I know how it feels to

be the only black person there.

take a swig of expired, sour milk.

finish. Finally.

wish you had that girl's hair.

smile so much your face hurts.

immerse yourself in a foreign culture.

suffer rejection.

want it to end.

need to go to the bathroom so desperately you would go to any lengths for relief.

have it work out the way you imagined it.

lose yourself and hope it wouldn't spell your ruin.

pray that God would do it so you wouldn't have to.

wait. And wait. And wait.

run off the road and hit a telephone pole.

wonder when he's going to call.

have a heart-dropping confirmation of what you've suspected all along.

taste snails.

cringe when you remember how your dad lost it over a "hippie" boy.

be whisked across a dance floor by a persistent groomsman.

sob with abandon.

dread those uncertain seconds right before the roller coaster plunges downward.

hear your name in a variety of accents.

wake from a dream that you were glad was just a dream.

bite down on something crunchy that wasn't supposed to be.

realize what you "knew" was so wrong.

want to wallow in sad songs.

get over it and move on.

Sometimes you gotta go down to the country.

You have an inexplicable need to find yourself amongst the obscure, the few, the hoping folks will show up. Off a county road. Not too far from where they got their first Burger King. Then you arrive, your unfamiliar car in the unpaved parking lot, recipient of curious peers from behind that glass door of the famed church-in-a-day. You walk in, get generous helpings of Praise-the-Lord and hugs and handshakes and smiles and good-to-see-you and talking to folks like you always knew them even though you didn't but it doesn't matter because you're brothers and sisters in the Lord. Your heart warms to the sound of a tinny keyboard and the smile spreads across your face when a suited, tambourine-playing white man grabs the hand of a wizened, walker-dependent black woman in solidarity. "Yes, Lawd!" she exclaims in response to the spiritual cheerleader at the pulpit who rhetorically questions whether the congregation heard him and whether the Lord's been good. The church words flow: praise, overcome, good God, authority, faith, revival, devil, world, this generation, get ready, keep on, one day, sacrifice, trust, dance, circumstance, the Word, right now, hands, raise, sing, joy. Don't you go nowhere after church neither, no need to go to Burger King, cause there's plenty of food: sloppy Joes, chips, all kinds of pie—a sweet potato pie made by the wizened sister that'll make you shut your mouth—cookies, and drinks. And is your daddy—? And how old are you? And where are you from? And what do you do? And thank y'all for coming! Hope to see you soon! When you turn back out into the humid night, you have to turn on your highbeams because there are no streetlights between there and the big city (not really big at all) you call home.

Just Around the Riverbend

Said

Last night

Him: So, what is it that you really want to do? If you could do anything, what would it be?

Me: Well, honestly, I . . .

Him: Yeah, honestly, what would it be?

Me: Honestly, I'd like to raise a family.

Him: (surprised) Like, stay home and take care of the kids?

Me: (sheepishly) Yeah . . .

Him: (still in seeming disbelief) Wow, well . . . that's awesome! I mean, with your wall full of credentials, you'd definitely be qualified to educate your children. That's really cool.

Me: Yeah . . . we'll see.

Him: Your time will come. Don't worry, your time will come.

Today

Her: Ms. Chantell, I was just thinking I can't believe you ain't got no husband or no children.

Me: Really? Why?

Her: Cause you so cute. I was just thinking someone as cute as you should have some kids or something. And you seem like a good mom, too.

Me: Oh, well . . . thanks. Maybe one day. We'll see.

My nails are fab!

1. Helped a beautiful, lovely woman of God edit a book in the works! Made me wonder if I should write one, too. I could just take all of my blog posts since I started it in 2005, edit and revise, and title it Back to School. Seriously, my entire life since I started this blog has been comprised of either going to school or working at one.

2. I finally got around to getting my nails in order. Though there are things I could enumerate that I don't like about me, I have to give it up for my nails. This is not a professional manicure. It's just my own nails, filed a little bit and spruced up with some nail hardener. C'mon, give it up for the nails:

I'm sorry for being a prissy braggart, but my nails weren't always like this. I used to bite these suckers down to the quick. They've come a long way.

3. I stepped outside this afternoon to a horror of horrors. I neglected my sunbabies and I was confronted with the haunting image of withered, wilted shells of their former selves protruding sadly from the dried soil. Forgot to water them mugs. I flooded them with water, berating myself for being an unfit flower-mother. Please let them wake up tomorrow morning.

3. Now I'm about to chill hard with little bro. Pizza bout to come out, ginger ale nice and frosty, and DVD popped in. I'm gonna miss this big head when I move.

I Died

Okay, this guy is the BEST Obama impersonator EVER.

"Oh, that'll be two terms, please. Thank you!"

Omg, omg, omg, omg . . .

Just got the news Osama bin Laden is dead.

