It's a good day. And not just because my beautiful friend has delivered a beautiful baby boy or because the weather couldn't be more perfect if it tried or because I've been listening to The Beatles for the past sweet forever and I'm like moved. Like moved in my soul. It's just because of the Lord. Pretty simply, that's it. And I'm not gonna start talking about how I saw the face of Jesus in a wildflower on my way to work or how the clouds seemed to form a cross as they drifted over my shimmering and ethereally glowing head as I did a Bible study in the woods yesterday. (totally didn't do a Bible study in the woods yesterday, unless it counts that I did one in my bed last night and I haven't shaved my legs in 2 days. gasp!).
It pretty much all has to do with how much I love being taught. Let me rephrase that. I love knowing things. Being taught that which we should know is often very painful and annoying. Lessons in the Lord are no different than numerous brutal hours of being taught the difference between sine cosine and tangent. Oh sweet heavens, I just threw up in my mouth a little.
But it seems like once you have a knowledge of something, you're pretty grateful it's there. Especially when it's useful. For instance, I love the fact that I can quote passages or ideas from certain books that I love or that I can provide random and fascinating information on virtually any current popular television series. (Karen Filippeli, from The Office, is TOTALLY the daughter of Peggy Lipton and Quincy Jones)
It's pretty common to hear that knowledge is power. So, wouldn't it stand to reason that the more we know about the Lord the more powerful we become? Of course.
I've been growing in my knowledge of the Lord, specifically my faith. Not faith like religion. Faith as in faith. The fruit of the spirit. The means by which we are saved.
I'm surprised at how much I didn't know about the intricate nature of faith. I always assumed faith was just a character quality that someone either possessed or didn't possess. To actually learn that faith is an action is something I feel I should have always known.
This past week, specifically, I have been more conscious of the ways that I allow faith to affect my life. My prayer life has been more intimate because I have opened myself up to freely praying for whatever is on my heart (which, last night, was the entire cast of Ugly Betty for some freakishly odd reason...I love that stupid show)
A foundation is laid through prayer. A foundation that opens us up to God's character so that His qualities can gently creep into our lives and words and actions. When we and others see evidence of this, THAT is what increases our faith. So much so that we can't abide the idea of it slipping away, which hopefully leads us to cling to the fragility of faith and cradle it and nurture it so that we never know anything but how good it feels to be in love with the Lord.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Friday, October 19, 2007
Thursday Night Football
I'm a football fan, something I never thought I would be admitting to when I think of all the times my mother forced me to watch Sunday NFL football for the majority of my formative years. But, now that I'm a grown woman with adult decision making capabilities, I find myself unabashedly addicted to the players and their sometimes wildly attractive coaches (hi, Chuckie).
So, you can probably understand how proud it makes me that all three of my little brothers are playing football this season. Luke and Ben play for Bishop McGuinness and John plays his little heart out for the CHA Crusaders. And, frankly, I love going to their games. Last night, John played at Mount Saint Mary's, and since it's my Fall break right now, I didn't have class and got to head over there to watch him play.
I realize I should be going into great and wonderful detail on what a great job he did and how the game was really close and exciting, but I can't get out of my mind the random comments I heard from the parents during the game and how funny they seemed to me.
First of all, I would just like to say that it took me a good sweet forever to find the football field at Mt. St. Mary's, a school that seemed like it would be a really good place to film the video for Pink Floyd's The Wall. So, once I finally got to the field, I felt greatly rewarded. I went to sit by my dad and grandpa and knew it was going to be a fun night because grandpa couldn't stop talking about the delicious stew he had made the day before. Old people are proud of their stews, guys. Seriously proud.
Here are some of the things I heard during the game that made me laugh:
"Make it a good threesome!" Now, this was shouted by my father. I realize he was talking about the formation of the men on the field, but it still struck me as awkward.
"Grab his sack!" I'm pretty sure I heard this incorrectly. Certainly, the parental unit who said this said something more like "go for the sack." But, really, is that any better? I can't imagine any of the players being too thrilled about anyone going for or grabbing their sacks. Just an opinion.
"You're running around like a chicken out there!" I know this doesn't sound very funny, but let me assure you that it left me in stitches as it was immediately followed by my grandpa's subtle remark that he had, in fact, put chicken in his stew.
