Friends, Tasha and Ryan, came to visit last weekend thanks to Amtrak. They were the most gracious guests. Visiting during the week, they entertained themselves while spouse and I worked. Pleasant interactions came naturally as we shared time between talking, shopping, cooking, dining, washing what seemed to be endless dishes, and walking around the property, dodging poison ivy in my sandals. Friday evening we rendezvoused in Monmouth and all rode together to the city, home for them (for the moment) and a weekend visit for us.
For some reason, I was surprised at how unforced it felt to have other people around. When we spend any time with the aunt and uncle next door, it always seems awkward. I think I wind up avoiding them as much as possible just because the tension feels so unpleasant. Maybe it’s because T&R are old friends, none of the four of us are particularly shy and our senses of propriety are in sync, and we know each other’s idiosyncrasies enough to function together effectively.
It really makes me miss friends. I really don’t have any friends around. My coworkers are great. The in-laws are wonderful. There’s something about peers though that I miss. Not just any peers, ones like me: young grown-up, pre-kids, intelligent, unpredictable enough to be fun, yet dependable for the most part and easy to be around.
After a brief Chicago visit, we went down t0 Stelle, IL. This town is not on any maps as it’s unincorporated, though Google maps puts it in Cabery. It’s nearest Kempton, IL, about half-way between Chicago and Champaign-Urbana and is an intentional community in rural Ford county founded “in order to create a supportive environment where individual human development would be a foremost priority…a common theme of sustainability demonstrates itself through renewable energy applications as well as organic gardening and landscaping activities.” We had a great time staying at the B&B down the mile and trading knowledge with the co-owner about beekeeping.
Our visit to Stelle, along with T&R’s visit, got me thinking more about community. Was the ease with which we coexisted for a few days with our two friends because it was known to be temporary? Why does being gracious, adaptable, and acquiescent come with greater ease with those we know the least?
One of the fears I think people have when thinking about living more in community with other people is risking the loss of their independence. Our mentality is that we want to do what we want to do exactly when we want to do it and not have to bother with talking to other people. We don’t want to explain ourselves and justify our actions. The truth is, we rarely get our way as it is. There are so many obligations like work and caring for family members, and tending to our home to which we’ve already become accustomed. Couldn’t we just become accustomed to living with more people around, to communicating more effectively, growing up and realizing we just can’t do whatever we want to do all the time, that there are implications for generations to come if we keep living this way?
Another fear of community I think is of the tragedy of the commons. Sharing more space and property means things wear out faster, or get damaged and broken. We don’t want anyone messing with our stuff. Our “tour guide” at Stelle addressed this concern by admitting that, yes, things do need to be replaced and repaired more often when they are shared, but it’s a small price to pay for the vast waste of resources in everyone having their own personal set of power tools, for example. Stelle has a nice balance of community and personal space and responsibility. Everyone maintains their own residence of choice. The utilities are community owned, but everyone pays depending on their own usage. When the bandwidth on the community ISP started to get stressed out, the administrator pinpointed the hogs and talked to the individual users and worked it out. Everybody wins.
Crime and mental illness is on the rise in America, according to some biased websites with which I just did a quick reference. Community, intentional relationships, more communication will save us, not necessarily more cops and prisons and prescription drugs. Yes, these things have their place and are helpful to some people, but I think as a whole, relationships with other people are what make the world go around. Imagine how dangerous a gang of sustainability gurus could be!
By the way, Stelle’s only crimes are occasional vandalism and general rowdiness perpetrated by bored teenagers in the nearby rural communities. Since Stelle only has one road in and out, residents barricade the exit with a couple cars, call law enforcement and request that instead of prosecution, the kids help weed the streets and perform other community service tasks.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Friday, September 08, 2006
Dear Liza, dear Liza...
There's a cricket in my office.
This may not sound noteworthy to you, but it's serious. Our house had been completely uninhabited, yet full of junk, for over a year before we moved in. Also, given that we're a far, far cry from being clean freaks, when the master's away the crickets shall play. Every room in our house has at least a dozen crickets in it. I don't believe I'm exaggerating either. The bedroom is the worst because there's warm corners with dirty laundry and cozy shelves of clean cotton pants. They serenade their lovers all night with their squeaking and make more cricket babies that are harder to catch.
