movies

The younger brother writes the movie review column for his

college paper. He's asked his immediate family to contribute

their top ten movies of the year. So I will shortly be

published in the illustrious scarlet and black. My movie

picks & two-bit analysis:



1. Before Sunset

2. Bad Education

3. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

4. Hero (yes, technically 2003 - but it went

into wider release in 2004.)

5. Story of the Weeping Camel

6. Supersize Me

7. The Motorcycle Diaries

8. Garden State

9. Saved! (really, only the first three quarters)

10. Spider-Man 2



Analysis: I didn't see many of the movies on other

folks lists.  (It's hard to go out to the movies with

Movie Madness only a few blocks away & the good ones

aren't at the $3 movies yet.)



I like movies that are about young adults.  I like

movies that aren't in English. I like Gael Garcia

Bernal.

the big whimper

Today was going to be a big day. By this time of night, things were going to be a bit more settled and resolved (or at least moving in that direction). . .

I was going to talk to He Who Shall Not Be Named this morning and get coffee W this evening. Facing both of my unresolved boy issues in a 10 hour span. Amazing. Brilliant. I was going to figure out where I am emotionally and begin the week more in control.

. . . but that didn't happen.

I did see He Who Shall Not Be Named this morning - he would have been hard to miss, up in front of the church in the choir. During the coffee hour between services, I figured we would talk. As I rode the bus downtown, mentally reheasing the conversation we would have, I realized that I couldn't initiate it. It's bad form to walk up to someone and say, "I am too angry with you for you to be in my life right now." The object of my anger has to initiate the conversation, so I know that he actually wants to be in my life. Anything else is presumptious & involves seeking someone out just to insult them. I don't want to be that woman. So, needless to say, he never spoke to me. I didn't even see him milling about drinking coffee, not that I was spending a large amount of time looking for him.

I called W yesterday to set up coffee. I need to figure out if it is worth attempting the friendship thing - I want him to be a decent friend because I'll need some with E moving away, to prove my initial judgements correct, & because it seems like a waste to throw away the time I spent learning about him & figuring him out. We talked while he was at a party & he complained of being sick. (That kid is great at not being present with the people in his company - it is a bit reassurring to realize that he is like that towards everyone.) Unsurprisingly, he is still sick today & was not up for coffee. I watched City of God - rent it, everyone - and put off the angst until our rescheduled coffee on Tuesday.

And to add a bit more (any?) excitement to the day, I scheduled in what some cultures would be considered a date for tomorrow. An unchaperoned woman drinking coffee in a public place with a man she is not related to. In Egypt, that would make me his fiance, if I remember correctly. In freedom-land, it's just coffee, albeit with a man I don't know too well & am intrigued by. I haven't held a just-him-and-me conversation with him for more than a few minutes. . . here's hoping it can be done & isn't too painful.

rising waters

Last night, I saw the documentary Rising Waters. It was about imminent disappearance of islands in the South Pacific. As the climate changes, the sea level will rise (melting glaciers & icebergs & warmer water expands). Many island nations in the Pacific rise only a few feet above sea level. They will be underwater in a few years. The film focuses on folks from Samoa, the Marshall Islands, and Kiribati. (which I learned is pronounced Kira-bash - such an uneducated Take Off player I was.) The president of Kiribati says that his government is bothering to invest in infrastructure because they will have to evacuate within a few years - they are losing their aquifers. What's the point of having a new school if no one will be able to live there?

The movie shows delegates from these island states at the Rio, Kyoto, & Bonn environmental summits. They explain to the their fellow diplomats that if the emissions of greenhouse gases does not decrease by 60-80% immediately, their countries will go under (literally). No one hears them. They say that they need to burn fossil fuels so economies will expand, so people will have jobs. And that is more valuable than whole countries, cultures, ways of life that have persisted for thousands of years, unique flora & fauna, etc. etc. etc.

So I am outraged at our arrogance. There is a scene in the movie in which a Samoan climatologist is visiting an American collegue in New York City. He points out that Manhattan is an island. Shouldn't New Yorkers be worried about rising sea levels? He asks. His collegue replies that people don't notice the ocean beside them & that the land is so valuable that people will just keep building higher and higher sea walls. That no one cares enough to build sea walls for Samoa is left unsaid.

