I'm Popular...at Elementary Schools

My mother dearest works at an Elementary school, it is such a cute school! I always feel so popular when I come to visit since everyone (from the principal to the school nurse) knows just who I am. I was invited to be a judge for an African-American historical contest on Friday, what an honor! It really was an honor considering my fellow judges including the supervisor of elections, a democratic representative for our county, a school board employee, and a published children's book author. The principal gave a little introduction to each of the judges to the fourth and fifth grade classes, each time I felt highly unqualified and a little silly to be there. I had a great time though and was really impressed by how passionate the students seemed to be learning! Half of the time I had no idea what the answers were, which made me feel like those poor souls on "Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader?". I would definitely lose.

I got the chance to talk to the children's book author, who was very excited to get to know me. I explained to her that I was the founder and president of a student organization called "Real Men Read" at my University, a title that sounds more impressive than it actually is. Nevertheless, I had to undergo all of the twists and turns of the student government, which includes writing a constitution. The club had a tough start, especially since many elementary schools were skeptic of our group, especially when the president of that group is a girl. We got in a couple of volunteer events, including a couple at a nursing home and a local school. I am definitely going to channel more energy into the club this coming year, especially since I have some clue as to what I am doing.

After discussing the club, she told me that she would like to write about me in her blog! Like I am something special! The link to her blog is here, so check it out. Her website is also linked here The book that she wrote is called "Mrs. Garcia's Class Visits the Hospital". Kristy, the author, told me that she wrote the book when she was a teacher out in a kind of country bumpkin area not far from where I live. In asking the children what they wanted to be when they grew up, some responded with "I want to work at a gas station". The only gas station, she informed me, that was in the town. Kristy has always been dedicated to the healthcare system, which was inspiration for her book. The book acts as a means for motivation for elementary school children, knowing that such wonderful careers are out there and that doing well in school provides the hope for a promising future.

A Little Nothing

Bonsoir!

It has been...one of those days. Don't stare at your computer screen like that, I know that you know what I mean. The kind of day where the floor seems awfully comfortable, as if by chance it could open up and swallow you into its warm belly where you can hide until the end of eternity, or just until your complexion clears up. Listlessly I stumbled about the house doing chores wondering just when did I retire my freshly turned twenty year old college student hat for a housewife hat. I neither have a house to call my own or a husband. Or a hat for that matter. Laundry, dishes, vacuuming, cleaning up puppy pee, walking the dogs, blah, blah, blah, job search, blah, blah, blah. Sweet relief usually comes in two packages, two beautifully wrapped packages. We all know those kinds of wrapped packages, the ones in which you just kind of stare at seriously contemplating reaffirming your beliefs in Santa Clause because a ribbon tied that perfectly just had to have been crafted by an elf. The first package is running/working out because it is enjoyable and it feels good to sweat. That sounds gross, but I'm being honest here. Package numero dos is food. I spend a good deal of my time creating masterpieces of food that I could eat during the day.

That being said, I totally tried making an avocado pasta sauce dish thingy and it was...blech. I ate it anyways because I felt that it was a waste if I threw it away. I could just see the starving children of the world glaring at me, talk about coaxing an appetite. Something went very wrong with the dish and it just made the rest of the day seem gross. I don't think that I am very good at eating pasta. With the household chores done and the job search on pause I curled up with a "Something Borrowed", classic chick lit that is now a major motion picture. I entered a literary coma, you know the kind that sucks you into a vortex in which both time and space dissipate and you are left with only the string of letters loosely strung along in a mass produced book. I just get into one of these moods whenever I read, like I have a hard time discerning fact from fiction. Literary zombieness is the appropriate term, I believe.

I wish I could share a wowing recipe, cute puppy pictures, or amusing anecdotes about my (nonexistant) love interests, but that is just not going to happen tonight. I quit blogging, writing, and being funny. Just kidding. I am in too deep. On to practicing my French. So far, I can say "Allez! Un petit effort!" Which translates to "Come on! Try a little!".

All I have to say about that is, that's what she said :)

Have a lovely Tuesday night, tomorrow it's beast mode for sure.

Hoohaa!