I'm getting better at squishing them in the most humane way possible. You want to go for the head. It's easy to get the body, but sometimes their antennae and little puny brains will still be going after their legs and abdomen have released the ooze. I've discussed the best way to go with the spouse. He agrees with me that being crushed swiftly in the hands of a giant monster would be preferable to drowning. I haven't tried rubbing alcohol yet, but I think I'd prefer swift blunt trauma to gassing.
The fact is they have to go. This is my house now and I'd share with you if only you didn't chirp so much at night and stain my whites with your black exoskeleton when I accidentally washed you with the laundry pile.
Now I think there's one behind the three 4-drawer file cabinets in my office. My day-time haven has been infiltrated.
Dear Liza, CRICK-ET!
There's a cricket in my office.
This may not sound noteworthy to you, but it's serious. Our house had been completely uninhabited, yet full of junk, for over a year before we moved in. Also, given that we're a far, far cry from being clean freaks, when the master's away the crickets shall play. Every room in our house has at least a dozen crickets in it. I don't believe I'm exaggerating either. The bedroom is the worst because there's warm corners with dirty laundry and cozy shelves of clean cotton pants. They serenade their lovers all night with their squeaking and make more cricket babies that are harder to catch.
I'm getting better at squishing them in the most humane way possible. You want to go for the head. It's easy to get the body, but sometimes their antennae and little puny brains will still be going after their legs and abdomen have released the ooze. I've discussed the best way to go with the spouse. He agrees with me that being crushed swiftly in the hands of a giant monster would be preferable to drowning. I haven't tried rubbing alcohol yet, but I think I'd prefer swift blunt trauma to gassing.
The fact is they have to go. This is my house now and I'd share with you if only you didn't chirp so much at night and stain my whites with your black exoskeleton when I accidentally washed you with the laundry pile.
Now I think there's one behind the three 4-drawer file cabinets in my office. My day-time haven has been infiltrated.
Dear Liza, CRICK-ET!
Friday, September 01, 2006
Soilent green is made out of the disabled
I really have a craving for a brownie today.
About two weeks ago the counseling center next door to my office was having a bake sale on the sidewalk. They provide counseling and case management mostly to people with severe disabilities and mental disorders. They are one of the only counseling offices around here that accept the state medical assistance program, which we administrate. One of our secretaries came back from her smoke break to tell us they were out there. She said, "T-- Counseling is having a bake sale out in front. The stuff looks pretty good. I was going to buy something until they said that their clients made the food. I'm... particular about where my food comes from."
"Oh." I said. I robotically agreed with her assessment that one should be cautious about food made by the disabled. Then my brain did a double take and smacked itself with a, "wait a minute...What's wrong with food made by the disabled?"
On my lunch break I went for a walk around the neighborhood. On my way back into the office, I walked past the bake sale. They had lemonade and single serving sweets as well as dishes to take home. For $0.75 I could get a cup of lemonade and a brownie. With cup in one hand and ziplocked brownie in the other, I handed over my dollar and told them to keep the quarter. Sure, the lemonade was somehow just a tad green but it was probably because of the artificial mix from Aldi's. That brownie was the best I'd had in a long time. How did they get the texture just right? Moist, yet slightly crisp on the top and oh so chocolately. They probably didn't over cook it and used real fat and white flour, unlike the tough, whole wheat, low-fat, "fudge-like" version I tend to make.
I'm happy to report my intestines have not been in any sort of distress as a result of my feast. I've had some hay-fever-induced monster sneezing, but I doubt the disabled put any ragweed in their dishes. The secretary really missed out.
Furthermore, I think you could say I'm more particular about where my food comes from than our sec. Does she go to the farmer's market faithfully twice a week? Is she at all concerned about the chemicals on the Hy-Vee food she feeds her daughters? Particularly dense, I'd say.
About two weeks ago the counseling center next door to my office was having a bake sale on the sidewalk. They provide counseling and case management mostly to people with severe disabilities and mental disorders. They are one of the only counseling offices around here that accept the state medical assistance program, which we administrate. One of our secretaries came back from her smoke break to tell us they were out there. She said, "T-- Counseling is having a bake sale out in front. The stuff looks pretty good. I was going to buy something until they said that their clients made the food. I'm... particular about where my food comes from."
"Oh." I said. I robotically agreed with her assessment that one should be cautious about food made by the disabled. Then my brain did a double take and smacked itself with a, "wait a minute...What's wrong with food made by the disabled?"