And what am I doing about it? not much. I don't drive, so I can feel a bit superior, but I did ask E to pick me up from work on Friday, not wanting to ride in the rain. I am sitting in my heated, well-lighted bedroom typing away on my energy-consuming laptop. I just had some orange juice, which had to be processed and transported hundred of miles to my cold climate. I am complicit in this climate change, like in so many other things that I disagree with. And what am I doing about it? Not much. I don't know if there is a way to reconcile my good intentions with my desire for a comfortable life. I shall try.

doctor's notes

I went to the doctor's office tonight. I had to wait for over an hour, which was surprisingly okay. I almost finished Barack Obama's book. It is fascinating. He cemented his place as my imaginary political boyfriend. [Not to be confused with my imaginary boyfriends in other fields: radio (Ira Glass), tv (Jon Stewart), comics (Craig Thompson), and movies (Johnny Depp & Gael Garcia Bernal).] The man can write.

I had a doctor's appointment a month ago. I got a Plan B perscription - mostly because I had money to spend on medical things before the end of the year & had just read an article suggesting that women should keep Plan B on hand, just in case, for themselves or to be a superheroine for a friend in crisis. It was interesting to see the looks the pharmacists gave me as I picked up the pills. The doctor that I spoke with then encouraged me to set up an appointment to talk further about contraception. . . that was part of tonight's appointment.

I felt a bit pathetic in this sterile doctor's office, with a Bill Nye don't-overuse-antibiotics poster on the wall, telling my white lab-coated physician and her shadowing medical student that I am no longer dating anyone and don't think contraception will be much of an issue for me in the short term. The medical student assured me that I am young and there are plenty of fish in the sea. . . and that I should come back to talk about contraception after I've found someone new. . . It was very sweet, but I'm not fond of stranger's pity.

romance novels

Last night, I found myself reading aloud an unhot virginity-losing sex scene from The Pirate Prince, my new favorite historical romance novel, as E did the dishes and L and DM chuckled uncomfortably.

I had not experienced the historical romance novel until a few years ago. A friend bought one at a Goodwill in preparation for a cross-country drive. Passion's Thunder, the story of a rugged engineer and a stubborn woman set in Wyoming during the construction of the railroad, gave all five of us in that crowded Saab something to chuckle about. Chicago traffic shall always remind me of a horrible horrible sex scene in which the heroine says 'no' and the hero keeps going because he knows she really wants it. And after it's over, she realizes she really did want it. D, who was on that drive gave me Cowboy Enchantment for my birthday last year. I read it aloud with friends while cooking dinner in my house & waiting in line for Fahrenheit 9/11 last summer.

These novels fascinate me. They are porn for women, as best I can tell, but I am not their target market. At least I hope not. They peddle fantasies foreign to me. I don't want to be swept off my feet by a cowboy with the help of a talking cat channeling the spirit of a dead priest. (That is the plot of Cowboy Enchantment.) Maybe I am wired differently or maybe the sex-positive feminist messages I have absorbed altered my personal fairy tales, but I have no desire for a ruggedly handsome man with a dark past to 'plunder my treasure.' (the euphemisms in these books also amaze me.) I prefer my heroes to be nerdy and not so virile. Reading these novel, aside from letting me rage at the historical inaccuracies, racism, & horrible writing, gives me a bit of insight into the culture that surrounds me, much like my post-election reading of the Left-Behind series did.

produce day

My pants are sticky with apple drippings and there are mushroom remnants under my fingernails & sushi is for dinner tonight; things are okay.

today is produce day at work: 2 hours of distributing free produce. Half of me loves produce day: it is satisfying to hand food directly to people who need it. The folks who show up, mainly elderly immigrants, are nice to me & we make jokes in their limited English and my non-existant Russian & Vietnamese. One of them gave me a dollar for helping her get garbage bags full of potatoes, spinach, and artichokes to her car. The morning goes quickly & there is enough work for my interns to do.