It's so weird . . . like I can't believe it. On one hand, it's a relief, and I get the celebratory sentiment, but on the other hand, part of me feels uncomfortable about celebrating a man's death. I'm just being honest. I'm just happy for the world, and I'm happy America has something akin to closure RE: 9/11.

This is all I have to say: Obama is SO winning 2012. No doubt. Mission Accomplished FOR REAL this time, baby.

Crybaby

Whoever (in JAY-sus name) dares to meet the challenge of being with me 'till death do us part will have to be able to withstand a weeping woman. Good Lord, I don't know if I know anyone who cries as much as I do.

At least this time, I wasn't in an abysmal abyss, crying tears of existential anguish. Today they were angry tears. Oh, but it felt so good to get it all out.

In other news, I finished my stories. ::curtsies:: Thank you, thank you.

Now, I shall feast on such healthy things as chips and dip and miniature Twix bars while my still fast metabolism does what it does. Ain't nothin in this world a good cry and some junk food can't help.

Let me go ahead and get my procrastinating out of the way.

1. Tornado. Good God. When I woke up the next morning and looked at pictures of Tuscaloosa . . . a city I lived in for a good 5 years, it was heartrending. 15th Street, just gone. Thankfully, family and I are fine (and thanks to those who sent inquiries of concern), but there are a few others we know of in other cities who aren't.

2. Almost done with stories. Gotta finish these bad boys this weekend. And then that's going to be it for a while. I've got to get my life together before the big move.

3. This morning I did a little cultural activity at a local junior high. Brought some paella, pictures, Mexican sombrero, castanets, etc. The kids seemed to enjoy it.

4. God, help me endure. My learning center gig is wearing out my brain's welcome. Because of my genius move of quitting the best paying job I'd ever had in the middle of the year, I have to work this summer. (Can I stop sounding so spoiled and just be glad I have a job? Sheesh.)

5. There is a bespectacled man in here with a t-shirt on that has a picture of some muppets dressed gangsta-style. It gives him zero street cred or respect. And he has it tucked into some dusty black jeans. Boo.

6. Lady sitting next to me out of the blue starts involved emotional convo about the tornado. I gave her some kleenex.

7. And after chatting about other stuff, I told her I had to get back to work. So I have to be a woman of my word.

Last Saturday

I had a face painting spot upon a spread out blanket at a park. We had an Easter egg hunt outreach at a subdivision not far from from our church.

A little two-braided girl wanted her face painted.

"What would you like me to paint?"

"What've you got? What are my choices?"

"Anything you can imagine."

"Woooowww."

A Sunday School Story in Real Life

Scripture reference: Matt 22:39 "Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself."

A young lady walks into Wal-Mart with the purpose of getting cupcakes for the Sunday School kids early Easter morning. As she gets in line to pay, an elderly lady ahead of her dressed in all her Easter finery turns around and asks the young lady where she got the cupcakes from.

"Over there in the bakery section." The young lady pointed in the general direction.

"Oh, I don't know if I like these cookies I have here. I think I might like some of those instead."

"Well, you can have as many of the ones I have as you like--I have five of them--and I'll go back over and get some more. Do you want some? How many of them?"

"You'd do that for me? Bless you! I'll take three of them."

"No problem. Do you want me to put these cookies back?"

"You gonna be blessed today."

The young lady smiles and puts the cookies back on the way to get a few more containers of mini-cupcakes. She wasn't really trying to be a do-gooder, she just didn't like the idea of the poor old lady all nice and dressed up to have to get out of line and walk all the way over to the bakery section to get some cupcakes.

When the young lady came back, she planned to get at the end of the line like normal, but there was a couple which was originally behind her who must've overheard the exchange and called her to come back up to her spot behind the old lady. Then the old lady, in front of her, finishing her purchase, told the young lady she would bestow her Wal-Mart senior discount on the young lady's purchase.

The young lady was surprised and pleased. She gave the old lady a hug and wished her a Happy Easter.

The moral of the story: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Willie the Shake

That's what my uber-nerdy Creative Writing instructor in undergrad (on whom, inevitably, I had a super crush) called William Shakespeare.

Well, today's the bard's birthday. He would have been 447. And what better way to celebrate than to go to the Alabama Shakespeare Festival to see my all-time favorite Shakespearean play, Julius Caesar, with my little bro. I convinced him to dress up, which is no mean feat:

And the play was fabulous. We got to yell along with the plebeians. "Caesar, Caesar!" "We will be satisfied! Let us be satisfied!" "We'll mutiny!"

Happy Birthday, Will. If this be error and upon me proved, I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Today I

1. got up super early to give a presentation to another local Rotary club about my French experience. Brought back SO many memories.

2. discovered that my sunbabies need an intervention:

The leaves are starting to yellow and droop. No, babies! Mommy's gonna plant you in a better place, don't worry.