On my lunch break I went for a walk around the neighborhood. On my way back into the office, I walked past the bake sale. They had lemonade and single serving sweets as well as dishes to take home. For $0.75 I could get a cup of lemonade and a brownie. With cup in one hand and ziplocked brownie in the other, I handed over my dollar and told them to keep the quarter. Sure, the lemonade was somehow just a tad green but it was probably because of the artificial mix from Aldi's. That brownie was the best I'd had in a long time. How did they get the texture just right? Moist, yet slightly crisp on the top and oh so chocolately. They probably didn't over cook it and used real fat and white flour, unlike the tough, whole wheat, low-fat, "fudge-like" version I tend to make.
I'm happy to report my intestines have not been in any sort of distress as a result of my feast. I've had some hay-fever-induced monster sneezing, but I doubt the disabled put any ragweed in their dishes. The secretary really missed out.
Furthermore, I think you could say I'm more particular about where my food comes from than our sec. Does she go to the farmer's market faithfully twice a week? Is she at all concerned about the chemicals on the Hy-Vee food she feeds her daughters? Particularly dense, I'd say.
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Even C.S. Lewis will not go to hell
My pastor presented a sermon last Sunday about C.S. Lewis's arguments in the book, Mere Christianity. This is most of the text of my reponse to him. He ended up responding favorably.
From your summary of Lewis's book, the take-home message seemed to be almost a proof of God's existence. For centuries Christians and non-Christians have applied their clever little minds to this task. Descartes's "a greater cannot come from a lesser," is a notable proof of God's presence in our world straight out of the Scientific Revolution, but I don't know that anyone would settle for his argument today.
The story goes that Lewis set out to disprove Christianity and in the process of delving deep into the faith was instead converted. It's a very powerful story to tell to nonbelievers or agnostics. The fact is, he was raised Catholic and had a lengthy period of ambivalence until he finally agreed to seek and accept God with love and support from friends and respected colleagues. I believe you did mention that he grew up Catholic in your sermon, but I have heard this conversion story from other places and it's a bit misleading.
Lewis's argument is similar in format to the ontological philosophers that came before him. The biggest problem with these arguments is that they're soaked in hubris. The over-simplification of almighty God is a classic mortal error. I picture Jesus shaking his head side to side after repeating and reframing the numerous metaphors he used to try and explain to mere mortals who he was and what God wanted us to do. Did the disciples ever get it right? I think even those in Jesus' very presence could not be said to fully fathom the message the Son brought. Can we today? C.S. Lewis's argument erects walls between God's people -- you're either with us or against us; you're either in or out; you can't be on the fence. However, Jesus is theking of the third way, thinking outside the box, and the unfathomableholy grace of God.
The reason Lewis's argument bothers me so much is the action that's often taken in response. Historically this has taken the form of colonialism, slavery, ethnic cleansing, "just" wars, loss of diversity in thought, general oppression and exclusiveness, not to mention closed minds, closed hearts, and closed doors. It bothers me especially because this is the core of my personal Christian doubts. Numerous gospel passages say that Jesus is the only path to God, to salvation. And yet, I cannot believe in a God that would dismiss so many people that follow the Jewish, Islamic, or any other tradition or no tradition at all.
Recently, our Sunday school studied Max Lucado's Next Door Savior program. Lucado directly referenced Lewis's idea of not having any other choice than to accept Jesus as God or dismiss him as maniac. The questions for the discussion section used small logical steps beginning with Lewis's argument to eventually directly ask something like, "Can't you see that Christianity is the only choice and all the others are wrong?" That's not an exact quote, but I'm not exaggerating. What is the purpose of this argument other than oppression? I'm happy to report that most of people in our Sunday school class rejected this argument flat out.
I have to believe that God loves each person all the same and they will not be damned if Christians don't convert them in time. This belief in universal salvation was widely accepted in Christianity until about the time of Augustine, that God will save everyone. It is supported in scripture just about as well as the alternative and has been gaining momentum again in the last few centuries with the help of John Wesley. And isn't this a better message to inspire conversions than a mathematical proof, logic exercise, or fear mongering? It's one that brings all of God's children closer to each other instead of wetting down a slippery slope into a puddle of condemnation for those that disagree.
I don't think we need to be in the business of apologetics at this point in UM history. Christian belief is not so much about knowledge or facts, but more about that magic word, faith. Some stories have truth, but are not necessarily what really happened. This is the world Jesus walked in, one of metaphors and proverbs. It is my faith that keeps me walking beside him through the scriptures. How can we believe in Jesus' miracles, if we have to enter the door by way of a proof? Being one of those stumbling disciples and seeing the Lord shake his head at me, it is by my faith that I know I am still loved. No proof can give that to me; no proof can take it away.
