that observation was made to nobody in particular, stated quite loudly in the middle of a crowded Blockbuster.
I am really quite proud.
7/19/2003
biology 101
from Cotter:
"when I grow up, my boobs won't change. I'll just get hair on them like daddy's."
yessir....
you can't teach them kind of smarts.
"when I grow up, my boobs won't change. I'll just get hair on them like daddy's."
yessir....
you can't teach them kind of smarts.
sung to the tune of its my party
and they'll be no crying, for all that's occurred has been pleasantly wonderful.
Yes, today's the big day.
I know you are all surprised, since I've been so low key about my birthday.
I am 372 months old today.
and thanks for the cards and gifts, by the way....you know who you are.
very soon, we'll be departing to tour the north Georgia countryside and just spend the day together as a family. We'll cap the night by travelling over to Stone Mountain to view the laser show.
Highlights of the day thus far:
as I stepped out of the shower to dry myself off this morning, Kelsi busted the door open and all three children stood poised to give me the happiest birthday surprise imaginable. I was able to cover myself with the towel in the nick of time.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, the older two yelled with great enthusiasm.
True, I was surprised, but I managed to convince them to wait until I was dressed before we continued the celebration.
A few minutes later, they resumed their gleeful cavorting, surrounding me at the couch with birthday cards, each of which was particularly special:
Cotter's card said, in his own writing, "you and me are best friends."
Kaylyn's said, also in her own writing, "you are very speshel and I love you allat."
My wife's said, yes...in her own writing....well, its none of your business what she said. Suffice to say, it was very special to me as well.
Kelsi didn't give me a card. I'm doing my best to not be bitter about it.
The children then brought out a birthday gift bag. It had the Incredible Hulk on it. Kelli assured me that she wasn't the one to pick it.
I asked the kids if I reminded them of the hulk.
"Your muscles aren't that big," Cotter said, clarifying any confusion that may have existed.
But Kaylyn, ever the encourager, followed up with, "But Daddy, you still are very, very strong."
Gifts inside the bag included a new shirt, which will be worn to church tomorrow, a new pen (some day I'll share with you my o/c disorder when it comes to pens), and for my office -- a mahogany pen holder and letter sorter set.
I've enjoyed a birthday breakfast of blueberry and chocolate chip muffins (that's two different types of muffins, just to clarify), served elegantly on an Incredible Hulk paper plate.
Yes, dear friends and complete strangers.....I may be a simple man, but today is a very good day.
Yes, today's the big day.
I know you are all surprised, since I've been so low key about my birthday.
I am 372 months old today.
and thanks for the cards and gifts, by the way....you know who you are.
very soon, we'll be departing to tour the north Georgia countryside and just spend the day together as a family. We'll cap the night by travelling over to Stone Mountain to view the laser show.
Highlights of the day thus far:
as I stepped out of the shower to dry myself off this morning, Kelsi busted the door open and all three children stood poised to give me the happiest birthday surprise imaginable. I was able to cover myself with the towel in the nick of time.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, the older two yelled with great enthusiasm.
True, I was surprised, but I managed to convince them to wait until I was dressed before we continued the celebration.
A few minutes later, they resumed their gleeful cavorting, surrounding me at the couch with birthday cards, each of which was particularly special:
Cotter's card said, in his own writing, "you and me are best friends."
Kaylyn's said, also in her own writing, "you are very speshel and I love you allat."
My wife's said, yes...in her own writing....well, its none of your business what she said. Suffice to say, it was very special to me as well.
Kelsi didn't give me a card. I'm doing my best to not be bitter about it.
The children then brought out a birthday gift bag. It had the Incredible Hulk on it. Kelli assured me that she wasn't the one to pick it.
I asked the kids if I reminded them of the hulk.
"Your muscles aren't that big," Cotter said, clarifying any confusion that may have existed.
But Kaylyn, ever the encourager, followed up with, "But Daddy, you still are very, very strong."
Gifts inside the bag included a new shirt, which will be worn to church tomorrow, a new pen (some day I'll share with you my o/c disorder when it comes to pens), and for my office -- a mahogany pen holder and letter sorter set.
I've enjoyed a birthday breakfast of blueberry and chocolate chip muffins (that's two different types of muffins, just to clarify), served elegantly on an Incredible Hulk paper plate.
Yes, dear friends and complete strangers.....I may be a simple man, but today is a very good day.
7/18/2003
didn't I tell you its all about me?
david mcdavid, the texas businessman who is in negotiations to buy The Atlanta Hawks (NBA) and Atlanta Thrashers (NHL) is a former schoolmate of Kelli's parents.
we're hopeful this will all result in free season tickets.
hopeful, but not expectant.
we're hopeful this will all result in free season tickets.
hopeful, but not expectant.
explain this to me
the spiderweb that had me pontificating recently has returned.
this in itself is not that amazing.
but so has the dead spider....
I have literally climbed up on my desk and pressed my face against the window to see if the thing is really alive. (note: this procedure has resulted in the alarming placement of a faceprint on my window, a partial greasy imprint of my right temple, right nostril, and right cheek -- and when I say greasy, I don't mean Pizza-Hut-Pooled-Grease-atop-the-mozzarella greasy, I mean smudgy-but-otherwise-invisible-and-thank-you-Georgia-for-the-added-humidity greasy -- on my window)
It's return has been apparent to me for about five hours now, and the thing still looks like a dried, rolled up booger bouncing slightly in the gentle breeze that perpetually courses around the monolith that is the NAMB office building.
it's definitely dead.
but it was gone and has since returned.
My boss's secretary Ovie just came up with a FANTASTIC solution.
I've place a portrait of my two oldest children in front of it.
I don't know if Ovie was annoyed with my fixation on this matter, but she did a wonderful job of concealing it. She is one of the nicest people I've ever met, and she has the remarkable ability to feel justified or validated for anything you say (in a very positive way, not in an 'enabler' way).
she used to be Charles Stanley's secretary, you know. Maybe its great suggestions like the one she just gave me is what separates the good secretaries from the great ones.
this in itself is not that amazing.
but so has the dead spider....
I have literally climbed up on my desk and pressed my face against the window to see if the thing is really alive. (note: this procedure has resulted in the alarming placement of a faceprint on my window, a partial greasy imprint of my right temple, right nostril, and right cheek -- and when I say greasy, I don't mean Pizza-Hut-Pooled-Grease-atop-the-mozzarella greasy, I mean smudgy-but-otherwise-invisible-and-thank-you-Georgia-for-the-added-humidity greasy -- on my window)
It's return has been apparent to me for about five hours now, and the thing still looks like a dried, rolled up booger bouncing slightly in the gentle breeze that perpetually courses around the monolith that is the NAMB office building.
it's definitely dead.
but it was gone and has since returned.
My boss's secretary Ovie just came up with a FANTASTIC solution.
I've place a portrait of my two oldest children in front of it.
I don't know if Ovie was annoyed with my fixation on this matter, but she did a wonderful job of concealing it. She is one of the nicest people I've ever met, and she has the remarkable ability to feel justified or validated for anything you say (in a very positive way, not in an 'enabler' way).
she used to be Charles Stanley's secretary, you know. Maybe its great suggestions like the one she just gave me is what separates the good secretaries from the great ones.
very will said
c&p from Mikeys Funnies:
A LITTLE WISDOM FROM WILL ROGERS
~ Good judgment comes from experience, and a lot of that comes from bad judgment.
~ Lettin' the cat outta the bag is a whole lot easier 'n putting' it back in.
~ If you're ridin' ahead of the herd, take a look back every now and then to make sure it's still there.
~ If you get to thinkin' you're a person of some influence, try ordering somebody else's dog around.
~ After eating an entire bull, a mountain lion felt so good he started roaring. He kept it up until a hunter came along and shot him. The moral: When you're full of bull, keep your mouth shut.
~ It don't take a genius to spot a goat in a flock of sheep.
~ When you give a lesson in meanness to a critter or a person, don't be surprised if they learn their lesson.
~ When you're throwin' your weight around, be ready to have it thrown around by somebody else.
~ The quickest way to double your money is to fold it over and put it back in your pocket.
~ Never miss a good chance to shut up.
===============================
Mikey's Thot for the Day:
"Write a wise saying and your name will live forever." - Anonymous
a very special day
today is Trisha Decker's birthday.
she's 31.
I went to school with Trisha Decker from 5th grade through 12th grade. And her birthday was always the day before mine.
The wiz that I am, I was able to extrapolate that somewhere in the world, Trisha must be celebrating her 31st birthday right this moment (unless she is still on the other side of the date line, in which case she's getting good sleep in China, preparing for her big day tomorrow). She may not be Decker anymore, if she's married and hasn't retained her maiden name.
but its still her birthday. here, now, in Georgia at least.
happy birthday Trisha.
sorry about the whole gift thing. I couldn't get to the post office in time. again. you'd think I'd remember. but it seems like every year, I totally space it out until its right on me. every year I find myself surprised, oh yeah, today's Trisha's birthday. I'm a jerk. I'm sorry.
happy birthday. I hope your wish comes true, unless its "I wish Bryan would remember to send me a gift from now on," because that one probably won't. I mean, I'd like to. But I don't even know your name. Or where you are. And I'm married with three kids. It just wouldn't look right. So no gift. Or card.
but still....
happy birthday.
she's 31.
I went to school with Trisha Decker from 5th grade through 12th grade. And her birthday was always the day before mine.
The wiz that I am, I was able to extrapolate that somewhere in the world, Trisha must be celebrating her 31st birthday right this moment (unless she is still on the other side of the date line, in which case she's getting good sleep in China, preparing for her big day tomorrow). She may not be Decker anymore, if she's married and hasn't retained her maiden name.
but its still her birthday. here, now, in Georgia at least.
happy birthday Trisha.
sorry about the whole gift thing. I couldn't get to the post office in time. again. you'd think I'd remember. but it seems like every year, I totally space it out until its right on me. every year I find myself surprised, oh yeah, today's Trisha's birthday. I'm a jerk. I'm sorry.
happy birthday. I hope your wish comes true, unless its "I wish Bryan would remember to send me a gift from now on," because that one probably won't. I mean, I'd like to. But I don't even know your name. Or where you are. And I'm married with three kids. It just wouldn't look right. So no gift. Or card.
but still....
happy birthday.
flex time
I overslept 75 minutes today.
which is okay because I work on "flex time," the corporate strategy that says, come in early or come in late. We don't really care, as long as you don't miss any meetings and get your job done.
Now, there is a proviso to this strategy, which is this: you are only able to come in late if you normally come in early. I typically try to be here by 7:15, so when I come in late, I'm still getting here by 8:30. I don't think the muckety mucks would allow me to stroll in 45 minutes before lunch and still pledge my allegiance to the "flex time" credo. And even if you could, you'd have to work until eight o'clock to get your hours in. I realize that a good part of America works well into the evening, and rather than wearing a martyr's badge, they simply call it "swing shift." I, however, believe the 3:30 - 8:30 window in each day's afternoon to early night progression is time best suited for playing catch with my son and beauty shop with my girls.
and occasionally adding a blog entry or two.
which is okay because I work on "flex time," the corporate strategy that says, come in early or come in late. We don't really care, as long as you don't miss any meetings and get your job done.
Now, there is a proviso to this strategy, which is this: you are only able to come in late if you normally come in early. I typically try to be here by 7:15, so when I come in late, I'm still getting here by 8:30. I don't think the muckety mucks would allow me to stroll in 45 minutes before lunch and still pledge my allegiance to the "flex time" credo. And even if you could, you'd have to work until eight o'clock to get your hours in. I realize that a good part of America works well into the evening, and rather than wearing a martyr's badge, they simply call it "swing shift." I, however, believe the 3:30 - 8:30 window in each day's afternoon to early night progression is time best suited for playing catch with my son and beauty shop with my girls.
and occasionally adding a blog entry or two.
Norrrrrrmmmm!!!
I was a bit surprised with this quiz result:
I have to say this was the most "non-sequiter"-type quiz I have taken yet. The questions didn't seem to make much sense, so I'm beginning to think that the test compilers just may not be the Clinical Psychology PhDs I originally imagined them to be.
I have to say this was the most "non-sequiter"-type quiz I have taken yet. The questions didn't seem to make much sense, so I'm beginning to think that the test compilers just may not be the Clinical Psychology PhDs I originally imagined them to be.
sit, ubu, sit....good dog...bark
I won't say my wife has me trained
okay, yes I will.
I'm going to work today wearing one of those casual button-downs that you'd wear on a vacation to the beach.
no, not you, I was talking to the other guy. You wouldn't wear it, but he definitely would.
You know, the type of shirt that looks nice, but it also conveys a certain message like, I'm a very relaxed, easy going guy...this is my FAC shirt... except at our FACs we serve popcorn and soda pop, instead of peanuts and hard liquor.
I've seen this type of shirt worn by others in the building, so I know I'm not going to be violating dress code. sudden thought: what if they're all violating self code? Will the building fashionistas, who were just waiting for a violation by "the new guy" storm my office with a sweatervest and a belt, or send me home to "try again and not come back until I get it right?"
My particular shirt is very nice. Its a deeper-than-navy blue base with a sandy overlay that is apparently supposed to give the appearance of, well, sand (which as I think about it means that it will always look dirty....hmmm, should have thought about that one). Amidst all this interplay is an additional overlay of an even darker blue consisting of many species of tropical fish. This communicates my obvious affection for the marine life of a sports fisherman. We won't tell anyone that I haven't had a fishing pole in my hand since 1992 when I was back to my parent's home for Christmas break and my dad woke me up at 4:30 saying, "Son, let's go ice fishing!" I meant to reinact the event last winter at the 10 year anniversary, but something else more important came up. What was it? Oh yeah...sleep.
This type of shirt can only be worn successfully (without looking like a dork, is what I mean by "successfully") if you do not tuck it in.
I have been so conditioned by my wife to not look sloppy (which is affectionally called "looking Colorado" in our home) that I am seriously self-conscious about it not being tucked in. I can look in the mirror and see that it looks nice (enough). But as soon as I turn away, the Mr. Blackwell (who I'm assuming is not one of those five "queer guys with an eye for this straight guy") of my subconscious says "He looks horrible, like he just rolled out from a pyjama party. Doesn't he know this is a workplace and not Beach Blanket Bingo?"
Question: Do you read that question as effeminitely as I hear it when I type it?
