I've gotten a fair bit of sympathy and prayer regarding my post-jury duty angst. Everyone seems to agree that it was a tough call, which it was. My roommate made me promise I'd go to sleep last night, and not stay awake till all hours worrying about it. My sister-in-law, who is a lawyer, listened eagerly to the details and told me not to beat myself up about it.
This afternoon, though, I got an email from my parents telling me flat-out that they thought I did the right thing. They didn't have any information apart from what I provided in the blog, but they redered a verdict on my verdict anyway. I don't know whether I've been struggling with felt guilt or actual guilt (how can you tell the difference? I never can), but their note made me feel better. Maybe sometimes we just need to hear mom and dad tell us it's OK.
If anyone is so inclined, I invite you to pray for the plaintiff and her lawyer. The plaintiff's life is pretty hard. She may have been wrong, but it was still hard for most of the jury not to throw her a bone. She has a lot of problems apart from losing this job. And it can't have been fun for her lawyer to lose, especially since this case has gone on for years.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
How do you know if you did the right thing?
I need to talk this out. Be prepared for me to ramble.
Our jury began deliberations yesterday and reached a verdict today. We had several questions on which we had to reach decisions. Because two jurors had been dismissed, and because it was a civil case, we had to reach a 9-out-of-10 majority on each question. We did. But just barely. Like in a movie, we came down to one final question, and there were 8 jurors on one side, 1 juror on the other, and me in the middle, having trouble deciding. I went with the majority, but I'm not even sure what my motives were. Earlier, I had sided with them because I was convined that it was the right answer. But I had second thoughts, and ended up going with the majority despite those second thoughts.
I don't know if I ever would have been convinced fully of either side. I don't know what would have happened if we'd been deadlocked at 8-2. Part of me went with the others because I didn't know if I ever would have been sure, and at some point you just have to choose a side, so I did. I also know that I tend to be indecisive, to second-guess myself, and that I dislike the burden of responsibility to fall on my shoulders. I went with the majority because I didn't want to run from responsibility.
Here are some of the details, since I'm allowed to talk about them now: A woman was suing for wrongful termination. She worked in a home with violently disturbed children, and was injured on the job twice. They were both head injuries. It just so happens that she has hydrocephalitis, and has a shunt in her brain because of it. Doctors agreed that neither injury affected her condition or her shunt. After the second injury, which was minor, she had several symptoms -- headaches, dizziness, balance problems -- and she missed work because of these symptoms. Doctors also agreed that these symptoms were not related to her condition or her injuries, but anxiety about her condition and injuries. She had told her employer, "I can't get hit in the head again." After a series of doctors' appointments, missed meetings, phone calls and faxes, and miscommunications, she was fired.
She says they fired her because they incorrectly perceived her as handicapped; there was no medical reason she couldn't do her job. She also claimed the firing was in response to her claims for workers' compensation. Her former employer claims they fired her because her anxiety was rendering her incapable of working with such disturbed kids and causing her to miss work; her performance was suffering.
There were three people involved in the firing. We the jury determined that, according to the law, she was perceived as handicapped, but that she was qualified to do the job. We found that her termination was not in retaliation to her claims for workers' comp. The sticking point: Was she terminated because her employers saw her as handicapped? 8 people voted no, because it was her anxiety and the consequences of her anxiety that led to her termination. 1 person voted yes, because it was clear that one of the people involved in the discussions leading to her termination was fixated not on her anxiety but on her neurological condition, and he influenced his boss, the ultimate decision-maker. I went with the majority because the ultimate decision-maker was primarily focused on her anxiety, even if one of his counsellors was focused on her condition (and thus her perceived handicap).
This is all a summation. There were many fine points I haven't outlined here. We were essentially asked to determine if she would have been fired for her anxiety and subsequent behavior alone, if there had been no neurological condition behind them. The majority of us decided yes, she would have been, because her anxiety and resultant behavior had become problematic. But of course, I'm not sure. I don't know how to be sure. I don't know what to do with myself now that it's done.
We all agreed that her employer was right to let her go, but the way they went about it was bad. But was it illegal?
I don't know if my icky feelings are conviction that I did the wrong thing, or just my usual guilt and anxiety and uncertainty. I don't know how responsible to feel for this woman now that she's walking away with no vindication and no compensation. The other jurors felt bad, too, but they also felt like they reached the right decision, legally. We weren't asked to be certain; we were asked whether we believed it was more likely than not that she was terminated because a perceived handicap; according to the law, we could still have doubts.
This is the kind of situation where I'm not good at hearing from God, because my mind is screaming. Lord, I ask two things: First, could you let me know how to think about this? If I did the right thing, would you tell me? Second, if I did the wrong thing, would you let me know what to do with that? Either way, please take care of the woman who lost her job.
I knew from the get-go that my problem would be reaching a final decision. I made a decision because I knew I'd have to. I just don't know whether it was right, or even how to tell. The more I think about it, the more I think I was wrong. But that could just be a consequence of dwelling on it.
Jesus, please help me. I'm a mess. Again.
Our jury began deliberations yesterday and reached a verdict today. We had several questions on which we had to reach decisions. Because two jurors had been dismissed, and because it was a civil case, we had to reach a 9-out-of-10 majority on each question. We did. But just barely. Like in a movie, we came down to one final question, and there were 8 jurors on one side, 1 juror on the other, and me in the middle, having trouble deciding. I went with the majority, but I'm not even sure what my motives were. Earlier, I had sided with them because I was convined that it was the right answer. But I had second thoughts, and ended up going with the majority despite those second thoughts.
I don't know if I ever would have been convinced fully of either side. I don't know what would have happened if we'd been deadlocked at 8-2. Part of me went with the others because I didn't know if I ever would have been sure, and at some point you just have to choose a side, so I did. I also know that I tend to be indecisive, to second-guess myself, and that I dislike the burden of responsibility to fall on my shoulders. I went with the majority because I didn't want to run from responsibility.
Here are some of the details, since I'm allowed to talk about them now: A woman was suing for wrongful termination. She worked in a home with violently disturbed children, and was injured on the job twice. They were both head injuries. It just so happens that she has hydrocephalitis, and has a shunt in her brain because of it. Doctors agreed that neither injury affected her condition or her shunt. After the second injury, which was minor, she had several symptoms -- headaches, dizziness, balance problems -- and she missed work because of these symptoms. Doctors also agreed that these symptoms were not related to her condition or her injuries, but anxiety about her condition and injuries. She had told her employer, "I can't get hit in the head again." After a series of doctors' appointments, missed meetings, phone calls and faxes, and miscommunications, she was fired.
