Work has been sooo sloooow lately. My coworkers seem to be keeping busy, but I just don't seem to be getting very many applications. I don't know if they are all just good at appearing busy, or if there's some cosmic event that keeps people with last names beginning with G-L from applying for public assistance. It's given me a lot of free time to websurf (and blog!) and read books. I wonder if this restless feeling in my soul -- to do something radical and different with my life -- is due to not feeling very busy at work or if it is its own completely independent stirring.
Because work isn't that busy and I have a semi-private office and internet access, I've been able to do a lot more reading, listen to NPR podcasts of new music, interviews, and stories, and start to research graduate school. I try to tell myself that this is sweet deal: I get to maintain a warm fuzzy feeling from helping people by providing excellent customer service in a human services field, I'm not completely stressed out by an unmanageable work load, I get recreation time for half the day to read, chat, and listen to the radio, all with a compensation package that meets my needs. How could I possibly be so restless and frustrated?
I need a shift in perspective. This is a sweet gig, I insist to myself, don't take it for granted. Remember the days when you used to come home and sob because the powers that be had totally unreasonable expectations of what you could accomplish each month. Yet, with all this free time to think, how can I help but recognize that I'm meant for more. For something "radical and different," like I told my pastor this past weekend. I don't have the details all worked out, but I have a calling... where it goes from here, God only knows.
The thought that this abundant time for thinking and exploring is a gift from God starts to creep into my rational mind. I've maintained that the ease with which I got this job after a heart-breaking struggle to find anything besides my last job was partly because God called me to this place. That's one of the ways I convinced myself that moving to Forgotonia was the thing to do right now. For now, I abate the restlessness with researching grad school and reading dog-help books.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Friday, June 15, 2007
Monday, April 02, 2007
Cigars...? Cigarettes...?
I recently switched doctors and I had to fill out the usual reams of paper forms. You know that little section they ask you if you drink or smoke? Usually I just check "no," write "socially," and move on. But lately I've been making sure to be really honest just in case. Maybe knowing that I smoke a couple cigarettes (no, not a couple packs -- individuals cigarettes) a year might be helpful in diagnosing a medical condition. I feel like I have too many medical issues for such a young person, I want to make sure my doctors have all the information available to them.
Today, when the doc came in to talk about my issues, she asked about my response to the smoking question and then made sure to note that I was a non-smoker. She reported that a friend was recently labeled a smoker by her insurance company because she responded similarly on a form at a doctor's office. Now, I'm not an advocate of lying to insurance companies. But be warned that apparently if you're too honest you could be labeled by your life or health insurance companies and pay higher premiums.
What kind of line can be drawn between a smoker and non-smoker? How long do you have to have gone without smoking before you're a non-smoker again? Is it not like Alcoholics Anonymous where you're just always a smoker? According to insurance.com's article, "if you enjoy a good cigar from time to time or smoke just two cigarettes per year, you are a smoker by insurance standards." Also, they suggest five years as a time period for detoxing.
Thinking about myself, it's probably been about that long for me. The last time I remember smoking was sitting in a folding char by the garden in my Ames backyard after a particularly frustrating day with my boss and various clients. Who knew... I'm an ex-smoker! Congratulate me!
I guess sometimes a cigar is not just a cigar...
Today, when the doc came in to talk about my issues, she asked about my response to the smoking question and then made sure to note that I was a non-smoker. She reported that a friend was recently labeled a smoker by her insurance company because she responded similarly on a form at a doctor's office. Now, I'm not an advocate of lying to insurance companies. But be warned that apparently if you're too honest you could be labeled by your life or health insurance companies and pay higher premiums.
What kind of line can be drawn between a smoker and non-smoker? How long do you have to have gone without smoking before you're a non-smoker again? Is it not like Alcoholics Anonymous where you're just always a smoker? According to insurance.com's article, "if you enjoy a good cigar from time to time or smoke just two cigarettes per year, you are a smoker by insurance standards." Also, they suggest five years as a time period for detoxing.
Thinking about myself, it's probably been about that long for me. The last time I remember smoking was sitting in a folding char by the garden in my Ames backyard after a particularly frustrating day with my boss and various clients. Who knew... I'm an ex-smoker! Congratulate me!