"You need to handle your balls a little better!" I don't necessarily feel like this one needs an explanation.
"Come on guys! Let's go for the touchdown!" Again, this one is not very funny, but I'm just letting you know that this is what was yelled by my father just moments before his giant elbow whacked me upside the head. I was just sitting there minding my own business, when my father jumped to his feet behind me and delivered a fierce blow to my cranial surface. I turned around and looked at him like he'd just shot my kitten and it was decided that his excitement would be better contained in a vicinity that was not shared by my head.
They ended up losing the game. I blame the constant discussion of the stew...or the violent display of temper that was demonstrated on my poor head.
So, you can probably understand how proud it makes me that all three of my little brothers are playing football this season. Luke and Ben play for Bishop McGuinness and John plays his little heart out for the CHA Crusaders. And, frankly, I love going to their games. Last night, John played at Mount Saint Mary's, and since it's my Fall break right now, I didn't have class and got to head over there to watch him play.
I realize I should be going into great and wonderful detail on what a great job he did and how the game was really close and exciting, but I can't get out of my mind the random comments I heard from the parents during the game and how funny they seemed to me.
First of all, I would just like to say that it took me a good sweet forever to find the football field at Mt. St. Mary's, a school that seemed like it would be a really good place to film the video for Pink Floyd's The Wall. So, once I finally got to the field, I felt greatly rewarded. I went to sit by my dad and grandpa and knew it was going to be a fun night because grandpa couldn't stop talking about the delicious stew he had made the day before. Old people are proud of their stews, guys. Seriously proud.
Here are some of the things I heard during the game that made me laugh:
"Make it a good threesome!" Now, this was shouted by my father. I realize he was talking about the formation of the men on the field, but it still struck me as awkward.
"Grab his sack!" I'm pretty sure I heard this incorrectly. Certainly, the parental unit who said this said something more like "go for the sack." But, really, is that any better? I can't imagine any of the players being too thrilled about anyone going for or grabbing their sacks. Just an opinion.
"You're running around like a chicken out there!" I know this doesn't sound very funny, but let me assure you that it left me in stitches as it was immediately followed by my grandpa's subtle remark that he had, in fact, put chicken in his stew.
"You need to handle your balls a little better!" I don't necessarily feel like this one needs an explanation.
"Come on guys! Let's go for the touchdown!" Again, this one is not very funny, but I'm just letting you know that this is what was yelled by my father just moments before his giant elbow whacked me upside the head. I was just sitting there minding my own business, when my father jumped to his feet behind me and delivered a fierce blow to my cranial surface. I turned around and looked at him like he'd just shot my kitten and it was decided that his excitement would be better contained in a vicinity that was not shared by my head.
They ended up losing the game. I blame the constant discussion of the stew...or the violent display of temper that was demonstrated on my poor head.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Why I'm Better Than You
Okay, so school is really hard. And I don't mean hard as in my brain can't figure it out. I mean hard as in I finally found something I can't b.s. my way through. (yes, I just ended a sentence with a preposition. eat me.) And even as I type this, something deep inside tells me that grad school was never intended to be easy. But I never thought I would be THIS humbled THIS quickly. I thought I would at least be able to sail through my first semester on my ability to compose an arguable thesis on something as trivial as a car owner's manual.
But, seriously. I'm at a point where I'm mystified by the fact that my best efforts aren't always met with academic success. In years past, if I did poorly on a paper, I could attribute it to the fact that I started writing it five minutes before class or the fact that I had never read the book about which the paper was supposed to be written. But now I feel like even my most meticulous and well-prepared assignments are deemed average.
Which makes me wonder...am I just fooling everyone? I mean, honestly. Isn't anyone with any sort of academic prowess just a slave to another man's thoughts? All the information I have stored in my brain has come from books and data sheets and intricately composited philosophies. So, it somewhat bothers me that I feel like I'm sitting on the ignorant side of stupid about ninety percent of the time. When all I really want to talk about, quite frankly, is the condition of humanity or God or why I'm the only one who seems to think there is no such thing as too many bottles of shampoo in the shower.