I also wonder as I process these dysfunctional thoughts that this must be what a lady who feels overweight because of what she reads and sees in the media, but in fact is really quite normal, must go through on a regular basis. And just so you know, sometimes guys have their "fat days," where they feel like they look bad or heavy. Especially if they used to be athletic, but the demands of work or ministry haven't allowed them to maintain their athletic vigor.
I mean, that's what I hear anyway. I wasn't talking about myself. I feel great. Look great, feel great. Feel great, look great. Great great great. Yep. Yessirree. Slim and lean, lookin' gooooood. thanks for askin'.
really.
Yeah....
I'm going to go change my shirt.
okay, yes I will.
I'm going to work today wearing one of those casual button-downs that you'd wear on a vacation to the beach.
no, not you, I was talking to the other guy. You wouldn't wear it, but he definitely would.
You know, the type of shirt that looks nice, but it also conveys a certain message like, I'm a very relaxed, easy going guy...this is my FAC shirt... except at our FACs we serve popcorn and soda pop, instead of peanuts and hard liquor.
I've seen this type of shirt worn by others in the building, so I know I'm not going to be violating dress code. sudden thought: what if they're all violating self code? Will the building fashionistas, who were just waiting for a violation by "the new guy" storm my office with a sweatervest and a belt, or send me home to "try again and not come back until I get it right?"
My particular shirt is very nice. Its a deeper-than-navy blue base with a sandy overlay that is apparently supposed to give the appearance of, well, sand (which as I think about it means that it will always look dirty....hmmm, should have thought about that one). Amidst all this interplay is an additional overlay of an even darker blue consisting of many species of tropical fish. This communicates my obvious affection for the marine life of a sports fisherman. We won't tell anyone that I haven't had a fishing pole in my hand since 1992 when I was back to my parent's home for Christmas break and my dad woke me up at 4:30 saying, "Son, let's go ice fishing!" I meant to reinact the event last winter at the 10 year anniversary, but something else more important came up. What was it? Oh yeah...sleep.
This type of shirt can only be worn successfully (without looking like a dork, is what I mean by "successfully") if you do not tuck it in.
I have been so conditioned by my wife to not look sloppy (which is affectionally called "looking Colorado" in our home) that I am seriously self-conscious about it not being tucked in. I can look in the mirror and see that it looks nice (enough). But as soon as I turn away, the Mr. Blackwell (who I'm assuming is not one of those five "queer guys with an eye for this straight guy") of my subconscious says "He looks horrible, like he just rolled out from a pyjama party. Doesn't he know this is a workplace and not Beach Blanket Bingo?"
Question: Do you read that question as effeminitely as I hear it when I type it?
I also wonder as I process these dysfunctional thoughts that this must be what a lady who feels overweight because of what she reads and sees in the media, but in fact is really quite normal, must go through on a regular basis. And just so you know, sometimes guys have their "fat days," where they feel like they look bad or heavy. Especially if they used to be athletic, but the demands of work or ministry haven't allowed them to maintain their athletic vigor.
I mean, that's what I hear anyway. I wasn't talking about myself. I feel great. Look great, feel great. Feel great, look great. Great great great. Yep. Yessirree. Slim and lean, lookin' gooooood. thanks for askin'.
really.
Yeah....
I'm going to go change my shirt.
7/17/2003
sung to the tune of dust in the wind
just typing that makes me think of will farrell, which makes me laugh...which makes me have to go back to that recent post of his graduation speech to harvard, which...in turn...makes me laugh.
okay, i'm done. back to my blog.
yesterday, i noticed a spiderweb outside my window here on the fourth floor. delicate and intricate, forty feet up.
then I realized the spider was dead.
and had been so for quite some time.
Then it wasn't pretty, or neat, or marvelous.
it was just gross.
and i couldn't get to it to clean it out, because it was on the opposite side of a large double-paned window.
forty feet up.
today...
it's gone.
and that's all I have to say about that.
okay, i'm done. back to my blog.
yesterday, i noticed a spiderweb outside my window here on the fourth floor. delicate and intricate, forty feet up.
then I realized the spider was dead.
and had been so for quite some time.
Then it wasn't pretty, or neat, or marvelous.
it was just gross.
and i couldn't get to it to clean it out, because it was on the opposite side of a large double-paned window.
forty feet up.
today...
it's gone.
and that's all I have to say about that.
proverbs #107
you who belong to the Christ do so because of the missionary effort of another. Who in eternity will have said the same of you?
hmm...I never made the connection
I must have failed in my attempt to be clever, for this morning Kelli said to me, "I didn't know your ID tag said, 'trainee.'"
it doesn't.
it really says "staff."
and it has my portrait, except because of the the flash reflection in my glasses, it looks like I have the biggest whitehead in the history of western civilization, perched atop my left eyelid.
its really quite flattering.
it doesn't.
it really says "staff."
and it has my portrait, except because of the the flash reflection in my glasses, it looks like I have the biggest whitehead in the history of western civilization, perched atop my left eyelid.
its really quite flattering.
a story about some boys named sue
jaboobie (i give a beavis laugh every time I type that) links us to a story about Metallica getting litigation-happy over a very harmful thievery...
they've gotten their feelers hurt that other bands would have the audacity to use the chords E & F in progression, which is an obvious rip-off of their music, because nobody has ever thought to put those two chords together prior to this.
Now I haven't listened to Metallica since the Black album, and probably won't again. I've just got to think they're getting some bad advice, or have unwittingly retained Rasputin as their legal counsel. How could you possibly think this is a good idea?
Maybe Port-O-Let ought to sue Metallica for stealing their idea of being full of.....
....themselves.
they've gotten their feelers hurt that other bands would have the audacity to use the chords E & F in progression, which is an obvious rip-off of their music, because nobody has ever thought to put those two chords together prior to this.
Now I haven't listened to Metallica since the Black album, and probably won't again. I've just got to think they're getting some bad advice, or have unwittingly retained Rasputin as their legal counsel. How could you possibly think this is a good idea?
Maybe Port-O-Let ought to sue Metallica for stealing their idea of being full of.....
....themselves.
just for the record
my daughter Kaylyn thinks I'm the smartest, nicest man in the whole world.
she stated as much last night.
I'm just establishing that in the record for the day when she thinks I'm incredibly mean and surprisingly unintelligent.
< pollyanna > maybe that will never happen < /pollyanna >
she stated as much last night.
I'm just establishing that in the record for the day when she thinks I'm incredibly mean and surprisingly unintelligent.
< pollyanna > maybe that will never happen < /pollyanna >
another rhetorical question
why is it...when any song performed by an artist with a voice higher than my own comes onto the radio, and I know any portion of the lyrics and feel compelled to sing along...that I feel further compelled to sing those lyrics in a strange falsetto that I and I alone actually believe harmonizes with the professional artist?
happy birthday to me
is not only one of the scariest horror movies I can remember from my childhood.
yes, my childhood.
I was one of those children who snuck around and stayed up late and watched things I wasn't supposed to.
So here I am two days away from my 31st birthday, and I'm still having nightmares of that crazy chick sitting at a table with a creepy cake with glowing candles singing
happy birthday to me....
happy birthday to me....
surrounded by a grim cast of corpses she had hacked, stabbed, and otherwise mutilated.
good grief, I didn't intend for this to start out so dark.
Well, I'm sure hopeful my own birthday is a little brighter than this.
The coolest part about my birthday now is having children who are more excited about it than I am.
Kaylyn (said in my presence): mommy, are we still going to surprise daddy?
kelli: well, not any more....
Cotter: Do you think we could go to Six Flags?
clearly my boy understands the concept of giving yourself a gift on somebody else's birthday. some day, he will be the person who utters, "well, if you're sure you don't want/need/like this, I guess I can keep it for myself..."
I haven't really determined what I just *have* to do for my birthday...just be with the family.
So apparently I have one more bit of evidence that I am, in fact, turning into my father.
I have no memory of my dad being excited about his birthday. "Just another day," seemed like his mantra.
well, it is just another day...I guess i see your point. It just took 31 years to do so.
31
that looks a lot older than did 30.
31
on the expressway to 40, with no exits in sight.
I know that 31 is really still young, and apart from a detail in the Lord's plan for me that may prove otherwise, I have every intention of having this one day serve at the one-third checkpoint in the Tour de Vivre that is my life.
disclosure: I don't know that 'vivre' is 'life' in any given language, but it looks like it could be, no?
realizing that I'm fourty eight hours from thirty one years causes me to pause, realizing that I really don't feel 31...but then I'm not sure what I do feel I am, age speaking.
I'm don't feel 16...praise God!
or 18 or 21 .... or even 23. I guess I feel like I'm 27 or 28. which all goes to prove one thing quite conclusively....
i am a doofus
yes, my childhood.
I was one of those children who snuck around and stayed up late and watched things I wasn't supposed to.
So here I am two days away from my 31st birthday, and I'm still having nightmares of that crazy chick sitting at a table with a creepy cake with glowing candles singing
happy birthday to me....
happy birthday to me....
surrounded by a grim cast of corpses she had hacked, stabbed, and otherwise mutilated.
good grief, I didn't intend for this to start out so dark.
Well, I'm sure hopeful my own birthday is a little brighter than this.
The coolest part about my birthday now is having children who are more excited about it than I am.
Kaylyn (said in my presence): mommy, are we still going to surprise daddy?
kelli: well, not any more....
Cotter: Do you think we could go to Six Flags?
clearly my boy understands the concept of giving yourself a gift on somebody else's birthday. some day, he will be the person who utters, "well, if you're sure you don't want/need/like this, I guess I can keep it for myself..."
I haven't really determined what I just *have* to do for my birthday...just be with the family.
So apparently I have one more bit of evidence that I am, in fact, turning into my father.
I have no memory of my dad being excited about his birthday. "Just another day," seemed like his mantra.
well, it is just another day...I guess i see your point. It just took 31 years to do so.
31
that looks a lot older than did 30.
31
on the expressway to 40, with no exits in sight.
I know that 31 is really still young, and apart from a detail in the Lord's plan for me that may prove otherwise, I have every intention of having this one day serve at the one-third checkpoint in the Tour de Vivre that is my life.
disclosure: I don't know that 'vivre' is 'life' in any given language, but it looks like it could be, no?
realizing that I'm fourty eight hours from thirty one years causes me to pause, realizing that I really don't feel 31...but then I'm not sure what I do feel I am, age speaking.
I'm don't feel 16...praise God!
or 18 or 21 .... or even 23. I guess I feel like I'm 27 or 28. which all goes to prove one thing quite conclusively....
i am a doofus
mean spirited joke of the day
which of course means I'd *never* tell it.
likewise, I don't encourage the telling of it by others.
it is reproduced here merely for the analytical purpose of examining the question, "what is funny?"
the joke:
have you ever seen a jackass wrapped in plastic?
let me see your license!
likewise, I don't encourage the telling of it by others.
it is reproduced here merely for the analytical purpose of examining the question, "what is funny?"
the joke:
have you ever seen a jackass wrapped in plastic?
let me see your license!
after all, it is all about me
if you caught the Today show this morning and watched Matt Lauer's interview with the Vail reporter about the Kobe Bryant investigation, then you were introduced to Randy Wyrick (the reporter). Randy was the editor of the Colorado Baptist state paper, back when I was a new believer. One of my first jobs (and dare I say, ministries) at that time was weekly cleaning the state office building. When I'd come in late Sunday nights to clean up, he'd inevitably be there working on the Rocky Mountain Baptist. We developed a relationship that was amicable, but never really what I'd call a friendship.
Randy was the first person (but not the only one) to tell me I was an idiot for going to seminary (as I once naively shared the news of my impending plans with him, thinking he might be an encourager). He then went on to rant excessively about the evils of organized religion. Such rants are fine in many circumstances, but seem just a tad out of place when you are employed by one. Looking back, it now seems appropriate that I was emptying trash while he vomited out his vitriol, for that's basically what I did with his advice and commentary.
He looks good, by the way. It must be that mountain air.
Randy was the first person (but not the only one) to tell me I was an idiot for going to seminary (as I once naively shared the news of my impending plans with him, thinking he might be an encourager). He then went on to rant excessively about the evils of organized religion. Such rants are fine in many circumstances, but seem just a tad out of place when you are employed by one. Looking back, it now seems appropriate that I was emptying trash while he vomited out his vitriol, for that's basically what I did with his advice and commentary.
He looks good, by the way. It must be that mountain air.
trying out the new toys
I'm posting this morning using wbloggar 3.02 version.
does it feel new to you?
does it feel new to you?
7/16/2003
further proof of my weak faith
I showed up to work today with an assortment of framed pictures, diplomas, and certificates (some of which were actually mine), along with a large box of assorted bric-a-brac with which I will adorn my office. This was my equivalent to the bevy of buttons one might find pinned to the chest of a TGIF waitservice person, aptly referred to as pizzazz in the movie Office Space featuring Jennifer Aniston and that dude who is currently shacking up with Carrie on Sex & The City, Berger. These are the assorted items that will to all my cohorts and colleagues immediately identify my personality and interests and hobbies.
I hope everybody likes Big Al "The Polka King" Yankovich as much as I do!
Anyway, all this "stuff" required me corralling a cart upon which I could transport it. I finally secured one, but not before I was warned by the security guard, "you know, that one belongs to the mail room." After I assured him I was only going to the parking lot, to the 4th floor, and back down again, and not on a career mission trip to Cape Town, Pretoria, did he release it to my stewardship. As I was walking out the door to bring in my things, he called out to me, "Oh, by the way, the service elevator is broken."
I didn't know what I was supposed to do with this late-breaking news. Was I supposed to hike all this to my office using the stairs? Didn't he know that I only take the stairs on Friday Fitness days where we get team points for taking the stairs, and only then do I take the stairs if they're the ones leading down, rather than up? And only then if there is a reward table at the bottom of the stairs covered with choclate donuts and cups of hot coffee? Was he aware that I had just laid off my sherpa, due to the sudden drop in packing needs caused by the correlated decline in elevation as a result of our relocation?
Truly, my only option was to take the regular elevators. But this concerned me greatly. Never before had I seen the regular elevators used for service needs. I'm the new guy. The low man on the totem pole. This was one established paradigm I wasn't prepared to reinvent. I was fearful of disturbing the synergy of an entire office building of 400 employees by my recalcitrant act of nonconformity. Then again, maybe I was being just a bit dramatic.