I guess sometimes a cigar is not just a cigar...
Heart of the Matter
Another response to my pastor about a sermon on Palm Sunday.
Your sermon yesterday got me thinking. It's easy for people to say that Christ died for our sins. But what does that mean? The phrase has never really had that much meaning for me. I think sometimes Christians have the perspective that Jesus was sacrificed in the same way that a lamb was sacrificed in the Old Testament...that we have to suffer and give up things we love because that is somehow pleasing to God...that Christ died so that we can live on in heaven. This attempt at logic and faith just doesn't cut it for me. I'm left asking, "why?" I'm not saying that's what I got from your Palm Sunday message. I'm just saying these ideas seem to be prevalent in Christian culture in general and your sermon got me thinking about it.
The thing that resonated with me about your message was the part about forgiveness...
Jesus didn't just die. He was murdered. And we did it. It wasn't the Jews, the heathens, the unsaved, "those people" who didn't know what they were doing that killed him. We did it. We killed him and we continue to kill him. I'm finding that one thing we need to learn from the Crucifixion is that we are every bit capable of doing it again. We need to explore the part of ourselves that has that capability, seek to understand it, so that maybe someday we can control it. Maybe someday we can stand up for those who are being slowly, systematically, distantly, painfully crucified every day by starvation, by violence, by disease. God's children, the hands and feet of Jesus, are still suffering with us today.
The thing I remember the most about Palm Sunday in the Catholic church (at least the one I went to) was that the whole congregation was involved. We were the crowd waving palms. But then... we were the crowd proclaiming "Crucify him!" The liturgy involved reenacting the last supper with communion, but also going through the Crucifixion. And I remember asking my step-mom when I was about 7 years old why we were saying crucify him, when Jesus was good. She tried to explain that it was so that we could remember that even Jesus' friends turned on him and so that we remember that we might have done the same thing...that just everyday people went along with it even though it was wrong.
And God let it happen, willed it to happen, made it happen? How confusing. But the thing that clicked with me yesterday is that this allows us to see the abundant grace of God. The fact that we tortured God's only son and killed him and then we are forgiven? Forgiven! Would we ever forgive someone that did that to one of our children? Jesus died and yet God forgives us for the sin and to, in a sense, prove that we will always be forgiven and to leave us with the task of trying to understand a love so great that allows that to happen. Knowing that I am forgiven allows me to forgive. That may be the greatest love that we will ever know.
Your sermon yesterday got me thinking. It's easy for people to say that Christ died for our sins. But what does that mean? The phrase has never really had that much meaning for me. I think sometimes Christians have the perspective that Jesus was sacrificed in the same way that a lamb was sacrificed in the Old Testament...that we have to suffer and give up things we love because that is somehow pleasing to God...that Christ died so that we can live on in heaven. This attempt at logic and faith just doesn't cut it for me. I'm left asking, "why?" I'm not saying that's what I got from your Palm Sunday message. I'm just saying these ideas seem to be prevalent in Christian culture in general and your sermon got me thinking about it.
The thing that resonated with me about your message was the part about forgiveness...
Jesus didn't just die. He was murdered. And we did it. It wasn't the Jews, the heathens, the unsaved, "those people" who didn't know what they were doing that killed him. We did it. We killed him and we continue to kill him. I'm finding that one thing we need to learn from the Crucifixion is that we are every bit capable of doing it again. We need to explore the part of ourselves that has that capability, seek to understand it, so that maybe someday we can control it. Maybe someday we can stand up for those who are being slowly, systematically, distantly, painfully crucified every day by starvation, by violence, by disease. God's children, the hands and feet of Jesus, are still suffering with us today.
The thing I remember the most about Palm Sunday in the Catholic church (at least the one I went to) was that the whole congregation was involved. We were the crowd waving palms. But then... we were the crowd proclaiming "Crucify him!" The liturgy involved reenacting the last supper with communion, but also going through the Crucifixion. And I remember asking my step-mom when I was about 7 years old why we were saying crucify him, when Jesus was good. She tried to explain that it was so that we could remember that even Jesus' friends turned on him and so that we remember that we might have done the same thing...that just everyday people went along with it even though it was wrong.
