Vertigo

Jonathan and I are staying at his brother and sister-in-law's house while we're in California. We were all sitting around enjoying a little bit of family time, watching Alfred Hitchcock's Vertigo. Two hours into the film, which is two hours and nine minutes long, we reached the stroke of midnight. And Netflix's Watch Now films changed. Vertigo was among the expired films. Probably the last nine minutes were full of excitement and high drama (according to what was happening and Wikipedia's plot summary). But now I'll never know.

Disturbing patterns

I mentioned earlier that some of my fears are irrational. Others, however, have a perfectly logical basis in fact and reasonable conjecture. One of these is driving on the freeway with Jonathan. Actually, I wasn't afraid of this until yesterday, and it wasn't anything he did that changed my mind. It was the number of skid marks all over the freeway. Approximately every five seconds, we came up on another pair. Sometimes they stayed in their lane, but more often they went off the side of the road. Some of the more adventurous/frightening ones sent up twelve inches on the barrier in the middle of the road, swiveled around in a serpentine pattern, or ended abruptly at the dropoff.

So there you have it. I have a new fear. At least this one makes sense.

The Rachel-Julia Project

Jonathan and I watched Julie & Julia a while ago. It's basically the story of a bored woman who hates her job and turns to cooking every dish in Julia Child's Mastering the Art of French Cooking. It also tells the story of how Julia Child learned to cook in France. Julie Powell wrote a blog about how her experience, and eventually became rich and famous and they made a book, then a movie of her life. Yay. They conveniently left out the part where she cheated on her husband throughout the entire experience and how she was whiny, crass, and vulgar. But that's the movie business. (Fans of A Beautiful Mind may be disappointed to know that Nash had a three-year-long affair that resulted in a child, and he abandoned both mother and child when the mother found out about Alicia. Alicia divorced him in 1962, although they did remain friendly.)

Anyway, inspired by the movie, and ignoring the boring and sordid details, Jon and I bought Julia Child's cookbook. Some of the recipes, such as solution for canned mushrooms, which is intended to make them taste more natural, seem a little outdated and impractical. Others sound really difficult to make. And others sound tasty. So earlier this week I made French onion soup. It turned out surprisingly well. If I had a name that made for a snappier sounding title, maybe I'd repeat the Julie-Julia Project, only without the whining and affair.

A(lien)IN(competence)T(heory)

The other day I found this website, which details the obvious incompetence of extraterrestrials. I suggest you read it. If you don't like following links, here are my favorite parts of the text.

One of the most significant issues in ufology today is the attempt to explain the wide variety of conflicting, confusing and bizarre elements of the UFO phenomenon.

In every subfield of ufological studies, there are aspects which strain the logic of even the most seasoned researcher and cause one to doubt the rationality of the genre.

To this end, a new theory has been developed by members of Ufology Research of Manitoba (UFOROM) which appears to explain most, if not all, of these baffling elements. The theory, labelled AINT, is the Alien INcompetency Theory, and describes how all the confusing aspects can be explained by assuming one simple tenet: aliens are incompetent!

One of the basic premises of alien abductions is the conscious recall by abductees of their experiences aboard alien spacecraft. Nearly all abductees report that during their ordeal, the aliens create some sort of mental block within their minds so that they cannot remember what has occurred. Yet, as evidenced by the huge number of abduction accounts published and under investigation, these mental blocks are ineffective.

This is odd, considering the advanced technology and knowledge reported to be held by the aliens. Some abductees report that their captors claim thousands of years of development beyond our own, yet they, too, have failed to produce a lasting screen memory that can withstand our feeble efforts to unlock it via simple hypnosis techniques duplicable by any charlatan or stage magician. Why would this be?

The most famous crash story is that of the Roswell incident, in which a flying saucer apparently crashed during an electrical storm in New Mexico in 1947. While researchers have spent many years tracking down witnesses and speculating as to where the ship might have done down, the obvious question has never been asked: Why did it crash in the first place? One only needs to consider accidents of terrestrial vehicles in order to realize the answer: pilot or driver error.

