Cinderella's Y2K

So Doug and I are at the Drip, matching Macbooks in tow. Very cute. Doug is very focused at the moment [see below]. Doubly cute.



As for me, I'm drinking my green tea and desperately trying to upload more photos up onto the site. Technical difficulties abound. Despite this temporary roadblock, onward I march, valiantly climbing that mountain otherwise known as "the Internet." Sneaky little bastard.

Speaking of the World Wide Web, whatever happened to Y2K? You know, the collapse of industrialized society as we know it, electronic armageddon, bomb shelters, fear, propaganda, the whole works?

April, 1999: it's the eight grade dance. My hair is long and pulled back in the front. Landon, childhood friend-turned boyfriend three years later-turned back to friend a year after that, is my date. Having hit puberty earlier that year just in time for football season, his tall, bulky awkwardness borders on cute; he hands me a corsage. His mother takes our picture and I officially turn a deep shade of scarlet to match my burgundy dress. It's short, not floor-length like most of the other girls' dresses. And, unlike them, I didn't have my hair and makeup done at the salon down the street. They look older, more mature, developed in all the right places. I look down at my own adolescent body: my boobs seem to be getting bigger every day, an observation that is the source of more embarrassment than pride. I can just make out my toes past their protrusion. Damn it. My strappy white sandals have bows on them. How 6th grade of me. Shit.

Landon and I finally wave goodbye to his mom and make our way towards the overly-decorated cafeteria turned dance hall. The theme of the evening is "Cinderella's Castle," explaining why we are each handed a plastic slipper and magic wand at the door. Landon and I exchange amused looks. I see my best friend, Hannah running towards me. From the neck down, she looks like a princess. My heart sinks. Her dress is beautiful. It's long (of course) and sparkly with an empire waste and split overlay that cascades down from her cleavage in a giant upside down V. Wow. Her boobs look amazing in that dress. She looks like Drew Barrymore in Ever After.

Hannah says a brief hello to Landon and then directs her attention towards me.

"Wow, Candace, you look amazing!"

"Yeah, so do you."

There is a pause. Hannah is obviously waiting for me to say more, to comment on her dress, her manicured nails, her fake eyelashes.

"So...nice dress." I say in a vague attempt at hiding my envy behind a veil of complimentary conversation.

"You like it? My grandma bought it for me. It cost $400." Her eyes protrude at the mention of money. Evidently Hannah mistakes the blank expression on my face as a request for more information. She continues:

"My grandma says that the world is going to end in about six months anyway. You know, Y2K. We saw this dress in the store and she said she just had to buy it for me, even though she didn't really have the money. 'Well, it ain't like any of us is gonna live to see your prom, so we might as well do what we can now.' That's what she said. Grandma is a little nutty, but maybe she's right, ya know? She has a whole cellar full of canned goods and potatoes that she's been saving for four years now. I tell you what, when the shit starts flyin,' at least i'll know where to go to get some good canned corn!"

Landon laughs.

I should probably laugh too, but I can't help but notice that Hannah's hair is a bit lop-sided and some of the bobby-pins are sticking out obtrusively. It would probably only take one little pull of a pin to cause the whole beehive to come crashing down. My eyes scrunch up as my right hand twitches. I'm about to go in for the kill when Hannah catches the eye of another innocent friend to pounce upon. She runs in the opposite direction, heels clicking upon the cement floor. Her hair comes to a stop behind her, swaying from the sudden movement. Oh well. It's probably for the best. Besides, it would be a shame to ruin the poor girls' night on account of my own pettiness.

It is her last six months on earth, after all.

He asked me to write.

He asked me to write. We were sitting on the couch, locked into each other. There were still tears in his eyes. Our love filled him to the brim, you see; the tears were the salty excess of his joy. I was crying too, in my own way, chest heaving, hands frantically touching, memorizing, adoring. I cried because I felt as though I had been on the verge of losing him, this man I loved so dearly, only to open my eyes and find him still there, loving me as I loved him. What an exhilarating moment! I remember the feeling as my panicked self slowly melted into a sweeter calm. My head began to spin and my skin sang out to this beautiful man I called my love. Yes, I remember that moment quite vividly, the moment I simultaneously lost and found my other half. And oh the kisses. There were kisses too, of course.