She says they fired her because they incorrectly perceived her as handicapped; there was no medical reason she couldn't do her job. She also claimed the firing was in response to her claims for workers' compensation. Her former employer claims they fired her because her anxiety was rendering her incapable of working with such disturbed kids and causing her to miss work; her performance was suffering.
There were three people involved in the firing. We the jury determined that, according to the law, she was perceived as handicapped, but that she was qualified to do the job. We found that her termination was not in retaliation to her claims for workers' comp. The sticking point: Was she terminated because her employers saw her as handicapped? 8 people voted no, because it was her anxiety and the consequences of her anxiety that led to her termination. 1 person voted yes, because it was clear that one of the people involved in the discussions leading to her termination was fixated not on her anxiety but on her neurological condition, and he influenced his boss, the ultimate decision-maker. I went with the majority because the ultimate decision-maker was primarily focused on her anxiety, even if one of his counsellors was focused on her condition (and thus her perceived handicap).
This is all a summation. There were many fine points I haven't outlined here. We were essentially asked to determine if she would have been fired for her anxiety and subsequent behavior alone, if there had been no neurological condition behind them. The majority of us decided yes, she would have been, because her anxiety and resultant behavior had become problematic. But of course, I'm not sure. I don't know how to be sure. I don't know what to do with myself now that it's done.
We all agreed that her employer was right to let her go, but the way they went about it was bad. But was it illegal?
I don't know if my icky feelings are conviction that I did the wrong thing, or just my usual guilt and anxiety and uncertainty. I don't know how responsible to feel for this woman now that she's walking away with no vindication and no compensation. The other jurors felt bad, too, but they also felt like they reached the right decision, legally. We weren't asked to be certain; we were asked whether we believed it was more likely than not that she was terminated because a perceived handicap; according to the law, we could still have doubts.
This is the kind of situation where I'm not good at hearing from God, because my mind is screaming. Lord, I ask two things: First, could you let me know how to think about this? If I did the right thing, would you tell me? Second, if I did the wrong thing, would you let me know what to do with that? Either way, please take care of the woman who lost her job.
I knew from the get-go that my problem would be reaching a final decision. I made a decision because I knew I'd have to. I just don't know whether it was right, or even how to tell. The more I think about it, the more I think I was wrong. But that could just be a consequence of dwelling on it.
Jesus, please help me. I'm a mess. Again.
Monday, November 27, 2006
Turkzilla, Frankenlog, and a foretaste of Chrismakkuh
This is a crazy-quilt entry, full of scraps.
We had the biggest turkey ever. 32 1/2 pounds. That would be obscene if it weren't yummy.
The replacement log went over well. Duct tape and pieces of birch bark all over it. Dad laughed harder than I expected, especially considering that he'd figured out earlier that something was up. My prediction that he'd say, "You think you're pretty smart, don't you?" turned out to be wrong; at no point during this series of events did my Dad accuse me of being smart.
For the big holidays (Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter), my parents have their neighbors, Dave and Shelley, over. They add a whole new dimension to the entertainment. Shelley usually brings a dessert. Last year, Dad thanked her for the homemade pie, to which she responded, "Who you callin' a ho?"
It's also worth noting that Dave, although ethnically Jewish, is a big fan of both Christmas and ham, so he gets very excited about Christmas dinner. He did, however, return the cultural favor a few years ago when he and Shelley had us over for Christmas Eve and he introduced us to Hanukkah rap, as performed by someone calling himself the Hannukah Homeboy. My two favorite rhymes:
Drinkin' lots of Maneschewicz
...And nothin' rhymes with Maneschewicz
(did I spell that right?)
Light a candle on the menorah
Now everybody bust a hora
The slang is a little dated, but I still think if more people knew about this, it would be right up there with Adam Sandler's The Hanukkah Song.
Hope you guys all had a happy Thanksgiving :-).
We had the biggest turkey ever. 32 1/2 pounds. That would be obscene if it weren't yummy.
The replacement log went over well. Duct tape and pieces of birch bark all over it. Dad laughed harder than I expected, especially considering that he'd figured out earlier that something was up. My prediction that he'd say, "You think you're pretty smart, don't you?" turned out to be wrong; at no point during this series of events did my Dad accuse me of being smart.
For the big holidays (Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter), my parents have their neighbors, Dave and Shelley, over. They add a whole new dimension to the entertainment. Shelley usually brings a dessert. Last year, Dad thanked her for the homemade pie, to which she responded, "Who you callin' a ho?"
It's also worth noting that Dave, although ethnically Jewish, is a big fan of both Christmas and ham, so he gets very excited about Christmas dinner. He did, however, return the cultural favor a few years ago when he and Shelley had us over for Christmas Eve and he introduced us to Hanukkah rap, as performed by someone calling himself the Hannukah Homeboy. My two favorite rhymes:
Drinkin' lots of Maneschewicz
...And nothin' rhymes with Maneschewicz
(did I spell that right?)
Light a candle on the menorah
Now everybody bust a hora
The slang is a little dated, but I still think if more people knew about this, it would be right up there with Adam Sandler's The Hanukkah Song.
Hope you guys all had a happy Thanksgiving :-).
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Log Blog
I owe my Dad a log.
Going home to my parents' house is usually a vacation for me. The folks are quite low-key, and my biggest stress is wondering whether it's OK for me to be doing as much Nothing as I'm doing. There aren't any entertaining fights; we're not a "puttin' the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional' " crowd. We're one of Tolstoy's boring happy families.
However...
On Thanksgiving day, my Dad had fires going in two fireplaces. After dinner I was a little chilly and went to stand in front of one of them. It was down to orange embers, so I grabbed the biggest log from the pile and put it on. It caught fire quickly and was very nice. A few minutes later, Dad walks by the room, asking, "Why does it smell like the house is burning down?"
Proud of myself, I said, "I put another log on the fire!"
"Wait, you didn't put my favorite log on, did you?" He looked. "You did! I was saving that log for years! I was going to turn it into a candle holder."
"Uh..."
He walks out of the room and proclaims to no one and everyone, "She burned my favorite log! I can't believe she burned my log. Years I had it." My Dad gets upset and he starts sounding like a Jewish mother.
It might help if I explain that my Dad has a visually creative side. He can draw and take nice photographs and decorate the house. He really did have a plan for putting holes in the side of this log and sticking candles in it, making a Yule Log. He also has the melancholy temperament to go with that creativity, because this loss of his log hit him hard. It was the refrain of the evening.
