothers never want to smile for the camera.

So, tomorrow I'm headed to the NYC provided there are no further flight delays. One of my grad school buddies is a new daddy and I can't wait to hold his little one.

I've been knocking things off of my to-do list. All is done except for number 5, which I should be able to polish off tonight. And God please let my absent-minded professors send in their recs before the deadline. And if they don't, God please let the department be merciful. Amen.

Speaking of grad school buddies, another one of mine came down this week with his sweet little sis and we had a grand old time. I laughed A LOT. Boy, I needed it. I will never tire of the story where he awkwardly encounters one of our least-favorite professors in the men's room. Ah, I can't even think about it without chuckling.

I've also been enlisted as a Spanish tutor to . . . ahem . . . a certain tall, dark chocolate, handsome man. Perhaps he will join my professional development Beginning Spanish class when it starts back up next month. Nah, it's not like that for real. I still don't really know the dude. He's gorgeous, but looks aren't everything.

I've always been a last-minute packer. I'm going to try to be a little better and not wait until 12 a.m. this time.

Calm down.

But there's this manic little me that wants to explain, that wants to make sure I'm not perceived as not the way I want to be perceived because if I were then I'd be misunderstood and feel insecure and I don't want to put myself into a position where I am looked at as immature and eager and naive because I'm trying to make sure that I come across as the way I want to come across and

Please, do yourself and everyone else a favor and calm down.

In your vain attempt not to be annoying and too much, you are being annoying and too much.

Breathe.

Unashamedly accept the unchangeable fact that you are yourself and calm down.

The Nutcracker

The best moment: The first few dainty plucks of the strings before the sugar plum fairy tiptoes and pirouettes across the stage.

Today I woke up and made pancakes.

I felt like being a housewife. To accompany the pancakes I made bacon and scrambled eggs. My dad and brothers were quite pleased.

Now I must . . .

1. Start Christmas shopping. Christmas is Saturday. Geez.

2. Mail an English Bible to a friend in France. (It's not going to get there in time, but c'est la pensée qui compte.)

3. Send some Christmas cards in French. Gotta practice. Madame sent me one like 2 weeks ago.

4. Finish writing my statement of purpose and get the rest of the application sent off. The deadline is January 1st!

5. Finish watching training videos for my new gig.

Please God, please let my stars align. I know that I am an underling and that the fault lies not in them (quick explanation), but please . . . last night we sang "You Give Us Life" at church, and it suddenly hit me that I've been given the gift of life. I felt positive, refreshed, forward-looking. I don't want to lose it. There's an itsy bitsy hope buried under layers and layers, incubating, lying patiently dormant. Don't let it die.

Miss Señorita Says Adiós

I was a little surprised during my goodbyes yesterday. More of them cared than I thought. One student who gave me constant problems begged me not to go. "Please, Miss Señorita, please don't go. I am so sorry for everything I've done. I promise to do better if you please don't go." A few of them wrote me notes telling me how great of a teacher I am and how much they're going to miss me. When I made the announcement that I wouldn't be back next semester, a common refrain was, "Why you leaving us?" That really got to me. I hate the idea of leaving people behind.

A friend of mine made me laugh harder than I had in a while by telling me that I invent new reasons to beat myself up. Maybe she's right, but I have to be honest and say that I feel like a failure. I do. I gave up. One of my students even said, "Quitters never win and winners never quit, Miss Smith. And you're a winner. So you can't quit." It made me want to laugh and cry at the same time.

So many of my students come from broken, desperate situations. It's in the air at the school. You can smell it and breathe it in. And I allowed it to drag me down. I got tired of fighting. Of feeling ineffective and inept. Of feeling powerless for not being able to exert enough authority to control my classes. Of helplessly watching the future get carried off in handcuffs and totter down the hallways pregnant. Of hearing vile language everywhere I turned. Of feeling disregarded and rejected and taken for granted.

I am in this world. I am charged to be a light in this world. And if I start making a habit of quitting, how can I say that I truly believe in a God who strengthens me?

Maybe the disappointment and frustration that I felt is just a minuscule fraction of what Jesus felt every day during His life among us. Broken and desperate people.

Now I'm Facebook friends with a few. I told my pregnant students to give me a call when the baby comes so that I could go visit them. Maybe I can still be a positive influence even if I'm not in the classroom.

