Hire Me

As I was sitting here, nibbling at cheddar-flavored Chex Mix (actually pretty good) and scanning news headlines for something of interest, I thought, "You could blog."

This little blog--or, more aptly, my adventure in blogging, since I've moved it--is reaching its one year anniversary. What more appropriate way of celebrating than actually writing in it?

Honestly, I haven't been writing because whatever is happening in my life seems completely insignificant when I think about what's going on in the lives of those close to me. There are new children being born, about to be born. I sit here and throw tennis balls for the dog, dread returning to work. I've been practicing the piano more, since I'm accompanying the Floyd T. Binns choirs. I've missed it. I'm still good at it.

One of my students wrote an essay about why I am the best teacher she has ever had. She says that I am a strong person because being alone, without my boyfriend here, has made me independent. She writes that she can see the sorrow in me that I hide from everyone. I don't know what any of that has to do with being a good teacher, but she is far more eloquently discussing the elements of my life than I ever could these days.

Sometimes the wind blows through the trees outside my window in a way that reminds me what joy is.

For those of you who are wondering what's happening in the news, there's a pending investigation into Pat Tillman's death; a beautiful young graduate student was murdered in New York and everyone is mourning her; a young woman who was not as beautiful died horrifically somewhere and no one reported it; the war on terror continues; I am still afraid.

My new hobby these days is looking for jobs. On my table is an unsigned letter of intent for Loudoun County Public Schools. I have had seven interviews in three weeks. All have gone well. I'm left with the impression that I could get a job just about anywhere that I wanted to. It's a little unnerving when someone looks at your resume and says, "Wow." I don't know how to respond to that.

You can't really say, "I know. I don't how I live with myself, being this amazing."

If any Virginians stumble across this: if you could live in the DC or Charlottesville areas, which would you choose, and why? I have no idea where I want to be. Except, probably not in Loudoun, because even with the bazillion dollar salary, I don't know how I would afford to live there. That, and the "Gang Free School Zone" signs made me a little suspicious.

Otherwise, I'm planning on jaunting out to Pittsburgh the weekend of March 18. There is allegedly going to be someone else coming to meet me there from the west. I'm giving enough advance warning this time that I can find people without relentlessly and creepily stalking them.

Here We Go

A little tumult in the brain today.

And what else to do but publicize it to everyone? (To Lynn's confusion, which is, of course, a valid reason to do it.)

A history of a mild panic attack:

My teacher of all things Islamic asked me to meet her at a forum she was presenting at this morning on cross-religion communication, since she knew she would be late to Sunday school. I hopped into my little car and drove the hour into Charlottesville, and followed the directions until I arrived at an Episcopal Church where the parishioners were shifting between services.

I sat in my car, paralyzed.

From my musical experiences in high school, I've been in countless different denominations (and non-denominations) of churches. Everyone in their dressy clothes, dragging the children off to church, was about the most normal scene I could imagine.

Except that I now had no place in it. I watched a woman in a knee-length skirt walk by. A woman with her dark hair tied up in a pony tail. All the while, I stared at the hijab, carefully folded on the passenger seat (I haven't figured out how to actually drive a car and see while wearing one.) I don't normally wear the hijab, except to prayer and Sunday school. In some way, this has made me feel increasingly like a fraud, as if this particular part of my life is compartmentalized into a few hours here and there.

I didn't know exactly where I was supposed to meet my teacher. And I couldn't decide whether I should put on the hijab and go out into a crowd of Christians and, in some sense, publicly expose myself, or if I should keep my hair uncovered and demonstrate how I truly act in the world.

In the end, I pulled up the hood of my coat tightly, so that I could fit in as anyone, and walked up to the church to investigate. I didn't find my teacher after all, and drove off relatively unscathed to school--unless, of course, you consider that I started crying so much that I had to actually pull off to the side of the road on the way there. I've always been one for melodrama, but in that moment I had absolutely no idea who I was and where I fit into the world.

I'm still floating a bit in that stratosphere, hours later.

I thought certainly that watching the Steelers game would help, but it didn't.

I'm sure that it does not goes without saying--so I'll say it--that a certain object of my affections did finally drag himself home about two weeks ago. I don't know how to make that into a newsflash that's worthy of your reading time (both of you). And it's hard to be truly excited, since the only pleasure I've extracted from it has been talking to him on the phone. A sweet luxury to hear his voice after five months, but no substitute for actually seeing him. And I have no idea when that will happen.

At the very least, I'm less of a mess than I would be if I had not intrepidly ventured to Pittsburgh last weekend, camping out on the floors of various kind friends, and partaking of a marvelous dinner at sster's home. For a moment, I looked out at the world around me--a world of writers and familiar streets--and I could see, if only for a few days, somewhere that I belonged without question.

Possible commentary starters:

1. Do I need a therapist?
2. Do you think the Steelers will win the Super Bowl?
3. Am I overreacting to my own sense of displacement?

How I Met Nancy Kerrigan

It all began on December 21, when one of my friends named Becky here in Culpeper (hereafter referred to as Becky 1) called me at midnight.