While mulling over this matter intently whilst I loaded my belongings, I determined that I would indeed take the regular elevator, but only after a quick cell phone call to Nanuik confirmed he was unavailable (his llama was giving birth. Congrats Nanuik!). So I came in, ready to forge a new trail of elevatory boldness.
The guard looked at me and smiled, saying "Hey, they got the elevator fixed." I think, based on the expression on his face, he expected me to change direction and head over to the service doors. Instead I simply stopped.
"What was wrong with it?" I asked.
"They're not sure, it was just making a wierd sound."
"But they fixed it?"
"Well, it stopped making those sounds."
"Has anyone else rode it yet?"
"Uh...I think you'll be the first."
While I wouldn't dare disparage the technical savvy of Pepe' the elevator repairman (I call anyone in a service industry whose name I don't know Pepe'), I have to heed the still, small whisper, heard only by the inner ear of the deepest part of my being. it said:
i don't think so
I resumed pushing my cart o' stuff to the regular elevators.
Mr. Guard stepped out from behind the desk, chasing after me. "You can't use those....those are the regular elevators," he called out.
"I can't hear you," I hollered over my shoulder. "You're breaking up, I'm getting onto an elevator."
"But your not on a cell ph-"
I hope everybody likes Big Al "The Polka King" Yankovich as much as I do!
Anyway, all this "stuff" required me corralling a cart upon which I could transport it. I finally secured one, but not before I was warned by the security guard, "you know, that one belongs to the mail room." After I assured him I was only going to the parking lot, to the 4th floor, and back down again, and not on a career mission trip to Cape Town, Pretoria, did he release it to my stewardship. As I was walking out the door to bring in my things, he called out to me, "Oh, by the way, the service elevator is broken."
I didn't know what I was supposed to do with this late-breaking news. Was I supposed to hike all this to my office using the stairs? Didn't he know that I only take the stairs on Friday Fitness days where we get team points for taking the stairs, and only then do I take the stairs if they're the ones leading down, rather than up? And only then if there is a reward table at the bottom of the stairs covered with choclate donuts and cups of hot coffee? Was he aware that I had just laid off my sherpa, due to the sudden drop in packing needs caused by the correlated decline in elevation as a result of our relocation?
Truly, my only option was to take the regular elevators. But this concerned me greatly. Never before had I seen the regular elevators used for service needs. I'm the new guy. The low man on the totem pole. This was one established paradigm I wasn't prepared to reinvent. I was fearful of disturbing the synergy of an entire office building of 400 employees by my recalcitrant act of nonconformity. Then again, maybe I was being just a bit dramatic.
While mulling over this matter intently whilst I loaded my belongings, I determined that I would indeed take the regular elevator, but only after a quick cell phone call to Nanuik confirmed he was unavailable (his llama was giving birth. Congrats Nanuik!). So I came in, ready to forge a new trail of elevatory boldness.
The guard looked at me and smiled, saying "Hey, they got the elevator fixed." I think, based on the expression on his face, he expected me to change direction and head over to the service doors. Instead I simply stopped.
"What was wrong with it?" I asked.
"They're not sure, it was just making a wierd sound."
"But they fixed it?"
"Well, it stopped making those sounds."
"Has anyone else rode it yet?"
"Uh...I think you'll be the first."
While I wouldn't dare disparage the technical savvy of Pepe' the elevator repairman (I call anyone in a service industry whose name I don't know Pepe'), I have to heed the still, small whisper, heard only by the inner ear of the deepest part of my being. it said:
i don't think so
I resumed pushing my cart o' stuff to the regular elevators.
Mr. Guard stepped out from behind the desk, chasing after me. "You can't use those....those are the regular elevators," he called out.
"I can't hear you," I hollered over my shoulder. "You're breaking up, I'm getting onto an elevator."
"But your not on a cell ph-"
interpersonal communication - a primer
the skills of interpersonal office communication (henceforth IOC) are a finely honed, time-developed system of linguistic practice that may on the surface appear to be easily mastered, yet may actually require years and years of trial and error to adequately utilize. Also known as "small talk," "chit chat," or even "shootin' the breeze," IOC is a rigid, uncompromising system of verbal exchange that can either firmly establish an employee as "one of the group" or forever ostracize him or her from workplace social acceptance.
As such, there are a few rules to remember when beginning the usage of IOC. If necessary, take notes, write these rules on on an index card and don't be afraid to refer to said card as often as necessary.
Rule One -- The "Good Morning" rule -- When entering your workplace, be prepared to say "good morning" to every other employee you meet, being sure to say it with a smile on your face that conveys the message that you are glad to be there; so glad, in fact, that you CHOSE to be there, and that you couldn't imagine choosing to be anywhere else in the world beside your cubicle alongside people you never see in the outside world. Important: You are not allowed to use any other introductory statement when greeting someone for the first time, because you risk being labeled "so rude you didn't even say 'good morning.'" Some people attempt to shorten the greeting by just saying, "morning," "mornin'" or even just "uggh" but such people are often labeled lazy or caffiene-addicted. Finally, the proper response to a "good morning" greeting is, of course, "good morning." Not "hi," not "hello," "howdy" or "How are you? (see Rule #5)" You may only reply "good morning."
Rule Two -- The "Good Afternoon" Rule -- This is an equally important rule, as it also governs introductory IOC. It follows all the dictates of rule one, save that it only comes into effect at 12:01 PM of the time zone in which you are currently working. If you fail to progress to rule 2 and instead attempt to utilize rule 1 after 12:01 PM, you will quickly be labeled an imbecile who cannot tell time. Unlike rule 1, however, the protocol for rule 2 is much less rigid, with certain casual synonyms being commonly held as acceptable. "Afternoon" is the most typical of these alternatives, along with non-time sensitive greetings like "Hi," "Hey there," and "Howdy" (see rule #6). Furthermore, acceptable rejoinders include the original greeting returned verbatim, as well as any of the aforementioned alternatives. Unacceptable replies include "Good morning," "shut up," and "buzz off."
Rule Three -- The "How Are You" Rule -- The only proper statement to be made following an official IOC greeting (Rules 1 or 2) is to ask the rhetorical question "How are you?" Do not start a conversation. Do not ask about a job in process. Only ask "How are you?" Attention: this is a rhetorical question. Don't be tempted to answer the question with any variety of descriptive responses such as, "well, i'm a little emotionally needy," or "overweight" or even "I'm a bit gassy." You may be tempted to answer this question incorrectly when the person who asks the question adds a deceptive qualifier, such as "how are you today? Again, you may not reply "bitter" "sticky," or even "contemplative." The only correct response to this question is "fine, thanks." Any other reply will be rejected and immediatly disregarded as invalid by the questioner.
Note: Some regions have allowed the word "fine" to be exchanged for the word "good" even though it is a poor execution of grammar, and you are implying a standard of performance rather than a condition of being. You may want to experiment to discover if this variance is allowed in your workplace. If you attempt to do this, make certain you do not answer with the grammatically correct "well," because you'll come across like a snobbish boor and will soon be isolated and mocked.
Rule Four -- The "And You?" Rule -- When asked "How are you?" and you give the correct response, "fine thanks," you must then immediately follow your response with the reflexive "and you?" Failure to do so will identify you as a frigid shrew who obviously isn't a team player. When answering "and you," be certain to answer "good," if they answered your "how are you?" with "fine." Answer "fine" if they answered you with "good." If you answer with the same answer they provided, you will be pigeonholed as unoriginal, and immediately and perpetually obstructed from promotion.
Rule Five -- The "Hello" Rule -- This rule governs all greetings not encompassed by Rules 1 - 4, as well as for greetings for repeat encounters occuring within 4 hours of the original greeting. If repeat greeting occurs after 4 hours, treat it like an original greeting and as though the co-worker is a person you've never seen before, much less met, even if the person's office is next to yours and you've been carpooling together for 14 years, and he's named a child after you. When performing a repeat greeting, it is acceptable to give a casual greeting such as "hi," "hello," "hey there," or "how are ya'?" It is important to note the distinction between the original greeting "how are you?" and the casual greeting "how are ya?" the "ya" is the declaration that no response is expected nor desired. When this greeting is given, the only proper response is a reflexive one that repeats the same level of attention. To elevate the level of concern by asking "how are you?" is improper because "how you are" has either already been established, or it is so late in the day that the condition of your being is completely unimportant.
Rule Five-A -- The "Not You Again" Rule -- Any more than three meeting and greeting IOC between two people is unacceptable. You may attempt to overcome the akwardness of your repeated meetings with a statement like "You probably think I'm stalking you..." which will likely be acknowledged with nervous laughter. But more likely, the other person will really start to think that you are stalking her. So, the rule applied is thusly: after three meetings, avoid the other person at all costs. Skip meetings where you might be reunited. If you see her at the elevator, take the stairs (or vice versa). If you are the only two in a hallway coming toward each other in opposite directions follow this procedure:
1. Avoid eye contact.
2. Make a noise like you are troubled about something.
and
3. Either feign remembering that you forgot your respirator back in another office and you must immediately return to get it lest you die...
or..
4. Take a hurried, waddling detour to the bathroom, like your Metamucil just kicked in. Hide out there until the other passes.
Rule Six -- The "Howdy" Rule -- Originally not a rule, this axiom was added due to the proliferation of inappropriate conversation occuring through IOC greetings manifested in the jingoistic usage of terms like "howdy," "hi-dee-ho," or other nonsensical greetings. Using these expressions does not portray you as cheerful, friendly, or clever. It portrays you as Ned Flanders, which by implication makes the other person feel like Homer Simpson. If you know how Homer feels about Ned, then you know how this person now thinks of you.
Rule Seven -- The "Buckaroo" Rule -- When greeting or speaking with someone whose name you cannot recall, it is not proper to use a nickname you invent to conceal your short-term memory loss. It is never proper in IOC to call someone "Sport," "Buddy," "Babe" or "Koko," unless, of course, their actual name coincidentally is any one of these. You may use the terms "sir" or "ma'am," but realize doing so will immediately cause the other person to feel approximately twenty years older than they really are, and you will be held in contempt by that person for an indeterminate period of resentment. There is a converse application to this rule, which of course is the "Please don't call me Edwin" Rider. In some circumstances, a person's given name will be so embarrassing and humiliating, or is gender-ambiguous, or is so well known by a distinguishing feature that the person will actually choose to be identified by a nickname rather than a given name. Respective examples of these phenomena are Azswipe (pronounced "Oz-wee-pay") "Junebug" Jones, Renee "Skip" Smith, and Albert "Hopalong" Williams. In these unusual scenarios, to fail to use the nicknames creates a paradigm where you an uptight, formal, vacuous jerk. In this paradigm, you will soon be known by your own nickname, which will never be spoken to your face and will serve as the punchline to any office humor that illustrates moronic behavior.
Rule Seven -- The Gestures Rule -- In many circumstances, gesturing becomes an important component of IOC. Third encounters require a gesture. Spoken communication is strictly forbidden. Other times, communication must occur when interpersonal distances are too great to be bridged by the spoken word. At these times, the gesture is key.
Rule Seven-A -- The Wave Rule -- Waving must be understated and brief. One hand, held open at a height varying from mid-chest to shoulder, with a single, simple left to right motion, as though one is flingling a loosely attched booger from one's thumb, is appropriate. A hand raised higher confuses people to think you are either hailing a taxi, and a hand held lower causes people to look at parts of your body that are certainly non-work related. When a female waves to a female, the enthusiasm of the wave may be slightly increased, but not to a point where it appears that you are two sisters, separated at birth. When two men wave, they may not increase enthusiasm, or their man license will be immediately revoked. They may, at their discretion, invoke the "head nod" (see Rule 7b). When a woman waves to a man, she may wave to him like she does to another woman. Though this completely emasculates the man, for the workplace it is allowable. When a man waves to a woman, he may either to the basic wave, or opt instead for an effimate "finger-scrunching" wave where the hand is held in front of the body approximately pectoralis muscle-high,and the four fingers are compressed as though the tips of the fingers are attempting to scratch four simultaneous itches occuring on the outer rim of the palm pad. This wave is non-harassing, but will possibly incite rumors of your orientation.
Rule Seven-B -- The "Head Nod" Rule -- Men may choose to use the head nod to greet or acknowledge the presence of one another. This highly useful gesture can be executed in a multitude of environments -- while passing in a corridor, while sharing an elevator, while standing next to each other at adjoining urinals (see rule 10), or even when noticing one another in separate automobiles in the parking lot. The nod may be executed in one of two manners. First the head may nod from low to high, which conveys a "hey buddy, how ya' doin'"-type sentiment, or from high to low, which conveys a more serious, "yes I see you there and I honor your right to exist"-type sentiment. Men implicitly know which gesture is appropriate, and will never be offended that the alternative was not offered. Many times, some of the deepest, most profound IOC will occur between males, consisting solely of a series of well-utilized head nods. Note: This IOC is gender-specific, much like the sub-sonar species-specific communication of blue wales. Men should not attempt head nod IOC with a female. It will not be reciprocated, acknowledged, or even understood.
Rule Eight -- The "Goin' Up?" Rule -- There are periodic instances where prolonged banter must occur because communicants are confined together in an elevator. This IOC is akward, and must be handled delicately. Protocol dictates that the person first temporarily residing in the elevator has earned "squatting rights" to ask the inevitable "what floor?" question. the late-entering person may only push the button himself after enough uncomfortable silence has passed to make it obvious to everyone in the elevator that the "squatter" did not fulfill expected duties. Once movement of the elevator has begun, a variety of short-term conversations are acceptable. Topics may include, but aren't necessarily limited to:
a. the weather (unless one of the communicants is a weatherman -- professional courtesy)
b. the herky-jerky motion of the elevator (unless one of the communicants is an elevator repairman -- again, professional courtesy)
c. needing coffee (unless one of the communicants is Juan Valdez and his donkey -- once more, professional courtesy)
d. miscellaneous statements like "today's the big day." To employ this particular stream of IOC, some criteria must be met. First, it must actually be the big day. Second, it must be the big day for everyone. Third, the big day must be known as the big day for everyone. Fourth, it must not be the big day because its the day that the person with whom you are having IOC is getting fired.
Unacceptable topics for elevator IOC:
a. anything beginning with "well, my doctor said..."
b. anything beginning with "what is that funky smell?"
c. anything beginning with "few people know of my irrational fear of confined spaces"
d. gossip about any fellow employee
e. any political dissent
f. social commentary of any kind, except for any easily-forgotten platitudes extolling the universally-agreed upon plight of a easily sympathetic victim. For example, it is only acceptable to say something like, "it sure is sad to hear about that family that lost its home." It is not acceptable to say "It sure is sad that the convicted killer received death by injection rather than frying in a chair like a maggot on a hot skillet." Due to the delicate nature of social commentary and its easily confused intracacies, it should be attempted only by proven IOC professionals.