. . . but it can be frustrating. It is hard to watch coworkers try to interact with people whose English speaking ability is limited. They become ugly Americans. Most of them think that talking louder will make people understand them & it doesn't. Little old babuskas shouldn't be yelled at. And unfunny jokes are made about how the Russians get in line at 7:30 for a 10 starting time. There are only so many times that I can explain that these people get in line because that was what one did in the USSR. Shortages were a way of life. They needed to get in line early if they were going to get anything. and to some people such things are funny. And people freak out when folks go through the produce line twice. It doesn't matter. If someone is willing to put up with my coworkers' detective acts, they obviously need the food. We have more than enough vegetables for everyone. [I am now trying to figure out how to get rid of a pallet of broccoli & boxes of artichokes & spinach.]

I am working to get an acquaintance to give my coworkers some sort of 'how to interact with immigrants' training. . . I need to get a job where I can stand my coworkers.

theology 101

So I've started a 'build your own theology' class at my church. I feel like I need to figure out the words to articulate what I sense. It would be good for me to step outside myself a bit & ponder 'the big things.'

So far, I don't know if it's a good fit. During the first class, my classmates, all much closer to my parents age than my own, wanted to discuss their traumatic Christian childhoods, whether they believe in a conscious or unconscious gods, and if creationism and evolution can be reconciled. None of which is what I am after.

I want to learn why theology matters to others and to figure out if it should matter to me. My faith has always been about praxis. I'm still not convinced that what I believe matters; it's what I do with my energies that count. I can be kind and thoughtful, 'a good christian,' 'godlike,' in my interactions with others without knowing if there is a god or not. I am tiny. If there is a god, it doesn't depend upon my belief to keep on with its work. I believe that if I am to be judged by something or someone ages hence, it will be based on my actions, not on my acceptance of theological minutiae. Spending time pondering such things seems like so much mental masturbation: enjoyable but fleeting, it shrinks the world to a scale in which I actually matter. Wouldn't be a better use of my religious energy to work towards good ends guided by general principles than to develop a fully articulated theology?

maybe the next four classes will given me a some clarity, purpose, comfort and peace, that is what the instructor said theology is good for.

I am not a pedophile

So E had four big crushes this fall. One of them she got over on her own. One told her he lusted after her good friend. I started dating one - W. And the final remaining crush (who she swears she isn't attracted to anymore) is having coffee with her today(!). Last night, we were recapping this whole situation & E shared this thought:

"I could never date W. He has the emotional maturity of a 14 year old. That would make me a pedophile."

to sleep; perchance to dream

vivid dreams last night. some images that have not yet faded:

In an evergreen forest, a woman walks away from the smoldering ashes of a small airplane. She climbs to the top of a fir and wails with dispair. "I'm the only one who took the northern route," she realizes.

A very rickety raft, a bit reminiscent of the one's that take you to Disneyland's Tom Sawyer Island, out of sight of land. It is full of people & sits barely an inch above the water. The winds pick up & the sea get rougher. Waves start to break over the raft.

A pure white owl flying straight towards me, wings outstretched, with a very knowing look in its yellow eyes.

Some sort of super-complicated romantic between me, a best friend (the woman from the plane crash mentioned earlier) her fiance, and his brother, none of whom are people I know in my waking life. I don't remember the details - there was some sex, I know. I remember people telling me that I am conniving and that everything was my fault. and I knew they were right.

dark night of the soul

Yesterday, my minister preached on dark nights of the soul. . . times of grief and loss and sadness. One needs to experience them, not because it makes you stronger in the long run or anything as tritely inspiring as that, but because they're real. They don't hold lessons, but if a dark night is where your emotions are taking you, it shouldn't be denied. As she spoke & upon further rumination, I recognize that I'm having one right now. She used examples like the loss of a child in her sermon. I'm not self-absorbed enough to think that I am experiencing anything on par with that. For my relatively attachment-free life, I have experienced some significant blows recently, ones that make me re-examine intended future path and my self-concept.

I'm sad and mourning a bit and have reason to be. I know that happiness will come back within a few weeks. I'm trying to sit with my sadness and see what comes of it, not to force it away, and not to let it color my interactions with others too much. To sleep a lot and take good care of myself. A challenge, to be sure.