It would be truly remarkable to consider that an alien pilot who has navigated his (or her or its) craft through interstellar space using highly-advanced technology and propulsion would be unable to maintain level flight through a mere thunderstorm. There is only one reasonable and possible explanation: the pilot was incompetent. Considering the large number of saucer crashes now claimed by researchers, it would seem that many aliens have difficulty flying their vehicles. Surely this could imply that many are incompetent.

We also can look at examples in areas other than space science. Why would politicians lobby for tighter controls on cigarettes because of cancer dangers, but pass bills that would subsidize farmers to grow tobacco? Why do bureaucrats create subcommittees to investigate wastes of time and taxpayers' money? Why would politicians sponsor a covert activity to break into a psychiatrist's office in a hotel? (For that matter, why would people vote for politicians, knowing their track records for honesty and integrity?) Why can't my subscription to a magazine get renewed, even when I send the check in four months before the subscription expires? And why are 60% of all automobiles recalled by the manufacturer during the first year they are on the road?

The answer, of course, is incompetence. Bureaucratic bungling, political wrangling and general ineptitude are responsible for most of the problems in the world today. Politicians and bureaucrats create such confusion that it is clear they themselves have no idea what they are doing.

Now, imagine a highly-evolved technical civilization on a distant planet. Its society functions well, with the exception of a comparatively small number of its population. These would no doubt be their most ineffective politicians and bureaucrats. What better way to remove them from the general gene pool and workforce than to send them off on interstellar voyages that, with relativity, would return them many, many years later, if at all?

Because they are incompetent, they would be confused as to their mission. They would be clumsy pilots and navigators and, because they lack the true knowledge of their society, they would be unable to tell anyone anything about their purpose or scientific capability with any degree of understanding or common sense.

Productive

Yesterday the power went off over a large-ish chunk of Provo. Our apartment was included in that chunk. You would be surprised how dark it gets in a basement apartment when the power is off. That left me with two options--sitting in the dark with no internet or electricity, or going outside. I chose the former. Just kidding, I chose the latter.

I walked over to the Social Security office to officially change my last name. The people there were kind of sketchy. There was one guy who was pretty scary. Every visible inch of his arms was covered in tattoos. His fingers said 2054 HILL (one digit/letter on each finger). He had three teardrops tattooed by his eye. And he kept looking at me.

Another lady was yelling at the Social Security people about changing her name. Apparently she didn't have the correct paperwork, but she needed it changed. "That person is not me! I've been married three times since that! Now I'm divorced and I need to change my name again!" There were pregnant ladies yelling at their children and loud old people on the phone insisting that whatever the other conversational party was doing was illegal.

After that, I went to the store, then came back home. By that time the power was back on, so I was able to return to my regularly scheduled life. Actually, I made soup for dinner, then went to work, got hit over the head with a mop, and came home again. It was a pretty decent day, all things considered. Unless that's the head injury talking.

How I ruined everything forever

On Saturday, Jonathan and I ran to the store. We had a gift certificate, so we were excited to make some completely guilt-free purchases. As we were checking out, I noticed a cob of popcorn. I love popcorn, so even though Jonathan hates it, we bought it.

Last night Jonathan suggested we pop the cob of popcorn. So I did. Unfortunately, popcorn on the cob doesn't tend to pop very evenly. The directions said to wait until popping slowed to one every two to three seconds. So I waited until it slowed to one every second. Then I removed the bag from the microwave. An acrid smell filled the kitchen.

I dumped the half properly popped, half burnt popcorn into a bowl and took it into the room where we were watching Firefly. The acrid smell followed. And it turns out that, unfortunately, the burnt smell and taste transferred to the white popcorn also. It was the worst tasting popcorn I have ever had, including the nasty movie theater popcorn that tastes like chemical butter.

We set the bowl aside and kept watching for awhile. Soon it became apparent that 1) we needed to eat something else to get the burnt taste out of our mouths and 2) we should probably move the bowl of popcorn to a different room, because it smelled really bad.

We lit a candle, threw away the popcorn, and ate some mints, but it was to no avail. The popcorn lingered. As we went to sleep, Jonathan asked why I had "ruined everything forever". As is so often the case, it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Circular

Identity is a funny thing. I know who I am, and my friends and family know who I am. But nothing will really prove that I am the person who doesn't like balloons and studies chemical engineering and likes to bake, and the government and other official organizations don't really care about that. They just want to see "proof" that I am Rachel Bohman/Reddoch (I was going to try to change my name today, but it's kind of snowy. And who wants to go out in the snow? Not me.)