You said that Mere Christianity might be a good book to recommend to someone that has doubts about their faith. I say, all doubt is not to be quashed. A little skepticism is healthy and necessary to be a discerning Christian and a steward of the Word. This is how we find ways to grow in our understanding of faith, lest we think we have it all figured out and close our minds to growth.
From your summary of Lewis's book, the take-home message seemed to be almost a proof of God's existence. For centuries Christians and non-Christians have applied their clever little minds to this task. Descartes's "a greater cannot come from a lesser," is a notable proof of God's presence in our world straight out of the Scientific Revolution, but I don't know that anyone would settle for his argument today.
The story goes that Lewis set out to disprove Christianity and in the process of delving deep into the faith was instead converted. It's a very powerful story to tell to nonbelievers or agnostics. The fact is, he was raised Catholic and had a lengthy period of ambivalence until he finally agreed to seek and accept God with love and support from friends and respected colleagues. I believe you did mention that he grew up Catholic in your sermon, but I have heard this conversion story from other places and it's a bit misleading.
Lewis's argument is similar in format to the ontological philosophers that came before him. The biggest problem with these arguments is that they're soaked in hubris. The over-simplification of almighty God is a classic mortal error. I picture Jesus shaking his head side to side after repeating and reframing the numerous metaphors he used to try and explain to mere mortals who he was and what God wanted us to do. Did the disciples ever get it right? I think even those in Jesus' very presence could not be said to fully fathom the message the Son brought. Can we today? C.S. Lewis's argument erects walls between God's people -- you're either with us or against us; you're either in or out; you can't be on the fence. However, Jesus is theking of the third way, thinking outside the box, and the unfathomableholy grace of God.
The reason Lewis's argument bothers me so much is the action that's often taken in response. Historically this has taken the form of colonialism, slavery, ethnic cleansing, "just" wars, loss of diversity in thought, general oppression and exclusiveness, not to mention closed minds, closed hearts, and closed doors. It bothers me especially because this is the core of my personal Christian doubts. Numerous gospel passages say that Jesus is the only path to God, to salvation. And yet, I cannot believe in a God that would dismiss so many people that follow the Jewish, Islamic, or any other tradition or no tradition at all.
Recently, our Sunday school studied Max Lucado's Next Door Savior program. Lucado directly referenced Lewis's idea of not having any other choice than to accept Jesus as God or dismiss him as maniac. The questions for the discussion section used small logical steps beginning with Lewis's argument to eventually directly ask something like, "Can't you see that Christianity is the only choice and all the others are wrong?" That's not an exact quote, but I'm not exaggerating. What is the purpose of this argument other than oppression? I'm happy to report that most of people in our Sunday school class rejected this argument flat out.
I have to believe that God loves each person all the same and they will not be damned if Christians don't convert them in time. This belief in universal salvation was widely accepted in Christianity until about the time of Augustine, that God will save everyone. It is supported in scripture just about as well as the alternative and has been gaining momentum again in the last few centuries with the help of John Wesley. And isn't this a better message to inspire conversions than a mathematical proof, logic exercise, or fear mongering? It's one that brings all of God's children closer to each other instead of wetting down a slippery slope into a puddle of condemnation for those that disagree.
I don't think we need to be in the business of apologetics at this point in UM history. Christian belief is not so much about knowledge or facts, but more about that magic word, faith. Some stories have truth, but are not necessarily what really happened. This is the world Jesus walked in, one of metaphors and proverbs. It is my faith that keeps me walking beside him through the scriptures. How can we believe in Jesus' miracles, if we have to enter the door by way of a proof? Being one of those stumbling disciples and seeing the Lord shake his head at me, it is by my faith that I know I am still loved. No proof can give that to me; no proof can take it away.
You said that Mere Christianity might be a good book to recommend to someone that has doubts about their faith. I say, all doubt is not to be quashed. A little skepticism is healthy and necessary to be a discerning Christian and a steward of the Word. This is how we find ways to grow in our understanding of faith, lest we think we have it all figured out and close our minds to growth.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
I want to drive!