I'm not going to quit grad school. Mainly because I'm not a quitter. But as I sit there and listen to my "colleagues" discuss the feminine opposition and schizophrenic nature of King Lear, I can't help but wonder if this is really what I'm supposed to be doing in life. I love learning and I love being taught, but I feel so wildly inferior to so many things that I almost think I don't belong there. And, please don't view this post as a cry for help or sign of depression. I'm actually quite happy at this particular juncture in life. It's just that today I feel like I fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down. But, don't worry. It's nothin I can't b.s. my way out of. (yes, I just ended with a preposition again...)
But, seriously. I'm at a point where I'm mystified by the fact that my best efforts aren't always met with academic success. In years past, if I did poorly on a paper, I could attribute it to the fact that I started writing it five minutes before class or the fact that I had never read the book about which the paper was supposed to be written. But now I feel like even my most meticulous and well-prepared assignments are deemed average.
Which makes me wonder...am I just fooling everyone? I mean, honestly. Isn't anyone with any sort of academic prowess just a slave to another man's thoughts? All the information I have stored in my brain has come from books and data sheets and intricately composited philosophies. So, it somewhat bothers me that I feel like I'm sitting on the ignorant side of stupid about ninety percent of the time. When all I really want to talk about, quite frankly, is the condition of humanity or God or why I'm the only one who seems to think there is no such thing as too many bottles of shampoo in the shower.
I'm not going to quit grad school. Mainly because I'm not a quitter. But as I sit there and listen to my "colleagues" discuss the feminine opposition and schizophrenic nature of King Lear, I can't help but wonder if this is really what I'm supposed to be doing in life. I love learning and I love being taught, but I feel so wildly inferior to so many things that I almost think I don't belong there. And, please don't view this post as a cry for help or sign of depression. I'm actually quite happy at this particular juncture in life. It's just that today I feel like I fell out of the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down. But, don't worry. It's nothin I can't b.s. my way out of. (yes, I just ended with a preposition again...)
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Panera is Rated R
This morning, I met my friend, Lindy, at Panera for a Bible study. It's always such a nice place to study the Word because of all the BREAD type situations. Bread bread bread. Bready bread breadness. Okay. I just really love their bread.
We sat down with our selected bakery items and cracked open our B-I-B-L-Es. About ten minutes into our conversation, a guy came and sat down about two tables away. The tables in Panera, if you are one of the 4 people in the world who has never been to one, are fairly close together, so we figured he could probably hear what we were saying. Which was fine because, in all honesty, we were pretty much talking about going shopping this weekend for new dresses. So, it's not like we were, you know, OFFENDING anyone with all our speaking in tongues and slaying each other in the Spirit and stuff.
However, after a decent amount of time, our new dining patron decided to make a phone call. I know this is going to sound awfully eaves-droppy of me but when someone in close proximity is on the phone and speaking loudly, I'm pretty much going to listen to the conversation. But, in this instance, I was truly disinterested in what he was talking about...until I heard the word 'cuddle.' I immediately looked at Lindy and felt a strong need to begin a conversation about whoknowswhat in order to disguise the fact that I was about to slide across the booth to him, put my elbows on the table and my chin in my hands so I could listen to him tell me all! about! the! cuddling!
But Lindy and I just stared at each other because the conversation had only just begun. From what I understood, this particular gentleman had apparently had sexy-ool relations with a young woman who was "possessive" and "like a stalker, dude." I heard such lovely phrases as "Come on, man, what was I supposed to do? She was lying there naked on top of me" and "I'm going to be known as the cuddler." It was all very appalling to my ears, frankly, and I'm pretty sure Jesus was a little disappointed in this fella's sexcapades and the fact that they TOTALLY distracted us from spending time with Him. But Lindy and I thought it was about the funniest thing we had encountered in a while.
And when we were getting up to leave, I stood up and stretched my neck and loudly exclaimed to Lindy, "Dang, girl! My neck hurts! I think it's from all the SEX." He stopped talking long enough to laugh at my comment. I'm hoping he learned his lesson, cuz ain't nobody wanna hear about no sex at 8 in the morning during a Bible Study. Can I get an Amen? Hallelujah one time.