[Aside: Dad knows I'm writing this, and he says it sounds stupid if I just say it was a log. He says I should refer to it as a "Prize Birch." Big difference, apparently. If you know your wood, perhaps you can appreciate this. Here's what I know about wood:
1. It's brown.
2. They make trees out of it.]
At least now I know what I'll be getting Dad for Christmas -- a replacement log. And I'm getting a head start. Yesterday, Mom and I were out walking our dog when Mom spotted a fallen birch tree. "Holly, look! You have to pull off some bark for your Dad." I thought that was funny, so I grabbed some. It came off like paper. Then Mom one-upped herself and said, "You know what you should do? You should get a regular log and duct tape the birch bark on!" Oh, she's an evil genius, my Mom. After I'm done with this post, I'm going to go do just that, and make the presentation this evening. Here's my prediction: He'll look at it, laugh a little, and look up at me and say, "You think you're pretty smart, don't you?" To which I'll reply, "There were two of us involved, and yes, we are."
Just so you know, Dad and I did patch things up on the day of the Incident. Toward the end of the night, I stopped being annoyed (after all, the Prize Birch was right there in the log-holder thingy), and said, "I'm sorry I burned your log."
He said, "I'm just bustin' your chops," and held open his arms. We hugged.
"But it was my favorite log."
Since then, we've begun discussing how to deal with this loss. Dad wanted to have a burial.
I suggested we just cremate it.
Going home to my parents' house is usually a vacation for me. The folks are quite low-key, and my biggest stress is wondering whether it's OK for me to be doing as much Nothing as I'm doing. There aren't any entertaining fights; we're not a "puttin' the 'fun' in 'dysfunctional' " crowd. We're one of Tolstoy's boring happy families.
However...
On Thanksgiving day, my Dad had fires going in two fireplaces. After dinner I was a little chilly and went to stand in front of one of them. It was down to orange embers, so I grabbed the biggest log from the pile and put it on. It caught fire quickly and was very nice. A few minutes later, Dad walks by the room, asking, "Why does it smell like the house is burning down?"
Proud of myself, I said, "I put another log on the fire!"
"Wait, you didn't put my favorite log on, did you?" He looked. "You did! I was saving that log for years! I was going to turn it into a candle holder."
"Uh..."
He walks out of the room and proclaims to no one and everyone, "She burned my favorite log! I can't believe she burned my log. Years I had it." My Dad gets upset and he starts sounding like a Jewish mother.
It might help if I explain that my Dad has a visually creative side. He can draw and take nice photographs and decorate the house. He really did have a plan for putting holes in the side of this log and sticking candles in it, making a Yule Log. He also has the melancholy temperament to go with that creativity, because this loss of his log hit him hard. It was the refrain of the evening.
[Aside: Dad knows I'm writing this, and he says it sounds stupid if I just say it was a log. He says I should refer to it as a "Prize Birch." Big difference, apparently. If you know your wood, perhaps you can appreciate this. Here's what I know about wood:
1. It's brown.
2. They make trees out of it.]
At least now I know what I'll be getting Dad for Christmas -- a replacement log. And I'm getting a head start. Yesterday, Mom and I were out walking our dog when Mom spotted a fallen birch tree. "Holly, look! You have to pull off some bark for your Dad." I thought that was funny, so I grabbed some. It came off like paper. Then Mom one-upped herself and said, "You know what you should do? You should get a regular log and duct tape the birch bark on!" Oh, she's an evil genius, my Mom. After I'm done with this post, I'm going to go do just that, and make the presentation this evening. Here's my prediction: He'll look at it, laugh a little, and look up at me and say, "You think you're pretty smart, don't you?" To which I'll reply, "There were two of us involved, and yes, we are."
Just so you know, Dad and I did patch things up on the day of the Incident. Toward the end of the night, I stopped being annoyed (after all, the Prize Birch was right there in the log-holder thingy), and said, "I'm sorry I burned your log."
He said, "I'm just bustin' your chops," and held open his arms. We hugged.
"But it was my favorite log."
Since then, we've begun discussing how to deal with this loss. Dad wanted to have a burial.
I suggested we just cremate it.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Coyote Catches Roadrunner
Between 3:30 and 4pm today, my Dad is scheduled to drive my car, Roadrunner, to his new home. In exchange, Dad will come away with a wad of cash for me. It's taken a few weeks of talking with the father of the new teenage owner, during which we went from being really impressed with his courtesy to feeling rather jerked around. I'm selling for less than my asking price, but the truth is that no one else was offering, so I took it. I hope they take good care of him, because he's a nice little blue car and I don't want him to be mistreated. I'm happy to have this finally taken care of, after five months of trying to sell him, but I'm still a little sad to see him go. I suppose that's the downside of naming your material possessions.
In celebration of the closing of this deal, when I return to Boston after Thanksgiving I intend to visit the Lindt chocolate store near where I work and buy whatever the heck I want. I will then set aside a pretty bit of money with which I will buy fun stuff -- clothes, CDs, and other things I want. Not boring responsible stuff, like printer paper or vacuum bags or vegetables (all of which would be a waste of money anyway, because I don't work at home, vacuum often, or eat many vegetables).
With the rest, I will pay off what remains of my debt and start saving seriously, for the first time in my adult life. My feelings about this are summed up in the very mature and grown-up word, Cool!, and perhaps a little Happy Dance, similar to the one I do when I'm about to eat pizza.
A little side note: I have some yummy-scented lotion, and it makes my hands smell like Oreos in ice cream.
Also, I would like to say I am genuinely sorry that I haven't been blogging regularly. Jury duty is part of it, but not all. I've been a little tired. And I'm concerned that after only 4 months of this, I may be running out of things to say. I have been taking notes during this whole jury process, though, so I hope to at least have a few entertaining anecdotes once this trial is over, sometime next week.
In celebration of the closing of this deal, when I return to Boston after Thanksgiving I intend to visit the Lindt chocolate store near where I work and buy whatever the heck I want. I will then set aside a pretty bit of money with which I will buy fun stuff -- clothes, CDs, and other things I want. Not boring responsible stuff, like printer paper or vacuum bags or vegetables (all of which would be a waste of money anyway, because I don't work at home, vacuum often, or eat many vegetables).
With the rest, I will pay off what remains of my debt and start saving seriously, for the first time in my adult life. My feelings about this are summed up in the very mature and grown-up word, Cool!, and perhaps a little Happy Dance, similar to the one I do when I'm about to eat pizza.
A little side note: I have some yummy-scented lotion, and it makes my hands smell like Oreos in ice cream.
Also, I would like to say I am genuinely sorry that I haven't been blogging regularly. Jury duty is part of it, but not all. I've been a little tired. And I'm concerned that after only 4 months of this, I may be running out of things to say. I have been taking notes during this whole jury process, though, so I hope to at least have a few entertaining anecdotes once this trial is over, sometime next week.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
The Nativity Story
The Movie Critic Part
This is not an edgy film, nor is it meant to be. The posters are advertising it as an "event for the whole family," so they had to hint at some of the more violent episodes, rather than showing them outright. I think this is OK.
