Building vocabulary - the fun way

I learned a new French word yesterday.
Abats.
It's actually a bit of an overstatement to say that I learned it.
I don't know its gender, its etymology, or the precise definition.
Clearly I'm too lazy to actually look it up. I'm sure my errors will be lovingly and quickly pointed out in comments.
It might be more accurate to say I experienced a new French word yesterday.

I have the definition of abats narrowed down to a few possibilities.
One of them is leftovers. "Whatever you don't eat, I'll keep. Then we can eat some abats tomorrow evening."
Possible definition #2 - random carnage. When that helicoptor turned upside down in the cow pasture, there were abats everywhere.
Possible definition #3 - any category of meat that is not substantial enough to form its own category. "We just received an order of goat head. Where do you want me to store it?" "With the rest of the abats."

How did I come across this strange and intriguing word? LeClerc - the great Wal-Mart of France.
While walking between the coffee aisle, and the fruit section (all the while hoping to avoid the rotting fish corner), I came across the meat section. On my left was what clearly used to be a rabbit (those flopsy ears are still cute, even when you can see digestive organs in the same eye-shot). On my right were signs of categories of meat, most of which I recognized - agneau (lamb), porc, veau (veal), boeuf (beef), poulet (chicken), canard (duck) and then at the very end, was abats. Mystified, I walked toward the white word on a red background to see if I could recognize the animal, like I could the bunny.
On approaching the packaged meat, I did have a glimmer of recognition - not so much in recognizing an animal, but in recognizing an organ - a brain to be exact. (I also learned how to say brain).
The grocery shopper in me was disgusted, but the boy in me was fascinated. I was standing among body parts that I've only seen in anatomy and biology classes. But I wasn't in class - no dumb goggles, no sticky gloves. Just me and guts separated by a thin sheet of clear plastic. Amazing. The French major in me then began to work and I realized this would be a good time to not only test my organ recognition skills, but also to learn the names of organs in French. (Just that day I was wondering how to explain that coffee might be good for your liver to my French professor.)
Heart, brain, liver, feet, tongue even, from every above-mentioned animal. I was dumbfounded. I could live off of veal tongue for a month. It's that big! (I don't really want to, but I could, nonetheless).
I don't really have a good conclusion for this story.

My sweet Latin Valentine

Wow, Andy McDonie, writing about Valentine's Day!
You must be wondering what the catch is.
No catch, I just want to write about something I love very very much.
I'll leave you in suspense for a while as I go on to describe my significant other.
She's Latin American.
I see her every day.
She's always there, but not in a needy kind of way.
She's extremely rich.
Her family, though mainly Colombian, has relatives all over the world.
They own houses in all major cities from Paris to London to New York, Chicago, Seattle, Tokyo, Istanbul, Tel Aviv, everywhere.
I don't know what I'd do without her.
She's sweet, beautiful, and her only real fault is she is sometimes known to be a bit bitter (right up my alley).
Any guesses who she is?
Alright, I'll tell you.
She's coffee.
Sweet, beautiful, rich, dark, strong, savory, get-me-out-of-bed-in-the-morning coffee.
Ah how I love it.
5:15 PM here, and I've already rendez-vous'ed with her 4 times today, and I hardly think that I've seen the last of her this Valentine's Day.
No no, she's too good to me for me to ignore her like that.

Some people call this an addiction. I say it's love.
These people ask me if I get headaches if I go a morning without drinking my coffee.
Do you, dear readers, want to know the answer to that?
The truth is, I don't know. I have nothing to base it on.
I can't remember the last morning I didn't have a cup of coffee.
I don't know why I would try that...especially if it turns out that it might give me a headache.
These people don't make much sense to me. They could probably use a cup of coffee to help them think straight.