I'm fickle and emotional.

I'm not proud of it, it's just that fickleness and emotionalness are a couple of the building blocks of me that cause me a little bit of heartache and get me into a little bit of trouble and cause me to make a little bit of impulsive decisions.

No amount of cheerleading and scriptural exhortation could get me to change my mind. With a stubborn mind and a tear-streaked face and a sob-wracked heart, I'm quitting I can't do this anymore it's taking a toll on me I won't come back.

But enter a tall, well-built, dark chocolate co-worker. Oh, hold up . . . where did he come from? I didn't even know he existed because he was sequestered over in the 9th grade academy. He comes strolling into my room with his class during my planning period because they were using his room for testing that week. The kids adore him. He's funny, tall, handsome, down-to-earth, tall and tall. The kids loved his little charming ways to try to get my attention while I was putting in grades or whatever. Ooh Miss Señorita are you gonna go out with Mr.___? He sweeps into my room after school one day after I used "I'm not coming back next semester" as a deterrent. But no you can do all things through Christ you have a beautiful smile and your laugh is contagious the kids need your positivity you have a glow about you you're a light you have to believe that God is bigger than this He'll give you strength you'll come out on the other side and your test will become a testimony. Which of those words hadn't been said to me already? They just hadn't come out of the mouth of a gorgeous Hershey man. Hey maybe it's not that bad maybe I can tough it out he's right I have to have faith Wait a minute . . .

Okay. Maybe I made an emotional decision to quit. But wouldn't I be making another emotional decision to stay? Based on heart flutters and chocolatey tallness? He probably felt like the man because I was all emotional and I can't do it and he was all tall and passionate and strong and comforting and yes you can.

The Bible says a doubleminded man (or woman) is unstable in all his/her ways. I just need to accept that I made a decision (word is already getting around . . . why do I have a sense of déjà vu?) and now I need to stick with it and move on. Plus I wouldn't want Hershey to think I would stay because of him.

La Hamburguesa

Tonight I taught my Beginning Conversational Spanish professional development class about food, ordering from a restaurant and expressing likes and dislikes. Next week is the last week of the session and I'm planning for us all to meet at a Mexican restaurant to finish it out with a fun outing, maybe do a Christmasy thing or two and give them to have a chance to order their food in Spanish and test out what they've learned. Should be fun.

Anyway, one the food items I taught today was la hamburguesa, and I got an overwhelming craving for a hamburger. Suddenly, all I wanted in life was a big, fat juicy cheeseburger with the works. It was all I could think about for the rest of class. As soon as class was over, I made a beeline to Hardee's.

Ketchup and mayonnaise and mustard oozed over the edges every time I took a bite. The lettuce was crunchy, the tomatoes juicy, the onions and pickles zingy, the cheese melty. I relished it with fries and washed it down with a cherry coke. And I sat there in a mellow, greasy languor, feeling for the first time in a while something close to contentment.

This is the thing:

I complain about not having any stability, about wanting this itinerant life of "gigs" to be over, but then I continue to jump around with the mantra "It's just temporary" propelling me on.

So, I did it. I broke down and turned in a letter of resignation to my principal this week. I won't be continuing with my most recent incarnation of "Miss Señorita" next semester. I didn't do it with relish at all. I did it tearfully, feeling like a quitter, feeling like an idiot for rejecting more money than I've ever made + benefits, feeling like a weakling for not being able to tough it out, feeling like a loser for leaving the kids behind who really are trying, feeling like a weasel for considering deucing out without saying goodbye. How would I say it? I do have a back-up plan. (I'm not entirely insane.) And, yes, the back-up plan's pay sucks. Here's something I've learned about me: I'm willing to accept sucky pay for peace of mind. At least temporarily. There I go again.

And then there's another situation which will only persist as long as I allow it to. Words mean so very little to people when they aren't followed through with respective action. No more reliance on words. No more saying, "I'm not going to do ______ anymore." Instead, I have to just not do it anymore.

I don't have a great sense of direction. Anyone who's ever driven with me can tell you that. I always inadvertently end up taking the long way. There was always a better, shorter, more efficient way to have gotten where I eventually ended up. But at least I eventually got there.

It's crazy. In some areas I'm an overachiever, supposedly ahead of the game. In others, I'm quite the late bloomer. It's a maddening combination.