And God let it happen, willed it to happen, made it happen? How confusing. But the thing that clicked with me yesterday is that this allows us to see the abundant grace of God. The fact that we tortured God's only son and killed him and then we are forgiven? Forgiven! Would we ever forgive someone that did that to one of our children? Jesus died and yet God forgives us for the sin and to, in a sense, prove that we will always be forgiven and to leave us with the task of trying to understand a love so great that allows that to happen. Knowing that I am forgiven allows me to forgive. That may be the greatest love that we will ever know.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Here, Benji
On my lunch break today I saw a dog being walked...or something.
The river is only a few blocks from my office and at 58 degrees I grabbed some tunes and went for a stroll. On my way back to work, running towards me at a moderate but respectable pace, was a Benji-looking dog. Not the spriest dog you've ever seen, but one in good health. I looked around for who this dog might belong to, but didn't see anyone walking around on the path or the grass. There's a small road about 50 or so feet inland from the walking path that connects a couple parking lots, the marina, a restaurant, and the casino entrance. Creeping along on this drive was a silver sedan with a lone man in the driver seat. The dog glanced over at it now and again.
I looked at the dog running towards me, looked again for an owner. The dog sniffed at me briefly as it went past me and the man in the sedan went by me too. Could the driver have been "walking" his dog? The pair disappeared around the bend near the marina. A few minutes later as I was hiking up the bluff back into the world of trains and autos, the man and Benji were exiting the parking lot together in the silver car.
I don't know whether I should be impressed at his imagination or outraged at his laziness. He looked like a middle-aged man in good health. Shouldn't the dog get to run around at his natural pace without the guy getting all sweaty on his lunch break? How did they get into this routine in the first place? My dogs seem to know husband and I by our cars. At least, they don't typically bark when we pull in versus anyone else. I guess for Benji it's just like going for a walk with a really long invisible leash. Good dog.
On my lunch break today I saw a dog being walked...or something.
The river is only a few blocks from my office and at 58 degrees I grabbed some tunes and went for a stroll. On my way back to work, running towards me at a moderate but respectable pace, was a Benji-looking dog. Not the spriest dog you've ever seen, but one in good health. I looked around for who this dog might belong to, but didn't see anyone walking around on the path or the grass. There's a small road about 50 or so feet inland from the walking path that connects a couple parking lots, the marina, a restaurant, and the casino entrance. Creeping along on this drive was a silver sedan with a lone man in the driver seat. The dog glanced over at it now and again.
I looked at the dog running towards me, looked again for an owner. The dog sniffed at me briefly as it went past me and the man in the sedan went by me too. Could the driver have been "walking" his dog? The pair disappeared around the bend near the marina. A few minutes later as I was hiking up the bluff back into the world of trains and autos, the man and Benji were exiting the parking lot together in the silver car.
I don't know whether I should be impressed at his imagination or outraged at his laziness. He looked like a middle-aged man in good health. Shouldn't the dog get to run around at his natural pace without the guy getting all sweaty on his lunch break? How did they get into this routine in the first place? My dogs seem to know husband and I by our cars. At least, they don't typically bark when we pull in versus anyone else. I guess for Benji it's just like going for a walk with a really long invisible leash. Good dog.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Today your fortune will not come true because you are chicken
There's a man who works in one of the offices above mine. He wears a suit and tie and a tan trench-type coat every day; he's one of the very few people that enter our building dressed so formally. He's middle-aged with greying hair, but not bald. He reminds me of my Japanese teacher, but taller. I saw him a few weeks ago in the little natural food store a couple blocks from the office, shopping on his lunch break like me. I saw him walking back from somewhere downtown as I drove to the other side of town to buy a garbage can. This is striking because few people walk anywhere anymore and few people do anything downtown these days.
One evening last month we had a nasty ice storm and everyone was out furiously scraping the ice from their cars in the parking lot. As I was just getting some of the last chunks off of my windshield, I must have had a particularly venomous look on my face as I growled and swore under my breath at stubbing my fingers on the windshield wipers. The man in the tan coat jogged over and asked if I needed any help. Chagrined at how obviously my unmanaged anger was, I said no, I was just about done, but thanks, I appreciate it. I looked over at his car that wasn't quite clear -- he was offering to help me even before he had his own compact, non-sporty, surely, very fuel-efficient car taken care of.