How do I take my coffee, you might be wondering.
The only answer I can give is "gladly, thank you."
I like all kinds of coffee.
Dark, light, black, cream, no cream, sugar, no sugar, really hot, medium, cold, ice, Starbucks, Seattle's Best, Folgers, Maxwell House, Italian, French, American, Israeli, Turkish, Irish, Mexican. Coffee ice cream, coffee candy, coffee cake, coffee breaks, coffee tables, coffee scent, coffee colors. There is absolutely no way that I don't like coffee*.

What's more, coffee likes me too.
Not only does coffee have caffeine, which raises your adrenaline - a survival chemical, it also has positive effects.
Caffeine is a study drug, a sort of memory enhancer. People who study while on caffeine are more likely to remember what they studied/read when they need to recall that information than those poor saps who didn't study while on caffeine.
Furthermore, recent studies have shown that coffee may actually have long term positive effects.
Sid Kirchheimer, a beautiful, beautiful, beautiful, wonderful, intelligent, human being published on Web MD** the results of his wonderful, beautiful research.

Coffee can:

Cut men's risk for Type 2 diabetes in half - 54% on the condition that they drink 6 or more cups a day - heaven.

Cut risk of Parkinsons disease by 80%

Reduce the risk of colon cancer by up to 25%

Reduce the risk of liver cirrhosis by 80% - great news for my Irish brethern (and my Italian friends)

Cut risk of gall stones in half.

Manage asthma

Boost the mood

Stop a headache

Prevent cavities

And just make you feel so good.

How are there still non-coffee drinkers left in the world? These figures must show why so many people are grumpy, asthmatic, and cavity-ridden.

I have an interesting history with Lady Coffee as well. It started when I was about five, when I had my first sip. It was from my grandmother. I think she was trying to deter me from using it, because she gave me decaf***. I found my mistress rather bitter, and I didn't think I'd ever go back to her. 5 years later she showed up again in my life. I was at a sleepover with some friends, and we all began experimenting with Folgers. I liked it. I liked it a lot. Life was never the same again after that. My parents themselves don't drink coffee, but they do keep it around for guests. They caught me from time to time sneaking it. They weren't very happy that their 10-year-old son was drinking coffee, so they did succeed in slowing down my love affair, but true love has never submitted to parents' regulations (see Shakespeare), and their rules only made me love coffee more.

I had my first cappucino at age 12. My parents had taken us to the Eastland Mall in Columbus for Christmas shopping, and in a predictable parent way, they left me alone to consult with Santa. I didn't plan on meeting cappucino that day. I was just looking for Christmas gifts, when what to my wondering eyes should appear, but Gloria Jean's Gourmet Coffee. My road from boyhood to manhood unfolded before me that day.

High school found me fooling around with several coffee concoctions, mainly Tim Horton's French vanilla cappucino. I still hold my Friday morning breakfasts at Tims as some of my most cherished memories. My senior year I drove up to Chillicothe with some friends. We found a coffee shop. I discovered espresso - another boost on the road to manhood. I thought it was the grossest thing I'd ever put in my mouth. I didn't understand how such wonderful sweet coffee, in it's most powerful form, could cause me so much pain. I thought I'd never go back.

College is where my like for coffee turned to full-blown love. Head-over-heels, poetry kind of love. My freshman year as a chem major afforded me the pleasure of several late nights with my Folgers singles. My first all-nighter was finals week of fall quarter my sophomore year. I realized after I had finished studying the last two chapters of organic chemistry around midnight, that my 8:00 AM test was not over the last two chapters exclusively. It was instead comprehensive. It was Folgers that stayed up with me that night.

That summer I went to Macedonia for the first time. I discovered Turkish coffee there. No one had ever warned me about the grinds in the bottom of this cup of thick, black deliciousness. I drank them, almost choked, and I don't believe I slept that night. It was another year before I could convince myself to give her another whirl. However, while refusing to drink this kind of coffee in Macedonia, I stumbled across macchiato. Romans 8:28 in action for you there. Beautiful is the only word I can use to properly describe that summer.