“Write about us,” he said after one particularly wet embrace. “I would like that.”

“Yes,” I replied, “of course I will.”

I gave him a smile, stamping and sealing his request in a kiss. Still, my insides couldn't help but churn. Write about us? About him? There seemed to me an inherent danger in the act. To try and define something so powerful, so pure, well, it bordered on blasphemy. The Muslim world considers it heresy to print an image of Muhammad for fear of false worship, of turning something otherwise divine and beautiful into a man-made idol. I suppose I beheld similar fears.

And so the days went by, then the weeks, and I did not write about us, as I said I would. I thought about it, of course. Words would brush in and out of my head like fallen leaves: beautiful and inspiring, but difficult to contain. Funny thing about dry leaves: they simply refuse to stay in one place for very long.

It is winter now and yet the leaves just keep falling, in and then out again. Still, spring is just around the corner. Perhaps I will have better luck then. Maybe, when surrounded by growth and fresh beginnings, maybe then I will be able to write about us, like I said I would. But not yet, not today. No, no that would just be silly.

Presence of Mind

So I have changed my blog format. It seems fitting. My life is so drastically different now; shouldn't font and color wheel reflect this shift? Darker, Polka-dot candace is out; sophisticated, free, GRADUATED and in LOVE Candace is way in! I like that.

so, my new year's resolution(s)

Resolution #1: Be present.
This is my number one goal for this coming year, especially these next few months.
As of late, my days have been very open and noncommital. In short, I haven't really been doing much. In the past, such blatant sloth-like behavior has been the source of great pain, usually in the form of restlessness, anxiety, fear, and worry, sometimes building into a state of depression, self-doubt, and a drastic decrease in self-worth. What a waste of energy! And for what? So that I can feel bad about myself? So that I can build up walls and limitations and somehow manage to convince myself that I am nothing? Self-fulfilling prophecies are a bitch, my friend, and not to be toyed with.
Well, no more. I'm done. Cuz you know what? It's ok to take a break. It's ok to not have everything figured out right NOW, in this very moment. It's ok to just let myself BE for a little while. Haven't I deserved it? Do I not have enough faith in myself and my own abilities to know that things will work themselves out and I will be fabulous? That I AM fabulous, right here, right now? Why worry about the future? Why allow my past to determine that future, to hold me back today? Now that's not saying I shouldn't have ambitions and goals and hopes and dreams; I just don't want to get bogged down and consumed by the fear of not attaining those dreams.
Eckhart Tolle says:
"All negativity is caused by an accumulation of psychological time and denial of the present. Unease, anxiety, tension, stress, worry--all forms of fear-- are caused by too much future, and not enough presence. Guilt, regret, resentment, grievances, sadness, bitterness, and all forms of nonforgiveness are caused by too much past, and not enough presence." (50)
What a profound notion. Wow. I totally get that; I feel it. Props to Tolle.
So, the solution? Be present. Do what you can, when you can. The rest will take care of itself.

Resolution #2:
Write more.

Both of these resolutions are currently in progress...
and I'm lovin' that.

Song of Myself (written 11/14/07)

I definitely think Whitman was on to something. Music and identity seem inextricably connected, something that I have found to be increasingly true over the past year or so. Just the right song at just the right moment and BAMB! Collision. Song and self swirl together and if you close your eyes just right, you can hear your soul swelling with musical movement as your very skin sings out in perfect harmony with the caucophony of your shoulders, knees, and toes. Hell yeah. You know what I mean to be sayin'.

Let me back up: I have always been a hummer. Music literally lives inside of me and most of the time I have no idea that it is leaking out in the form of a soft hummm. Half the time I don't even know what song I am humming, if it is even a song at all. Many people make the mistake of associating this humm with carefree gaeity or some other form of light-hearted expression. Not so. You people have simply been watching too many cartoons and corny prime-time citcoms.