Or perhaps I'm just realizing that I'm more like everyone else than I'd like to admit. It's not a bad thing.

Back at it.

Back in the saddle, son.

A funny thing happens. I'll be dreading it. I'll be clenching my fists and trying to get my head around it as the countdown nears its end. But when showtime rolls around, I'm there and the cogs in the machine jumpstart and keep turning.

Waning

Rrrrrr . . . I feel like a fluffy, lazy old dog rolling over after a too long sleep.

I'm here at Starbucks to sit myself down and plan, to prepare, to woman up for going back to pounding the pavement on Monday, but aauugh . . . it's slippery and drippery and sticky and icky. I want to tiptoe around it. I want to flee across the border into the sunflower-filled land where things go my way.

I have to stop this. I have to put my foot down and say "Eat your mushy vegetables!" to me. I have to tug on my foot to bring my helium-filled head out of the clouds of conjecture and back down to the gravel road. I have to stop hoping things are going to fall into my lap. I have to stop wishing that a dapper, coffee-caramel man is going to wake up one day and come riding to my rescue. I must learn the lesson of object permanence over again. Just because I can't see it doesn't mean it doesn't exist.

Okay, a wee bit of credit: I finished grading (and recording) tests last night (with help). I did go through and assign professional development credit to students from my other Spanish class this morning (which takes longer than one would suppose). Baby steps. Baby steps.

Onward.

Thanks

I do this every year to remind myself of how much I have to be thankful for. It's a very enriching exercise, counting your blessings. They are not necessarily in order of importance. I am thankful for . . .

1. My job. There are some people who are looking for work or who have been laid off from their jobs. I should be thankful that I even have a job. And not just that, but also an extra teaching job two nights a week.

2. My family. My family has always been so extremely supportive of me, and I don't know what I would do without them.

3. My friends. There are people who are not members of my family who love me, who are welcoming to me, who cheer me on and who remember me in their prayers.

4. My health. I have never had any serious health problems. My health has never been something that I've had to worry about interfering with my daily life.

5. My youth. I'm still on the green side of 30 and I still (God willing) have a lot to look forward to.

6. My transportation. I have a pretty decent car that gives me very few problems and gets good gas mileage.

7. My size. I'm a skinny minnie and will continue to enjoy it while it lasts.

8. Little children who run up to me and hug me. I can't get enough of that. It just lights up my life.

9. Long, hot showers. For a few luxurious minutes a day, all troubles melt away.

10. Options. I lament the fact that I don't know what I want to do. But I'm thankful that my confusion and frustration comes from an abundance of options instead of a lack thereof.

11. God's mercy. Though I have single-handedly transformed my life into a desperate tragedy at times, God has allowed me to dust myself off and bounce back.

12. Google translate. Since I have friends from literally all over the world, I can keep up with their Facebook goings-on that aren't written in Spanish or French.

Hear me out there?

This is what I want you to do. I want you to listen to me. Try to listen despite my muffled heartbeat, my muted voice. Read my mind. Listen to the sounds of telepathic silence pulsating towards you.

I dig in my heels for necessity's sake, out of an eventual will to survive. I blindly reinforce my soft spots with sterner stuff (what ambition's made of, says Marc Antony) to forge on. But the me still seeps out from between the cracks.

It isn't weakness, it's humanity. Or is humanity by virtue weak? Or is weakness by virtue human? Listen to me: I want to be extraordinary, I want to be normal. I want what no one else has, I want what everyone else has. I want you to feel the weighted tension of my contradictions.

I am clay. I'm being molded and kneaded and broken. Can't you see that I realize I am also in process? That I'm subject to change?

To think that we should remain untouched by the prospect of change is (as Marc Antony would say) the most unkindest cut of all.

I pray for the day you could hear the words of my mouth and the meditations of my heart clearly. But until then, try to listen. Steel yourself, humble yourself and listen.

I keep

wanting to quit and then resolve to stick with it and then I'll want to quit again, and again resolve to stick with it, but then I'll feel like quitting again, and then I'll ultimately resolve that I have to stick with it.

I'm sure I'm going to want to quit again.

But I'm sure I'll resolve that I have to stick with it.

I'm really trying.

I'm really trying to trudge through this sludge.

I'd give it all up, I would. I'd throw in the towel, I would. In a minute. But I just can't. I know that I'm not supposed to.