I don't know how to make mashed potatoes

The other night our family celebrated my parent's wedding anniversary. My sister and I decided to cook dinner as a gift, we decided to make steak because we all eat too many grilled chicken breasts. Too many. I got into the kitchen and realized that I had not a single clue how to cook! Sure, I know how to bake and can whip up a mean oatmeal dish, but an actual well balanced meal seemed very elusive to me. Suddenly the kitchen seemed foreign, clumsily I searched for olive oil, herbs, spice rubs and anything else that I could possibly use. I even had to read the labels whereas my baking prowess ensures that the simple shape of a bottle was enough to discern between vanilla extract and almond extract. My sister offered to make mashed potatoes, to which I incredulously replied "You know how to make mashed potatoes?". I had not a clue. I was captain helpless asea on an already anchored ship, yet competing in a sailing race. I was left with cooking the steak. The gross looking slabs of red meat, which I picked up precociously with a delicate pinch of my index finger and thumb. I hesitated with every movement: Where do I cut the steak? What exactly is a marinade? Oil goes into a marinade right? Somehow, with guidance from the little sister, the steaks began their oil and herb laden bath.

Step two in my panicked dinner was actually cooking the steak. On a grill. All I could envision was the sprightly flames licking my shirt setting my frame afire. Don't laugh, that could have happened. It didn't though. With tongs that resembled robotic evil crustaceans, I began poking the meat in hopes that it would somehow communicate flip me over blonde girl with the confused face. That did not happen. By some miracle I managed to flip over each steak revealing a cooked bottom. This is pretty cool I thought to myself, look at me I am a master, a grillmaster. But oh geez, how in the world do you know when they are done? I decided to poke them yet again and came to the conclusion that yes, they were in fact inanimate beef hunks. Whispering a prayer that the steaks would be alright, I pried them off of the grill slats and onto a plate. Dauntingly I made my way into the house to face judgment. With my sister's amazing mashed potatoes (how does she know these things that I should know as a twenty year old?) and my miracle steaks the dinner was a hit.

In my realization of my lack of cooking skills I have turned to the expert source of cooking, Julia Child. Being a master library patron, I found her infamous "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" in my local library, a book that I delightfully checked out. I could practically feel the palpitation of culinary knowledge through the massively bound book. Anxiously, I drove home with the prized book resisting every temptation to flip through the magic laden pages at red lights. Once home I whipped out the book onto the kitchen table. The book landed with a hollow thud on the table, the spine cracked as I slowly opened the cover revealing a table of content that was about as long as my arm. The first two chapters were on soups and flavored butters! Seems like I have much catching up to do. Now I may not know how to de-bone a duck or correctly prepare foie gras, at least I can learn a classic recipe that my family will enjoy. The adventure starts now.

Scribbles From Summer

I've been writing...just a wee piece, can't give away all of my tricks :)



It is four thirty in the afternoon. My fingers are impatiently tapping on the faux bamboo covered table, while my gaze is steadily and anxiously on my cell phone. He still hasn’t called me. In fact, he hasn’t called, texted, e-mailed, face book messaged, sent a letter, wrote a message in the sky, or telecommunicated with me in any sort of way. This anxious feeling in the bottom of my stomach is literally going to be the end of me. My heart keeps racing, my mind is processing and thinking in a non-stop fashion, I feel my pulse pushing against my the outer layer of my skin. I keep trying to remind myself to breathe. Creating a little mantra for myself, breathe in, breathe out. Good. This is very good. This whole breathing thing is actually working. I feel better now, slightly, my heart does not feel like it is going to implode in my chest. At least not imminently.
My cell phone jingles and I nearly jump through my skin, my heart returning to its panicked beat, while my breath catches in my chest. This is him, this has to be him. It is nearly five o’clock, the only logical attribution to my receiving a text message is that it would be from him. I pick up the sleek cell phone in my hand, clumsily pressing buttons until I reach the portal to where I am directed to the inbox in which my text messages are stored. My stomach is filled with butterflies; I can barely contain the excitement that is about to exude from my highly anxious mouth, as I finally open my inbox. There it is, my one unread text message. From my mother. Reminding me that I need to schedule an appointment with the counselor. My heart sinks a little in my chest when the realization practically smacks me across the face. He is not coming. I have been stood up. Plain and simple. Here I am Rach Brandon sitting alone in a coffee shop where I was supposed to meet my current love interest, Holden Mayfield. Instead, I am left pathetically alone sipping my despondently cool chai tea.
Slowly, as the clock ticks down to five thirty, the sun’s rays are breathing a beautiful sigh of pink into the sky. I swoop the latest novel that I have been reading off of the small café style table and place it with care into my oversized hobo bag. I reach into the obnoxiously large handbag and wrench out my keys and sunglasses. Standing with slight embarrassment while simultaneously balancing the paper coffee cup in my hands, although hardly a soul in that old abandoned coffee shop even paid me half a cent of attention, and made my way to the double doors. Holding back tears and desperately clinging to the last bit of dignity my tiny stature holds, I made my way down the city street. With a deep breath of the fall leaves and a grave smile, I whisked myself into the seemingly cruel world ready to begin anew.