Saturday was the county fair demolition derby. I had never been to a demolition derby before and I wasn't quite sure what I was imagining was going to happen... What did happen was the best entertainment EVER. If you've never been before, imagine 16 normal, beat-up, oldcars -- like Crown Vics, Dusters, Cutlasses, Escort wagons -- with a home-grown paint job (a few were very professional, including a General Lee clone). They have local business's (sponsors, I assume) names along side their kids' written in spray paint and each have a random number like 2, 69, 96, 4zn, $1.05, 7086, U24r.
So, they get lined up in a space about a half football field, 8 per end-zone with their rears facing each other. When the flags go up, they try and disable their opponents by smashing into each other. The rules seem to be that you can only go so long without having a crash and you can't directly impact the driver's side on purpose. There are these men running around in neon yellow shirts monitoring the action and occasionally everyone has to stop while firefighters extinguish flames from under hoods. I think it takes more balls to be one of the flag-men than a driver -- they're so close to the crashing. Skid-loaders shove cars back into the ring which is bordered by logs under a lot of mud.
Four rounds (called heats) of this commence with new cars each time. The last four standing in each heat go on to the final. The people seem to have time to work on the cars after their heat and before the final. There's also a consolation heat for people who got knocked out but fixed their cars up before the end and then those four winners can go on to the final too. I was amused the entire 3 and a half hours standing, hands clutching the steel fence and mouth half open, occasionally yelling with glee even in the rain that snuck up for about 30 minutes of our time in Augusta.
Saturday was the county fair demolition derby. I had never been to a demolition derby before and I wasn't quite sure what I was imagining was going to happen... What did happen was the best entertainment EVER. If you've never been before, imagine 16 normal, beat-up, oldcars -- like Crown Vics, Dusters, Cutlasses, Escort wagons -- with a home-grown paint job (a few were very professional, including a General Lee clone). They have local business's (sponsors, I assume) names along side their kids' written in spray paint and each have a random number like 2, 69, 96, 4zn, $1.05, 7086, U24r.
So, they get lined up in a space about a half football field, 8 per end-zone with their rears facing each other. When the flags go up, they try and disable their opponents by smashing into each other. The rules seem to be that you can only go so long without having a crash and you can't directly impact the driver's side on purpose. There are these men running around in neon yellow shirts monitoring the action and occasionally everyone has to stop while firefighters extinguish flames from under hoods. I think it takes more balls to be one of the flag-men than a driver -- they're so close to the crashing. Skid-loaders shove cars back into the ring which is bordered by logs under a lot of mud.
Four rounds (called heats) of this commence with new cars each time. The last four standing in each heat go on to the final. The people seem to have time to work on the cars after their heat and before the final. There's also a consolation heat for people who got knocked out but fixed their cars up before the end and then those four winners can go on to the final too. I was amused the entire 3 and a half hours standing, hands clutching the steel fence and mouth half open, occasionally yelling with glee even in the rain that snuck up for about 30 minutes of our time in Augusta.
Friday, July 14, 2006
When a simple "no" won't do
I asked my honey today if my shoes matched my outfit. He said instead, "They match your panties." I knew he liked the red/white pasley hipsters, but I didn't realize he could remember that I was wearing them when I was fully clothed. I smile inside. It's heart warming when someone else pays more attention to you than you do to your own self. It's even better when their opinion is flattering and I have every reason to believe his comment was pure in this way.
This weekend PEJJM are coming to visit as well as some other members of the Iowa State crowd. It's going to be hot and we don't have air conditioning. We have ceiling fans though and hopefully it won't rain and the outside air won't be too bad.
I asked my honey today if my shoes matched my outfit. He said instead, "They match your panties." I knew he liked the red/white pasley hipsters, but I didn't realize he could remember that I was wearing them when I was fully clothed. I smile inside. It's heart warming when someone else pays more attention to you than you do to your own self. It's even better when their opinion is flattering and I have every reason to believe his comment was pure in this way.
This weekend PEJJM are coming to visit as well as some other members of the Iowa State crowd. It's going to be hot and we don't have air conditioning. We have ceiling fans though and hopefully it won't rain and the outside air won't be too bad.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Kum & Go
Get your mind out of the gutter. Kum & Go is just a gas station chain found all over Iowa. Some call it, "the ol' E&E." I don't much care to think about what the diminutive might stand for. The only gas station downtown where I work is the Kum & Go with it's maraschino cherry red canopy and sign. I always see the same clerk if I go in for a pop or snack. He's a tall, some might call lanky, white guy with short, medium brown hair and side burns. He looks like he should be pimple-faced, but he is not. I visit at least once a week for gas on my way home and pay at the pump.