Despite it all, there are still smiles in the hallway. There are tiny spots of brightness. There's a flower growing through the asphalt.

You'd think I'd be bone dead tired, splayed, exposing innards to dry in the sun after my days, but there's still a reserve of energy on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons when I teach my professional development class. Today a student told me that she was afraid and nervous when she thought about learning a foreign language, but I've made it so fun for her and made her feel so comfortable, it's all she talks about, and she takes every opportunity to practice. She thanked me. She made my day.

Good Things

1. Got my teaching certificate renewed! Old people tryna act like my Master's degree didn't count towards recertification at first because "it's wasn't part of a teacher education program." Well, guess what, suckas? After you denied my 60 continuing education hours I completed "because they were completed before the validity start date of my certificate" I sent my transcript in anyway. Now it's all good till 2015. (Um, yikes, that year sounds too futuristic for my tastes. Good Lord, what am I going to be up to by then?)

2. I've decided to stop being a weenie, woman up, and soldier on with my job(s). I've quit in my mind so many times. But some things you just gotta face.

3. Long weekend. Thursday and Friday off, son. And then we have an entire week off for Thanksgiving. Okay, my job has its perks.

4. Got the ball rolling for grad school application. Paid the application fee, sent off the transcripts, got the GRE scores reported. Now I just have to wait for them recommendations to come rolling in, get that statement of purpose out there, and dust off one of my papers for my writing sample. Juan Moreira and verisimilitude. It's a big word in Spanish, too.

5. Hanging with homies and laughing belly laughs. I need this a little more often nowadays.

Industriousness Strikes Again

Aw, yeah. I gotta ride this sucka out. When industriousness strikes I gotta get it while the gettin's good. I gotta strike while the iron's hot. It's Friday evening and I'm not physically spent, drooling onto my pillow in oblivion. I've got bedsheets in the washing machine, people! I already have my weekend to-do list written out! C'mon, now.

Today started out as an off the chain day. It ended as an off the chain day. But somehow, I'm still sane.

I struggle with indecisiveness, fickleness, even. I drive myself and those who enter my orbit loco because of it. But in the thick of writing office referrals during my planning period, it hit me like a shaft of light: I'm applying for the Romance Languages doctoral program at a school a state away.

I teetered and tottered between wanting to do it or not. But something made me make up my mind today. I think the reason why God makes us uncomfortable is because He wants to push us on to something else. Being uncomfortable lights a fire under our derrieres to get up and out. Thank God for some kind of clarity. I hope it all works out. It would be a shame if it didn't because this is the last year my GRE scores are valid. I don't want to have to take it again because I don't think I can pull those scores off again. My standardized test game has gotten a little rusty.

I feel like getting down to business. I feel like getting things done. I gotta ride this sucka out.

Dear Unattainable

Dear Unattainable,

I'm trying to put safeguards in place in order not to make you my god.

I don't want to spend myself, exhaust myself, figuring, maneuvering, performing mental acrobatics of the utmost futile kind in order to forge an uncertain path towards finally, at last, having you within my grasp.

You, elusive, desirable. Where wishes are pocketed. Where dreams dry on the line and blow in the wind. Where heart's desires burn.

I circumscribe you in prayer during dawn-lit drives. You're always in my mind despite my efforts to leave you in the hands of the True God.

Daylight Savings Time notwithstanding, time will pass. Life will pass. Shall I live it in pursuit of you? Or shall I live it despite you? (Is there a third-party rhetorical question?)

You're aloof. Unmoved by my sighs and groanings. You exist in a world away from me, yet would still have me believe that you're just beyond my reach. I'd protest that it's unfair, but that particular protest is grating and somehow beneath me.

I can't ask anything of you. I don't expect anything from you. I just wanted to let you know how I feel.

Sincerely,

Me

Another Chicken Post

I wanted some chicken wings. I didn't want the leftover gumbo my mom made. So I went to Popeye's and got a 3 chicken wing combo. With a biscuit. With red beans and rice.

It was the first time in a while I ate really well. I had been picking at stuff because I had kind of a loss of appetite lately.

But I tore some Popeye's up. Hopefully, I can tear up grading papers this weekend.

Dear Lord Henry

Read The Picture of Dorian Gray and then come back and read this post.