Asking for proof runs into circular reasoning. There are a few types of generally accepted IDs. I have my passport, my driver's license, my social security card, and my birth certificate. Some people have military IDs, government IDs, or naturalization records, but those don't apply here. And I'm sure people who have them run into the same problems I do.

To get my passport, I needed my birth certificate and driver's license. To get my driver's license, I needed my social security card and passport. To get my social security card, which I lose frequently, I needed my driver's license and birth certificate. I suppose the thinking is that if you have any two of the four, you are who you claim to be. If you don't, you have to resort to "secondary documents" (insurance card, school/employee ID, credit cards, etc.).

I understand their concern, but I think at this point I should just be able to show my passport for everything. It proves I have a driver's license and birth certificate, which proves I have a social security card. Think of the bureaucracy we could save. If that doesn't convince you, think of the time waiting in line we could save. And that's something we can all get behind.

How the Grinch stole Friday

I work three hours a day cleaning carpets. It's not a terribly exciting job, but it could be a lot worse, and I have a great boss. Her favorite thing to do is take care of people. So when her children grew up and moved out, she started working at BYU so she could continue taking care of starving college students.

Every day she brings us dessert and we sit and talk and eat for half an hour before starting work. She talks about her grandchildren and her dogs and shows us pictures, and it's fantastic. And every Friday, she likes to cook us a huge meal and tell us to invite any friends or family who are nearby who would appreciate a home-cooked meal. She brings salad and reminds us that we need to have vegetables in our system. The Friday night meals are the best perk of the job.

However, one of my coworkers was apparently not as thrilled with this arrangement as I was. He started needling the boss about doing potlucks instead. "Isn't it too much work cooking for all of us?" "Oh, no. I like it." "Doesn't it get expensive?" "Oh, no. I don't mind." "We feel bad taking your food."

If there is one thing the boss doesn't want to do, it's make people feel bad. She announced that she would be doing potlucks. Was that OK with everyone?

At this point, I faced a dilemma. I really, really would rather have my Friday meals cooked for me. But there is absolutely no way to say that without sounding incredibly selfish. Either everyone else secretly wished for potlucks, or they felt the same way I did. (I suspect the latter.)

A sign-up sheet went up. Vocal supporter coworker and I signed up to bring things. Nobody else did(this is why I suspect they weren't ecstatic about the potluck plan). The boss made dinner, minus cheese, lettuce, and onions. So hopefully the potluck idea will atrophy. If not, I'll know that I've picked up Jonathan's bad luck with potlucks.

Life in the basement

Some of you (not many, admittedly) may be wondering what my life is like.

Jonathan and I are currently subleasing a basement apartment that we found on Craigslist. When we came to look at it for the first time, the first thing I noticed was the ceiling height. I am about a quarter inch shy of six feet. The ceiling in the living room and bedroom gives me 4.5" of clearance. In kitchen and bathroom I have a comfortable 6" of space between my head and the ceiling. And in the laundry room there are 7.5". The doorway is 2 inches lower than my head. This made me slightly claustrophobic, but we were getting desperate for a good, cheap apartment, so I assured Jonathan I could get used to low ceilings. True, mostly.

What else? We have monster bugs. Assuming the specimen we found was representative, they have 26 legs (or 24 legs and two sets of antenna) and are a little over an inch long. They make me ill, even though I have only seen one, and it was dead. Every day I live in fear of finding another one.

The door to the bathroom squeaks every time it closes. The first time I heard it, I thought a mouse had been squished. No mouse (fortunately). Just a squeaky door. It's kind of cute, I guess.

The bedroom door, on the other hand, makes a sound like the undead every time it is opened or closed.

As my internship doesn't start for another two weeks, I don't have very much to do. My to-do list today looks like this:

• Put away groceries we bought last night
• Take out the trash
• Watch the first two episodes of Firefly so I'll be caught up and Jon and I can watch the rest together

Exciting stuff, huh? Now, if you've been one of those wondering people, you can move on and occupy your thoughts with something more entertaining and worthwhile.