Rule Nine -- The "Other White Meat" Rule -- IOC will regularly occur in the office cafeteria, if your employer in fact has one, or at times where you share a lunch meal with co-workers. IOC in this environment is most similar to non-IOC, but is still IOC. Accordingly, pay heed. This IOC environment welcomes deeper, more prolonged conversations, but still honors the strongly established wall separating work from life. Allowable topics include:
a. the family
b. work projects
c. sports teams
d. social/civic events
e. world events
f. newest movie releases
g. non-specific humor that cannot be racially or sexually miscomprehended.
Taboo topics include:
a. bedroom history
b. amway recruitment
c. personal attacks
d. manifesto rants
b. philosophical diatribes
e. apocalyptic exposition (unless, of course, the apocalypse is occuring at that IOC down time between when you've finished your salad and you're still waiting for the entree').
This IOC must be constructed so as to be completed when the dining experience concludes, so that all normal IOC rules may be honored.
Rule Ten -- The "Courtesy Flush" Rule -- Bathroom IOC is perhaps the most troubling of all venues for all IOC, but really, its mandates are quite simple and easily understood. No verbal IOC between males is allowed at urinals or in adjoining toilet stalls. At the urinal, a man may look only directly at the wall, do his business, and walk away. Only in extreme circumstances can men speak between stalls, such as when statements like "do you have any paper in there?" must be asked. Furthermore, what happens in a bathroom is not allowed to be reported elsewhere. It is highly inappropriate to linger at the sink just to see who was responsible for those alarming sounds and odors. And if by chance someone exits a stall while you are in there, avoid eye contact at all costs, so as to avoid the searing of the mind any disturbing mental associations. Finally, the most important bathroom IOC occurs when co-workers wash their hands after using a toilet. Even if you aren't the type to do so, whenever you use the restroom in the presence of another, pretend like you have a modicum of hygiene. Failure to do so will be quickly reported, and before long, nobody will want to share a bagel with you, much less use a pen you've had your nasty, grubby hands all over. Note: Author is unqualified to authoritatively instruct on bathroom IOC that occurs between females. Historically, feminine bathroom IOC is much less formal, and much more social. Speculation still remains that ladies' bathrooms are really alternate universes where established laws binding this reality do not exist. Accordingly, ladies' bathroom IOC should occur at one's own risk.
Rule Eleven -- The "Did I Say That?" Rule -- From time to time, errors will occur in IOC. Either you will attempt to be witty when someone says to you for the millionth time, "You know there are three "Jeff's" in your department. I always get confused which one you are," and instead of saying something like "well, I'm the good-looking one," you end up saying "that's because you're a half-brained nimrod mouth-breather;" Or in an attempt to be clever, you end up sounding like the words you chose first went through a blender (this phenomena is unexplained, but oddly common). In either of these circumstances, there is no recovery. You will only make matters worse by continuing to speak. Be silent. No matter how long you are in the presence of the other. It will be uncomfortable, but it will only be made worse the more you keep speaking. A directly proportionate relationship exists between the amount of time you attempt to verbally control the damage, and the officeplace lore of your propensity to babble mindlessly. When you commit a IOC mishap, cease all IOC immediately until you can return to your office, let the furor pass, and resume later on a scaled-back schedule.
Rule 12 -- The "It's That Time Again" Rule -- At the end of the work day, concluding IOC must occur. Rules for it are at best lax. If you opt to be cordial, you may depart with an intermittent "have a good night" or "see you tomorrow." But you may choose not to say anything, instead choosing to quasi-rush out without acknowledging anyone else. This will not be held against you if you choose this option, as people generally recognize a bee-line pursuit home. However, if you choose to be cordial, you must be cordial to everyone you pass, or you soon be placed in the clique of those to whom you spoke, and loathed by those to whom you did not.
This primer is not intended to be comprehensive nor exhaustive. It is intended to help lead an employee toward more successful basic IOC. Comprehensive, nuanced IOC is a quarry much like the elusive wapiti. Many tales of hunting after it fill the annals of corporate history, but rarely can one accurately brag of capturing and taming it. Future editions of this primer will of course reflect changing tones and values of the culture in which they are created.
As such, there are a few rules to remember when beginning the usage of IOC. If necessary, take notes, write these rules on on an index card and don't be afraid to refer to said card as often as necessary.
Rule One -- The "Good Morning" rule -- When entering your workplace, be prepared to say "good morning" to every other employee you meet, being sure to say it with a smile on your face that conveys the message that you are glad to be there; so glad, in fact, that you CHOSE to be there, and that you couldn't imagine choosing to be anywhere else in the world beside your cubicle alongside people you never see in the outside world. Important: You are not allowed to use any other introductory statement when greeting someone for the first time, because you risk being labeled "so rude you didn't even say 'good morning.'" Some people attempt to shorten the greeting by just saying, "morning," "mornin'" or even just "uggh" but such people are often labeled lazy or caffiene-addicted. Finally, the proper response to a "good morning" greeting is, of course, "good morning." Not "hi," not "hello," "howdy" or "How are you? (see Rule #5)" You may only reply "good morning."
Rule Two -- The "Good Afternoon" Rule -- This is an equally important rule, as it also governs introductory IOC. It follows all the dictates of rule one, save that it only comes into effect at 12:01 PM of the time zone in which you are currently working. If you fail to progress to rule 2 and instead attempt to utilize rule 1 after 12:01 PM, you will quickly be labeled an imbecile who cannot tell time. Unlike rule 1, however, the protocol for rule 2 is much less rigid, with certain casual synonyms being commonly held as acceptable. "Afternoon" is the most typical of these alternatives, along with non-time sensitive greetings like "Hi," "Hey there," and "Howdy" (see rule #6). Furthermore, acceptable rejoinders include the original greeting returned verbatim, as well as any of the aforementioned alternatives. Unacceptable replies include "Good morning," "shut up," and "buzz off."
Rule Three -- The "How Are You" Rule -- The only proper statement to be made following an official IOC greeting (Rules 1 or 2) is to ask the rhetorical question "How are you?" Do not start a conversation. Do not ask about a job in process. Only ask "How are you?" Attention: this is a rhetorical question. Don't be tempted to answer the question with any variety of descriptive responses such as, "well, i'm a little emotionally needy," or "overweight" or even "I'm a bit gassy." You may be tempted to answer this question incorrectly when the person who asks the question adds a deceptive qualifier, such as "how are you today? Again, you may not reply "bitter" "sticky," or even "contemplative." The only correct response to this question is "fine, thanks." Any other reply will be rejected and immediatly disregarded as invalid by the questioner.
Note: Some regions have allowed the word "fine" to be exchanged for the word "good" even though it is a poor execution of grammar, and you are implying a standard of performance rather than a condition of being. You may want to experiment to discover if this variance is allowed in your workplace. If you attempt to do this, make certain you do not answer with the grammatically correct "well," because you'll come across like a snobbish boor and will soon be isolated and mocked.
Rule Four -- The "And You?" Rule -- When asked "How are you?" and you give the correct response, "fine thanks," you must then immediately follow your response with the reflexive "and you?" Failure to do so will identify you as a frigid shrew who obviously isn't a team player. When answering "and you," be certain to answer "good," if they answered your "how are you?" with "fine." Answer "fine" if they answered you with "good." If you answer with the same answer they provided, you will be pigeonholed as unoriginal, and immediately and perpetually obstructed from promotion.
Rule Five -- The "Hello" Rule -- This rule governs all greetings not encompassed by Rules 1 - 4, as well as for greetings for repeat encounters occuring within 4 hours of the original greeting. If repeat greeting occurs after 4 hours, treat it like an original greeting and as though the co-worker is a person you've never seen before, much less met, even if the person's office is next to yours and you've been carpooling together for 14 years, and he's named a child after you. When performing a repeat greeting, it is acceptable to give a casual greeting such as "hi," "hello," "hey there," or "how are ya'?" It is important to note the distinction between the original greeting "how are you?" and the casual greeting "how are ya?" the "ya" is the declaration that no response is expected nor desired. When this greeting is given, the only proper response is a reflexive one that repeats the same level of attention. To elevate the level of concern by asking "how are you?" is improper because "how you are" has either already been established, or it is so late in the day that the condition of your being is completely unimportant.
Rule Five-A -- The "Not You Again" Rule -- Any more than three meeting and greeting IOC between two people is unacceptable. You may attempt to overcome the akwardness of your repeated meetings with a statement like "You probably think I'm stalking you..." which will likely be acknowledged with nervous laughter. But more likely, the other person will really start to think that you are stalking her. So, the rule applied is thusly: after three meetings, avoid the other person at all costs. Skip meetings where you might be reunited. If you see her at the elevator, take the stairs (or vice versa). If you are the only two in a hallway coming toward each other in opposite directions follow this procedure:
1. Avoid eye contact.
2. Make a noise like you are troubled about something.
and
3. Either feign remembering that you forgot your respirator back in another office and you must immediately return to get it lest you die...
or..
4. Take a hurried, waddling detour to the bathroom, like your Metamucil just kicked in. Hide out there until the other passes.
Rule Six -- The "Howdy" Rule -- Originally not a rule, this axiom was added due to the proliferation of inappropriate conversation occuring through IOC greetings manifested in the jingoistic usage of terms like "howdy," "hi-dee-ho," or other nonsensical greetings. Using these expressions does not portray you as cheerful, friendly, or clever. It portrays you as Ned Flanders, which by implication makes the other person feel like Homer Simpson. If you know how Homer feels about Ned, then you know how this person now thinks of you.
Rule Seven -- The "Buckaroo" Rule -- When greeting or speaking with someone whose name you cannot recall, it is not proper to use a nickname you invent to conceal your short-term memory loss. It is never proper in IOC to call someone "Sport," "Buddy," "Babe" or "Koko," unless, of course, their actual name coincidentally is any one of these. You may use the terms "sir" or "ma'am," but realize doing so will immediately cause the other person to feel approximately twenty years older than they really are, and you will be held in contempt by that person for an indeterminate period of resentment. There is a converse application to this rule, which of course is the "Please don't call me Edwin" Rider. In some circumstances, a person's given name will be so embarrassing and humiliating, or is gender-ambiguous, or is so well known by a distinguishing feature that the person will actually choose to be identified by a nickname rather than a given name. Respective examples of these phenomena are Azswipe (pronounced "Oz-wee-pay") "Junebug" Jones, Renee "Skip" Smith, and Albert "Hopalong" Williams. In these unusual scenarios, to fail to use the nicknames creates a paradigm where you an uptight, formal, vacuous jerk. In this paradigm, you will soon be known by your own nickname, which will never be spoken to your face and will serve as the punchline to any office humor that illustrates moronic behavior.
Rule Seven -- The Gestures Rule -- In many circumstances, gesturing becomes an important component of IOC. Third encounters require a gesture. Spoken communication is strictly forbidden. Other times, communication must occur when interpersonal distances are too great to be bridged by the spoken word. At these times, the gesture is key.
Rule Seven-A -- The Wave Rule -- Waving must be understated and brief. One hand, held open at a height varying from mid-chest to shoulder, with a single, simple left to right motion, as though one is flingling a loosely attched booger from one's thumb, is appropriate. A hand raised higher confuses people to think you are either hailing a taxi, and a hand held lower causes people to look at parts of your body that are certainly non-work related. When a female waves to a female, the enthusiasm of the wave may be slightly increased, but not to a point where it appears that you are two sisters, separated at birth. When two men wave, they may not increase enthusiasm, or their man license will be immediately revoked. They may, at their discretion, invoke the "head nod" (see Rule 7b). When a woman waves to a man, she may wave to him like she does to another woman. Though this completely emasculates the man, for the workplace it is allowable. When a man waves to a woman, he may either to the basic wave, or opt instead for an effimate "finger-scrunching" wave where the hand is held in front of the body approximately pectoralis muscle-high,and the four fingers are compressed as though the tips of the fingers are attempting to scratch four simultaneous itches occuring on the outer rim of the palm pad. This wave is non-harassing, but will possibly incite rumors of your orientation.
Rule Seven-B -- The "Head Nod" Rule -- Men may choose to use the head nod to greet or acknowledge the presence of one another. This highly useful gesture can be executed in a multitude of environments -- while passing in a corridor, while sharing an elevator, while standing next to each other at adjoining urinals (see rule 10), or even when noticing one another in separate automobiles in the parking lot. The nod may be executed in one of two manners. First the head may nod from low to high, which conveys a "hey buddy, how ya' doin'"-type sentiment, or from high to low, which conveys a more serious, "yes I see you there and I honor your right to exist"-type sentiment. Men implicitly know which gesture is appropriate, and will never be offended that the alternative was not offered. Many times, some of the deepest, most profound IOC will occur between males, consisting solely of a series of well-utilized head nods. Note: This IOC is gender-specific, much like the sub-sonar species-specific communication of blue wales. Men should not attempt head nod IOC with a female. It will not be reciprocated, acknowledged, or even understood.
Rule Eight -- The "Goin' Up?" Rule -- There are periodic instances where prolonged banter must occur because communicants are confined together in an elevator. This IOC is akward, and must be handled delicately. Protocol dictates that the person first temporarily residing in the elevator has earned "squatting rights" to ask the inevitable "what floor?" question. the late-entering person may only push the button himself after enough uncomfortable silence has passed to make it obvious to everyone in the elevator that the "squatter" did not fulfill expected duties. Once movement of the elevator has begun, a variety of short-term conversations are acceptable. Topics may include, but aren't necessarily limited to:
a. the weather (unless one of the communicants is a weatherman -- professional courtesy)
b. the herky-jerky motion of the elevator (unless one of the communicants is an elevator repairman -- again, professional courtesy)
c. needing coffee (unless one of the communicants is Juan Valdez and his donkey -- once more, professional courtesy)
d. miscellaneous statements like "today's the big day." To employ this particular stream of IOC, some criteria must be met. First, it must actually be the big day. Second, it must be the big day for everyone. Third, the big day must be known as the big day for everyone. Fourth, it must not be the big day because its the day that the person with whom you are having IOC is getting fired.