We sat down with our selected bakery items and cracked open our B-I-B-L-Es. About ten minutes into our conversation, a guy came and sat down about two tables away. The tables in Panera, if you are one of the 4 people in the world who has never been to one, are fairly close together, so we figured he could probably hear what we were saying. Which was fine because, in all honesty, we were pretty much talking about going shopping this weekend for new dresses. So, it's not like we were, you know, OFFENDING anyone with all our speaking in tongues and slaying each other in the Spirit and stuff.
However, after a decent amount of time, our new dining patron decided to make a phone call. I know this is going to sound awfully eaves-droppy of me but when someone in close proximity is on the phone and speaking loudly, I'm pretty much going to listen to the conversation. But, in this instance, I was truly disinterested in what he was talking about...until I heard the word 'cuddle.' I immediately looked at Lindy and felt a strong need to begin a conversation about whoknowswhat in order to disguise the fact that I was about to slide across the booth to him, put my elbows on the table and my chin in my hands so I could listen to him tell me all! about! the! cuddling!
But Lindy and I just stared at each other because the conversation had only just begun. From what I understood, this particular gentleman had apparently had sexy-ool relations with a young woman who was "possessive" and "like a stalker, dude." I heard such lovely phrases as "Come on, man, what was I supposed to do? She was lying there naked on top of me" and "I'm going to be known as the cuddler." It was all very appalling to my ears, frankly, and I'm pretty sure Jesus was a little disappointed in this fella's sexcapades and the fact that they TOTALLY distracted us from spending time with Him. But Lindy and I thought it was about the funniest thing we had encountered in a while.
And when we were getting up to leave, I stood up and stretched my neck and loudly exclaimed to Lindy, "Dang, girl! My neck hurts! I think it's from all the SEX." He stopped talking long enough to laugh at my comment. I'm hoping he learned his lesson, cuz ain't nobody wanna hear about no sex at 8 in the morning during a Bible Study. Can I get an Amen? Hallelujah one time.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
To Purr or Not to Purr...
My cat no longer wishes to be alive. As you might be able to tell from this expression:
And I've tried for oh so many hours to figure out why on earth she thinks her life is so wholly unimportant to herself. But, alas, I can't understand it. She has a lovely home with plenty of soft things to curl up on, i.e. my laundry that I haven't put away since I did it back in 1754. There are ample opportunities throughout the day to find a patch of sunlight to curl up and go to sleep in. I haven't vacuumed in a sweet forever so I'm sure there are leftovers of some sort of delicious human food product dusting the carpet in various places. Aaaand, I hug her lots of times. In fact, every day when I get home from work, I swoop her up, hold her like a baby, and tell her how much I love her, Tickle Marie Pruitt, you cute, furry thing. So, I'm baffled.
But please do not mistake the issue here. She's been doing several things lately which have me in the clear understanding that we are thisclose to having to wrap her wittle paws in bandages. You know, because she's tried to slit her wrists with her pointy cat teeth.
Here's what happened: Ever since we moved into the apartment, Tickle has been enamored with the balcony area. Every time I go out there, she races right up next to me so she can enjoy the outdoor weather and the sunshine and the birds! look! those birds that make me do weird things with my mouth and eyes! Watch me catch one and eat it and then vomit it up to you as a present! So, I was understandably nervous at first because, hello, I live on the third floor and that's a mighty far fall for a little kitty. But she's always been very good at not testing her limits in that area, so I quickly let that worry subside. Mistake.
My roomate, Carrie, and I were hanging out visiting late one night and I noticed Tickle wasn't around. So, I looked for her and didn't find her but just assumed she'd climbed up on my bookshelf as she sometimes does. Naturally, I continued with the conversation. But then I nervously started to worry that something might be wrong, so I went out on the balcony to pray. Okay, I didn't go out there to pray, but I also didn't want to admit to myself that her little body could have been on that balcony at one moment and then hurling through the air on it's way down to earth the next. But, I had to know for sure.