But that's not really my point at all. My point is this: as of late, I feel like I have begun processing my life in terms of particular songs. I guess you could call it compiling my own personal soundtrack of life. I feel like Nick Hornby would be proud.

And so, in honor of High Fidelity and the prestigious act of list-making, another of my favorite past-times [see Favorite Movies of All Time list, below], I give you the compiled list of songs that would be on today's soundtrack:

WooHoo by 5,6,7,8s
I'll Fly Away by Gillian Welch & Allison Krauss
Eleanor Rigby by The Beatles
Mary Jo by Belle & Sebastian
Take My Hand by Ben Harper
The Wind by Cat Stevens
Born to Be With You by Chatham County Line
Caring is Creepy by The Shins
When I Was in Love
with You by The Greencards
The Long Way Home by Norah Jones

Candace's Favorite Movies of All Time List (1-50)

Ladies and Gents, a drumroll please...
I present to you,
the new and improved
2nd edition...
Candace's Favorite Movies of all TIME, in order:

1. When Harry Met Sally
2. ONCE
3. Lost in Translation
4. Stardust
5. Waiting for Guffman
6. Moulin Rouge
7. The Princess Bride
8. Dirty Dancing
9. Love, Actually
10. Manhattan
11. Almost Famous
12. Imagine Me & You
13. Psycho
14. Best in Show
15. Garden State
16. The Saint
17. Spinal Tap
18. House of Flying Daggers
19. Legends of the Fall
20. Kill Bill (1 &2)
21. Closer
22. Tombstone
23. Knocked Up
24. The Family Stone
25. Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon
26. Shop Girl
27. Harry Potter V
28. Hiroshima, Mi Amor
29. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless
Mind
30. Bridges of Madison County
31. Sliding Doors
32. Casablanca
33. Pride and Prejudice
34. Annie Hall
35. Lord of the Rings (1,2,3)
36. My Fair Lady
37. Chocolat
38. The Lion King
39. Laughing Hyena
40. Two Wondrous Tigers
41. Little Miss Sunshine
42. The Last Dragon
43. Sabrina
44. Dreamers
45. James Bond: Casino Royale
46. Independence Day
47. The Devil Wears Prada
48. Trains, Planes, and Automobiles
49. What About Bob?
50. Kung Fu: The Movie


Honorable Mentions:
Sister Act II
Pistol Pete
Rookie of the Year
Titanic
You’ve Got Mail
Ever After
The Other Sister
Only You

Big sigh...

As I sauntered into class this morning, I was greated by a rather large giftbag overflowing with blue tissue paper, patiently sitting on my desk. In the bag I found an assortment of hallmark "congrats" cards, one from each of my classes and another from Mrs. C, my Co-op. Each class had signed the cards with individual little messages, wishing me luck, thanking me for helping them this semester, well-wishes, etc. It was ridiculously cute, I assure you. There was much heart-swelling on my part. As a gift, Mrs. C. had provided me with the basic essentials for any beginning teacher: dark chocolate, green tea (mugs included), and a coffee/tea maker. This was especially sentimental considering Mrs. C and I's routine over the past two months: start out the morning with a hot cup of tea, nibbles of dark chocolate providing sustanance throughout the day. (The difficulty level of a day could often be measured by how much chocolate was consumed: a single chocolater would be considered a downhill sleigh ride, while 4-5 pieces would be a clear sign of headaches, deep breaths, and inspirational monologues.)

So today was my last day in the classroom. I completed my observations, raided Mrs. C's file cabinet, cleaned off my desk and said goodbye to my kids via white-board (which I thought was rather apropos). I decided to take off at the beginning of fourth period, having nothing left to do but sit and reminisce. I was not prepared for the cacophony of protests that greeted me as I began to gather my things. I was profoundly touched and did my best not to linger, soaking in as much positive affirmation of these many months of hard work as possible.