They played it quite safe with Mary; I don't know if this was just how the actress played her, or if the moviemakers chose to do it this way becuse Mary is so venerated and they didn't want to offend anyone. I haven't seen Whale Rider, but I'm pretty sure Mary is played by the same girl who starred in that movie.
Overall, it doesn't really break any new ground. However, it's far better than what you were used to seeing in your Sunday School classes in the church basement. As both a Christian and an artist, I often find it easy to be embarassed by Christian artistic endeavors that fall far below the bar in creativity and quality. I feel no need to be embarassed by this film. If you're looking to pick it apart, I'm sure you could find plenty to pick at, but that's true of anything. I liked it.
The Biblical Part
What most Christians, myself included, look for in productions like this is biblical accuracy. One of the biggest challenges to any storyteller who cares about this sort of thing is remaining true to the Bible stories and filling the spaces in the narrative without venturing into territory that is not only not in the Bible, but flat-out unbiblical (there's an important difference). I believe the writers of this movie did a truly excellent job of fleshing out the Biblical accounts without taking inappropriate liberties. They played a bit with the timing of things (including the standard Creche Scene rearrangement which has the three wise men showing up at Jesus' birth, rather than two years later), but I, personally, am not too bothered by that.
My favorite part of all this was seeing the major players in this drama as real people with personalities, not just felt figures on a felt background; after all, they were real people. Especially Joseph. We're so used to seeing him as an accessory, dutifully filling out the triangle in paintings of the Holy Family, a quiet, passive guy saying, "Don't mind me, I'm just leading the donkey." I think we don't give him enough credit, but in this movie he gets to play a role similar to what he must have done in real life. He was a real guy. He had to make brave choices. And it's a big deal that God spoke to Him, just like He spoke to Mary, and Joseph listened. Even other people in the Bible found that hard to do. So yay, Joseph.
The Personal Part
I tried to be objective while watching this, so I could sound all intellectual when I described it. But I'm not going to be objective about any movie about God, because God is not a theoretical subject to me. He's my friend. I don't want to get a phone call or a letter from someone I care about and just analyze the grammar. I want to get to know them better. When I watch a movie about God, I want to come away knowing Him better somehow -- not academically, but personally. When I watch scenes where people are seeing visions and hearing from God and trying to follow Him when everything around them indicates it's a stupid thing to do, I'm not interested the way I would be in a philosophy class. I'm interested because I've had a taste of that in my own life, and I want more of it. And in the times when I'm asked to follow, I want to be faithful.
The parts of this movie that moved me the most dealt with God affirming His call on people's lives, caring for them when they felt forgotten, and keeping His promises, even when it takes lifetimes. For years now, I've been in various states of waiting; but more and more I'm able to see what God has been up to, even if I don't know where I'll end up. I cry when I realize that the same God who sent Israel a Messiah is the same God who watched over the safety of one young pregnant girl. The God who filled the sky with angels is the same God who remembered the lonely shepherds out in the cold. And the God who always manages to be the center of controversy in the world is the same God who heard my prayer when I broke down in the grocery store because I didn't have enough money.
"Blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what had been spoken to her by the Lord." -- Luke 1:45
I am hopeful.
This is not an edgy film, nor is it meant to be. The posters are advertising it as an "event for the whole family," so they had to hint at some of the more violent episodes, rather than showing them outright. I think this is OK.
They played it quite safe with Mary; I don't know if this was just how the actress played her, or if the moviemakers chose to do it this way becuse Mary is so venerated and they didn't want to offend anyone. I haven't seen Whale Rider, but I'm pretty sure Mary is played by the same girl who starred in that movie.
Overall, it doesn't really break any new ground. However, it's far better than what you were used to seeing in your Sunday School classes in the church basement. As both a Christian and an artist, I often find it easy to be embarassed by Christian artistic endeavors that fall far below the bar in creativity and quality. I feel no need to be embarassed by this film. If you're looking to pick it apart, I'm sure you could find plenty to pick at, but that's true of anything. I liked it.
The Biblical Part
What most Christians, myself included, look for in productions like this is biblical accuracy. One of the biggest challenges to any storyteller who cares about this sort of thing is remaining true to the Bible stories and filling the spaces in the narrative without venturing into territory that is not only not in the Bible, but flat-out unbiblical (there's an important difference). I believe the writers of this movie did a truly excellent job of fleshing out the Biblical accounts without taking inappropriate liberties. They played a bit with the timing of things (including the standard Creche Scene rearrangement which has the three wise men showing up at Jesus' birth, rather than two years later), but I, personally, am not too bothered by that.
My favorite part of all this was seeing the major players in this drama as real people with personalities, not just felt figures on a felt background; after all, they were real people. Especially Joseph. We're so used to seeing him as an accessory, dutifully filling out the triangle in paintings of the Holy Family, a quiet, passive guy saying, "Don't mind me, I'm just leading the donkey." I think we don't give him enough credit, but in this movie he gets to play a role similar to what he must have done in real life. He was a real guy. He had to make brave choices. And it's a big deal that God spoke to Him, just like He spoke to Mary, and Joseph listened. Even other people in the Bible found that hard to do. So yay, Joseph.
The Personal Part
I tried to be objective while watching this, so I could sound all intellectual when I described it. But I'm not going to be objective about any movie about God, because God is not a theoretical subject to me. He's my friend. I don't want to get a phone call or a letter from someone I care about and just analyze the grammar. I want to get to know them better. When I watch a movie about God, I want to come away knowing Him better somehow -- not academically, but personally. When I watch scenes where people are seeing visions and hearing from God and trying to follow Him when everything around them indicates it's a stupid thing to do, I'm not interested the way I would be in a philosophy class. I'm interested because I've had a taste of that in my own life, and I want more of it. And in the times when I'm asked to follow, I want to be faithful.
The parts of this movie that moved me the most dealt with God affirming His call on people's lives, caring for them when they felt forgotten, and keeping His promises, even when it takes lifetimes. For years now, I've been in various states of waiting; but more and more I'm able to see what God has been up to, even if I don't know where I'll end up. I cry when I realize that the same God who sent Israel a Messiah is the same God who watched over the safety of one young pregnant girl. The God who filled the sky with angels is the same God who remembered the lonely shepherds out in the cold. And the God who always manages to be the center of controversy in the world is the same God who heard my prayer when I broke down in the grocery store because I didn't have enough money.