I've been thinking about the man in the tan coat off and on recently. He seems like he must be like me -- socially conscious enough to drive a small car, walks to lunch and to the store, offers to help others, and works in human services. Why am I not friends with him? God knows I could use a friend or two around here. I asked the secretaries at work if they knew who he was. They said he might be a lawyer and not sure what office he works in. I want to introduce myself: "Hey, you drive a compact car and you walk places. That's more in common than I have with anyone else who works in this building. Want to be friends?" But, as I imagine how that conversation would play out in real life, it seems so awkward and forced. What if he isn't the kind of person I've boxed him in to be?
Today I slept through my alarm clock and got up late. I didn't have time to put together a lunch so I walked up to Mr. Moto's for yummy vegetarian food and a latte. Guess who was there... Mr. Tan Coat. He eats food without meat in it! Surely, he's a bleeding heart like me. I tried all lunch hour to get up the nerve to say hello, to introduce myself, to invite a friendship. All the times it might have been natural to say something, he was checking his voice mail, balancing his check book, or lacked an enthusiastic welcoming look in his eyes. Those are the same kind of things I do when I'm dining alone some where and I don't have anything to read. My brain went back and forth: say something and risk looking like a weirdo stalker, or just let it go. At Mr. Moto's every meal ends with a fortune cookie. There it was: You will get to know a coworker better today.
Still, I had no nerve. I lay on the couch near his table reading my book after I had finished my meal. He left and went down the block toward the post office. I headed back to work.
The feeling I have is similar to when I liked a boy. Giddy and nervous and chicken, "notice me!" silently screaming in my brain. Really, this time, I just want to be friends.
One evening last month we had a nasty ice storm and everyone was out furiously scraping the ice from their cars in the parking lot. As I was just getting some of the last chunks off of my windshield, I must have had a particularly venomous look on my face as I growled and swore under my breath at stubbing my fingers on the windshield wipers. The man in the tan coat jogged over and asked if I needed any help. Chagrined at how obviously my unmanaged anger was, I said no, I was just about done, but thanks, I appreciate it. I looked over at his car that wasn't quite clear -- he was offering to help me even before he had his own compact, non-sporty, surely, very fuel-efficient car taken care of.
I've been thinking about the man in the tan coat off and on recently. He seems like he must be like me -- socially conscious enough to drive a small car, walks to lunch and to the store, offers to help others, and works in human services. Why am I not friends with him? God knows I could use a friend or two around here. I asked the secretaries at work if they knew who he was. They said he might be a lawyer and not sure what office he works in. I want to introduce myself: "Hey, you drive a compact car and you walk places. That's more in common than I have with anyone else who works in this building. Want to be friends?" But, as I imagine how that conversation would play out in real life, it seems so awkward and forced. What if he isn't the kind of person I've boxed him in to be?
Today I slept through my alarm clock and got up late. I didn't have time to put together a lunch so I walked up to Mr. Moto's for yummy vegetarian food and a latte. Guess who was there... Mr. Tan Coat. He eats food without meat in it! Surely, he's a bleeding heart like me. I tried all lunch hour to get up the nerve to say hello, to introduce myself, to invite a friendship. All the times it might have been natural to say something, he was checking his voice mail, balancing his check book, or lacked an enthusiastic welcoming look in his eyes. Those are the same kind of things I do when I'm dining alone some where and I don't have anything to read. My brain went back and forth: say something and risk looking like a weirdo stalker, or just let it go. At Mr. Moto's every meal ends with a fortune cookie. There it was: You will get to know a coworker better today.
Still, I had no nerve. I lay on the couch near his table reading my book after I had finished my meal. He left and went down the block toward the post office. I headed back to work.