The truth of the matter is, I am going to miss it. I'm going to miss the classroom and the day-to-day routines. Most of all, I will miss the kids. I will miss hearing them call me by my last name. I will even miss their whining and disruptive banter, times in which I often had to hold back my laughter and put on my "stern" face, if only for pretense. Still, by the end of the six weeks, I stopped holding back and laughed openly with them. This was a relief for both of us I think. They were a good group. Challenging, yes. Hard-headed, lazy, apathetic--good GOD! Still, there was a spark there. I saw it; they felt it. What more could I ask for?

And so I am finished. Done.
I completed the hardest semester of my academic life thus far and--most importantly--I did it all on my own. There was no one waiting for me at home to rub my feet or give me words of comfort or fix me dinner. For these things, and more, I looked to myself; I dug deep and found a strength I didn't even know was there.
For this inner strength and for the friends and family who gave me countless words of encouragement along the way, I will be eternally grateful.

BOO.

In honor of the season [it is halloween, afterall], the following blog recounts two rather frightening experiences as of late:

Scarytime #1:

I went out on a date the other night. This in and of itself may seem rather scary but, wait, there's more.

I was actually pretty excited about it. The guy in question seemed like a real catch: Americorp alumni (he spent a year in Colorodo providing medical care to poverty-stricken, mostly illegal immigrants), Chapel-Hill Graduate, pre-med, semester in Australia, super hot and quirky cute all rolled in one. And he seemed pretty hung up on me, to boot.

So he gets my number and we go have a couple of beers at one of my favorite pubs downtown, which just happened to be having bluegrass jam that night. Cat's out of the bag: we both like-no LOVE- bluegrass music. Major bonus points. We talk and laugh and all is going rather well. Could it be? Had I actually managed to meet a smart, attractive MAN, official graduate of the petty little boy status so common to these parts? The question is humming around in my mind, practically in mid-air, stuck in one of those lovely little bubbles so often attributed to mental activity. Aforementioned bubble is floating inconspicuously over my left shoulder when it comes time to pay the bill.

"You ready to make a break for it?"

POP! goes the bubble.

"We will have to be pretty sneaky about it though, make a quick get-a-way."

Ummm...come again?

While I continue to stare at him in what would best be described as dumbfounded awe, unable to formulate a coherent reply, the waitress comes to my rescue.

"Can I take that for you?" she asks nonchalantly.

Yes! Yes, please take it! Take it now before this niceboy FRAUD pulls a gun on us all and asks us for our spare change. It is only a matter of time. Sweat begins to pool on my brow. No wait, I almost forgot: we southern gals don't sweat, we glisten.

"Damn it. Almost. I do feel bad for the waitresses though, if only because I wait tables myself." He says this with a note of, not remorse, but dissapointment.

So to my relief, he pays the bill-- all fifteen dollars of it. I mean, seriously! Seriously? Fifteen bucks? I'm not even worth the price of four beers, two of which were YOURS? And on a FIRST DATE, nonetheless. It boggles the mind. Even now, I have trouble rapping my brain around it.

Jump to the end of the evening: we pull up to my house, he leans in for a kiss and before I know it, without even thinking about it, I've totally pulled a Cheeker. So let this be a lesson to you, little boys everywhere: attempt to swindle your date into participating in an immoral, not to mention illegal, activity and you too shall receive a similar, if not far more severe, fate. You have been forewarned.

Scarytime #2:

I went to Wal-Mart today. I didn't want to; I hadn't planned on it. It just kind of, happened.

I found myself standing in aisle 15, hands by my side, shoulders slouched, brow furrowed. My eyes bounced back and forth, as if waiting for someone [or something] to jump out from behind the 50 pound bag of dogfood beside me and begin knawing at my ankle.

Instead, a 400 pound woman strutted by infront of me, her camoflage entourage obediently in tow. I immediately break into a cold sweat. Where am I? What is happening? A feeling of total and complete resignation passes over me as I realize that half of the people in the store- sorry, "supercenter"- are probably related to the unfortunate kids I see every day in my classroom.

Wal-Mart on a saturday afternoon is officially one of the scarriest places I can imagine. Even now, I shudder just thinking about it.