Unacceptable topics for elevator IOC:
a. anything beginning with "well, my doctor said..."
b. anything beginning with "what is that funky smell?"
c. anything beginning with "few people know of my irrational fear of confined spaces"
d. gossip about any fellow employee
e. any political dissent
f. social commentary of any kind, except for any easily-forgotten platitudes extolling the universally-agreed upon plight of a easily sympathetic victim. For example, it is only acceptable to say something like, "it sure is sad to hear about that family that lost its home." It is not acceptable to say "It sure is sad that the convicted killer received death by injection rather than frying in a chair like a maggot on a hot skillet." Due to the delicate nature of social commentary and its easily confused intracacies, it should be attempted only by proven IOC professionals.
Rule Nine -- The "Other White Meat" Rule -- IOC will regularly occur in the office cafeteria, if your employer in fact has one, or at times where you share a lunch meal with co-workers. IOC in this environment is most similar to non-IOC, but is still IOC. Accordingly, pay heed. This IOC environment welcomes deeper, more prolonged conversations, but still honors the strongly established wall separating work from life. Allowable topics include:
a. the family
b. work projects
c. sports teams
d. social/civic events
e. world events
f. newest movie releases
g. non-specific humor that cannot be racially or sexually miscomprehended.
Taboo topics include:
a. bedroom history
b. amway recruitment
c. personal attacks
d. manifesto rants
b. philosophical diatribes
e. apocalyptic exposition (unless, of course, the apocalypse is occuring at that IOC down time between when you've finished your salad and you're still waiting for the entree').
This IOC must be constructed so as to be completed when the dining experience concludes, so that all normal IOC rules may be honored.
Rule Ten -- The "Courtesy Flush" Rule -- Bathroom IOC is perhaps the most troubling of all venues for all IOC, but really, its mandates are quite simple and easily understood. No verbal IOC between males is allowed at urinals or in adjoining toilet stalls. At the urinal, a man may look only directly at the wall, do his business, and walk away. Only in extreme circumstances can men speak between stalls, such as when statements like "do you have any paper in there?" must be asked. Furthermore, what happens in a bathroom is not allowed to be reported elsewhere. It is highly inappropriate to linger at the sink just to see who was responsible for those alarming sounds and odors. And if by chance someone exits a stall while you are in there, avoid eye contact at all costs, so as to avoid the searing of the mind any disturbing mental associations. Finally, the most important bathroom IOC occurs when co-workers wash their hands after using a toilet. Even if you aren't the type to do so, whenever you use the restroom in the presence of another, pretend like you have a modicum of hygiene. Failure to do so will be quickly reported, and before long, nobody will want to share a bagel with you, much less use a pen you've had your nasty, grubby hands all over. Note: Author is unqualified to authoritatively instruct on bathroom IOC that occurs between females. Historically, feminine bathroom IOC is much less formal, and much more social. Speculation still remains that ladies' bathrooms are really alternate universes where established laws binding this reality do not exist. Accordingly, ladies' bathroom IOC should occur at one's own risk.
Rule Eleven -- The "Did I Say That?" Rule -- From time to time, errors will occur in IOC. Either you will attempt to be witty when someone says to you for the millionth time, "You know there are three "Jeff's" in your department. I always get confused which one you are," and instead of saying something like "well, I'm the good-looking one," you end up saying "that's because you're a half-brained nimrod mouth-breather;" Or in an attempt to be clever, you end up sounding like the words you chose first went through a blender (this phenomena is unexplained, but oddly common). In either of these circumstances, there is no recovery. You will only make matters worse by continuing to speak. Be silent. No matter how long you are in the presence of the other. It will be uncomfortable, but it will only be made worse the more you keep speaking. A directly proportionate relationship exists between the amount of time you attempt to verbally control the damage, and the officeplace lore of your propensity to babble mindlessly. When you commit a IOC mishap, cease all IOC immediately until you can return to your office, let the furor pass, and resume later on a scaled-back schedule.
Rule 12 -- The "It's That Time Again" Rule -- At the end of the work day, concluding IOC must occur. Rules for it are at best lax. If you opt to be cordial, you may depart with an intermittent "have a good night" or "see you tomorrow." But you may choose not to say anything, instead choosing to quasi-rush out without acknowledging anyone else. This will not be held against you if you choose this option, as people generally recognize a bee-line pursuit home. However, if you choose to be cordial, you must be cordial to everyone you pass, or you soon be placed in the clique of those to whom you spoke, and loathed by those to whom you did not.
This primer is not intended to be comprehensive nor exhaustive. It is intended to help lead an employee toward more successful basic IOC. Comprehensive, nuanced IOC is a quarry much like the elusive wapiti. Many tales of hunting after it fill the annals of corporate history, but rarely can one accurately brag of capturing and taming it. Future editions of this primer will of course reflect changing tones and values of the culture in which they are created.
hitting the newstands
Stacy Young's sister Jodie has recently written to let me know that Sports Illustrated will soon be publishing a seven-page story on the Toughman barbarism competitions, and will center on her tragedy.
I can't make this up
an individual who I can imagine must be sorely disappointed was led here after going to The World's Favorite Search EngineTM and entering in a request of the following string:
Oddly enough, I was not only the top site with those verbal variables. I was the only site to include all those variables, which leads me to be pleased through this indirect discovery that the web has not yet grown to include a site dedicated to this particular type of fetish.
yet.
I'm sure its only a matter of time.
Unfortunately for our anonymous surfer (I bet he's thankful for anonymity-- and I think I'm safe in assuming that our surfer is a 'he,' although you know what they say about assuming something don't you? When you assume something you make a ssue to me no...that's not right...you make as u sue me....no, that's not it either....what is that saying again?....well, you said you knew what they say, so what are you asking me for anyway?), his variables were not satisfied at my site by lurid photos, but instead of anecdotes of my children getting toilet trained and my time in youth ministry.
pictures of girls wearing huggies supreme diapers (teens)
Oddly enough, I was not only the top site with those verbal variables. I was the only site to include all those variables, which leads me to be pleased through this indirect discovery that the web has not yet grown to include a site dedicated to this particular type of fetish.
yet.
I'm sure its only a matter of time.
Unfortunately for our anonymous surfer (I bet he's thankful for anonymity-- and I think I'm safe in assuming that our surfer is a 'he,' although you know what they say about assuming something don't you? When you assume something you make a ssue to me no...that's not right...you make as u sue me....no, that's not it either....what is that saying again?....well, you said you knew what they say, so what are you asking me for anyway?), his variables were not satisfied at my site by lurid photos, but instead of anecdotes of my children getting toilet trained and my time in youth ministry.
7/15/2003
sung to the tune of count your blessings
I've seen it before, but this website where one man enumerates the littany of conflict between himself and his beloved makes for some diversionary entertainment....
...and leads one to be thankful for having it better, or perhaps even not having it at all.
...and leads one to be thankful for having it better, or perhaps even not having it at all.
mission accomplished
just finished my meeting with the LA state missions guy.
He didn't convert to mormonism, so I guess it turned out well.
and he invited me to the state convention for some jumbalaya.
hoooeeee! if'n dat don't start ya motor, you'n gotta leaky gasket!
He didn't convert to mormonism, so I guess it turned out well.
and he invited me to the state convention for some jumbalaya.
hoooeeee! if'n dat don't start ya motor, you'n gotta leaky gasket!
proverbs #103
one is wise who refrains from using a gallon of words to express a spoonful of thought.
he's not dr. laura or dr. phil, but i hear he's a PhD from Iluv U.
provided by the mystical matchmaking guru santana:
You've got to change your evil ways, baby
Before I stop loving you
You've got to change, baby
And every word that I say is true
You've got me running
And hiding all over town
You've got me sneaking
And a-peeping and running you down
This can't go on
Lord knows you've got to change, baby, baby
I'd like to kiss your ring, godfather
I just want to publicly acknowledge my appreciation to Jen & Tony, who have both been very kind in telling others about my modest effort to enlighten the world. Your two blogs are not only the first two I read daily, but they are also highly responsible for a noticeable spike in my daily traffic. < Mario Puzo>I stand ready to repay that debt when called upon.< /Mario Puzo >
to don't list
things I don't have to accomplish today:
--world peace
--find cure for AIDS
--buy groceries
--invent time travel
--convince wife to vote republican
--save humanity
--call the cable guy
--pick up dry cleaning
--accept promotion as president of NAMB
--decline invitation to preach at annual convention
--organize rally for Dixie Chicks
--bake a souffle
--world peace
--find cure for AIDS
--buy groceries
--invent time travel
--convince wife to vote republican
--save humanity
--call the cable guy
--pick up dry cleaning
--accept promotion as president of NAMB
--decline invitation to preach at annual convention
--organize rally for Dixie Chicks
--bake a souffle
a working definition of faith
I rarely intentionally go back-to-back on spiritual themes, but I wanted to get this down before I forget.
This morning I saw the best practical manifestation of faith that I've seen in a while.
On Highway 400 leading into the city, a van sat parked on the right hand shoulder, while traffic zoomed by at 75 mph.
from underneath that van poked two spindly legs, what I'm assuming were attached to either a corpse, or a person working on the van to get it running again.
If it was a corpse, then my analogy is shot, and i apologize for taking up more of your time. If they were part of a living being, then I have purpose for continuing.
This person was showing me (unintentionally, I'm sure) what it means to have faith. He was out there accomplishing his purpose despite the roar of 4000-pound behemoths roaring by, any of which could flatten his matching pair of shoe accessories like the villian on Who Framed Roger Rabbit? He might have been scared. I surely would have been. But he was doing it. He was doing what needed to be done to get back onto the highway, trusting that he'd be safe, despite the dangers.
This morning I saw the best practical manifestation of faith that I've seen in a while.
On Highway 400 leading into the city, a van sat parked on the right hand shoulder, while traffic zoomed by at 75 mph.
from underneath that van poked two spindly legs, what I'm assuming were attached to either a corpse, or a person working on the van to get it running again.
If it was a corpse, then my analogy is shot, and i apologize for taking up more of your time. If they were part of a living being, then I have purpose for continuing.
This person was showing me (unintentionally, I'm sure) what it means to have faith. He was out there accomplishing his purpose despite the roar of 4000-pound behemoths roaring by, any of which could flatten his matching pair of shoe accessories like the villian on Who Framed Roger Rabbit? He might have been scared. I surely would have been. But he was doing it. He was doing what needed to be done to get back onto the highway, trusting that he'd be safe, despite the dangers.
from the bluebird of happiness
this c&p from my pastor's weekly journal:
I know depression is real and shouldn't be made fun of because it would lead people to mistakenly think I'm insensitive.
but probably most of those people won't even get out of bed to read my blog anyway.
actually, I know a couple people who struggled with depression for a variety of reasons. For one it was post-partum, and for another it was a diagnosed clinical imbalance.
I think that there are a lot of messed up people in this country, though, who've got a problem that isn't medical that is being misdiagnosed as depression. Does it trouble anyone else that we have a medical expert claiming that more than 10 percent of our nation will experience clinical depression at some point in life? This fact sheet shows that 1.2 million people are diagnosed with cancer each year. So wouldn't that make depression a bigger problem than cancer? If so, this news won't accomplish much in cheering up the already glum crowd.
it could be that the real problem is social, emotional, psychological, or even ethical (some folks are just so lazy they can't seem to drag their tired rear ends out of bed). I would venture to state that a good number are experiencing a spiritual depression.
Tired
at the end of your rope
at wits end
burned out
fatigued
spent
these problems can't be cured by zoloft, valium, lithium, halcion, or Udpside-Down Frown Pill (Okay, I made that one up) any more than it can be cured by drinking, overeating, overspending, philandering, or even philately. All these things can do is mask the problem, until it resurfaces like Audrey II singing "Feed me, Seymour."
What causes spiritual depression?
--feeling like the world is against you (just ask Elijah, or David)
--feeling like there's just no good advice out there (Job has a thing or two to say about that)
--feeling like everyone's judging you (Elizabeth, john the baptist's mom -- she's been there)
--feeling like no one understands you (Jesus)
--feeling like all your friends have abandoned you (Jesus)
--feeling like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders (Jesus)
Seems to me like the Good Book has a thing or two to say on the matter.
And I don't know everything about everything, but I know enough to suggest that spiritual problems demand spiritual solutions.
I'm not suggesting that if you follow some prescriptive remedies you can be the type of Christ-follower with the PermagrinTM constantly plastered to your kisser. It is this type of Christian that says, "It takes more muscles to frown than to smile." This statement will cause one of two responses by the depressed individual. Either it will either make the person even more depressed because they just learned they can't even be depressed correctly, or it will lead them to reply, "true, but it takes even less muscles to repeatedly flex my trigger finger than it does to smile."
We have to remember that even Jesus still had to go all the way to the cross. David still had one son die, and another want to kill him. Elijah still faced the burden of his nation hating him for his message. Elizabeth still had to deal with the scorn of the public because her son was a wild, bug eatin', camel hair wearin' heretic. Escaping spiritual depression doesn't give you a hall pass to avoid sadness. But it does give you a Way (note the intentional capitalization) to find peace in troubled times.
Think about this.
Jesus said, "I'll never leave you nor forsake you." Couldn't you use a little assurance that you never have to deal with another calamity on your own?
He said, "I don't judge you." Isn't it refreshing to know that He who is always there accepts you just as you are?
He said, "Peace I bring to you." How wonderful is it to know the silence of God's peace in a world that is often deafening in its chaotic symphony?
He said, "Let not your heart be troubled." How relaxing is it to just take your hands off the controls that have driven you into despair, and let God assume responsibility for gettin you down life's highway?
He said, "My burden is easy." How nice is it to know that you can go to Him without worrying that instead of listening, He won't just dump all His problems on you?
Look, I face the same things that face any of you. Very dear people in my life have recently died. Others are sick, even as I type. I have unanswered questions, challenges, and concerns. There are things in my life that scare the pants off me (which is why I'm typing with the door closed). If I had no spiritual solution, I'd be such a basket case Kirstie Alley would be pimpin' me for Pier One. But I do have the spiritual solution.
Peace with Christ.
you see, I've been reconciled back to God through His Son.
And because I can rely on His presence, I'm centered. I'm whole. I'm at peace.
Calamities come.
and He's here, saying "My grace is sufficient."
Tragedies arise.
and He's here, saying "Let me shoulder that burden."
Setbacks steamroll in.
and He's here, saying, "I'm prepared for it. Give it to me."