"Blessed is she who believed that there would be a fulfillment of what had been spoken to her by the Lord." -- Luke 1:45
I am hopeful.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Office Space
I've avoided discussing specifics about my job on this blog so far. I've also avoided, for the most part, the subject of my career aspirations. This is because my boss, who is also my friend, reads this blog.
But she ain't my boss no more.
She's now a free woman, having chosen a life of non-boss-ness. Which means she's free to read about all kinds of stuff to do with my job and my career, and I'm free to write about it. Yay! Now I can talk about truck driving school, clown college, Blaine! beauty school, and all the other things I dream about when I'm fast asleep in my cubicle.
In the meantime, my coworkers and I took advantage of our weekly Friday 2pm Snack Time to come up with some slogans for our little group:
"We fix your mistakes."
"We get the job done... when it counts."
"We don't know how far is 'too far' anymore."
"Achieving Goals Through Lowered Standards"
"Overcoming Traditional Notions of Success"
"Redefining accomplishment since 2002."
"Who else are you going to call?"
"Limboing the Quality Bar"
"We know better."
"We've been managed better than you."
"Groupspeak is not a virtue."
You are strongly encouraged to add to this list. Former Boss (FB), the guys and I are especially eager to hear from you on this one!
But she ain't my boss no more.
She's now a free woman, having chosen a life of non-boss-ness. Which means she's free to read about all kinds of stuff to do with my job and my career, and I'm free to write about it. Yay! Now I can talk about truck driving school, clown college, Blaine! beauty school, and all the other things I dream about when I'm fast asleep in my cubicle.
In the meantime, my coworkers and I took advantage of our weekly Friday 2pm Snack Time to come up with some slogans for our little group:
"We fix your mistakes."
"We get the job done... when it counts."
"We don't know how far is 'too far' anymore."
"Achieving Goals Through Lowered Standards"
"Overcoming Traditional Notions of Success"
"Redefining accomplishment since 2002."
"Who else are you going to call?"
"Limboing the Quality Bar"
"We know better."
"We've been managed better than you."
"Groupspeak is not a virtue."
You are strongly encouraged to add to this list. Former Boss (FB), the guys and I are especially eager to hear from you on this one!
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Here's Your Sign
I was chastised today for not posting for four straight days; jury duty is no excuse. OK, you're kind of right about that. So here's a little bit about Signs I've Misread. Many of you will be familiar with Bill Engval (Blue Collar Comedy), or at least his most famous bit, "Here's Your Sign." It's about how stupid people should wear signs identifying them as such, so the rest of us know to beware. After you read what my brain has done, you may think I need to wear a sign myself.
1. There's a high-end jewelry store next to the building where I work. The company is turning 220 years old, and having a sale. Signs are all over, with the words "Historic Savings." My brain sees "Histrionic Savings." But honestly, wouldn't you be intrigued by a sale like that?
2. My roommate and I were walking around our neighborhood. It's densely built up, with only a few small patches of undeveloped land. From down the street, I see a sign near one that says "No Dumping." I think it says "No Camping," and wonder why anyone would want to.
3. This morning, on my way to jury duty, waiting to cross the street, I see a sticker advertising for "Foster Parents!" I read it as "Faster Parents!" (That's it, Mom and Dad, I'm upgrading to Parents 06.)
4. In the jury room, there are papers open on the table. One reveals a full-page ad for Filene's Basement -- "Where Bargains Were Born." Not, apparently, "Where Bananas Were Born." Must have been hungry.
5. This one was my mom: There was a photography store we'd pass called The Dark Room. The lettering was rounded in such a way that she always thought it said The Dork Room. Naturally, we had no reason to go in there.
6. And this last one you wouldn't have gotten if my friend hadn't called while I was trying to type this up two hours ago. It happened when I came home tonight and saw an old book my roommate had left on the kitchen table: Baghdad Without a Map. Harmless enough. Far more intriguing, and perhaps more dangerous, the way I saw it: Baghdad Without a Man.
I realize some of you will be tempted to get Freudian with #6. Oh, wait, that's more likely to happen with the banana one, isn't it?
1. There's a high-end jewelry store next to the building where I work. The company is turning 220 years old, and having a sale. Signs are all over, with the words "Historic Savings." My brain sees "Histrionic Savings." But honestly, wouldn't you be intrigued by a sale like that?
2. My roommate and I were walking around our neighborhood. It's densely built up, with only a few small patches of undeveloped land. From down the street, I see a sign near one that says "No Dumping." I think it says "No Camping," and wonder why anyone would want to.
3. This morning, on my way to jury duty, waiting to cross the street, I see a sticker advertising for "Foster Parents!" I read it as "Faster Parents!" (That's it, Mom and Dad, I'm upgrading to Parents 06.)
4. In the jury room, there are papers open on the table. One reveals a full-page ad for Filene's Basement -- "Where Bargains Were Born." Not, apparently, "Where Bananas Were Born." Must have been hungry.
5. This one was my mom: There was a photography store we'd pass called The Dark Room. The lettering was rounded in such a way that she always thought it said The Dork Room. Naturally, we had no reason to go in there.
6. And this last one you wouldn't have gotten if my friend hadn't called while I was trying to type this up two hours ago. It happened when I came home tonight and saw an old book my roommate had left on the kitchen table: Baghdad Without a Map. Harmless enough. Far more intriguing, and perhaps more dangerous, the way I saw it: Baghdad Without a Man.
I realize some of you will be tempted to get Freudian with #6. Oh, wait, that's more likely to happen with the banana one, isn't it?
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Who's the Turkey?
I got an email forward this week about a turkey story. (I forwarded it to many of you, but I want to post this for the world to see.) It was told by a woman who was having Thanksgiving dinner at her sister's house. When the sister ran out to pick some last-minute item, their mom decided to play a joke. She emptied the stuffing from the turkey, put a Cornish game hen in there, then put the stuffing back in over it. The sister came home and cooked it without any idea of what her mom had done.
When the turkey was cooked, the sister began removing the stuffing and found the game hen inside. Their mom said, "You've cooked a pregnant turkey!" and the sister began to cry. It took the whole family two hours to convince her that turkeys lay eggs. And yes, this sister is blonde.
Now, here's the part that concerns me, and concerns me when I read many blonde jokes: I totally understand where she was coming from. As I read this story, I was thinking, Why have I never come across this sort of thing before? It wasn't until the end, when the writer explains the bit about laying eggs, that I really got it.
Between these instances and the technology thing, I feel like that race of aliens on Star Trek: The Next Generation that wasn't very evolved and kept saying, "We are smart. We make things go." Holly not smart. Holly not make things go. Holly eat peanut butter. Holly play trombone and make funny blog. Holly not cook turkey; Holly just eat it.