Junior year found me, not as a Chem major (obviously, that final didn't go too well - this however is not the fault of the coffee. It's never the fault of the coffee.) but as a religion major, living with Chris Davis, a good man who also loves him a good cup of coffee. We bought a bean grinder that year. Actually, to be more precise, he bought it. I hope that Dana enjoys his fresh ground coffee, now in his days as a husband. That summer I returned to Macedonia, and I drank that coffee, and I liked it! I also refell in love with macchiato - better than Starbucks.

Senior year I lived with non-coffee drinkers (refer to comment about cranky, asthmatic, cavity-ridden people). Dave introduced me to green tea, which I flirted with for a while, and still do occasionally. Coffee is a very understanding friend. I went to Chicago over spring break and found my beloved Turkish coffee under the pseudonym Israeli coffee in a Jewish district of the city. I was able to share my love of this deliciousness with some of my WSU friends. What a great day! Winter and spring quarters each held 20 credit hours and gallons upon gallons of Waffle House, Starbucks, Steak N Shake, Folgers, and my friend Lenny's Coffee. That summer, I worked in an office. The free, however cheap coffee was good to me. Not only did she fill my boring hours with sweet happiness, her diurhetic caffeine had me going to the bathroom every 30 minutes - a welcome break from the boredom of filing.

Today, I sit in France, the place where coffee came as an unrefined little girl and grew into a beautiful, sophisticated, seductive woman. The French choice - espresso. It didn't take long to learn to love her. Strong, dark, comes in a ridiculously small mug, always served with chocolate. Wonderful.

Happy Valentine's Day to you, Folgers, 5th grade friends, Santa Clause,and Tim Hortons. Happy Valentine's Day high school friends, o-chem professor, Chris, and Chicago. Happy Valentine's Day Lenny, Modern Jewish Thought, Canadian Indian Religions Macedonia, and France. Happy Valentine's Day to you, Lady Coffee, in all your beautiful manifestations. And most of all, Happy Valentine's Day God, and thank You, Giver of all good and perfect gifts at Whose right hand are pleasures forevermore. May coffee only be a foretaste of eternal joy in You.



*When I say that there is no way I don't like coffee, I am assuming non-gross conditions. For example if someone were to brew it in their toilet, using dirty underwear as a filter, and stirring it with their toes, I would probably be disinclined to like this coffee. Under normal circumstances I like all coffee. I have however heard of a coffee bean in Asia that passes through the digestive system of a skunk-like creature, harvested from its feces and then processed into very fine coffee. I'm willing to give that a whirl, but I hear that it's quite expensive.

**httm://my.webmd.com/content/article/80/96454.htm

***Decaf coffee is not really coffee.

A new record

Procrastination is above all a fine art. Disdained among the prideful and abused by the masses, procrastination, in all of its beautiful glory, manifests itself fully only to the happy few. Indeed, happy are the few who soak in the waters of laisser-faire, an attitude that is perhaps France's greatest gift to the world.
Before continuing on with what has made me break forth in praise for this tapestry of time management, let me defend my passion for procrastination from those who would seek to defame it. I unabashedly call non-procrastinators prideful. Why? Several reasons really. I'll focus on two. Non-procrastinators trust in their own abilities to complete projects, leaving absolutely no room for faith. When they finish projects, there is plenty of room for boasting. "I spent 8 hours preparing to write that paper. I wrote 9 rough drafts, and then proofread my paper 4 times, once out loud in front of my roommates." Pride Pride Pride!!! Procrastinators act in faith that it is God who grants wisdom, and that He will do just that when we are most in need. It would therefore be ridiculous for me to brainstorm for hours on end and write rough drafts. Did Ezekiel have different drafts of his prophecies? How about Paul? Did he have formal brainstorm sessions before writing to the Romans? Does anyone think that Jesus ever practiced a speech in front of a mirror? Absolutely not. These were men of faith. Procrastination teaches us to rely on the wisdom that is the gift of God.
Secondly, non-procrastinators are prideful because they think they control what only God can control. Their thoughts are, "If I finish early, I have time to relax." How prideful to think that relaxing times will automatically follow the early completion of a paper. Illness comes unexpectedly, wars don't always announce themselves, and death is no respector of "me-time". I believe James has things to say about those who say what they will do tomorrow, or in a week.
Procrastinators recognize and exalt in the fact that God alone knows if we will go into the city and do business tomorrow. If a paper is due next Friday, how can I assume that I will still be alive on Wednesday? I can't. If I am to die next Wednesday, I do not wish to have spent my last few hours on earth pridefully working away on a research paper. Therefore, faith in God's foreknowledge dictates that I probably should put off doing work that does not bring anyone joy until it is most probable that I will live to see the moment where I hand in that work i.e. the last minute.