People abandon me.
and He's here, saying, "I've not left. You're not alone."
two closing notes. I'm not a doctor, and I was going to play one on TV, but NBC never picked up the option after the pilot. So, I'll just offer these final two exhortations.
1. If you are depressed and nothing seems to work, but you want to see if God has something to offer you, get in touch with me, or with someone who you know has a faith relationship with God through Jesus.
2. If you consider yourself a believer, but are still struggling, maybe you need to focus on your Lord more. I'm not suggesting you flush your meds. I'm not qualified to tell you that any more than Dr. Drake Remoray (sp?) is qualified to complete that brain transplant for which he was recently preparing. but sometimes life's valleys seem as though they're made up completely of mirrors, and it gets really easy to get focused on your self. Focus on worshipping God and meeting the needs of others, and you'll be pleasantly suprised by the results.
shalom!
Depression strikes about 34 million people in the U.S. at some
point in their lives, according to a recent survey of more than 9,000
Americans. The average person with depression can't work or do normal
activities for five weeks in a year, says Ronald Kessler of Harvard
Medical School in Boston. The study also revealed that only one in
five were getting effective treatment.
I know depression is real and shouldn't be made fun of because it would lead people to mistakenly think I'm insensitive.
but probably most of those people won't even get out of bed to read my blog anyway.
actually, I know a couple people who struggled with depression for a variety of reasons. For one it was post-partum, and for another it was a diagnosed clinical imbalance.
I think that there are a lot of messed up people in this country, though, who've got a problem that isn't medical that is being misdiagnosed as depression. Does it trouble anyone else that we have a medical expert claiming that more than 10 percent of our nation will experience clinical depression at some point in life? This fact sheet shows that 1.2 million people are diagnosed with cancer each year. So wouldn't that make depression a bigger problem than cancer? If so, this news won't accomplish much in cheering up the already glum crowd.
it could be that the real problem is social, emotional, psychological, or even ethical (some folks are just so lazy they can't seem to drag their tired rear ends out of bed). I would venture to state that a good number are experiencing a spiritual depression.
Tired
at the end of your rope
at wits end
burned out
fatigued
spent
these problems can't be cured by zoloft, valium, lithium, halcion, or Udpside-Down Frown Pill (Okay, I made that one up) any more than it can be cured by drinking, overeating, overspending, philandering, or even philately. All these things can do is mask the problem, until it resurfaces like Audrey II singing "Feed me, Seymour."
What causes spiritual depression?
--feeling like the world is against you (just ask Elijah, or David)
--feeling like there's just no good advice out there (Job has a thing or two to say about that)
--feeling like everyone's judging you (Elizabeth, john the baptist's mom -- she's been there)
--feeling like no one understands you (Jesus)
--feeling like all your friends have abandoned you (Jesus)
--feeling like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders (Jesus)
Seems to me like the Good Book has a thing or two to say on the matter.
And I don't know everything about everything, but I know enough to suggest that spiritual problems demand spiritual solutions.
I'm not suggesting that if you follow some prescriptive remedies you can be the type of Christ-follower with the PermagrinTM constantly plastered to your kisser. It is this type of Christian that says, "It takes more muscles to frown than to smile." This statement will cause one of two responses by the depressed individual. Either it will either make the person even more depressed because they just learned they can't even be depressed correctly, or it will lead them to reply, "true, but it takes even less muscles to repeatedly flex my trigger finger than it does to smile."
We have to remember that even Jesus still had to go all the way to the cross. David still had one son die, and another want to kill him. Elijah still faced the burden of his nation hating him for his message. Elizabeth still had to deal with the scorn of the public because her son was a wild, bug eatin', camel hair wearin' heretic. Escaping spiritual depression doesn't give you a hall pass to avoid sadness. But it does give you a Way (note the intentional capitalization) to find peace in troubled times.
Think about this.
Jesus said, "I'll never leave you nor forsake you." Couldn't you use a little assurance that you never have to deal with another calamity on your own?
He said, "I don't judge you." Isn't it refreshing to know that He who is always there accepts you just as you are?
He said, "Peace I bring to you." How wonderful is it to know the silence of God's peace in a world that is often deafening in its chaotic symphony?
He said, "Let not your heart be troubled." How relaxing is it to just take your hands off the controls that have driven you into despair, and let God assume responsibility for gettin you down life's highway?
He said, "My burden is easy." How nice is it to know that you can go to Him without worrying that instead of listening, He won't just dump all His problems on you?
Look, I face the same things that face any of you. Very dear people in my life have recently died. Others are sick, even as I type. I have unanswered questions, challenges, and concerns. There are things in my life that scare the pants off me (which is why I'm typing with the door closed). If I had no spiritual solution, I'd be such a basket case Kirstie Alley would be pimpin' me for Pier One. But I do have the spiritual solution.
Peace with Christ.
you see, I've been reconciled back to God through His Son.
And because I can rely on His presence, I'm centered. I'm whole. I'm at peace.
Calamities come.
and He's here, saying "My grace is sufficient."
Tragedies arise.
and He's here, saying "Let me shoulder that burden."
Setbacks steamroll in.
and He's here, saying, "I'm prepared for it. Give it to me."
People abandon me.
and He's here, saying, "I've not left. You're not alone."
two closing notes. I'm not a doctor, and I was going to play one on TV, but NBC never picked up the option after the pilot. So, I'll just offer these final two exhortations.
1. If you are depressed and nothing seems to work, but you want to see if God has something to offer you, get in touch with me, or with someone who you know has a faith relationship with God through Jesus.
2. If you consider yourself a believer, but are still struggling, maybe you need to focus on your Lord more. I'm not suggesting you flush your meds. I'm not qualified to tell you that any more than Dr. Drake Remoray (sp?) is qualified to complete that brain transplant for which he was recently preparing. but sometimes life's valleys seem as though they're made up completely of mirrors, and it gets really easy to get focused on your self. Focus on worshipping God and meeting the needs of others, and you'll be pleasantly suprised by the results.
shalom!
If not Snoop, then who? If not now, then when?
Snoop Dogg is taking a stand decrying the lack of ethnic representation in the Girls Gone Wild Videos.
you've got to admire a man with convictions.
I've not ever seen one of the videos (and don't plan to, honey!), so I can't comment on Mr. Dogg's qualms. But I have to wonder, if you, as a female, opt to be featured in one of these videos, aren't you pretty much writing off your ambassadorship to the Vatican?
you've got to admire a man with convictions.
I've not ever seen one of the videos (and don't plan to, honey!), so I can't comment on Mr. Dogg's qualms. But I have to wonder, if you, as a female, opt to be featured in one of these videos, aren't you pretty much writing off your ambassadorship to the Vatican?
pompous circumstance
i recently posted a great graduation day speech.
however, it has been bested by this one, by will ferrell, to the neophytes from harvard state junior college a&t school of hair design technology & jet engine repair.
will ferrell=funny
you have the right to disagree.
however, it has been bested by this one, by will ferrell, to the neophytes from harvard state junior college a&t school of hair design technology & jet engine repair.
will ferrell=funny
you have the right to disagree.
this is the sound of thunder being stolen
i was going to blog on this, but one hand clapping did so first, and I have nothing to add to the subject.
and speaking of ducks....
first donald, then daffy then hughie, duey, and finally Louie.
This is my way of saying that my top priority today is getting my ducks in a row.
Found out yesterday that today I'm meeting with the state mission ed leader from Louisiana, and I get 75 minutes to share the vision of adult mission ed for the North American Mission Board. yessir, nothing like getting plenty of advanced warning.
Did everyone forget that my name tag still has trainee labeled on it?
It truly is moments like this where I am humbled to be where I am, getting to do what I get to do.
This is my way of saying that my top priority today is getting my ducks in a row.
Found out yesterday that today I'm meeting with the state mission ed leader from Louisiana, and I get 75 minutes to share the vision of adult mission ed for the North American Mission Board. yessir, nothing like getting plenty of advanced warning.
Did everyone forget that my name tag still has trainee labeled on it?
It truly is moments like this where I am humbled to be where I am, getting to do what I get to do.
welcome to the table
I've added jaboobie and two hard boiled eggs to my blogroll, despite not knowing what in the world his blog title means. he commented on a recent post, and I went to his website, and found myself reading post after post after post. This is a good criterion for addition to my own roll.
thanks, by the way, for letting me know about the Av's recent additions of kariya and Selanne. This is the NHL's best equivalent of the Laker's adding Malone & Payton. it'll be interesting to see how it all plays out.
thanks, by the way, for letting me know about the Av's recent additions of kariya and Selanne. This is the NHL's best equivalent of the Laker's adding Malone & Payton. it'll be interesting to see how it all plays out.
Now showing -- a Drew Barrymore Double Feature
Riding in Cars with Boys on the Side = A tome of a pregant, immature, selfish teen who goes on a road trip of self discovery with three other gals.
Charlie's Angels in the Outfield = Undercover female agents join a hapless all-girl baseball team and win the series due to the intervention of some other-worldly spirits.
Charlie's Angels in the Outfield = Undercover female agents join a hapless all-girl baseball team and win the series due to the intervention of some other-worldly spirits.
he didn't really say that, did he?
From the WSJ Best of the Web, comes the link to a report that most powerful man in the world wannabe presidential candidate Richard Gephardt actually said the following:
oh
my
goodness.
surely that's going to sway those voters who were previously riding the fence.
to be honest, I'm a little concerned with the precedence this establishes. When I was a kindergartner, I got an 'N' (which stood for "Needs Improvement," and was the pre-primary equivalent of a 'D-') in skipping.
I couldn't get that whole bounce-hop-switch cadence down. I'd bounce-hop-hop, and then try to double bounce in the next series to make up for my error. Before you know it, I was crumpled in the floor, with my limbs twisted in a horrific pile. I looked like a west bound frieght train going 60 miles per hour and an east bound frieght train going 80 miles per hour that departed two hours earlier collided, right in the middle of physical education in Craig, Colorado's East Elementary.
Mrs. Waters (my P.E. teacher who also harped on that very important phys. ed. skill "don't pick your nose and eat your boogers" -- a mantra to which I still adhere to this day), always came over and picked me up and dusted me off, and escorted me to the end of the line. "It's okay," she'd console. "You can't be the world's best at EVERYTHING (interestingly and unrealized until now, that this too is a mantra tow which I still adhere to this day)."
I wonder if this means that because I was busy learning to read and write while my contemporaries were learning the important skill of cavorting around like ponies on crystal meth that I'm suddenly unfit to serve in public office. I guess in Little Dickies matriculation, the three Rs stood for rumormongerin', rubbin' shoulders, and race baitin'.
Dick Gephardt may have learned to play well with others, but he was likely also the Eddie Haskell of the school, and the kid who was always having to be sent home, sick from eating too much paste.
You know in grade school, that part of the report card where it says "plays well with others?" This president didn't get a good grade there. I did.
oh
my
goodness.
surely that's going to sway those voters who were previously riding the fence.
to be honest, I'm a little concerned with the precedence this establishes. When I was a kindergartner, I got an 'N' (which stood for "Needs Improvement," and was the pre-primary equivalent of a 'D-') in skipping.
I couldn't get that whole bounce-hop-switch cadence down. I'd bounce-hop-hop, and then try to double bounce in the next series to make up for my error. Before you know it, I was crumpled in the floor, with my limbs twisted in a horrific pile. I looked like a west bound frieght train going 60 miles per hour and an east bound frieght train going 80 miles per hour that departed two hours earlier collided, right in the middle of physical education in Craig, Colorado's East Elementary.
Mrs. Waters (my P.E. teacher who also harped on that very important phys. ed. skill "don't pick your nose and eat your boogers" -- a mantra to which I still adhere to this day), always came over and picked me up and dusted me off, and escorted me to the end of the line. "It's okay," she'd console. "You can't be the world's best at EVERYTHING (interestingly and unrealized until now, that this too is a mantra tow which I still adhere to this day)."
I wonder if this means that because I was busy learning to read and write while my contemporaries were learning the important skill of cavorting around like ponies on crystal meth that I'm suddenly unfit to serve in public office. I guess in Little Dickies matriculation, the three Rs stood for rumormongerin', rubbin' shoulders, and race baitin'.
Dick Gephardt may have learned to play well with others, but he was likely also the Eddie Haskell of the school, and the kid who was always having to be sent home, sick from eating too much paste.
an object at rest tends to stay at rest
this axiom, like gravity, is not just a good idea...
...its the law.
universally true an unalterable, in the reality we commonly accept.
So why is it that for the two-plus weeks we've been in our home, every single morning I search for my closet light on the inside of the closet. It clearly is evident on the outside left of the closet. Yet without fail, I go right past it and begin beating on the right inside panel in a barbaric quest for light. I might as well take two hangars and start rubbing them together in a quest to bring fire to the tribe. I don't know if I subconsciously expect the light switch to have accomodated me in the night, and "entered the matrix" to alter reality as I know it.
You know, that probably would be the matrix for me. One day, Morpheus and Trinity come to find me and offer me the red pill. I take it to find a world exactly like this one, except all the light switches are where I think they should be instead of where they really were back in my illusory world.
Man, if that's not the fourth chapter in the series, I don't know what is....
...its the law.
universally true an unalterable, in the reality we commonly accept.
So why is it that for the two-plus weeks we've been in our home, every single morning I search for my closet light on the inside of the closet. It clearly is evident on the outside left of the closet. Yet without fail, I go right past it and begin beating on the right inside panel in a barbaric quest for light. I might as well take two hangars and start rubbing them together in a quest to bring fire to the tribe. I don't know if I subconsciously expect the light switch to have accomodated me in the night, and "entered the matrix" to alter reality as I know it.
You know, that probably would be the matrix for me. One day, Morpheus and Trinity come to find me and offer me the red pill. I take it to find a world exactly like this one, except all the light switches are where I think they should be instead of where they really were back in my illusory world.
Man, if that's not the fourth chapter in the series, I don't know what is....
the axe effect
as publicized on television the body spray axe is supposed to lead to phenomena like being assaulted by ravenous females while performing ordinary life functions such as riding the elevator, picking one's teeth with a toenail, and belching out the alphabet.
I use axe.
none of these things has happened.
Kelli doesn't even roll over from deep slumber, obviously unaffected by the pheromonal enticement I offer each morning.
However, I continue to use it because axe does do something for me that has proven to be invaluble.
It is my proverbial first cup of coffee, my post-shower lathering of Zest.