Oh, hey, this reminds me of something my Dad said to me last year. I was at my parents' house, hanging out with them in the kitchen. I started singing like a little kid, "La la laaaa, la la la laaaa." My Dad goes, "You know what I like about you, Holly? Sometimes it's almost impossible to tell that you're not retarded." And the thing about that is, it was a compliment. He thought it was cool. And to be honest, so do I.
When the turkey was cooked, the sister began removing the stuffing and found the game hen inside. Their mom said, "You've cooked a pregnant turkey!" and the sister began to cry. It took the whole family two hours to convince her that turkeys lay eggs. And yes, this sister is blonde.
Now, here's the part that concerns me, and concerns me when I read many blonde jokes: I totally understand where she was coming from. As I read this story, I was thinking, Why have I never come across this sort of thing before? It wasn't until the end, when the writer explains the bit about laying eggs, that I really got it.
Between these instances and the technology thing, I feel like that race of aliens on Star Trek: The Next Generation that wasn't very evolved and kept saying, "We are smart. We make things go." Holly not smart. Holly not make things go. Holly eat peanut butter. Holly play trombone and make funny blog. Holly not cook turkey; Holly just eat it.
Oh, hey, this reminds me of something my Dad said to me last year. I was at my parents' house, hanging out with them in the kitchen. I started singing like a little kid, "La la laaaa, la la la laaaa." My Dad goes, "You know what I like about you, Holly? Sometimes it's almost impossible to tell that you're not retarded." And the thing about that is, it was a compliment. He thought it was cool. And to be honest, so do I.
Gittin' My Jurisprudence On
I went in for jury duty yesterday and managed to get myself seated on a jury. It's likely to go till Thanksgiving, perhaps even a little longer. I feel bad about leaving my work at my regular job for my colleagues to handle, but I gotta do my civic duty. Once I was seated, though, and I saw most other candidates dismissed, I wondered, What are they doing right? That is a wrong attitude. Since I'm committed now, I'm going to try to do my best. That means not talking about with you guys, though, until it's over. I don't know if I'm going to have much time/energy for blogging while it's going on. I'll see.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Rachel Ray Ain't Got Nothin' on Me
When I lived by myself, I didn't do much cooking. (Now that I live with three other women, I do even less. This is true.) On the occasions when I did bother to put more than ten minutes of preparation into a dish, it had to be something I was willing to eat for a week. Fortunately, I have simple tastes, much like one your less-picky dogs, and am quite happy to eat the same thing for both lunch and dinner, five days in a row. Ground beef, grated cheese, and jars of sundry tomato sauces were my friends. So was pasta.
Enter the Unintentionally Crunchy Mexican Pasta Casserole (wherein I used salsa instead of marinara, and cheddar instead of mozzarella -- am I brilliant or what?). This little gem came about because it's hard to predict how much the water in a sauce will cook the pasta when you throw them in a baking pan together and let them sit in an oven for a while. Answer: It'll cook just fine, in the places where these ingredients make contact with each other. If there's no sauce-pasta connection, remarkably, there will be no water transfer.
On this day, there turned out to be several unsauced areas of pasta. I started eating it, and had the following conversation with myself:
"Huh. This is crunchy."
"Do I care?"
"Not really."
"All right then."
Thus, because I was 1)hungry, and 2)lazy, I made the choice to embrace the crunchiness as though I had done it on purpose. This little bit of self-psychology actually worked on me, which means I either have great self-control or am incredibly stupid.
But hey, who says those two things have to be mutually exclusive?
Enter the Unintentionally Crunchy Mexican Pasta Casserole (wherein I used salsa instead of marinara, and cheddar instead of mozzarella -- am I brilliant or what?). This little gem came about because it's hard to predict how much the water in a sauce will cook the pasta when you throw them in a baking pan together and let them sit in an oven for a while. Answer: It'll cook just fine, in the places where these ingredients make contact with each other. If there's no sauce-pasta connection, remarkably, there will be no water transfer.
On this day, there turned out to be several unsauced areas of pasta. I started eating it, and had the following conversation with myself:
"Huh. This is crunchy."
"Do I care?"
"Not really."
"All right then."
Thus, because I was 1)hungry, and 2)lazy, I made the choice to embrace the crunchiness as though I had done it on purpose. This little bit of self-psychology actually worked on me, which means I either have great self-control or am incredibly stupid.
But hey, who says those two things have to be mutually exclusive?
Muff Stuff -- let's try this again
As you know, I’ve been on the lookout for suitable cold-weather ear coverage. A few weeks ago, I emailed my roommate, A, a few links to pictures in online catalogs, with the question, “Can I wear these?” She told me the fuzzy earmuffs looked cute.
I order the earmuffs. They’re expensive, but I can handle that if they look good and keep my ears warm. I get the package in the mail and immediately try them on. Oh dear. A is upstairs, so I go up to confirm what the mirror has already made painfully clear. As soon as she sees me, A collapses in peals of laughter. She manages to get out the words, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I just didn’t expect that!” You know when people are apologizing through huge smiles and shaking shoulders, gasping for air, that they’re not really sorry at all; they’re enjoying themselves a great deal.
The earmuffs are going back.
[Epilogue: I told A that I was going to do a blog post about the earmuffs, and she started chuckling. I said, “You’re picuring me in them again,” and she said, “No, I’m remembering my reaction. But now I’m picturing you,” and she collapsed in laughter again.]
I order the earmuffs. They’re expensive, but I can handle that if they look good and keep my ears warm. I get the package in the mail and immediately try them on. Oh dear. A is upstairs, so I go up to confirm what the mirror has already made painfully clear. As soon as she sees me, A collapses in peals of laughter. She manages to get out the words, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I just didn’t expect that!” You know when people are apologizing through huge smiles and shaking shoulders, gasping for air, that they’re not really sorry at all; they’re enjoying themselves a great deal.
The earmuffs are going back.
[Epilogue: I told A that I was going to do a blog post about the earmuffs, and she started chuckling. I said, “You’re picuring me in them again,” and she said, “No, I’m remembering my reaction. But now I’m picturing you,” and she collapsed in laughter again.]
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Hooray November!
This month has just risen in my estimation, for today I was made aware that November is National Peanut Butter Lovers' Month. How glorious. One more thing to be thankful for on the twenty-third.
In other news, my life in Gastronomical Neverland continued with last night's fare: pizza made from a mini-bagel (topping: cut-up hot dog), cooked in the toaster oven. It was followed by one of many recent enjoyable evenings spent viewing classic Warner Brothers cartoons on DVD. There is one possible danger to watching too many of these, though, and that is that my self-esteem will fall when I don't get wolf whistles and ah-oo-gah sound effects when I walk down the street; Bugs Bunny got them every time he put on lipstick. Oh wait, that's my problem -- I don't wear lipstick. I'm sure that if I did, men's eyes would shoot six inches out of their sockets. That's the kind of thing I should be going for in church, right?