Jumpy

So, as those who are close to me know, I am a bit jumpier than your average cat that was just rescued from a rocking chair factory. This provides infinite entertainment for people who are not me.

When we were younger, one of Josh's favorite pastimes was scaring me every night. He would stand inside my bedroom/closet, and when I opened the door and turned on the light, he would jump out and yell "Bah!" I would shriek and jump a foot in the air. I knew Josh was there. I knew he would be jumping out. And it still honestly gave me a two-second heart attack every time.

One time I decided in advance to not get scared. So I turned on the light, looked at him, and said, "Hello, Josh." He yelled, "Bah!" I screamed and jumped a foot in the air.

When I had just moved to college, my roommate discovered I was jumpy. I believe the discovery was made in some innocuous way--I was concentrating on something, and she came in and said hello. I fell off my chair with a stifled scream and lay gasping for air (exaggerated a bit, but not much). After that, she took every opportunity to scare me. I would come home, unlock the door, and find a dark apartment. Blissfully unaware of things to come, I would go into our shared bedroom. She would spring forth from the walk-in closet, and hilarity (for her)/terror (for me) ensued.

Now my husband likes to scare me. Even though I always know where he is and, being of reasonable intelligence, can guess that he's going to scare me, it still works. I say, "Don't scare me right now." He jumps out and yells, "Bah!" I scream.

I will admit, if I weren't the one being given all kinds of cardiovascular workouts sans exercise, I would find it hilarious too. In fact, in retrospect (he totally got me) and even foresight (I know he's going to scare me again tonight, and the fact that I know makes no difference) it's funny. It's just for those two seconds when I feel like I'm having a heart attack that I don't appreciate my own jumpiness.

Guest blogger

Hi faithful blog readers! If you couldn't tell by the ridiculously cheery opening, this isn't Rachel. It's her sister Kristina! Huzzah! Hooray! Hallelujah! And other such happy words starting with H. And now for a story...

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful girl named Octavia. Not a princess, just a girl. Despite this disadvantage, she was still the fairest in all the land. Also the smartest, funniest, and overall amazing-est. Oh, and also the humblest. Really. She didn't care that she was far and away the best. She just wanted to get married. You might think it would be easy for such a beautiful and talented girl to get married, but that wasn't the case. All the men (and especially all the boys) were intimidated by her. This made Octavia very, very sad. The only silver lining was that at least she wasn't rich too, for that would be even more intimidating.
One day Octavia finally met a man who wasn't so awed by her that he was scared to talk to her. This was because he was already madly in love with a girl named Meg. Meg was nice enough, but this man, named Joseph, thought she was pretty much the greatest thing. Ever. Not just since toilet paper, not just since toast, not just since sliced bread. Ever. So when he saw Octavia, he thought she was nothing special, at least not compared with Meg. So, Joseph talked to her. He wasn't intimidated by her awesomeness, and decided he might as well start a conversation. After all, at this point in time neither cameras nor phones had been invented yet, so he thought he might as well talk to Octavia, because he couldn't call Meg, or even stare at a picture of her. So, Joseph said Hello to Octavia. Octavia was thrilled! This was the 1st boy outside of her family to ever talk to her reasonably and un-self-consciously! As they talked, it soon became apparent that along with all her other attributes, Octavia was also a great conversationalist, and very friendly. Soon the two became fast friends.
However, also soon, Meg moved. Previously she had lived in the country far away from the village Joseph was apprenticed to a shoemaker in, so Joseph had plenty of free time to talk with Octavia. But when Meg pursued him there, Joseph spent all his time with her. Little did he know she was just a gold-digger. And little did Meg know that shoe making isn't the most profitable business. But Joseph complimented her and gave her rhinestones he bought on credit, so she decided she could wait for him to give her diamonds he paid for in cash. Octavia looked on with dismay. She saw that Meg was no good for Joseph, and he would be much happier if he forgot her and moved on to someone else. Someone else like, oh, say, her! Because in the short time before Meg moved to the village, Octavia had fallen in love with Joseph. He was funny, hardworking, nice, and just an all-around good person. Unfortunately for Octavia, Joseph was too preoccupied with Meg to fall in love with Octavia. It was nothing but friendship on his side. Even worse was the fact that he would talk to Octavia about how much he loved Meg. Every time he did, Octavia felt like someone was stabbing her soul then twisting the knife. And then pouring salt on the wound.
Then came the fateful day. A nobleman came to town. Meg was beginning to realize that shoe-making wasn't the most horribly profitable business, and so when she saw this nobleman, she immediately began scheming about ways to get him to fall in love with her, because he could give her not only diamonds, but also rubies, pearls, sapphires, emeralds, gold, silver, the list goes on and on. Meg was wily, and in the short time the nobleman (Albert Charles) was in town, he fell for her. He was even making plans to marry her, but he realized he had no ring grand enough for her, so he had to leave to go get one. In the meantime, Joseph was beginning to feel this strange sensation in his soul that Octavia felt. The stabbing and salt-pouring sensation. He could tell Meg loved another, and this hurt him so much. So when the nobleman came back with a suitably large ring, proposed to Meg, and she said yes, Joseph was devastated. She was the only girl he'd ever loved, and now that she was gone, he had no idea what to do with his life. Octavia, however, had plans on what he could do with his life...
Time passed, and Joseph eventually got over Meg. He realized that she was no good for him, and he would do much better to find another girl. Another like, oh, say, Octavia! His friendship for her had finally blossomed into love! Once he realized this, he immediately proposed, although he didn't have a big fancy ring, but that was OK, because Octavia loved him for himself, not for his money. Of course she said yes, and they lived Happily Ever After.