I've never seen much value in sadness before & have always tried to keep myself even-keeled emotionally. It's a scary to not put on a happy face, to tell people in my life that 2005 isn't yet going as I would hope it to, that I am not 'fine,' to let others know that I am not as together as I would hope to be. I'm finding sympathy and empathy, which is reassuring and strengthening. As E said recently, "what's the point of having friend if you don't tell them when you're sad?"

Point taken, and I shall see what comes of it.

He Who Shall Not Be Named strikes again

I ran into He Who Shall Not Be Named yesterday. I'm realizing the whole 'love your enemies' thing that seems to work for Jesus, isn't working for me. We chatted briefly. He asked about my foreign service stuff. I told him that I felt good about my performance, but it wasn't good enough. And he said "well, I couldn't picture you in Mongolia, anyway." I don't think he noticed the anger and pain flash in my eyes. I am generally good at masking such things. I wanted to punch him, but as we were in a house of worship, I couldn't.

Who is he to presume to know my desires and abilities better than I do? Why do I let his words cut me to the quick?

I thought that despite the pain he has put me through I could rise above it, that I could be better and kinder than he is, that I could at least be cordial on the rare occassions that we see each other. I am realizing that I can't. I have still ceded him the power to hurt me and I am not quite sure how to take it back. Intellectually, I can see that he is not someone who should matter in my life, that he is an unfortunate episode, a learning experience, and that the epic saga of him becomes more amusing, absurd, outrageous, with each passing day. But my stomach still jumps a bit when I see him. I'm sure he isn't rehashing our maybe five minute long conversation.

We are not on good terms and false pleasantries ring hollow. He either needs to be out of my life completely or we need to have it out. I am steeling myself up to tell him so the next time we run into each other - church next week? I can't fake a friendliness that I don't feel. . . it doesn't even make me feel superior anymore.

firing part two

The intern I fired yesterday came in to my work this afternoon. It was horrible. She brought her young boys with her. She yelled at me, calling me unprofessional and telling me that I think I'm better than everyone else. And her children watched, learning that such things are acceptable. I tried to speak calmly to her, to explain how she could have handled our interaction better yesterday. . . but she kept escalating, kept yelling. I wished her a happy weekend and walked away.

those poor boys.

and rumors are starting to pop up about this woman. . . apparently she would bring all sorts of things in to work: candy, diapers, etc. to try to sell to other interns, explaining that she shoplifted them. . . it doesn't help her case.

me as portland tour guide

My good friend D is in town, a friend from college that I haven't seen in almost 2 years, one of my favorite people.

He's never been to Portland before, so I've been showing him the town. . . and I'm realizing that Portland is a better place for residents than for visitors. I love Portland; it ranks with Cairo as a favorite city that I have lived in, but there is very few "you're going to Portland & you must see. . ." type things. Powell's of course, but what else? The people at the visitors information desk that D visited yesterday afternoon suggested the Pendelton Store, Niketown, the Chinese Garden, & NW 23rd, none of which I think are very interesting (okay, so NW 23rd is the only one on that list that I have actually visited, maybe the Pendelton store is awesome.).

My favorite places are great & I love them, but they are not spectacular: the extinct volcano in my neighborhood, the fabulous movie rental place full of movie memorabilia, the Seventh Day Adventist grocery, the Indian grocery, the British grocery, the cafe that has shisha pipes, some parks & gardens, the $3 movies, various coffeeshops, the downtown library, the enormous fabric store, a few restaurants, a few second-hand stores, some bars, some bookstores. I love all of these places & showing them to people lets them see what my life is here, but they don't lend themselves super-well to visitors. 'Yeah, I went to Portland and I saw a movie & went to a coffeeshop & store' is not what I want my friends who visit to share when they return home. I want them to sing Portland's amazingness & move here to share it with me.

D is impressed by the public transportation & the friendliness of folks here, but he's comparing it to Hartford, so I don't think that's a particularly ringing endorsement.

firing

I fired an unpaid intern yesterday. Someone who is unpaid has to do something pretty bad to get fired. She stole from the food bank. Have you no shame? We give stuff away for free. All you have to do is ask. (& answer a mighty intrusive series of questions - I don't understand why we need to know someone's marital status before we can give them a box of cereal or a few cans of soup, but that isn't my department.)