In other news, my life in Gastronomical Neverland continued with last night's fare: pizza made from a mini-bagel (topping: cut-up hot dog), cooked in the toaster oven. It was followed by one of many recent enjoyable evenings spent viewing classic Warner Brothers cartoons on DVD. There is one possible danger to watching too many of these, though, and that is that my self-esteem will fall when I don't get wolf whistles and ah-oo-gah sound effects when I walk down the street; Bugs Bunny got them every time he put on lipstick. Oh wait, that's my problem -- I don't wear lipstick. I'm sure that if I did, men's eyes would shoot six inches out of their sockets. That's the kind of thing I should be going for in church, right?
Monday, November 06, 2006
Technology, and Other Stupid Things
I bought a digital food timer from Williams Sonoma. It took my roommate and me a half hour to not figure it out. Our conversation was filled with exclamations like, "Hey! I made it do a thing!"
We are not stupid women. We have college degrees. The problem with technology is that it's made by people who think a certain way. It's not made for artists and musicians who think in terms of aesthetics and metaphysics, and who want their food timers to -- oh, I don't know -- keep track of time. I don't want it to count UP. I don't want it to remember the time I used before for a completely different dish. I want it to go when I tell it to go and stop when I want it to stop. I want to feel smarter than the tiny device in my palm. Instead, I just felt like a big stupid lug, left no recourse but to assert myself by causing physical harm to my tormentor. I wanted to break it in half and say, "Hmm, I wonder how much time it will take them to put you back together. Guess we'll never know!"
They should test gadgets on people who don't like gadgets. People who like them will play till they figure it out. You don't need to make things simple for them. But people who want simplicity should be the test audience, because we're the ones who'll dump your fancy-schmancy product for something made of pipe cleaners just so we can work with items we understand.
In other news, another roommate just flew back from Texas. Among the items confiscated from her: anti-bacterial hand gel, concealer makeup, and applesauce. Apparently, if she'd had them in a clear plastic bag -- e.g. a Ziploc -- it would have been OK. But you can't have concealed concealer. She did sneak her lip gloss through by putting it in her pocket. The sheer diabolical genius! The pocket! They'll never think to look there! Turns out, they won't. The good news is that, while harmless blonde Texans are left with germy hands, exposed zits and Vitamin C deficiencies, we'll know the terrorists by the opposite -- they'll be well groomed and smell like Brown Sugar and Fig.
We are not stupid women. We have college degrees. The problem with technology is that it's made by people who think a certain way. It's not made for artists and musicians who think in terms of aesthetics and metaphysics, and who want their food timers to -- oh, I don't know -- keep track of time. I don't want it to count UP. I don't want it to remember the time I used before for a completely different dish. I want it to go when I tell it to go and stop when I want it to stop. I want to feel smarter than the tiny device in my palm. Instead, I just felt like a big stupid lug, left no recourse but to assert myself by causing physical harm to my tormentor. I wanted to break it in half and say, "Hmm, I wonder how much time it will take them to put you back together. Guess we'll never know!"
They should test gadgets on people who don't like gadgets. People who like them will play till they figure it out. You don't need to make things simple for them. But people who want simplicity should be the test audience, because we're the ones who'll dump your fancy-schmancy product for something made of pipe cleaners just so we can work with items we understand.
In other news, another roommate just flew back from Texas. Among the items confiscated from her: anti-bacterial hand gel, concealer makeup, and applesauce. Apparently, if she'd had them in a clear plastic bag -- e.g. a Ziploc -- it would have been OK. But you can't have concealed concealer. She did sneak her lip gloss through by putting it in her pocket. The sheer diabolical genius! The pocket! They'll never think to look there! Turns out, they won't. The good news is that, while harmless blonde Texans are left with germy hands, exposed zits and Vitamin C deficiencies, we'll know the terrorists by the opposite -- they'll be well groomed and smell like Brown Sugar and Fig.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
When Prayer is Fun
Some of you know that I came to the church I'm currently attending because of the prayer. Usually, when I feel the need to have another person pray for/with me, it's because I'm feeling fuzzy and confused and need them to listen to God on my behalf. So it was frustrating when, at some other churches, the well-meaning people would ask me for specifics about my prayer request, and would then essentially repeat it to God as a prayer. I'm sure God honored that, but it didn't necessarily give me any more insight than I had when I walked into the room.
You can imagine how psyched I was today, then, when I went for prayer and the man who came up to me said, "I'll just pray. When I'm done, you can tell me what your request was and we'll see if I missed anything." Woo-hoo! Then he had the patience to wait on God to hear what He would have to say, rather than just talking and saying stuff that sounded spiritual but didn't really have any relevance to me. The waiting paid off, too, because he heard some specific things, including the fact that I'm a musician.
The things God says are important, of course, but I find most often that the fact that He's spoken is the biggest deal.
You can imagine how psyched I was today, then, when I went for prayer and the man who came up to me said, "I'll just pray. When I'm done, you can tell me what your request was and we'll see if I missed anything." Woo-hoo! Then he had the patience to wait on God to hear what He would have to say, rather than just talking and saying stuff that sounded spiritual but didn't really have any relevance to me. The waiting paid off, too, because he heard some specific things, including the fact that I'm a musician.
The things God says are important, of course, but I find most often that the fact that He's spoken is the biggest deal.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Why Can't I Sound Like Kathleen Turner?
Years ago, I was riding in a big old car with my brother when some '70s music came on the radio. J immediately went into Pimp Mode, resting his right hand loosely on the top of the steering wheel and his left elbow out the window. He nodded along to the music, and in a deep voice said simply, "Yeah." Ever since then, I've wished I could have a low voice -- not so I'd sound like a man, but just so that I'd sound really cool.
My voice isn't bad, it just won't be earning me any street cred, ever. It sounds fine in my head, but as happens to most people, I'm surprised at what I hear when played a recording of myself. I think, Do I really sound that cute? Cute, like a nervous little girl. My "yeah" would sound more like "Yay!" and may be accompanied by hand claps and some jumping up and down. Very non-pimp. More like preppy cheerleader, which isn't really the image I'm going for.
It's like that when I sing, too. Again, not unpleasant, not even high-pitched, just girlish. This renders me incapable of delivering a convincing rendition of the blues. No matter how hard my life got, I'd always sound like I'm singing the pinks:
My boyfriend done left me,
I only have four left now.
My hair is too thick and shiny.
Math is hard,
Let's go shopping.