It is also necessary to protect procrastination from those who claim to be inside her camp but do not really belong to her. It is necessary to distinguish between the "laisser-faire" (leave to do) and the "ne pas faire" (doesn't do). The latter group (NPF) is one which, under the guise of procrastination, completely avoids work. This is not the goal or the attitude of a true procrastinator. How do you distinguish? You will know them by their fruits. In his struggle against pride, the true procrastinator will not carry out the vain labor of the non-procrastinator, but his work will be of the same quality. It will be on time, and a paper or project presented by a true Laisser-faire (LF) will be indistinguishable from that of a prideful non-procrastinator. The NPF's fruit will be of poor quality and probably late. Procrastination does not condone tardiness or poor quality. In brief, the LF works just as hard as necessary to successfully complete a task. The NPF is just plain lazy, and laziness is not a quality of true, beautiful procrastination, which keeps itself awake many a late night.

What has inspired me to write this? Last night, I was given the gift of beautiful LF procrastination. As opposed to toiling for weeks trying to decide what dreadfully boring topic of French cinema on which I needed to write a paper, I travelled, I read books, I talked to family and friends in the US. This paper did not hinder my joy. Many might read this and say, "he probably paid for it the day before." Wrong! The day before would have been yesterday. What did yesterday look like? Here were the choices I made throughout the day.
1. Skip language class and write my paper, or go to language class - my favorite of all classes. My decision: Language class brings me more joy, therefore, I go to class

2. Skip geography and write my paper or go to geography.
My decision: go to geography. I don't derive any particular joy from this class, but I am no NPF.

3. Write a paper or enjoy lunch.
Lunch

4. Write a paper, or have a coffee.
Coffee

5. Write a paper, or shower and shave (I hadn't shaved in a week)
Shower and shave

6. Write a paper, or test my understanding of spoken French by watching a movie.
Movie - it's amazing by the way how well I understand French movies when I'm procrastinating - a reward for faith I'm sure.

7. (4:00 in the afternoon. Dinner plans at 8:00) Write a paper at home or go to a café where I can better organize my thoughts?
Café

8. (At the café) Read about my horrible films about which I must write my 3 page paper, or read my Bible?
Bible

9. (Still at café) Read about my horrible films about which I must write my 3 page paper, or read John Piper?
Piper

10. Forego dinner plans and write paper, or keep my promise to meet friends for dinner?
Dinner

11. Leave female friend to walk home alone at 11:00 so that I can write my paper or accompany her to ensure her safety?
Her safety

Is this the day of a man tormented by a paper? I think not. I started my paper not a moment too late at 11:30 last night, and finished it by 2:30 by the grace of God. Nothing makes me feel more alive than handing in a decent paper in a foreign language on 3 hours of time borrowed from God.
Procrastination is for you, friend. Give her a whirl. You'll never go back.