When I blast my chest area with the fine aerosol mist of perfumed manly essence, it hits my body at a temperature of absolute zero. No matter how groggy and grumpy I am prior to that experience, when those tiny chemical ice crystals web across my sparse field of chest hair, I am wide awake and ready to face the day.
and by the time my pectoralis muscles thaw, my coffee is poured and I'm refueling the engine.
thanks, axe!
I use axe.
none of these things has happened.
Kelli doesn't even roll over from deep slumber, obviously unaffected by the pheromonal enticement I offer each morning.
However, I continue to use it because axe does do something for me that has proven to be invaluble.
It is my proverbial first cup of coffee, my post-shower lathering of Zest.
When I blast my chest area with the fine aerosol mist of perfumed manly essence, it hits my body at a temperature of absolute zero. No matter how groggy and grumpy I am prior to that experience, when those tiny chemical ice crystals web across my sparse field of chest hair, I am wide awake and ready to face the day.
and by the time my pectoralis muscles thaw, my coffee is poured and I'm refueling the engine.
thanks, axe!
it's tuesday
this, despite my most earnest hope and woefully incorrect assumption briefly made when my alarm went off that today is in fact Saturday, and I forgot to 'unset' it for the weekend.
hi ho hi ho and all that jazz....
hi ho hi ho and all that jazz....
7/14/2003
the best movie trailers you've never seen
Introducing CinePlexTM, the game invented at NAMB (as far as I know), taking your knowledge of cinema history, combined with a jumbo bucket of creativity, resulting in group fun that gets two thumbs up!
The premise is simple: Take two movies that share one word in the title of each, combine the two, and provide a new plot.
Some examples:
It happened One Night + Night of the Living Dead = It Happened One Night of the Living Dead (A romantic tale of a millionaire's daughter who marries an undead zombie and travels the country dining on the brains of the living).
Terminator 3 + Three Men & A Baby = Terminator 3 Men & A Baby = An adventure where a cyborg comes back to protect an infant who will one day lead a rebellion from three paternally bungling, yet more technologically advanced robotic terminatrices.
You can get bonus points for stringing together multiple movies, just like a multiplex. But remember, you have to be able to create a movie out of it:
Tin Men+Men in Black +Black Beauty + Beauty & The Beast +The Beast Master + The Master of Disguise = Tin Men in Black Beauty & the Beast Master of Disguise -- A moving epic about covert government agents who bond with a beautiful ebony horse through a unique ability to speak to it, discovered when they are undercover as tin siding salemen at a stable cursed and all the farm implements magically come to life to sing show tunes to the agents.
Once you start, you'll find its like eating potato chips. You'll be thinking of them in the car, in the shower, in the car shower. You'll play with friends, family, and strangers. Trust me, it'll sweep the Net.
Give me some of yours, and spread the word....before long everyone will be playing!
The premise is simple: Take two movies that share one word in the title of each, combine the two, and provide a new plot.
Some examples:
It happened One Night + Night of the Living Dead = It Happened One Night of the Living Dead (A romantic tale of a millionaire's daughter who marries an undead zombie and travels the country dining on the brains of the living).
Terminator 3 + Three Men & A Baby = Terminator 3 Men & A Baby = An adventure where a cyborg comes back to protect an infant who will one day lead a rebellion from three paternally bungling, yet more technologically advanced robotic terminatrices.
You can get bonus points for stringing together multiple movies, just like a multiplex. But remember, you have to be able to create a movie out of it:
Tin Men+Men in Black +Black Beauty + Beauty & The Beast +The Beast Master + The Master of Disguise = Tin Men in Black Beauty & the Beast Master of Disguise -- A moving epic about covert government agents who bond with a beautiful ebony horse through a unique ability to speak to it, discovered when they are undercover as tin siding salemen at a stable cursed and all the farm implements magically come to life to sing show tunes to the agents.
Once you start, you'll find its like eating potato chips. You'll be thinking of them in the car, in the shower, in the car shower. You'll play with friends, family, and strangers. Trust me, it'll sweep the Net.
Give me some of yours, and spread the word....before long everyone will be playing!
I'm not alarmed...really
though I did stop cold in my tracks and calm myself
keepittogether keepittogether keepittogether
what elicited this reaction from me?
overhearing the following as I walked from bedroom to kitchen, spoken passionately by my son:
No, Kaylyn, it's my turn to be Tinkerbell!
keepittogether keepittogether keepittogether
what elicited this reaction from me?
overhearing the following as I walked from bedroom to kitchen, spoken passionately by my son:
No, Kaylyn, it's my turn to be Tinkerbell!
and in this corner...
introducing battleground god a web site designed to challenge your faith.
I made it through the seventeen question gauntlet with one direct hit and biting two bullets (you'll see what it means by taking the test yourself). I definitely appeal the validity of the "wounds" I received because the conclusions were built on faulty premises.
For example, I logically concluded that it could be assumed the Loch Ness monster does not exist because no evidence for her has been proven, but conversely concluded that it could not be assumed that God does not exist because of a lack of credible external evidence. This syllogism is faulty for multiple reasons:
1. Nessy is a created being (if she exists at all), whereas God is the creator. He is not limited by time, nor space, nor a murky English swamp. He supercedes my understanding and ability to comprehend Him, so it is logical to assume that He exists beyond my limited ability to prove Him.
2. The tests falsely assumes that there is no credible external evidence of God. I say try taking a breath without oxygen. Try explaining the phenomena of the cell. Try fully rationalizing the antievolutionary reality of sacrificial benevolence. These are all evidences of the divine of a Creator.
I was also incorrectly told I "bit a bullet" because I said God could make 1+1=72 and could make square circles, but could not do anything He wanted to do. This is a flawed criticism because the first part of the assault makes the age-old "Can God make a stone that He himself couldn't lift?" This assumes a purposeless God who is consumed and constrained by the mental parlor tricks of His creation. The paradigms and verbal constraints of the question posed in its first part are imposed upon the limited imaginations of the creation. It is man who thinks 1+1=2, because we have over time accepted such symbolism to represent our collectively accepted thought. God could make 1+1=72 as easily as He makes 1+1+1=1 with His triune nature, and just as easily as eternity will be the experience of living in the "eternal now" forever. Its the ilk of stuff that makes our feeble minds resemble a bowl of quivering, tepid bread and raisin pudding. Especially when it is considered with the implication that God has the self-imposed limitation of not being able to do anything that is contradictory to His own nature. It is only when one understands that being fully powerful does not mean being able to do anything without fear or implication of punishment, but instead choosing with unfettered abandon to do only that which is good and purposeful, despite the fact that nothing or nobody could stand in His way should He choose to do otherwise, does one begin to grasp the complexity of the existence we share and that the universe does not implode upon itself.
The final "bullet" upon which I was forced to gnaw was shoved in my throat because I reject the pseudo-science of evolutionaryhooha "theory." With that prejudice against any clear thinking individual, its impossible to walk through without dining on a little lead.
All in all, though, it was an interesting diversion, and even in the FAQs, the author is fairly cordial to theists (although his "Nessie" defense is still pretty weak.")
and now...back to our regularly scheduled broadcasts
I made it through the seventeen question gauntlet with one direct hit and biting two bullets (you'll see what it means by taking the test yourself). I definitely appeal the validity of the "wounds" I received because the conclusions were built on faulty premises.
For example, I logically concluded that it could be assumed the Loch Ness monster does not exist because no evidence for her has been proven, but conversely concluded that it could not be assumed that God does not exist because of a lack of credible external evidence. This syllogism is faulty for multiple reasons:
1. Nessy is a created being (if she exists at all), whereas God is the creator. He is not limited by time, nor space, nor a murky English swamp. He supercedes my understanding and ability to comprehend Him, so it is logical to assume that He exists beyond my limited ability to prove Him.
2. The tests falsely assumes that there is no credible external evidence of God. I say try taking a breath without oxygen. Try explaining the phenomena of the cell. Try fully rationalizing the antievolutionary reality of sacrificial benevolence. These are all evidences of the divine of a Creator.
I was also incorrectly told I "bit a bullet" because I said God could make 1+1=72 and could make square circles, but could not do anything He wanted to do. This is a flawed criticism because the first part of the assault makes the age-old "Can God make a stone that He himself couldn't lift?" This assumes a purposeless God who is consumed and constrained by the mental parlor tricks of His creation. The paradigms and verbal constraints of the question posed in its first part are imposed upon the limited imaginations of the creation. It is man who thinks 1+1=2, because we have over time accepted such symbolism to represent our collectively accepted thought. God could make 1+1=72 as easily as He makes 1+1+1=1 with His triune nature, and just as easily as eternity will be the experience of living in the "eternal now" forever. Its the ilk of stuff that makes our feeble minds resemble a bowl of quivering, tepid bread and raisin pudding. Especially when it is considered with the implication that God has the self-imposed limitation of not being able to do anything that is contradictory to His own nature. It is only when one understands that being fully powerful does not mean being able to do anything without fear or implication of punishment, but instead choosing with unfettered abandon to do only that which is good and purposeful, despite the fact that nothing or nobody could stand in His way should He choose to do otherwise, does one begin to grasp the complexity of the existence we share and that the universe does not implode upon itself.
The final "bullet" upon which I was forced to gnaw was shoved in my throat because I reject the pseudo-science of evolutionary
All in all, though, it was an interesting diversion, and even in the FAQs, the author is fairly cordial to theists (although his "Nessie" defense is still pretty weak.")
and now...back to our regularly scheduled broadcasts
if you were a tree what kind of tree would you be/
well, apparently I'd be a green, softhearted, canine attracting one:
a spate of online tests linked to at timetobelieve.net revealed:
Which Peanuts Character Are You Quiz
just so you know -- my soft heart shouldn't be confused for dry rot. Nor should it be assumed to be one that bleeds.
a spate of online tests linked to at timetobelieve.net revealed:
|
You are...
Soft Hearted
If your two hands are free, you will always volunteer them to help out. You take a compassionate initiative, but possess the respect to hang back until given the go-ahead to get involved.
How Caring Are You?
Which Peanuts Character Are You Quiz
just so you know -- my soft heart shouldn't be confused for dry rot. Nor should it be assumed to be one that bleeds.
quasimodian tragedy
The famed hunch-backed belltoller one day slipped, cracked his nose on the swaying bell, and fell to the ground, dead.
whereupon a crowd gathered and murmuring began.
"who is he?"
"does anyone know him?"
Finally, a vicar spoke up.
"I don't know his name, but his face rings a bell."
to that end, do you look like anyone famous?
thanks to presurfer for the link.
By the way, I used to get a lot of Kevin James, Drew Carey comparisons. Look at this photo of me messin' around with my brother (that's me on the right), and you be the judge.
adden-dum: Lavigne proof that humans are being cloned, right now, at a very alarming rate.
adden-dum-dum: how sad is it that the guy who is told he looks like Jackie Chan looks nothing like him? Friends are like, "he's Oriental. Jackie's Oriental. They must be separated at birth! Because do you know how rare it must be to have two Oriental males living in the same country at the same time?
I don't mean to get spiritual here...but I'm gonna.
Dave Heddle at he lives recently wrote that he struggles to find anyone who is overtly holy (trust me, he says it better than that). And I agree.
I say it about as much as I hear it, which is not very often:
I'm supposed to look like Him. That's what the whole "born again" thing is really about.
I'm dead.
He's alive.
My life is supposed to be about Jesus, living His life, in my Bag O' Flesh TM.
Romans 13:14 says I'm supposed to "put on" Jesus. I don't think that means I'm supposed to try and pull a prank on Him. I think it means I'm supposed to wear His life, His Truth, His reality, rather than marching around in a self-delusional stupor, dressed in the proverbial Emporer's new Clothes thinking my flesh is alive when its really dead. I think it means I'm supposed to live the faith I hold so dear:
I want to look like Him. I want people to see Him instead of me (especially people like my wife, my children, my family, and my co-workers -- how badly am I failing in that pursuit?! Don't answer, it's rhetorical and my self-criticism is cacophanous). I want people to not recognize me because God is shining through me.
But too often, whenever I do the right thing for the right reason, or even the wrong thing for the right reason, and someone actually recognizes Christ in me because of it, too often I take undo pride in it, and demean the whole experience just because I thought I had something to add, or I was somehow integral to God glorifying Himself through me.
sigh.
the good news is that there will be a day when I will hear that I resemble Jesus. The Bible says the Father will look at me and He won't see me.
no...that part of me, from God's perspective is dead, even if I to this day try to re-animate it. There will be a day when the Father looks at me, and sees me for how I really am.
He will see Jesus
alive
in me.
and instead of hearing the saddest words any dead person will ever hear -- "Depart from me, for I never knew you" -- I will hear the words spoken from a perfect Holy Father, spoken to a perfect Holy Son:
well done, my good and faithful servant. Come, enter my rest.
that, my dear friends....
....is grace.
whereupon a crowd gathered and murmuring began.
"who is he?"
"does anyone know him?"
Finally, a vicar spoke up.
"I don't know his name, but his face rings a bell."
to that end, do you look like anyone famous?
thanks to presurfer for the link.
By the way, I used to get a lot of Kevin James, Drew Carey comparisons. Look at this photo of me messin' around with my brother (that's me on the right), and you be the judge.
adden-dum: Lavigne proof that humans are being cloned, right now, at a very alarming rate.
adden-dum-dum: how sad is it that the guy who is told he looks like Jackie Chan looks nothing like him? Friends are like, "he's Oriental. Jackie's Oriental. They must be separated at birth! Because do you know how rare it must be to have two Oriental males living in the same country at the same time?
I don't mean to get spiritual here...but I'm gonna.
Dave Heddle at he lives recently wrote that he struggles to find anyone who is overtly holy (trust me, he says it better than that). And I agree.
I say it about as much as I hear it, which is not very often:
Insert Your Name Here sure looks alot like Jesus.
I'm supposed to look like Him. That's what the whole "born again" thing is really about.
I'm dead.
He's alive.
My life is supposed to be about Jesus, living His life, in my Bag O' Flesh TM.
Romans 13:14 says I'm supposed to "put on" Jesus. I don't think that means I'm supposed to try and pull a prank on Him. I think it means I'm supposed to wear His life, His Truth, His reality, rather than marching around in a self-delusional stupor, dressed in the proverbial Emporer's new Clothes thinking my flesh is alive when its really dead. I think it means I'm supposed to live the faith I hold so dear:
I am a Spirit child of God
I am heaven bound.