3. took a look at the contract for my on campus apartment whose lease begins August 10. I guess now I have a specific answer for "So, when are you moving?"

4. made good progress on my latest installment of Sunday School stories.

5. got the awesomest Easter basket ever:

My Sunbabies Again

My little guys are really growing up. Compare the pictures from last week to today:

I love you, sunbabies. One day you're going to have big fat sunflower blooms. Just keep drinking your water and soaking in your sunshine like good little sunbabies. Mommy loves you!

And I dunno if anyone reading this has any gardening expertise (cuz I sho'ly don't), but as you can see, right now, they're in a planter. Will they be okay left in there? Should I somehow transplant them into the ground? If I do, will they be okay?

Ensconced

Ensconced again at my favorite haven of procrastination.

I'm in a corner, in a plush chair. Away from the coffee grinder, the chatterers, the gray skies outside.

Right now, I exist in my own world and am not resisting the urge to plunge deliciously into it.

For the people who like to snap me out of it when I stare out into space: True, I'm not in the present. I'm in the romanticized past. I'm in the imagined future. Or in the hurtful past. Or the feared future.

What I wonder: What is out there? What is really out there? I thought I'd already been out there, but I wake up every day realizing more and more that I've only scratched the surface.

What I remember is on my desk: A Spanish-English dictionary. A French-English dictionary. Two volumes of World Literature. A cylindrical can with sunflowers painted on it which holds a basket of artificial sunflowers. A small bottle of superglue. Two postcards with the same black and white photo of a young Langston Hughes. A still-unopened heart-shaped box of chocolates from Valentine's Day.

A man once said to me, "You already know I can't be what you need. But what do you want?"

I remember the discomfort I felt being faced with a smiling girl in her mid-twenties with grimy, eaten-away teeth. She was not ashamed.

Sometimes I can still feel the aching loneliness I felt when I was in France. It was penetrating, like rain.

I'm amazed by the sheer pleasure I get in watching something grow. It's a miracle, a testament to a living God.

I'm comforted by a silly face my brother makes. He wrinkles his top lip and his cheeks take on a frog-like cast. He speaks in an exaggerated, almost hillbilly voice. What this really means is that no matter what, no matter how old we get, he will be my little brother.

When I went to pick up my shoes from the Chinese shoe repair place at the mall, I was pleased with how completely they restored the heels. "Better than original!" the owner beamed.

I smile at the relation between friends and well-being. When you can talk about stories and flower children with one friend, speak other languages with another friend, and laugh about awkward classroom dynamics with yet another friend, I think of all the different ways you can connect with other human beings and how the knowledge of them is connected to the knowledge of yourself.

Mother of All Living (revised 4/17/2011)

She had never been this close to the plum tree before.

A green-eyed, panther-like creature, a sable cat, had wound its way through her idyll. She caught glimpses of its smooth dark pelt as it slunk past a wall of tangled vines. This wasn't one of the usual creatures with which she'd frolic during her rounds about the Garden. It was exotic, unfamiliar, and it awakened in her a sense of curiosity unlike any she'd ever felt before. She was drawn by its subtle scent of jasmine and intrigued by its deliberate, stealthy gait. She had decided to follow.

She followed until the creature paused at a tree whose branches hung heavy with dark fruit. She'd eaten the fruit of all the other trees of the Garden save this one. She had been warned by Man never to touch it. But the creature fixed its emerald gaze upon her, silently beckoning her closer.

She inched forward, transfixed, her footprints in the rich, moist earth the only evidence of her advance. At last, she was close enough to touch this beguiling creature, but before she dared, it caressed her leg with its tail. Disarmed, she knelt down and began to stroke its blue-black fur. The smell of jasmine was intoxicating. She began to tire and sat on the ground, reclining against the trunk of the plum tree. Her lids drooped and she nearly fell asleep, but she was fully awakened by whispering in her ear. As the creature spoke, she could feel its warm breath lingering against her cheek.

"The Ancient One said not to eat of this tree, didn't He?" the creature purred, pawing a fallen plum. She faced the creature, arrested by its piercing green stare.

"He-He said not to eat of it or even touch it or else we'd die." As the words left her mouth, she scrambled up from leaning against the trunk. The cat laughed and began to circle her.

"You shall not die. What nonsense. The Ancient One knows that if you eat of this tree, your eyes will be opened and you will understand good and evil. Like a god."

Why would the Ancient One want to keep something so enlightening from her? After all, she had nearly fallen asleep against the trunk of the tree and she still lived. She plucked a single plum from the low-hanging branch right above her and examined it. She suddenly felt watched. She spun around to find Man peering from behind a nearby tree, observing the entire scene wordlessly. Why had Man not tried to stop her? She felt the creature rub itself against her leg as it continued to circle her. She held up the plum. It was good for food, pleasant to the eye, and would allow her to see, to give her a knowledge she'd never possessed.