Senioritis: It's back...again

Knapp: Get off the floor, Andy.
Me: (in typical overdramatic fashion) Why , Jim? Why should I get off the floor? What do I have better to do than lie on this floor and wait to die?
Knapp: (in typical absolutely unsympathetic fashion) Get off the floor! You're not helping yourself. You've got stuff to do!
Me: (still overdramatic) I can give you more reasons to join me, exhausted, on the floor, than you can give me to get up and go on.
Knapp: (rolls eyes, and walks away - I think he knew he was defeated.)

This scene followed my collapse last year, my fourth year at Wright State. Sick of work, tired of 2 consecutive quarters of 20 credit hours, and exhausted from meetings and readings, I just quit last spring. I didn't completely mean to collapse in the living room. I had almost made it to my bedroom; I was as far as Sids (name of the one-armed couch in the living room.) That's when I made the decision - to collapse. What did it matter if I made the three more steps to my bedroom? Did it really make a difference if I collapsed on my bed, or if I collapsed publicly in the living room. Besides, it makes more of a statement if I collapse in front of someone.

Ahhh, senioritis. That was the second time I had had it in my life. Everyone remembers it from high school. The feeling of "why should I do that?" This time it was worse. College senioritis is infinitely more brutal than high school senioritis. Fortunately, after many mornings of tears shed over the thought of starting another day, after unfathomable gallons of coffee dumped into my stomach and bloodstream, and after a few books that managed to find themselves flying into my bedroom wall after I had completed them (Ragtime, Modern Jewish Thought, Une Si Longue Lettre, The Clown, and about a hundred books on Canadian Indians) I did survive my second installment of senioritis.

Unfortunately, senioritis is a bit like most incurable diseases. It never really goes away, though from time to time it may go into remission. The only way to get rid of such diseases is to die. Hmmm...a little like sin when you think of it, but someone else can post on that one...I'm busy ranting about senioritis.

So here I am, completing my fifth and final year as an undergraduate in France, with the disease coming back. Why is it so ugly this time? Two reasons, and I've already answered them.
1) I'm a super-senior, therefore, I have Super-Senioritis.
2) (and this is the most complicated one) I'm in France. It's easy to give up in your own language. Any idiot, slacker, or senior can do that. As an American, even my incoherent, drueling babble often resembles some kind of sensible English construction. Here, if I just start babbling (much as I am now), it will make even less sense to these poor francophones than it does to you. Plus, one of the symptoms of senioritis is a sluggishness of thought. Well, it takes a lot of thought to function in a foreign language. So it's either rebel against the demands of this seductively lazy illness, flee to the American Embassy, where maybe there will be other babbling, drueling, incoherent, 5th year students in a coma-like state, or die from lack of being able to contend for food in a non-English society.
France and senioritis might turn out to be a deadly combination. French culture will not help. One of the rules of playing the French game (ie. French culture) is do your best to try not to notice the people around you. I'm learning well, but the French have got it mastered. Therefore, if I collapse in a scene resembling last spring, I'm likely to get trampled to death - not because the French are mean people, but because they will die and take anyone with them before they give up playing the game. Such is French culture.
It appears, since both death options seem to be rather painful, that I will go on living. I have hope that someday senioritis will pass me by, or at least someday it will be a man and kill me itself, rather than having French people do the dirty work for it. Either way, I will go on as long as I can...but I'm thinking of surviving it on my own terms...

What does that mean?
Be warned France. I'm done playing your game! I will be THAT AMERICAN. The one who doesn't speak French except a few completely usesless phrases, such as parlez-vous français, and fois gras. I will be that American that speaks so loudly that the eardrums of everyone in the room burst. I will eat my french fries with my hands, and I'll probably lick my fingers afterwards. I'm going to constantly babble on about patriotism. I'm going to buy a poster of George W. and lay flowers just beneath it every day. I will wear white tennis shoes with EVERYTHING. I will refuse to try to understand your ridiculous movies. Why, you ask? Well France, let me tell you. I'm an American. I'm a 5th year senior. Add those two together and what do you get. Total and comlete apathy. I do this, because it's easier.
The glorious freedom of super-senioritis.