She said that she brought this huge bag of diapers from home & was taking them to her friend. . . except a coworker saw her come in & she wasn't carrying the diapers. . . she couldn't produce a reciept. . . her story started falling apart. . . she started yelling & getting super defensive. She said that some interns, ones who had already gone home for the day conviniently, saw her bring the stuff in. I suggested that she leave the garbage bag brimming with diapers here overnight & we would talk with those ladies tomorrow & see if they could vouch for her. She refused. I told her that if she left with the diapers, she shouldn't come back. She left, carrying the bag of diapers. Such a powerplay, I know. I'm not proud.

I hate being the asshole boss & generally, I'm not. My interns aren't paid, so I don't expect tremendous efforts from them. I think that's fair. There's been times that I've told them, 'as long as you look busy, we'll be okay.' I think that is a good work skill to pick up. [look at me furiously typing away with great concentration - coworkers think I'm doing something work-related, I'm sure.] And I usually give people choices about what they do. Granted, sometimes the choice is between sweeping the floor, washing the wall, and picking up garbage outside, but its a choice. I let people listen to the radio of their choice - there would probably be a riot if I enforced my desired all day every day NPR marathon. So I'm not a terrible boss, at least most of the time. . . right?

some improvement

I now believe in the healing powers of girly drinks and sunrises. . .

Last night, E & I went to Mint, purveyor of pricey, delicious, elaborate, alcohol. We were facied up, I wore my new dress with a poufy skirt that makes me feel like a '50s housewife. We were the only ones in the place, as we sipped drinks fashioned with blueberry puree, mint, & other girly girly ingredients. And recounting awful boy stories & having sympathy pour in via E's live journal posting is good & comforting.

F gave me permission for 3 days of boys-are-dumb bitterness. I don't think I will need all of it.

The sky was so beautiful this morning as I rode to work. I nearly cried. I marveled at the pink-blue-purple-orange sky while stopped at traffic lights. It was amazing.

And it is warm: over 60 degrees yesterday and today. My fingers weren't aching after my bike ride. No wool sweaters, tights under my pants, multiple layers today.

And that is good. . . and things are looking up. . . and D is coming tomorrow. . . and I am happier. . .

unflattering

I have realized that every boy I kissed in 2004 was pining for someone else during at least part of our relationship. . .

breakup, in one act

Characters: me & W, a boy that I've been dating since late October

Scene: my bedroom, the two characters in the bed, post-makeout, in various states of undress

W [initiating conversation]: I'm so confused about my life: jobs, relationships, everything. When I was home for Christmas, I saw a lot of my friends who are now getting married. They seem so happy. . . I like the idea of going through life with someone. . . It was good to see my ex-girlfriend when I was in San Francisco a few weeks back. . . I spent a lot of time with her & it was good. . . we've had a tortured relationship. . . we were best friends freshman year & then dated some & stopped talking to each other for months at a time. We tried to be friends and that didn't work. She's the only person I've ever been in love with.

Me: So, do you feel like when the stars all align correctly, you'll end up together?

W: Maybe. I mean, we have very different goals for our future. I want to have kids; she doesn't [insert more examples of impossible-to-reconcile goals here]. . .

Me: Are you still in love with her?

W: Yes. I think so. It's love and affection and nostalgia tied together. She's the only person I've ever been in love with. I'm not sure how it's supposed to feel. [long pause] Rachel, what are you thinking?

Me: I'm not sure yet. This changes things between us, but I'm not sure how yet. How did you expect me to react?

W: Hurt and angry, I guess. Anything you feel is justified and I probably deserve it.

[long pause]

Me: Thank you for telling me about this. . .I know we never made any promises to each other. . . . So, has this love for her been in the front of your mind since graduation or is it something that you hadn't thought of & were reminded of when you saw her?

W: I hadn't thought of her much at all. . . I thought that by doing other things & being with someone else I would be able to move on, forget.

Me: The next time you need to work on your issues, please do not involve others like this. It is unfair & unethical. . . So why did you make out with me tonight if you were planning to tell me all of this afterwards?