The feeling I have is similar to when I liked a boy. Giddy and nervous and chicken, "notice me!" silently screaming in my brain. Really, this time, I just want to be friends.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Taxes tax me
I have a little beekeeping operation. Nothing fancy, but I want to someday make a profit. I want to claim my start-up costs on my taxes as a loss so that when the day comes that I'm in the black, I'll feel better about paying taxes on it. Not that I'm against taxes, I just think people that actually make money should pay them and the record should show that I have none. Do I need to file a Schedule C for self-employment or F for farm income. Do I need to capitalize the purchases I made this year because they are mostly equipment that will be reused from year to year or do I qualify for the exception that allows me to simply deduct them. What the heck does capitalizing my assets even mean? The small business section of irs.gov is pretty helpful, but geez, can't a girl just have little bee keeping operation without it being so complicated?
Woo-ooh wooo-ooh
Last night was my first police stop in Hancock county. I was "verbally warned" to slow down. This was following a puzzled facial expression (which I could barely see with the flashlight in my face) and verbal question mark at my middle name. Good thing he doesn't know my in-laws. I wouldn't want papa-in-law to know I'm one of those speeders.
Last night was my first police stop in Hancock county. I was "verbally warned" to slow down. This was following a puzzled facial expression (which I could barely see with the flashlight in my face) and verbal question mark at my middle name. Good thing he doesn't know my in-laws. I wouldn't want papa-in-law to know I'm one of those speeders.
Wednesday, January 17, 2007
Stupid flash
There are many websites now that are using the Flash technology which, I'm guessing, allows more user interaction with the site. Some websites are completely inaccessible if you don't have Flash, such as Chaco's. I get a taunting message about how I don't have Flash and I need to simply "click here" to download and install it. I'm reassured that it's a quick and painless process and I have no doubt that it would be. Except, you see, my main internet access is on The Man's dime and The Man doesn't let me install even the smallest program on his computers.
I've been hoping that one day I will be prohibited from viewing some content relevant to my work at the Department due to not having Flash and I will be able to use this to convince The Man to install it. I have yet to come access any legitimately related website that I can use without this little tidbit of technology. Let me know if you come across something. Meanwhile, our receptionist continues to bother me about where she can call to order a Chaco catalog. I'm unarmed without access their website. All I can tell her is I got mine at Moosejaw in Chicago. No, you can't walk there from Union Station. Just go to their website...
There are many websites now that are using the Flash technology which, I'm guessing, allows more user interaction with the site. Some websites are completely inaccessible if you don't have Flash, such as Chaco's. I get a taunting message about how I don't have Flash and I need to simply "click here" to download and install it. I'm reassured that it's a quick and painless process and I have no doubt that it would be. Except, you see, my main internet access is on The Man's dime and The Man doesn't let me install even the smallest program on his computers.
I've been hoping that one day I will be prohibited from viewing some content relevant to my work at the Department due to not having Flash and I will be able to use this to convince The Man to install it. I have yet to come access any legitimately related website that I can use without this little tidbit of technology. Let me know if you come across something. Meanwhile, our receptionist continues to bother me about where she can call to order a Chaco catalog. I'm unarmed without access their website. All I can tell her is I got mine at Moosejaw in Chicago. No, you can't walk there from Union Station. Just go to their website...
Friday, January 12, 2007
MIA
I'm applying to be a Deaconess. On the application they have one of those standard sort of questions about what historical figure I most admire and why. Boring. I think my answer is valid. Hope they like it:
History is not one of my strengths, and I spent some time reading about various historical figures such as Eleanor Roosevelt, Margaret Sanger, Frida Kahlo, Mother Theresa and Mahavira, trying to come up with something inspired to say to you. While I enjoyed learning about these historical figures and do admire them, everyone had something that made me a little uncomfortable with writing about them. Roosevelt’s personal life was steeped in heartbreak, Sanger got a little mixed up in eugenics, and Mother Theresa at times argued for the maintenance of poverty as a fulfillment of the scriptures. Although I am an admirer of Kahlo’s work I couldn’t come up with enough to say. And, while I think Jainism is an incredible way of life, I’d be a poser if I tried to identify with it too much.
I imagine you might be tired of hearing about MLK, Jesus, Ghandi, and Suzanna/John Wesley, so I steered clear (though who can deny the abundance of admiration due there?). What I can do is speak to some commonalities that these folks all have that draw me to them.