So, I went out there and called her name and looked over the edge and didn't see her. But I called her name again and this time I heard a very low, very terrified meow. I almost leapt over the balcony at that moment, but I was able to rationalize that I would have died if I were to do that, so I called to Carrie to KEEP AN EYE ON TICKLE! SHE'S FALLEN! OH MY SWEET LORD SHE'S HURT AND DYING! CARRIE!. All of this was frantically shouted as I flew through my living room, out the door, and down the stairs to my stranded feline below. I ran out onto the grass calling her name and she pranced right over to me and I swooped her up and she looked at me all 'what was that all about' and I kissed her and spanked her furry bottom for taking ten years off my life. But she's fine, gang. She's completely and totally fine. And I'm also considering enrolling her in stunt school. Here's her latest trick:
As if the flying leap off the balcony wasn't enough, Tickle attempted suicide once again a couple of nights ago. I was in my study mode...pajamas, candles, pillows, school books...all strewn about me like collegiate confetti. So, I wasn't really focused or aware of my surroundings. As I was hovering over my Shakespeare book reading Twelfth Night (out loud in an English accent) I began to smell something burning. I looked up and over at my nightstand where I saw Tickle staring at me with a 'dude, I just woke up' expression. What she didn't realize was that her fur was hanging over my candle and therefore on fire. She had no clue. I pushed her off of my nightstand with the same ferocity I exhibited in running down my stairs after she fell off the balcony and she looked at me as if I had just stabbed her in the eye with the toe nail of a mouse I've been thinking of trading her in for. Again, I picked her up to examine her body and, again, she was just fine.
Needless to say, I've had to keep a pretty close eye on her lately. Keep her in your thoughts and prayers. I sure do wish she wanted to live. It's so much fun sometimes.
In a completely unrelated note - on that particular day of studying, I decided to finish off my night by reading my US Weekly (mindless entertainment for the mindfully aware). I was reading an article that started off with the word "chisled" and I swear to high heaven I sat there for a good 30 seconds trying to figure out the pronunciation of that word. "CHIS-lud" "Shiz-LED" When I finally realized that it was a basic word that probably a four year old iguana could pronounce, I decided to turned off my light and go to sleep, where I was fairly sure I couldn't do any more harm.
And I've tried for oh so many hours to figure out why on earth she thinks her life is so wholly unimportant to herself. But, alas, I can't understand it. She has a lovely home with plenty of soft things to curl up on, i.e. my laundry that I haven't put away since I did it back in 1754. There are ample opportunities throughout the day to find a patch of sunlight to curl up and go to sleep in. I haven't vacuumed in a sweet forever so I'm sure there are leftovers of some sort of delicious human food product dusting the carpet in various places. Aaaand, I hug her lots of times. In fact, every day when I get home from work, I swoop her up, hold her like a baby, and tell her how much I love her, Tickle Marie Pruitt, you cute, furry thing. So, I'm baffled.
But please do not mistake the issue here. She's been doing several things lately which have me in the clear understanding that we are thisclose to having to wrap her wittle paws in bandages. You know, because she's tried to slit her wrists with her pointy cat teeth.
Here's what happened: Ever since we moved into the apartment, Tickle has been enamored with the balcony area. Every time I go out there, she races right up next to me so she can enjoy the outdoor weather and the sunshine and the birds! look! those birds that make me do weird things with my mouth and eyes! Watch me catch one and eat it and then vomit it up to you as a present! So, I was understandably nervous at first because, hello, I live on the third floor and that's a mighty far fall for a little kitty. But she's always been very good at not testing her limits in that area, so I quickly let that worry subside. Mistake.
My roomate, Carrie, and I were hanging out visiting late one night and I noticed Tickle wasn't around. So, I looked for her and didn't find her but just assumed she'd climbed up on my bookshelf as she sometimes does. Naturally, I continued with the conversation. But then I nervously started to worry that something might be wrong, so I went out on the balcony to pray. Okay, I didn't go out there to pray, but I also didn't want to admit to myself that her little body could have been on that balcony at one moment and then hurling through the air on it's way down to earth the next. But, I had to know for sure.