Dear Lord Henry,

You are the Victorian incarnation of the devil, you are. What is so maddening (yet intriguing) about you is that it's quite clear what you are, it's quite clear you're a seducer. That in itself should be fair warning.

But your words, your words. Even though if studied hard enough with sharp, unfeeling eye, they're found to be nonsense, lies, twisted, hedonistic logic, all they need is a moment, a few soft, insecure moments to slither past defenses and embed themselves in the mind. What a snare for the trusting, open-hearted! To be presented with one who is at once dangerous and appealing, at once flattering and destructive. Your influence is your elixir, and once anyone dares take a sip you become their god and they your slave.

Though you are a fictional character, a projection of Oscar Wilde's fancy, it does not mean that you do not exist. That's the wonder, or rather, the terror of you. Lord Henry does exist. You exist in the form of living, breathing men ages removed from your literary conception. You live through manipulative words whispered to susceptible prey. You live in the machinations of the base desire of conquest, for no reason other than the lust for possession. You live in the cruel satisfaction some receive from watching the unsullied spoil before their eyes. You live in those who glory in efforts to make the principled succumb.

Lord Henry, you walk in the shadows down the corridors of my fears. But you shall not overtake me. I refuse to be your Dorian Gray.

Cordially,

Me

Another Sunday Night

I love the taste of my mom's pasta salad, this time with chunks of artichoke hearts. They and the bits of olive are chunks and bits of nostalgic Italian childhood.

I love the citrusy smell of deep conditioner invigorating my scalp. My hair's gonna be so soft. It's gonna be so soft.

Writing out heartfelt words on blank note cards, typing out ideas and games that amount to learning as lesson plans, sitting under a hairdryer while reading the colorful Sunday comics.

CNN and New York Times scans, a Facebook check, and the fuzzy few pensive moments before settling into a well-earned sleep.

Work

I have to work at it. It takes work.

I have to get up in the morning. I have to go to work. I have to plan. I have to be ready. I have to push against the friction, against the grind. I have to overcome inertia.

A body at rest will remain at rest unless an outside force acts on it.

I must say no and follow through. I must say yes and follow through.

A double minded man is unstable in all his ways.

I must make a conscious decision every day to love. I must make a conscious decision every day to shine. I must make a conscious decision every day to hope. I must make a conscious decision every day not to drown.

What makes you think

that a handful of heartfelt prayers is all it takes?

that ingrained things disappear for good?

that the disconnect between your actions and words is negligible?

that another human being would ever be able to save you?

that your impatience is a result of your situation instead of the other way around?

that the same things will somehow produce different results?

that giving up is an option?

Sick Day

Ugh. Today I woke up drowning in it.

At least I got my grades posted.

At least I had time to eat breakfast today.

Tomorrow will be better.

I begged for a chicken biscuit today.

Today started out as a slumping day. A lumpy, disjointed, moping in my airy world time because people won't do what I want them to do. Now. Be patient. Be prayerful. Take care of God's business and He'll take care of yours.

It wasn't even a regular workday. No kiddies to contend with, but meetings nonetheless. By 10:35, I was starving and I only wanted one thing: A Chick-fil-a chicken biscuit. (They've gotten me into trouble before.) I don't know how to convey to you how much I absolutely had to have one. There was only one problem: They stop serving breakfast at 10:30. After my slumpy lumpy funk of waking up, I didn't care. I was going to speed to the drive thru and beg. I made it at approximately 10:47.

Me: I know you stop serving breakfast at 10:30, but is there any possible way I could pleeeease have a chicken biscuit?

Lady: No, ma'am, I'm sorry.

Me: Are you sure? I just really have to have one today. Please.

Lady: I'm sorry, but I'm not going to be able to do that.

Me: (long, sorrowful sigh) Okayyyy. Well, I guess I'll get a chicken strips meal, thr-

Lady: Hold on for just a second. I'll be right back. (long pause) Well, actually we have one more chicken biscuit left! Is there anything else you'd like?

Me: Yes! Yes! Thank you! Okay, I'll also get a medium waffle fry and a lemonade. Thank you so much! You just made my day!

Why can't everything else in life work like the Chick-fil-a drive thru?

An Actual Saturday

This is the first Saturday in a long time that I've felt like I can actually enjoy.