The theme running through their stories is risking everything in the name of righteousness. They risked, and many experienced, bodily harm, denial of personal freedom and liberty, loss of material comforts and social acceptance in order to do what God (a higher power, their conscience, etc.) was calling them to do. I think fear directs our decision making so much as a culture that many people are paralyzed into inaction. Not to say that it’s not legitimate to be fearful in a world of secret military tribunals and unconstitutional surveillance where citizens can be indefinitely detained in lands far away from home.
The people that I admire the most understood that the results of their inaction were more unacceptable than risking personal harm. There must be some historical figures that were so promptly silenced following a period of righteous rebellion that they never even made it into the history books. Those are the people that I admire above all.
History is not one of my strengths, and I spent some time reading about various historical figures such as Eleanor Roosevelt, Margaret Sanger, Frida Kahlo, Mother Theresa and Mahavira, trying to come up with something inspired to say to you. While I enjoyed learning about these historical figures and do admire them, everyone had something that made me a little uncomfortable with writing about them. Roosevelt’s personal life was steeped in heartbreak, Sanger got a little mixed up in eugenics, and Mother Theresa at times argued for the maintenance of poverty as a fulfillment of the scriptures. Although I am an admirer of Kahlo’s work I couldn’t come up with enough to say. And, while I think Jainism is an incredible way of life, I’d be a poser if I tried to identify with it too much.
I imagine you might be tired of hearing about MLK, Jesus, Ghandi, and Suzanna/John Wesley, so I steered clear (though who can deny the abundance of admiration due there?). What I can do is speak to some commonalities that these folks all have that draw me to them.
The theme running through their stories is risking everything in the name of righteousness. They risked, and many experienced, bodily harm, denial of personal freedom and liberty, loss of material comforts and social acceptance in order to do what God (a higher power, their conscience, etc.) was calling them to do. I think fear directs our decision making so much as a culture that many people are paralyzed into inaction. Not to say that it’s not legitimate to be fearful in a world of secret military tribunals and unconstitutional surveillance where citizens can be indefinitely detained in lands far away from home.
The people that I admire the most understood that the results of their inaction were more unacceptable than risking personal harm. There must be some historical figures that were so promptly silenced following a period of righteous rebellion that they never even made it into the history books. Those are the people that I admire above all.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Stelle, rhymes with bell
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
You shall be gotten up-to-date:
1. Work is still driving me batty (do you know any poor 3- or 4-year-olds in "rural" Story County?).
2. I'm an old married lady.
3. I don't know if I want to get an MSW or be a nurse. This place has both:
http://www.augsburg.edu/main.html
Tomorrow I start the Road Trip Honeymoon out west to see mountains and desert and my aunt and friends' nuptials.
1. Work is still driving me batty (do you know any poor 3- or 4-year-olds in "rural" Story County?).
2. I'm an old married lady.
3. I don't know if I want to get an MSW or be a nurse. This place has both:
http://www.augsburg.edu/main.html
Tomorrow I start the Road Trip Honeymoon out west to see mountains and desert and my aunt and friends' nuptials.
Tuesday, April 13, 2004
Today was whiney. The past two weeks have been busy-y.
Overwork is just killing me. I need a new job. Or, I need to go back to school. It might be time to go back to school. I've been looking at nursing programs, especially the University of Washinton's Master's Entry Program in Nursing.
I made a new friend. She took me to see Prince because she got free tickets. She's way cooler than me, but still real. I hope to spend more time with her before she graduates and leaves like all these other fools I've met here in the past couple years. Silly people. Don't they know ich bin das best madchen en das welt and they have to stay where I am?
Overwork is just killing me. I need a new job. Or, I need to go back to school. It might be time to go back to school. I've been looking at nursing programs, especially the University of Washinton's Master's Entry Program in Nursing.
I made a new friend. She took me to see Prince because she got free tickets. She's way cooler than me, but still real. I hope to spend more time with her before she graduates and leaves like all these other fools I've met here in the past couple years. Silly people. Don't they know ich bin das best madchen en das welt and they have to stay where I am?
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