So, I went out there and called her name and looked over the edge and didn't see her. But I called her name again and this time I heard a very low, very terrified meow. I almost leapt over the balcony at that moment, but I was able to rationalize that I would have died if I were to do that, so I called to Carrie to KEEP AN EYE ON TICKLE! SHE'S FALLEN! OH MY SWEET LORD SHE'S HURT AND DYING! CARRIE!. All of this was frantically shouted as I flew through my living room, out the door, and down the stairs to my stranded feline below. I ran out onto the grass calling her name and she pranced right over to me and I swooped her up and she looked at me all 'what was that all about' and I kissed her and spanked her furry bottom for taking ten years off my life. But she's fine, gang. She's completely and totally fine. And I'm also considering enrolling her in stunt school. Here's her latest trick:
As if the flying leap off the balcony wasn't enough, Tickle attempted suicide once again a couple of nights ago. I was in my study mode...pajamas, candles, pillows, school books...all strewn about me like collegiate confetti. So, I wasn't really focused or aware of my surroundings. As I was hovering over my Shakespeare book reading Twelfth Night (out loud in an English accent) I began to smell something burning. I looked up and over at my nightstand where I saw Tickle staring at me with a 'dude, I just woke up' expression. What she didn't realize was that her fur was hanging over my candle and therefore on fire. She had no clue. I pushed her off of my nightstand with the same ferocity I exhibited in running down my stairs after she fell off the balcony and she looked at me as if I had just stabbed her in the eye with the toe nail of a mouse I've been thinking of trading her in for. Again, I picked her up to examine her body and, again, she was just fine.
Needless to say, I've had to keep a pretty close eye on her lately. Keep her in your thoughts and prayers. I sure do wish she wanted to live. It's so much fun sometimes.
In a completely unrelated note - on that particular day of studying, I decided to finish off my night by reading my US Weekly (mindless entertainment for the mindfully aware). I was reading an article that started off with the word "chisled" and I swear to high heaven I sat there for a good 30 seconds trying to figure out the pronunciation of that word. "CHIS-lud" "Shiz-LED" When I finally realized that it was a basic word that probably a four year old iguana could pronounce, I decided to turned off my light and go to sleep, where I was fairly sure I couldn't do any more harm.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Beauty, Truth, and Love
Webster's dictionary defines BOHEMIAN as "a person (a writer or an artist) living an unconventional life, usually in a colony of others." Except for the part about the colony (because it sounds too much like a bunch of ants), I've always considered myself to be rather bohemian-esque...okay, I shouldn't say always. Mainly, my self proclaimed status of artisan extraordinaire came about when I saw Moulin Rouge. Have you seen it?!?! Oh my gosh it's soooooo good! I TOTALLY related to those in the movie who wore scarves and carried pencils behind their ears and randomly burst into song because, let's face it, the essence of bohemianism warrants at least three to seven musical outbursts per day. And I take care of at least half of those before I make it to work.
And as the true bohemian ideal upholds the standards of beauty, truth, and love, I consider it a joy and an honor to wrap myself and others in those credos like a heated towel scented with sandalwood. Mmmm...sandalwood.
And doesn't even THINKING of the words beauty, truth, and love just kind of make you wanna never walk anywhere ever again? Instead, maybe we can just use these principles to elevate us off the ground once in a while so that we waltz from place to place instead of meet the earth heavily, step by step, with our impatient feet.
I know I'm losing some of you at this point. And, actually, I don't really have a purpose in writing all this gibberish. I pretty much just like sandalwood and wanted to mention it in a blog.
Oh! And you might please think of me before your little head hits your little pillow tonight or lots of nights from here on out because, you see, I've been seriously considering looking at teaching a Freshman Composition course at UCO this Spring which means, hello, I'd be a college professor. Okay, actually I would just be a Teacher's Assistant, but I'd get my own class and my own curriculum and audio visuals! And students! Students I can assign papers to! And then grade them! And say things like "my office hours are blah blah blah." And faculty parking! Weeeeeee!
So, yeah. I'd appreciate some prayers in this area. If anything just to calm me down. Thanks and please remember "Chewing TWO pieces of Trident White sugarless gum after eating and drinking helps prevent stains, strengthen teeth, and whiten teeth in as little as four weeks." I don't care who ya are, that's dope.
And as the true bohemian ideal upholds the standards of beauty, truth, and love, I consider it a joy and an honor to wrap myself and others in those credos like a heated towel scented with sandalwood. Mmmm...sandalwood.
And doesn't even THINKING of the words beauty, truth, and love just kind of make you wanna never walk anywhere ever again? Instead, maybe we can just use these principles to elevate us off the ground once in a while so that we waltz from place to place instead of meet the earth heavily, step by step, with our impatient feet.