It's not like I don't still have stuff to do. There's always something to do. But I don't feel like there's this heavy cloud of ohmygodihavesomuchtodoswirling about me. This breath-taking, hyperventilation-inducing pressure that boils my brain into a thick cauldron of cerebral stew.

But I still have stuff to do.

This week kicked off my professional development Spanish class. So far, so good, I must say. I had a principal in my class make a few positive comments to me and to my supervisor about my energetic, engaging style. Hurray! However, any time something starts off with a bang, there's the pressure to keep it up. I can't lose steam.

My day job is still all the way live. But I'm learning how to handle it. No matter how horrible some of my kids are, there still exists a blessed remnant which I believe makes it worth it.

I will allow myself

a slight break in this 11:30 p.m. coffee-induced burst of productivity to say that I wish this mission-minded me would come around more often.

The me that usually decides to manifest is the slothful worrywart. Lots of energy is produced, but it's all kept internally. No measurable progress is made, and it does no good but burn up my brain cells before they get a chance to do anything productive.

But the mission-minded me, when she decides to emerge, is much easier to stomach. No guilty aftertaste.

Here's to finally delving into grading the tests my students keep nagging me about!

Got ma check

Ey. I fin'ly got ma check. You'ont eeeven know. Shoooooot. Been waitin fo dat check. Das MAH check. Das mah PAYcheck, cuz. Gon pay sum bills wi dat junk. Gon pay sum loans wi dat junk. Gon pay sum cret cards wi dat junk. Gon buy me sum shoes wi dat junk. Gon buy me sum lotion wi dat junk.

You'ont eeeven know. Shoooooot.

Naïve

While baking a batch of caramel-filled chocolate chip cookies this evening, I wondered: If you are aware of your naïveté, are you truly naïve?

Gotta hold it together, son.

I'm a procrastinator.

Nothing new here, move along folks, nothing more to see.

Though the procrastinator in me usually reigns and the overachieving nerd kicks in at the last minute, there are times, precious few times, when the overachieving nerd gets going from the get go.

I like those times.

I've got more to do, so I'm getting more done. I have less time to get things done, so I'm forced to use my time more efficiently.

I feel productive.

In addition to my day job, I'm also going to start teaching a Beginning Spanish class for teachers and administrators in my school system in the evenings. (Not necessarily in order of importance: experience, exposure, and cha-ching!)

Gotta hold it together, son.

Cures

Cure for the Saturday morning blues: Listening to Chopin nocturnes while driving through the still morning while watching the color-changing leaves begin to drift to the ground.

Cure for the cold soggy soul: A friend embrace, a sister to see in the flesh, commiserating smiles over hot and iced lattes and warm pastries.

Cure for the procrastinatory bog: A place apart, background music, a free drink (for filling out a survey), space to spread out and drown in the monotony of grading, grading.

Rest for the weary, solace for the lonely, a spot to observe the curious phenomenon of rainfall in the sun.

Salsa

So, I've decided that I have to focus on having fun with my off the chain students. And even though many of them are enormous enough to pound me into the ground, at the end of the day, they're children. Plus today's Friday. It was destined to be a fun day. (Even though I must be 100% and say today started out completely live. There was a food fight during breakfast in the packed-to-capacity cafeteria before school even started today.)

We played a game I've coined "Tic-tac-toe en Español" which is a tic-tac-toe-like review game. In each tic-tac-toe square is a category. The teams take turns choosing categories and if they get the question right, they get to put an X or O in that spot. First team to get three in a row wins.

The last few minutes of class, I blasted some Celia Cruz and taught them how to salsa. Some classes were more into it than others, but the class who was the most into it was the class which is usually the wildest.

I had some kids comment on how fun today's class was and I even had a student tell me I was their favorite teacher, which of course made my teacher heart swell with warm fuzzy pride. These are the things I need to remember during the down days.

What Is "This"?

The weeks slip by slowly. On the dawn lit drive to work, there was one phrase reverberating in me: "This cannot continue."

There are no specifics. I guess that's what's maddening about my state. "This" doesn't refer to any particular thing, even though the word by its very definition indicates specificity. It's just this place, this place that I'm in career-wise, physically, emotionally, spiritually. Something has to be decided upon. This limbo-ness, that's what I'm talking about. This is what cannot continue.

Career: It really is going to be fine. I can't get away from teaching. It's what I do. But yet, what am I going to do? This now isn't going to be this forever. So what is going to be this forever?