W: I wasn't planning to tell you. . . [long pause.] I know we didn't make promises to each other, but I am sorry. I want you to know that I respect you and am attracted to you and enjoy your company. And I hope that we can be friends.

[W kisses me on the arm & gets up to leave.]

Me: Wait for me to call you, okay?

W: Sure. Goodnight.

Me: Goodnight.

End Scene

W leaves. I talk with E about it all. Plans are made for a public shunning & possibly a directory of boys not worth kissing. I call F,R, & M, as I eat Andes mints. They are all suitably outraged by the actions of this cad.

too much information

As I was describing the expected itinerary of my just-finished trip to the Bay Area last week (oral assessment, much visiting of friends, pirate shop @ 826 Valencia, Good Vibrations, maybe some dinosaur bones), a friend asked if I could buy her birthday present at Good Vibrations. And so I did. . .

It was very strange walking around the store, testing vibrators on my hand, speculating as to what would give her the most pleasure. Before this experience, I couldn't imagine buying a vibrator for someone else . I still would never want someone else to pick out one for me. While I want all of my friends to be sexually fulfilled, I want minimal information on the mechanics of their masturbation. And with this friend, I no longer have that option. I know exactly what her new vibrator looks like, how it works, etc. etc. etc. . . . She offered to give me details on its performance; I told her a thumbs up or thumbs down would suffice.

. . . I definitely get karma points for being a good friend.

failure

I will not be a foreign service officer any time soon. I did not pass my oral assessment last Friday. I needed a 5.25 out of 7. I got 4.8. It is bizarre that an interview, a presentation, a group discussion, & a written memo can be distilled into numbers, but they can and mine weren't good enough.

I'm not one who fails often. I got good grades in school and recieve good performance reviews at work. I win at board games. A good friend recently called me one of the smartest people he knows. When I don't succeed at something, I can usually explain it: I didn't work very hard at it, I didn't want it too much, etc. etc. The only easy explanation for this is that I wasn't good enough.

And failure isn't as scary or as painful as I would have expected. I haven't cried - I got a bit misty of the streets of San Francisco, but it passed quickly. I've started telling people not to pack their bags to visit me in Botswana next year. Spreading the word about not being accepted was the piece that I was most worried about. So much of my self-identity is tied up with being good at things. I was worried that others would think less of me for not succeeding. So far, I am not embarrassed. I reached for something that was a bit beyond my grasp: 19,000 people took the written exam last year; 3,000 get orally assessed for, at most, 700 spots. It is one of the most competitive things I know of. It is hard to do and I am learning that there isn't much shame in reaching for something & coming up short.

"I'm working my way through the foreign service application process" has been my answer to the inevitable 'what are you going to be when you grow up?' queries for the past year. I need to come up with something new. . .

inshallah, I have an interview tomorrow.

happy dances

Last night was full of happy dances - this is not a metaphor, I was dancing for joy:

*dance one: finishing my statement of interest for the Foreign Service. With much editing help from E, I managed to make thoughts such as, "I really like the USA," and "please, please give me this job" become articulate & impressively written.

*dance two: E's crush came back to this hemisphere & called her. They're doing coffee later today. hooray & I anticipate much opportunities for teasing.

*dance three: an employer I would love to have keeps calling me. They're interviewing for a position late today & tomorrow - I can't make those times, but they are rearranging schedules to meet with me next week. I had an informational interview with them in October & the woman I talked to then is the one arranging this interview & remembers who I am. Maybe those thank you notes paid off. . . If I can make this work, I might be in Portland for quite a while. . .

worth losing my job over

When I was hired by my Catholic charity employer, I had to sign a statement that said I would not contradict the teaching of the catholic church during work hours. The human resources director who has since become my supervisor explained that I wouldn't be able to tell people to go to Planned Parenthood or pro-death penalty rallies. While there is a lot about Catholicism that I admire, I have my disagreements with the Pope. Thus far, my violation of my pledge has been conversations with coworkers - I've defended same-sex marriage many many times. But the executive director has echoed me in such conversations, so my job never felt jeopardized.