I am forgiven
I am a recipient of grace and mercy
I am gifted, equipped, and empowered to do things beyond my original ability.
I want to look like Him. I want people to see Him instead of me (especially people like my wife, my children, my family, and my co-workers -- how badly am I failing in that pursuit?! Don't answer, it's rhetorical and my self-criticism is cacophanous). I want people to not recognize me because God is shining through me.
But too often, whenever I do the right thing for the right reason, or even the wrong thing for the right reason, and someone actually recognizes Christ in me because of it, too often I take undo pride in it, and demean the whole experience just because I thought I had something to add, or I was somehow integral to God glorifying Himself through me.
sigh.
the good news is that there will be a day when I will hear that I resemble Jesus. The Bible says the Father will look at me and He won't see me.
my screw-ups
my laziness
my selfishness
my apathy
my thickheadedness
no...that part of me, from God's perspective is dead, even if I to this day try to re-animate it. There will be a day when the Father looks at me, and sees me for how I really am.
He will see Jesus
alive
in me.
and instead of hearing the saddest words any dead person will ever hear -- "Depart from me, for I never knew you" -- I will hear the words spoken from a perfect Holy Father, spoken to a perfect Holy Son:
well done, my good and faithful servant. Come, enter my rest.
that, my dear friends....
....is grace.
old but good
reminded of a classic joke, thanks to amish tech support's story on receiving some tough news. It goes a little something like this:
a woman on a business trip called her husband and asked, "how's Fluffy?"
The husband said brusquely, "the cat's dead."
The wife gasped. "I'm so angry at you. You could have handled that so much more tactfully. You could have said, 'Honey, the cat's stuck on the roof.' Then tomorrow when I called, you could say, 'The cat won't come down and doesn't look very good.' Then the next night when i called, you could have said, 'honey, the cat never came down and unfortunately died.'"
Silence.
The husband finally said, "I'm sorry."
The wife said, "oh, I forgive you, it's just terribly upsetting to be shocked like that. Anyway, how is mother doing?"
Silence.
"Your mom's on the roof and won't come down."
a woman on a business trip called her husband and asked, "how's Fluffy?"
The husband said brusquely, "the cat's dead."
The wife gasped. "I'm so angry at you. You could have handled that so much more tactfully. You could have said, 'Honey, the cat's stuck on the roof.' Then tomorrow when I called, you could say, 'The cat won't come down and doesn't look very good.' Then the next night when i called, you could have said, 'honey, the cat never came down and unfortunately died.'"
Silence.
The husband finally said, "I'm sorry."
The wife said, "oh, I forgive you, it's just terribly upsetting to be shocked like that. Anyway, how is mother doing?"
Silence.
"Your mom's on the roof and won't come down."
i think they're on to me
before I could explore the third floor, I went to the restroom to....well, that's really none of your business...but upon washing my hands, the faucet decided to belch, spraying my crotchal region with water, making it look as though the dam had burst on my Depends. So rather than cavorting around, I covertly hiked up the back stairway into my office and stood in front of the window, hoping the sun's rays would intensely dry my britches. I fear anyone walking into the building and seeing a man standing on his desk at one of the 4th story windows could have had any number of wrong ideas about what was happening.
now, dare I suggest that this is a conspiracy, and a technician in the "physical plant" was responsible, because my computer is being monitored, and I was on the verge of unearthing something nefarious? I didn't think so, until I asked one of our admin. asst. about it.
"Ovie," I asked, "what's on the third floor?"
"Excuse me?" she replied.
"Third floor. what's on it?"
"Bryan I didn't hear you. You're breaking up."
"Ovie, I'm not on the phone. I'm talking to you, from across the open doorway."
"Right. You can find a bird store at the North Pointe Mall."
"No, not bird store. Third Floor."
"Just a second, Bryan, I've got to take this call."
"But the phone didn't ring."
< muffled voice> "yeah. soaked pants. yeah. still asking questions. yeah. bring the tranq gun." < /muffled voice.
I've closed and locked the door to my office, pushed my desk against it, and have written "call 911" on my window, using pasty mixture created by non-dairy creamer and my own saliva.
am I over-reacting?
now, dare I suggest that this is a conspiracy, and a technician in the "physical plant" was responsible, because my computer is being monitored, and I was on the verge of unearthing something nefarious? I didn't think so, until I asked one of our admin. asst. about it.
"Ovie," I asked, "what's on the third floor?"
"Excuse me?" she replied.
"Third floor. what's on it?"
"Bryan I didn't hear you. You're breaking up."
"Ovie, I'm not on the phone. I'm talking to you, from across the open doorway."
"Right. You can find a bird store at the North Pointe Mall."
"No, not bird store. Third Floor."
"Just a second, Bryan, I've got to take this call."
"But the phone didn't ring."
< muffled voice> "yeah. soaked pants. yeah. still asking questions. yeah. bring the tranq gun." < /muffled voice.
I've closed and locked the door to my office, pushed my desk against it, and have written "call 911" on my window, using pasty mixture created by non-dairy creamer and my own saliva.
am I over-reacting?
my itinerary
excuse me for a few minutes, I've got some exploring around the building to complete.
Exciting stops include:
4th floor bathroom
5th floor finance (get my payroll direct deposit taken care of)
1st floor coffee
2nd floor design (check on progress for the magazine.
If i could only find a reason to go to the 3rd floor....
I don't even know what's on the third floor.
I'm not even sure we've got a third floor.
Well, now I'm on a mission. I'm tying a rope around my waist and making a trail of Reese's Pieces to see what everyone's hiding from me.
< X Files Theme> Something's Out There < /X Files Theme>
If there's not a new post on here within an hour, call 911.
Or extension 6459 -- I may just get too busy to blog.
Exciting stops include:
4th floor bathroom
5th floor finance (get my payroll direct deposit taken care of)
1st floor coffee
2nd floor design (check on progress for the magazine.
If i could only find a reason to go to the 3rd floor....
I don't even know what's on the third floor.
I'm not even sure we've got a third floor.
Well, now I'm on a mission. I'm tying a rope around my waist and making a trail of Reese's Pieces to see what everyone's hiding from me.
< X Files Theme> Something's Out There < /X Files Theme>
If there's not a new post on here within an hour, call 911.
Or extension 6459 -- I may just get too busy to blog.
this old house
this weekend was a mixed bag of success when it comes to assessing the DIS I've been employing for two weeks, now. DIS, for the uninformed, stands for Domicile Improvement Strategey, which consists of the following procedure:
1. Assess the needs of the home.
2. Identify the needs that are most beyond my skills and abilities.
3. Immediately purchase all implements necessary to meet the needs.
4. Plunge wantonly into improvement tasks, foregoing all procedural instructions as often as possible.
5. Complete 75% of task, complaining loudly how nothing seems to work correctly.
6. Call certified, licensed, bonded professional to come to domicile and pay an inflated price to complete the task, due to the additonal "undoing" of all that I have done.
7. Repeat process, never learning from mistakes.
Well, as I mentioned, I began the weekend cleaning our basement floor with muratic acid. And based on the fact that I'm not forced to relay this entry using the newest voice recognition software because of losing any or all of my digits to said acid, I think we can label that venture a success. What I did learn from that chore is that muratic acid will eat through just about anything, including the legs of poodle-sized cockroaches. I was carefully sloshing the water/acid mixture around the floor, watching with fascination as it reacted fizzingly with the concrete muck, when some went under our washer. uh oh. Did I just dissolve our washer? I stopped mopping and waited for the whole contraption to collase with a bang for which I'd have to come up with a satisfactory explanation.
Instead, all that happened was out came a single cockroach, his six, eight, forty little legs a smokin' like Marge Schott at the tail end of a double header that has gone into extra innings. I confess, not only did I not leap to the critter's aid, but I laughed cruelly as I watched the varmint perform his Wicked Witch O' the West impersonation. I haven't had that much mean-spirited glee since I was 10 years old, the day Anthillville was visited by The Giant Magnifying Glass from OuterSpace.
Twenty four hours later, the cleaning agent had dried, all that was left of Mr. Cocka Roach was a crispy hull of a shell that looked a little like, but probably tasted nothing like a Frito. It was time to move on to the next task -- applying the linoleum.
Now, the product was labeled something like "Quick and Easy" which is ideal for a simpleton like me. The mission: 150 1'-square tiles, self-adhesing for my convenience. And it was quick and easy. I was able to do the entire 150 square feet in under 3 hours, which while remedial for most, was acceptable for me. What they didn't tell me, though, was that those tiles were sure sticky. About halfway through box 2 of 4, I had as much adhesive on me as I did the tiles. I was soon re-enacting my soliloquy of Sylvester the Cat in the Glue Factory getting paper stuck on my hand, then getting it stuck to the other hand as I tried to remove it, then getting it stuck to my face as I tried to gnaw it off my two sticky hands. I was so thankful my son was busy playing upstairs so as not to see me and have his entire image of me shattered.
And while I can edit the bejeebers out of just about any document placed in front of me, my knack for detail work doesn't necessarily translate into the home improvement world. All one has to do for proof is look at the cut work I performed on the tile. My loving wife assured me that most of it would be covered by desks, bookcases, and as many throw rugs necessary to hide my handiwork.
So now that its all said and done, we've got a pretty decent 15X10 area of basement concrete covered by linoleum tile that looks suprisingly like
...concrete.
The other task that didn't go quite so well was the attempt to move my living room cable outlet an amazingly important four feet, from one side of a door to the other. after cutting out a hole using a drywall saw specially purchased for the project, and inserting a new box specially purchased for the project, and preparing the cable and the faceplate --each specially purchased for the project, I climbed up into the attic, and drilled a 5/8th-inch hole through six inches of wall beam using a new bit specially purchased for the project (and my attic, by the way, was so stinkin' hot that even Dusty Baker would have thought it was hot), only to discover that my cable does NOT run through the walls accessed by the ceiling, but instead through the floor, concealed by the finished garage....
it was almost enough to make a manshake his fist at the technology gods and eschew television altogether rely on airwave transmissions give up and call the professional installer call the Dish TV dude bear down and begin drilliing holes in the floor. But again, my common sense wife got the better of me, and I instead just wired around the door using the highly fancy "cable hiders" that will look nice until Kelsi discovers them and determines that it will be a useful tool with which to cane her brother relentlessly. Upon this discovery, she will tug, pull, and ultimately yank upon it until it and half the drywall to which it is currently attached with apparently the same adhesive used on floor tiling are removed.
So....up next is putting my "home office" back on the tile, and stocking some of my bookshelves. Then, I tackle putting down carpet on the other half of the basement. And I already know that chore will be accomplished famously well because the phone number to Lowe's Installation team is already on our speed dial.
1. Assess the needs of the home.
2. Identify the needs that are most beyond my skills and abilities.
3. Immediately purchase all implements necessary to meet the needs.
4. Plunge wantonly into improvement tasks, foregoing all procedural instructions as often as possible.
5. Complete 75% of task, complaining loudly how nothing seems to work correctly.
6. Call certified, licensed, bonded professional to come to domicile and pay an inflated price to complete the task, due to the additonal "undoing" of all that I have done.
7. Repeat process, never learning from mistakes.
Well, as I mentioned, I began the weekend cleaning our basement floor with muratic acid. And based on the fact that I'm not forced to relay this entry using the newest voice recognition software because of losing any or all of my digits to said acid, I think we can label that venture a success. What I did learn from that chore is that muratic acid will eat through just about anything, including the legs of poodle-sized cockroaches. I was carefully sloshing the water/acid mixture around the floor, watching with fascination as it reacted fizzingly with the concrete muck, when some went under our washer. uh oh. Did I just dissolve our washer? I stopped mopping and waited for the whole contraption to collase with a bang for which I'd have to come up with a satisfactory explanation.
Instead, all that happened was out came a single cockroach, his six, eight, forty little legs a smokin' like Marge Schott at the tail end of a double header that has gone into extra innings. I confess, not only did I not leap to the critter's aid, but I laughed cruelly as I watched the varmint perform his Wicked Witch O' the West impersonation. I haven't had that much mean-spirited glee since I was 10 years old, the day Anthillville was visited by The Giant Magnifying Glass from OuterSpace.
Twenty four hours later, the cleaning agent had dried, all that was left of Mr. Cocka Roach was a crispy hull of a shell that looked a little like, but probably tasted nothing like a Frito. It was time to move on to the next task -- applying the linoleum.
Now, the product was labeled something like "Quick and Easy" which is ideal for a simpleton like me. The mission: 150 1'-square tiles, self-adhesing for my convenience. And it was quick and easy. I was able to do the entire 150 square feet in under 3 hours, which while remedial for most, was acceptable for me. What they didn't tell me, though, was that those tiles were sure sticky. About halfway through box 2 of 4, I had as much adhesive on me as I did the tiles. I was soon re-enacting my soliloquy of Sylvester the Cat in the Glue Factory getting paper stuck on my hand, then getting it stuck to the other hand as I tried to remove it, then getting it stuck to my face as I tried to gnaw it off my two sticky hands. I was so thankful my son was busy playing upstairs so as not to see me and have his entire image of me shattered.
And while I can edit the bejeebers out of just about any document placed in front of me, my knack for detail work doesn't necessarily translate into the home improvement world. All one has to do for proof is look at the cut work I performed on the tile. My loving wife assured me that most of it would be covered by desks, bookcases, and as many throw rugs necessary to hide my handiwork.
So now that its all said and done, we've got a pretty decent 15X10 area of basement concrete covered by linoleum tile that looks suprisingly like
...concrete.
The other task that didn't go quite so well was the attempt to move my living room cable outlet an amazingly important four feet, from one side of a door to the other. after cutting out a hole using a drywall saw specially purchased for the project, and inserting a new box specially purchased for the project, and preparing the cable and the faceplate --each specially purchased for the project, I climbed up into the attic, and drilled a 5/8th-inch hole through six inches of wall beam using a new bit specially purchased for the project (and my attic, by the way, was so stinkin' hot that even Dusty Baker would have thought it was hot), only to discover that my cable does NOT run through the walls accessed by the ceiling, but instead through the floor, concealed by the finished garage....
it was almost enough to make a man
So....up next is putting my "home office" back on the tile, and stocking some of my bookshelves. Then, I tackle putting down carpet on the other half of the basement. And I already know that chore will be accomplished famously well because the phone number to Lowe's Installation team is already on our speed dial.
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