Although I think pop is bad for you and have been very righteous in my pop abstinance in the recent past, lately I get a craving for it just before I head over the river and through the woods to my house. Might be the heat (though most pop dehydrates you!) Today, as a pop-craving Friday, I needed a cold Diet A&W from the E&E. Usually, I don't have any money (as in cash) and have to bum off of my honey, or I'll put gas and put it on the debit card. But today was special because we had gotten "cash back" by putting all the fireworks on our debit card and getting cash from my mom and uncle for their contribution. I had been spending my phat wad here and there and was fishing for exact change while the clerk rang up my pop.
"Twenny bucks," he says. Completely straight-faced.
I look up and blink a few times in rapid succession trying to re-process the sounds that are not what I expected to hear. He's done this to me before, though I think it was only ten last time. I only got as far as a big smile then as I handed him a mere two dollar bills. This time, I'm in a haggling mood.
I come back with, "OK, that's twenty pennies then."
"Mmmm... five bucks."
"Five pennies?"
"Alright, a dollar forty-three," and he breaks a smile at last.
Even that price seems too high for a 16-ounce root beer, but I verify with the cash register display. One dollar, four dimes, three pennies, and I'm on my way home. Fed up with how our NPR station replays the same local broadcast on my morning commute as when I'm on the way home, I put on Jake's Melissa mix number 3. We're going to see Superman tonight!
Get your mind out of the gutter. Kum & Go is just a gas station chain found all over Iowa. Some call it, "the ol' E&E." I don't much care to think about what the diminutive might stand for. The only gas station downtown where I work is the Kum & Go with it's maraschino cherry red canopy and sign. I always see the same clerk if I go in for a pop or snack. He's a tall, some might call lanky, white guy with short, medium brown hair and side burns. He looks like he should be pimple-faced, but he is not. I visit at least once a week for gas on my way home and pay at the pump.
Although I think pop is bad for you and have been very righteous in my pop abstinance in the recent past, lately I get a craving for it just before I head over the river and through the woods to my house. Might be the heat (though most pop dehydrates you!) Today, as a pop-craving Friday, I needed a cold Diet A&W from the E&E. Usually, I don't have any money (as in cash) and have to bum off of my honey, or I'll put gas and put it on the debit card. But today was special because we had gotten "cash back" by putting all the fireworks on our debit card and getting cash from my mom and uncle for their contribution. I had been spending my phat wad here and there and was fishing for exact change while the clerk rang up my pop.
"Twenny bucks," he says. Completely straight-faced.
I look up and blink a few times in rapid succession trying to re-process the sounds that are not what I expected to hear. He's done this to me before, though I think it was only ten last time. I only got as far as a big smile then as I handed him a mere two dollar bills. This time, I'm in a haggling mood.
I come back with, "OK, that's twenty pennies then."
"Mmmm... five bucks."
"Five pennies?"
"Alright, a dollar forty-three," and he breaks a smile at last.
Even that price seems too high for a 16-ounce root beer, but I verify with the cash register display. One dollar, four dimes, three pennies, and I'm on my way home. Fed up with how our NPR station replays the same local broadcast on my morning commute as when I'm on the way home, I put on Jake's Melissa mix number 3. We're going to see Superman tonight!
Thursday, June 29, 2006
For Matt
Today was catching up on Ryan's blog in preparation for seeing him this weekend. I'm sad Matt won't be there.
I'm debating whether to use real names in my blog. Of course I could never use real names for my customers, but I'm not sure what to do about friends and bosses. I think I previously made up names for my boss and coworkers, grasping for a sliver of indemnity in case they read it.
I'm rededicating to writing this, not daily or anything, but maybe a few times a month. If for nothing else than keeping my non-DHS writing skills from getting too rusty. (I had to look up the meaning of indemnity to make sure I was using it correctly -- I think I am.) Matt will help keep me accountable.
Today was catching up on Ryan's blog in preparation for seeing him this weekend. I'm sad Matt won't be there.
I'm debating whether to use real names in my blog. Of course I could never use real names for my customers, but I'm not sure what to do about friends and bosses. I think I previously made up names for my boss and coworkers, grasping for a sliver of indemnity in case they read it.
I'm rededicating to writing this, not daily or anything, but maybe a few times a month. If for nothing else than keeping my non-DHS writing skills from getting too rusty. (I had to look up the meaning of indemnity to make sure I was using it correctly -- I think I am.) Matt will help keep me accountable.
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