Location: It's family. The closest place to home that will ever exist. But it's just kind of a launch pad. A base that I'll return to now and again. Here now can't be here forever.

Emotional: I'm me. No matter how much I'd wish bits of me away, it's ingrained. My sensitivity. My tears. My overanalysis. My wishful thinking. I realize that these are little me-blocks. But why do I feel so badly about their presence?

Spiritual: Wandering in the wilderness. Conflicted. I love my toddlers. Last Sunday, they were completely consumed with scooping dry macaroni out of containers and pouring it into other ones. They're delighted by simple things. But can I stay in my Sunday School Teacher cocoon forever and think that will make the balloon float?

This thing that I'm in, this insecure existence, it simply cannot continue. Not for too much longer.

This is a major grade.

Name: ___________________ Date: _______ Period: __

Answer the following questions in complete sentences.

1. What are the policies and procedures involved in "giving it over to God"?

2. What does it mean not to live in the past when we are indubitably formed and molded by our past experiences?

3. In Chapter 1, the issue of Things was discussed. How do you stay on top of them?

4. In the case study of C.S., there were details of ponderous, tearful Saturday mornings. What was it that reassured the subject and why?

Essay Prompt

"That which does not kill us makes us stronger" is probably one of Nietzche's most memorable quotations. Argue for or against this assertion using evidence from your own life. Cite where appropriate.

Bonus

Applying inductive reasoning, what are the odds (in ratio form) of a 28-year-old, wanderlust-laden, indecisive, insecure, impatient, stubborn, sensitive, overly-analytical black female chilling out?

White fudge covered pretzels

are what I'm eating right now while listening to Brazilian pop. While writing in French to Swedish friends. While plunged into the molasses of life in the former capital of the Confederacy. While realizing that I love my students somehow. While wondering what's next.

Rainbow Morning

I saw this promise in the sky before I rolled away to work this morning:

Red and yellow and pink and green

Purple and orange and blue

I can sing a rainbow,

Sing a rainbow,

Sing a rainbow too.

A Sunday Night, Like Many Sunday Nights to Come

Sitting here, blogging as procrastination. Avoidance. That's nothing new.

I'm trying to hold on to the last shred of this weekend before the new week comes pouring in, drowning me in its tide of sheer existence.

I like teaching, I do. I like the little details of being a teacher. Freshly sharpened pencils, post it notes, seating charts, gesticulating while walking around the room, hoping my word seeds will plant themselves into my students' brains and that little knowledge seedlings will sprout. I like answering questions that show curiosity about the world. I like giving out star stickers for correct answers and participation. (You'd think high school students would utterly shun the very idea of star stickers, but you'd be surprised.)

But the one thing I despise, the one thing that makes me want to curl up into a fetal position in a corner and die is grading papers. And I have a million and one students. Take me now, sweet Jesus. Take me on home. The papers mock me, daring me to make an insignificant dent.

There's a flying saucer of insecurity that constantly hovers over me. I don't have it together. I'm grasping at loose ends and more sprout before I have time to tie them. It's daunting. I'm doomed to slogging through. I'll never be a hot knife through butter.

Sometimes the cool, soothing genie in my brain says just a day at a time. You can only do what you are able to do. It looks nice typed out. It sounds reasonable out loud.

But tomorrow I'll unlock my paper-decorated door (an attempt at morale-boosting festiveness), and step into my chilled room. There will be desks, a podium, a tardy log, a clock. These are concrete things.

There will be a sea of humanity in the hallways which will come flowing into my room. Here we are now, entertain us.

Call: Buenos días, clase.

Response: Buenos días, Señorita Smith.

Invitation

What: Miss Señorita Smith's Detention!

Where: Room 127

When: August 27th from 2:55 p.m. sharp to 3:40 p.m.

**Failure to attend will be an office referral! Gum scrapers provided!**

After

the end of a long week, to sit down to an enormous hunk of chocolate cake accompanied by a tall glass of milk.

Come, Lord Jesus.

Miss Señorita Smith

"Miss Señorita Smith, um, are you black or are you mixed with somethin?"

"Miss Señorita Smith, how long you was in Spain?"

"Miss Señorita Smith, how come they got that upside down question mark thing?"

"Miss Señorita Smith, I don't wanna fail Spanish. I got to graduate."