Today, would probably be a different story. This morning, one of the interns I supervise (not the herpes-infected one mentioned previously), spoke to me about missing work later this afternoon. She said she had to get something checked out & Planned Parenthood was the only place she knew that would do it. She told me that she'd have to leave quite early, as Planned Parenthood is across town. I told her of one about 20 blocks from my workplace. I found their website & printed my intern bus directions to get there. I was happy to save her the time & energy of an unneccessary 1.5 hour each way bus ride.

How can an employer tell me what sort of legal medical services I can help people access? Especially since they are paying for my access to such services through my health insurance.
Hypocrites.

Thankfully I have two interviews in the next week for jobs that I would love. . .

I [heart] planning for retirement

the financial planner my work has a contract with, K, is so beautiful I sometimes forget to breathe. He's stunning in a way people I see in real life aren't. Only movies stars employing personal stylist and primping for hours look like that. But K doesn't look artificial like famous people do.

I had a one-on-one meeting with him yesterday to set up my retirement plan. My understanding of stocks, funds, compound interest, etc. is not as good as I want it to be. Looking at him across the table, I had to keep reminding myself to pay attention to the words coming out of his mouth, not just his beautiful mouth. So I didn't learn much. It all felt very out of character - I am not usually that girl. I usually can focus when I need to. Boys usually don't get to me like that. So I tried to ask intelligent questions, mostly to prolong the meeting. . . and my stomach dropped when he said things like, "young people like us have different needs than your coworkers." Sure, he was only talking about smart investments. . . but it doesn't always take much for me to start concocting silly fantasies.

I'm meeting with him again next Tuesday. . . I need to review all of the information he gave me this weekend; I want to end up with a retirement plan that is a good fit, not whatever I agree to while I am distracted.

jesus= one smart fellow

I teach seventh grade sunday school at the Unitarian church downtown. We' re focusing on the historical Jesus right now. My bible & biblical history knowledge is mighty limited. I read the curicullum the day before it's taught & hope to keep one step ahead of the twelve year olds.

This Sunday, we did our third lesson on the sermon on the mount (it wasn't really one sermon - just a collection of his teachings amalgamated, scholars say.) We talked about "loving your enemies," which is such a hard concept - the examples of loving one who hates you are so few & far between in this world.

I my preparation for the lesson, I learned that in it's context, Jesus's sermon is all about the non-violent revolution:

"Do not resist one who is evil. But if any one strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the other also (Mathew 5:39 - RSV)":
To hit someone on their right cheek, you have to use your left hand. In Jesus's Palestine, the left hand was used for unclean tasks. (Not everyone has toilet paper, my co-teacher explained.) Superiors hit their inferiors with their left hand, to say, "stop being uppity." The Roman occupiers of Palestine yielded absolute power over the Jews, the folks Jesus was talking to. The Romans could kill Jews for any slight provocation. To turn the other cheek isn't to let someone beat you up, it's to say 'at least hit me like an equal, acknowledge my humanity' in a circumstance when there are few other options.

"And if anyone forces you to go one mile, go with him two miles (Mathew 5:41)." :
In occupied Palestine, a Roman soldier could command anyone to carry their pack for a mile, but the soldier would be punished if they had people walk more than that. To go the extra mile isn't to be extra nice to someone. It's all about getting the soldiers punished.

I feel a bit cheated that I didn't know all of this context before. . . so Jesus was a liberal . . .

it is unprofessional to. . .

one of my interns at work called out last week. I asked why she wasn't going to make it in & she proceeded to describe in detail her latest genital herpes outbreak: swelling, color, painfulness. . . ouch. . . wow. . . She's only been working with me for a week. I can't imagine sharing such information with a nearly stranger, but I suppose if you're on public assistance (as all of my interns are) you already have people prying into all of your personal information. . . what's the difference in sharing a bit more with someone else?

She hasn't made it back into work yet. The next time she comes in, I'm going to have to take her aside & tell her that it is rather unprofessional to discuss one's STDs with one's supervisor.

It should be almost as memorable as the talk I gave a few month back: it is unprofessional to throw pickles at one's coworkers.

greetings

welcome. So I now have a blog: another way to waste time at work, another tool for keeping in touch with folks. etc. etc. My fingers are crossed that it works.