I know I'm losing some of you at this point. And, actually, I don't really have a purpose in writing all this gibberish. I pretty much just like sandalwood and wanted to mention it in a blog.
Oh! And you might please think of me before your little head hits your little pillow tonight or lots of nights from here on out because, you see, I've been seriously considering looking at teaching a Freshman Composition course at UCO this Spring which means, hello, I'd be a college professor. Okay, actually I would just be a Teacher's Assistant, but I'd get my own class and my own curriculum and audio visuals! And students! Students I can assign papers to! And then grade them! And say things like "my office hours are blah blah blah." And faculty parking! Weeeeeee!
So, yeah. I'd appreciate some prayers in this area. If anything just to calm me down. Thanks and please remember "Chewing TWO pieces of Trident White sugarless gum after eating and drinking helps prevent stains, strengthen teeth, and whiten teeth in as little as four weeks." I don't care who ya are, that's dope.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Observations, Heroes, and Ballroom Dancing
OBSERVATIONS:
In my Research class that meets on Wednesdays, I have carefully established my station in the back of the classroom. I do this in all my classes because I like to observe people and, on the rare instance when I decide to participate in class discussions, my back-of-the-class location inevitably forces people to look up as if they've just heard the voice of God...and, let's face it, when I offer up my brilliant wisdom in relation to bibliographical methods, how could it NOT sound like the voice of God? But that's divinely beside the point.
In this class, I happen to sit behind a very lovely foreign exchange student from Japan. Every day she comes in and smiles at me and the rest of her fellow classmates and then proceeds to take her seat at the desk in front of me. I am amazed at her determination to be successful in this class because Bibliography and Methods of Research is very complex even for those who speak Amurrican. But she never exhibits signs of frustration and if she doesn't understand something, she will just type it up on her electronic translator and continue the process of patiently enduring the lecture.
But, just when I thought this adorable little Japanese girl couldn't get any cuter, I noticed the guy who sits in front of her. He's an American and a Film Studies Major. On the second week of class, he decided to engage in conversation with the foreign exchange student asking her questions like "where are you from?" "what's your major?" The basics. Then, he proudly announced that he had taken a few semesters of Japanese, so I immediately decided that these two should get married and have lots of pretty Japerican babies together. It's such a treat every week to get to come to class and watch these two awkwardly interact. He follows her with his eyes, desparate to think of something to say, hoping to capture her attention with his interest in her culture. If all goes according to my plan, I'll have them translating each other's 'I love yous' by the end of the semester. La la la la...
HEROES:
Obviously, we all have a preconceived notion of what we think a hero is. When we were asked 'who is your hero?' as an essay question in fourth grade, we usually put 'my daddy' or 'my crazy Uncle Lou' or 'my dog, Milfred.' But as we get older and encounter more people, we see that heroism can take the shape of the most unlikely people. Today, my hero is one of my little brother's 13-year-old friends. He's the most awesome kid and he always has a smile and always runs up to hug me when he sees me. But what's so great about all of that is he is smiling and hugging and loving despite the fact that his father had a massive stroke a few months ago and this little boy's entire summer vacation was spent in the hospital with his family. Kids have very naturally selfish needs at this age, but his have been put on hold and I have never heard him complain, not once. He just started playing football this fall and at their very first game, his dad managed to come in his wheelchair to cheer on his son. And my brother's friend ran over to him with such enormous pride and shed tears over his father's effort to be there with him during this moment that he had managed to carve out for himself. I just love this kid so much which is why I'm thrilled that we get to take him with us on vacation this year at Christmas. He will get an opportunity to reclaim a part of his adolescence and hopefully will spend an entire week being a selfish, spoiled, 13-year-old boy.
BALLROOM DANCING:
On Thursday nights, my Heroes and Heroines of the Bible class meets at the downtown public library. For those of you who haven't been to check out the newly renovated building, you need to go see it. It's precocious and full of wonderment. They have all sorts of classes that meet there and a cafe that has menu items named after famous authors. Adorable. "I'll have the Chaucer on rye, please." So, last night as we were discussing the life of Jacob, a sudden flood of classical dance music poured into the room. I looked out the window of our classroom and noticed several couples moving and flowing in the room across from ours. They were teaching a ballroom dancing class. And, friends, there was just something terribly romantic and gratifying about knowing that while I was sitting there learning, there were people not 50 feet away twirling and gliding and spinning and smiling. It was great. And the whole time, I couldn't stop thinking about certain images that come to mind when I think of daaaaaaancing...twirly twirly dip...