She bit in. Juice dribbled down her chin. It was sweet. Heady. Exhilarant. She did not die. She held it out towards Man.

My Sunbabies Are Growing Up!

Hey, my little sunbabies . . . c'mere, give Mommy some kisses. You're growing up, yes you are! If you drink all your water and soak in all your sunshine, you're gonna be big sunflowers one day, yes you will! Ooh, Mommy loves you loves you loves you! Mmmuah!

Booklove

Two Slate essays about two of my favorite things—books and falling in love:

Love in Bookstores

Judging a Girl by Her Cover

Enjoy!

New 'Do + Sunbabies

New 'Do
Curlicues! The sun will come oooout tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar that tomorroooooow, there'll be sun! Tomorrow! Tomorrow! I love ya, tomorrow. It's only a day away! Now all I need are some patent-leather shoes with little buckles on the side. I can tap dance, too.

Sunbabies

My sunbabies are my future little pride and joy. I love sunflowers. With a passion. So I decided to grow some in the backyard. They're gonna be my little babies. I planted them today. I'm going to water them and make sure they get lots of sunlight and give them little bits of sunbaby num nums. I wuv you wittle sunbeebees. Mommy's gonna take gooood care of you.

"You have no power over me."

Some of you children of the 80s know what I'm talking about when I mention the movie Labyrinth. It's a muppety, fantasy flick featuring David Bowie as the seductive Goblin King and a teenaged Jennifer Connelly as Sarah, a girl who has to get through the Goblin King's labyrinth to get her baby brother back.

So after Sarah's gotten through the labyrinth, defeated the Goblin King's goblin army with her muppet friends, etc., she has a final showdown with him in this awesome inverted/upside down/winding staircase scene.

But in the end he still tries to get Sarah to give in. "Just fear me, love me, do as I say and I will be your slave," he beckons. The whole movie she's been trying to remember this certain line from a fantasy play (also called Labyrinth) before entering the Goblin City. And she finally remembers it (and sorry, she does briefly use a mild expletive. I forgot about that part. Please skip it if it would offend you):

The Goblin King's game is up. The facade melts away. The key to her success the whole time was realizing the Goblin King actually had no power over her!

In a way, I sort of feel like Sarah after she remembers her line. There are negative things and icky lies that constantly work to bring me down. But I realized anew today, they have no power over me. Not unless I allow them to. To the Goblin Kings, Lord Henrys, Satan and his lying lies: You have no power over me.

The Last Twenty

This is it. Today marks the beginning of my last twenty. This is the last year I'll be able to legally consider myself a twentysomething. What choice do I have but to rock it? Les get it, 29.

This day has been a right pleasant day. I decided to bedeck myself in my all time fave color, purple (lavender, to be exact, but all shades of purple make my world go round):

I also rocked these shoes:

Yeah, baby. Rocked 'em.

I came home to a wrapping-papered door:

Opened a longed-for present:

And helped myself to a nice chunk of pretty ice-cream cake:

Ya'll don't know nothin bout 29! It's allaway live up in dis 29 right herr! On my momma and er'thang I luh we gon do DIS 29, cuz! Train 29 is leaving the station and it's rollin on, honey. It's rollin ON.

Pizza and Cookies

On Sunday nights after church, I go to Publix and get a frozen pizza and Toll House cookies. I could eat pizza every day for the rest of my life, and I will kill for freshly baked Toll House chocolate chip cookies. Sometimes my little bro and I will split it. You get the pizza, I get the cookies.

But last night I went to Publix and had my socks knocked off when I saw this in the frozen pizza section while trying to decide on whether I wanted pepperoni or supreme:

Wait . . . what?! Who read the innerworkings of my mind? How could someone so precisely discern my post-Sunday night church heart's desire? That's so bizarre . . . I mean, pizza and cookies sold together in the same box? But at the same time, it's genius. I thought I was the only one who craved that exact combination. But there must be more me's out there. In fact, there must be so many me's out there that DiGiorno and Toll House were willing to stake their profit indices on it. So I just snagged that sucker and saved myself a trip to the cookie dough/pudding place in the dairy section.

And yes, this begs a metaphor: I'm doing my little routine. La-dee-dah. Having all intentions of doing my normal thing, making my normal stops. But then BAM! Out of nowhere, the unexpected, surprising, almost unbelievable, yet utterly perfect emerges. And I snatch that sucker up. Awww, shucks! Y'all don know nothing bout that! Awww, snap!

God. Dude. If You can infiltrate the minds of the CEOs of DiGiorno and Toll House and incept them with the genius of idea of selling frozen pizza and cookies together to satisfy my heart's desire, couldn't You like, tell that God-loving, tall, bespectacled, educated, handsome guy with a Colgate smile somewhere out there to get a move on? Kthanxbye.

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.