She told me that she'd met the perfect guy for my other friend Becky (hereafter referred to as Becky 2), and asked me what her phone number was.

This all resulted in Becky 2 having a profoundly random message on her answering machine when she returned home from break. I found it all to be highly amusing--and almost identical to a scene in a screenplay I was working on under the tutelage of one Carl Kurlander, screenwriter of St. Elmo's Fire and Saved by the Bell.

It turns out that the character I most resemble is Screech. No surprise there.

But I digress.

Becky 1 hatches a scheme to introduce Becky 2 to said person. This scheme involves taking a truck load of people to go...ice skating.

It should be noted that I have never gone ice skating before, and that my prior roller skating forays were notable to my mother because she would see me speeding around the rink, then vanishing when I fell, then getting back up, then speeding around. Apparently this was hilarious.

I arrive at the skating rink with Becky 2 and her older sister. No one else is there thirty minutes later. Then, finally, Becky 1 and her boyfriend arrive, claiming that the alleged date would arrive soon. In the meantime, we watched many tiny people learning to skate by pushing buckets around the ice to keep their balance.

"I need some of those buckets," I thought. But they were only for children, it turned out.

When we finally went out to skate (the date still absent), I discovered one thing quickly: ice is slippery. I avoided doing anything silly like falling in front of thirty speeding children by pushing myself along the wall. Then, suddenly, I figured it out.

I was thinking two things as I proceeded at a slow but graceful glide around the ice.

1. Where is this guy, anyway?
2. Why on earth is that woman over there wearing age-inappropriate black lace tights and skating around on one leg like she's Nancy Kerrigan?

I was still thinking these things when the guy arrived nearly an hour and a half after the scheduled meeting time. To make a long story short, I got really good at ice skating (all things considered), Becky 1 dragged everyone out to a bar (I didn't drink), and The Date got kicked out by a bouncer because he's TWENTY and had been kicked out the NIGHT BEFORE from the SAME BAR.

In summary:

1. I can ice skate!
2. I didn't fall!
3. It was kind of exciting seeing someone get kicked out of a bar.
4. I can ice skate!

The Brief Dreams of Insomniacs

Since returning to Virginia, I've been plagued by insomnia. I stay awake for hours at night, rolling to look at the clock every so often and watch the hours ticking by.

Why can't I sleep? I wish I knew. I've been working hard to get my apartment organized, and I've been approaching the task with more than my usual vigor. I've started writing aggressively, since I now think I have a better direction for my planned series of essays on love, and a decent idea for a novel. And it's true that a certain man I'm rather fond of is due back in the United States in six days. (He was originally supposed to be back this past Sunday [edit cranky thoughts here]).

Last night, I actually got a few hours of sleep. My dream:

A ham sandwich (thinly sliced, on white bread), floating before a backdrop of soft pink and gray clouds. As I watched it, the sandwich would rotate slightly, so that I could look at it from a variety of angles. Yes, that was the entire dream, and yes, it went on for a while--until my lucid dreaming kicked in and I said, "Woah. I'm dreaming about a ham sandwich. I should wake up."

I have enjoyed some ham sandwiches in my lifetime, but not enough to dream about them. And I haven't found myself overly craving ham since becoming Muslim.

So, my questions:

1. Does anyone know any good cures for insomnia?
2. What do you think this dream means, if it's worth interpreting at all?

Happy sleeping to you all.

Don't let nobody change u for the world

I wish I could say that I have been so busy, that life has been so scintillating, that I just didn't have time to write anything for you. (Modified, with horror, from "you all". Truly I am becoming Virginian.)

In reality, I suppose I have been busy. Most days, I find that teaching drains every drop of energy out of me. There are brief, beautiful moments. For example, the note I got from one of my students, which provides us with the title for today's blog entry. An English teacher's nightmare, and an English teacher's dream.

Nothing of real note has happened, though. Imitation ladybugs began sprouting in the corners of my apartment--dozens of them, piled on top of each other. I broke up the orgy with a broom, and have been finding their bodies all over the apartment ever since.

I gave the dog a bath.

I caught a student with a knife in my class.

I watched rain fall and turn to ice twice in the last two weeks. Even now, the neighbor's lights are turning the trees to silver. All day I've been home, making biscotti, reading a book for the sheer pleasure of it.

I've been working through my religious conversion/reversion, trying to come to terms with the slight variations on my everyday life that it requires. I'm proving to be stubborn on some minor details, like the lengths of skirts and shirt sleeves.

I went to Williamsburg and saw a candle shop where the indoors are made to look like the outdoors.

I've watched the calendar days drain down. It's possible that I might be able to see my favorite man within a month's time, if all goes well. (Inshallah -- God willing -- as they say.)

I counted and realized that I have 71 poems in circulation to various magazines. It turns out that I have been a prolific writer; I have more of them that could go out, if the mood struck me. I am awaiting my rejection letters eagerly these days.

It will be a year of changes next year for me, as this year was.

What are you looking forward to in the new year? What have been your great joys this year?

I may be able to sneak through Pittsburgh during the coming break. Will anyone be around?

I miss everyone. I hope your holidays (should I not write again soon) will be lovely and safe.