Dance in the City by Renoir (this is how every lady and gentleman should look when they're dancing)
This is how every girl imagines dancing when they're 7
This is how I look when I dance...
And, finally...this is how we dance when handsome boys come and kiss us to wake us up...
In my Research class that meets on Wednesdays, I have carefully established my station in the back of the classroom. I do this in all my classes because I like to observe people and, on the rare instance when I decide to participate in class discussions, my back-of-the-class location inevitably forces people to look up as if they've just heard the voice of God...and, let's face it, when I offer up my brilliant wisdom in relation to bibliographical methods, how could it NOT sound like the voice of God? But that's divinely beside the point.
In this class, I happen to sit behind a very lovely foreign exchange student from Japan. Every day she comes in and smiles at me and the rest of her fellow classmates and then proceeds to take her seat at the desk in front of me. I am amazed at her determination to be successful in this class because Bibliography and Methods of Research is very complex even for those who speak Amurrican. But she never exhibits signs of frustration and if she doesn't understand something, she will just type it up on her electronic translator and continue the process of patiently enduring the lecture.
But, just when I thought this adorable little Japanese girl couldn't get any cuter, I noticed the guy who sits in front of her. He's an American and a Film Studies Major. On the second week of class, he decided to engage in conversation with the foreign exchange student asking her questions like "where are you from?" "what's your major?" The basics. Then, he proudly announced that he had taken a few semesters of Japanese, so I immediately decided that these two should get married and have lots of pretty Japerican babies together. It's such a treat every week to get to come to class and watch these two awkwardly interact. He follows her with his eyes, desparate to think of something to say, hoping to capture her attention with his interest in her culture. If all goes according to my plan, I'll have them translating each other's 'I love yous' by the end of the semester. La la la la...
HEROES:
Obviously, we all have a preconceived notion of what we think a hero is. When we were asked 'who is your hero?' as an essay question in fourth grade, we usually put 'my daddy' or 'my crazy Uncle Lou' or 'my dog, Milfred.' But as we get older and encounter more people, we see that heroism can take the shape of the most unlikely people. Today, my hero is one of my little brother's 13-year-old friends. He's the most awesome kid and he always has a smile and always runs up to hug me when he sees me. But what's so great about all of that is he is smiling and hugging and loving despite the fact that his father had a massive stroke a few months ago and this little boy's entire summer vacation was spent in the hospital with his family. Kids have very naturally selfish needs at this age, but his have been put on hold and I have never heard him complain, not once. He just started playing football this fall and at their very first game, his dad managed to come in his wheelchair to cheer on his son. And my brother's friend ran over to him with such enormous pride and shed tears over his father's effort to be there with him during this moment that he had managed to carve out for himself. I just love this kid so much which is why I'm thrilled that we get to take him with us on vacation this year at Christmas. He will get an opportunity to reclaim a part of his adolescence and hopefully will spend an entire week being a selfish, spoiled, 13-year-old boy.
BALLROOM DANCING:
On Thursday nights, my Heroes and Heroines of the Bible class meets at the downtown public library. For those of you who haven't been to check out the newly renovated building, you need to go see it. It's precocious and full of wonderment. They have all sorts of classes that meet there and a cafe that has menu items named after famous authors. Adorable. "I'll have the Chaucer on rye, please." So, last night as we were discussing the life of Jacob, a sudden flood of classical dance music poured into the room. I looked out the window of our classroom and noticed several couples moving and flowing in the room across from ours. They were teaching a ballroom dancing class. And, friends, there was just something terribly romantic and gratifying about knowing that while I was sitting there learning, there were people not 50 feet away twirling and gliding and spinning and smiling. It was great. And the whole time, I couldn't stop thinking about certain images that come to mind when I think of daaaaaaancing...twirly twirly dip...
Dance in the City by Renoir (this is how every lady and gentleman should look when they're dancing)
This is how every girl imagines dancing when they're 7
This is how I look when I dance...
And, finally...this is how we dance when handsome boys come and kiss us to wake us up...
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