I think what I need is a seriously unhealthy vice, much worse than my current peanut butter problem. Smoking ought to do it. Or I could just go out into the desert and scream myself hoarse; I heard that a movie director told Lauren Bacall to do that in order to sexify her voice, and she sounded very cool.
All right, those of you who live and work around me, what would you prefer -- smoking or screaming? It will be totally worth it when I begin to cough in an alluring manner.
My voice isn't bad, it just won't be earning me any street cred, ever. It sounds fine in my head, but as happens to most people, I'm surprised at what I hear when played a recording of myself. I think, Do I really sound that cute? Cute, like a nervous little girl. My "yeah" would sound more like "Yay!" and may be accompanied by hand claps and some jumping up and down. Very non-pimp. More like preppy cheerleader, which isn't really the image I'm going for.
It's like that when I sing, too. Again, not unpleasant, not even high-pitched, just girlish. This renders me incapable of delivering a convincing rendition of the blues. No matter how hard my life got, I'd always sound like I'm singing the pinks:
My boyfriend done left me,
I only have four left now.
My hair is too thick and shiny.
Math is hard,
Let's go shopping.
I think what I need is a seriously unhealthy vice, much worse than my current peanut butter problem. Smoking ought to do it. Or I could just go out into the desert and scream myself hoarse; I heard that a movie director told Lauren Bacall to do that in order to sexify her voice, and she sounded very cool.
All right, those of you who live and work around me, what would you prefer -- smoking or screaming? It will be totally worth it when I begin to cough in an alluring manner.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
"Confessions of a Peanut Butter Addict"
This was the title of a story I read in Jr. High. It was about a hapless youth who first tastes peanut butter secretly in the back room of a store. He's hooked, and soon he upgrades from the kind where you have to stir in the oil to the homogenized, and then he goes completely over the edge with the chunky. It was outlandish and silly and, of course, could never happen to a real person.
Ha ha.
My name is Holly, and I'm a peanut butter addict. In high school, I was obsessed. Maybe it's because I was a vegetarian and my body craved the protein; I don't know. All I know is that I would look forward to getting home from school every day and eating something starchy with the PB. My locker smelled like peanut butter -- and I liked it. (Oh man, that's kind of Mary Katherine Gallagher, isn't it?) My favorite dessert was any solid piece of chocolate (e.g. bunny)dipped in a jar of PB. Even now I get kind of excited about it. I'm no longer dependent on it the way I once was -- I could totally go without if I wanted to... I just don't want to -- but I still mix the PB with desserts. Anything with chocolate, or -- oooo, you should try this -- white chocolate. Or caramel. OK, you can't see it, but I'm drooling a little right now.
Personally, I recommend chunky. The mixture of textures means you can eat more at one time before your mouth starts to revolt. I could (what am I saying, I do) eat it by the spoonful. Breaking it up with bread or crackers is more to appease my conscience than my palette.
I don't partake at work. The locker situation taught me my lesson: peanut butter stinks. Give me some at home, though, and I'm a happy girl. The next time I start whining about how life is hard and I don't understand it, hand me a PB & J and watch me shut right up. [Roommates, if you're reading this, take note. You may wish to try this next time I start crying and you don't feel like listening for an hour.] Peanut butter is happy. Happy happy.
And this post is over. Over over.
Ha ha.
My name is Holly, and I'm a peanut butter addict. In high school, I was obsessed. Maybe it's because I was a vegetarian and my body craved the protein; I don't know. All I know is that I would look forward to getting home from school every day and eating something starchy with the PB. My locker smelled like peanut butter -- and I liked it. (Oh man, that's kind of Mary Katherine Gallagher, isn't it?) My favorite dessert was any solid piece of chocolate (e.g. bunny)dipped in a jar of PB. Even now I get kind of excited about it. I'm no longer dependent on it the way I once was -- I could totally go without if I wanted to... I just don't want to -- but I still mix the PB with desserts. Anything with chocolate, or -- oooo, you should try this -- white chocolate. Or caramel. OK, you can't see it, but I'm drooling a little right now.
Personally, I recommend chunky. The mixture of textures means you can eat more at one time before your mouth starts to revolt. I could (what am I saying, I do) eat it by the spoonful. Breaking it up with bread or crackers is more to appease my conscience than my palette.
I don't partake at work. The locker situation taught me my lesson: peanut butter stinks. Give me some at home, though, and I'm a happy girl. The next time I start whining about how life is hard and I don't understand it, hand me a PB & J and watch me shut right up. [Roommates, if you're reading this, take note. You may wish to try this next time I start crying and you don't feel like listening for an hour.] Peanut butter is happy. Happy happy.
And this post is over. Over over.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Ethical Violations
I work at a publisher. We had to fill out a survey at our company today. It was an opportunity to report any ethical or policy violations we have committed, or suspect someone else may have committed. In the spirit of coming clean, I hereby confess to the following:
-I've been using company funds to keep my pet eliphant, listing him as an employee (L.E. Funt, editor of Babar books).
-I've told people outside the company how much I earn -- and while the act of disclosure was not a crime, the salary amount is.
-I've privately published a series of children's books about an orangutan named Curious James.
-My uncle's domestic partner's dog is employed by a competitor.
-I've been taking kickbacks in the form of 15-gallon drums of peanut butter.
-I brought a machete in to the office a few weeks ago, but that was only because I was completely high; you can't really blame me for that one.
-I've secretly outsourced all my email correspondence to Russia, which is why, in said emails, I'm always asking my Editorial Assistants if they're enjoying the snow outside.
-I had an Italian relative who "fixes problems" convince our coworkers that our recent charity drive was a really worthwhile cause.
-I occasionally freshen my cubicle with Napalm room spray.
That's what I can recall at the moment. If you can remember anything else I may have done, please let me know.
-I've been using company funds to keep my pet eliphant, listing him as an employee (L.E. Funt, editor of Babar books).
-I've told people outside the company how much I earn -- and while the act of disclosure was not a crime, the salary amount is.
-I've privately published a series of children's books about an orangutan named Curious James.
-My uncle's domestic partner's dog is employed by a competitor.
-I've been taking kickbacks in the form of 15-gallon drums of peanut butter.
-I brought a machete in to the office a few weeks ago, but that was only because I was completely high; you can't really blame me for that one.
-I've secretly outsourced all my email correspondence to Russia, which is why, in said emails, I'm always asking my Editorial Assistants if they're enjoying the snow outside.
-I had an Italian relative who "fixes problems" convince our coworkers that our recent charity drive was a really worthwhile cause.
-I occasionally freshen my cubicle with Napalm room spray.
That's what I can recall at the moment. If you can remember anything else I may have done, please let me know.
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