"Miss Señorita Smith, you liked the kind of food they had over there?"

"Miss Señorita Smith, what kind of music is this? What you said? Flamingo?"

"Miss Señorita Smith, do you listen to this kind of music in your car?"

"Miss Señorita Smith, I don't know what that MEAN."

"Miss Señorita Smith, ooh, I know! I wanna go first!"

"Miss Señorita Smith, is it going to be like this everyday? It be boring."

"Miss Señorita Smith, it be fun in here."

7th period

was a zoo today. This cannot continue.

I'm not the yelling type. I'm just not. Why would I get myself all worked up because of your foolishness? Not this chica.

Were some parents called today? Yezzir. That should nip this puppy in the bud.

Orange Spice Tea

I go through tea phases.

Phase one: Chai tea.

Phase two: Green tea.

Phase three: Lemon ginger tea.

Currently: Orange spice tea.

I hate the fact that my body won't let me sleep in. I'm so programmed to waking up early that even on a lazy Saturday morning I can't get in a few extra winks.

My to-do list. Oh, my to-do list.

This is what I do: Hope for impossibles. Then, if the impossible turns, for lack of a better word, plausible, I acquire a nervous, indecisive aftertaste.

I finally got a new phone. I had had my old phone since 2005. It's not the latest and the datest. I mean, I use my phone for calling and occasionally texting. That's it. I guess it's nice that this one has a camera which I might use and a bunch of other capabilities that I probably won't.

One thing I haven't done yet that I will do today: Use some mango mandarin body scrub.

I wonder: What kinds of other people have Curious George as their computer wallpaper?

Flamenco

A handsome, eyebrow-pierced young Spaniard returns to his job at the cybercafe on a lonely corner in Salamanca.

Every once in a while, his thoughts turn to a quirky American girl with downcast eyes who came into the cybercafe one summer afternoon about two years ago. She sat sullenly, the only one there that day. He had some modern Flamenco on in the background. Suddenly, she inquired about the group playing, and he offered to make her a CD full of the music. Tears welled up in her eyes and she said she wasn't ready to leave Spain. She didn't want to go back to the States. He smiled and shook his head. What a silly little sentimental girl. He gave her candy and told her to keep her head up, that it's better to go through life smiling than crying. He gave her the CD, but not before he wrote "Flamenquito: music from Salamanca for a friend" on it. He then sent her off with his email address, more encouraging words, and oh-so-Spanish besitos on both cheeks.

Little does he know that the music on the CD he burned for her now gets its wear in a high school Spanish classroom thousands of miles away from his lonely corner. Students unaccustomed to such plaintive wailing, staccato raps and claps, and raspy guitar enter a new world for a few moments. Some, ever searching for an excuse, complain that they don't understand the words. "Maybe not," the girl, now a teacher, says, "but you can feel it."

Interview

Interviewer: So, how long has it been since you've been back from France?

Interviewee: Umm . . . let's see . . . it's been a little over a month now.

Interviewer: So, what's it like to be back? Do you miss it? Do you see yourself going back?

Interviewee: It's okay. I mean, I do miss certain things about it, but frankly, I was ready to come back to the States. That's not to say that I wouldn't like to go back to France. I would. It's something I'm considering. I just don't know when or how or under what circumstances. Sometimes I wake up with France on my mind. Often, it will bring me to tears. I think maybe, if I do go back, I should let enough time pass so that I don't feel like I'm slipping back into the grooves of my already lived French experience. When I go back, I want to go back anew.

Interviewer: What do you miss the most?

Interviewee: If I had to choose one thing and one thing only, I would say the Loire River.

Interviewer: You've truly lived a world-traveling life, haven't you? You spent years in Italy as a child, you spent time in Spain and learned Spanish, now you've spent time in France and you've added a second foreign language to your repertoire. What's the next step?

Interviewee: (laughs) I wish I knew. What I know right now is that I need to work. Thankfully, I've gotten a job as a Spanish teacher set to start next week, so I'm focusing on getting prepared for that. So, I guess I can say that for at least a year, the next step has pretty much been settled for me.

Interviewer: What is it that you want to do? If you could choose the perfect situation, what would it be?

Interviewee: (sighs) That's such a broad question. I don't know. I don't really know. I guess I just want to be where God wants me to be. I can't go wrong with that, can I?