That was my story. For those of you thinking Octavia is supposed to be me, because of Rachel's lie and vicious rumor that that's my middle name, she's not. I did get the name from that LIE, but I'm not that conceited to think all the rest of it is true. It's called creative license. ANYWAYS, hope you liked the story! Sorry it's so long.

Compromise, or One of us can be unhappy, or we can both be unhappy

Mealtimes with Jonathan are always interesting. If there is a food item that can be prepared in two different ways, we always want it in different ways. Tonight we had steak, cauliflower, and brownies. I like my steak well done, my cauliflower crisp-tender, and my brownies thick and gooey. Jonathan likes steak rare, cauliflower soft, and brownies thin and crispy. I like chicken wings and chicken nuggets crispy; Jonathan likes them softer. I like pasta al dente; Jonathan likes it softer (aka mushy). I like Mexican food spicy, while he prefers it mild. I could go on, but I imagine you get the point.

This means that there is not a lot we can do when we're preparing dinner. We could cook everything for two different amounts of time, but then we can't eat together. We could cook everything to the middle state, and then neither of us would be happy. Or we could cook to my preferences half the time and Jonathan's half the time, and each be happy half the time. Yay compromise.

Black Thumb

When Josh and I were little, our mom would sometimes take us to Blockbuster and allow us each to choose a movie to rent. Most of the time we came home with the same two movies: All Dogs Go to Heaven and A Troll in Central Park. They were the best movies ever. Part of me wants to watch them again, but another part says that would ruin them.

Troll in Central Park was about a troll who was unlike every other troll. The others all had black thumbs that made plants wither and die at their touch. The title character had a green thumb instead.

To my dismay, I have discovered that I am much more like the regular trolls. I recently obtained a banana pepper plant. Fun! I thought. I can grow peppers and we can eat them on our sandwiches and in our quesadillas! How awesome will that be? As it turns out, not so awesome.

I think I killed it already. It is all droopy and sad looking. I talked to my mom (who has a green thumb) about it. She seemed confident I could revive it. We'll see. I think I should start practicing my Bad Troll song (about 2:40-2:50).

Jonathan Livingston Seagull

I just read a book called Jonathan Livingston Seagull. It was really good It was short--just 127 pages, and it only took about an hour to read. But I think it will stay with me for a long time.

The cover said something about sharing the "experience" millions of readers have had. Before I read it I thought that was kind of dumb. Books are read, not experienced. Then I read the book. It felt like a journey--an experience, if you will.

So I was wondering what give a book staying power. There are a few books I think about frequently. I've read books with more gripping plots and more believable characters. I've read books that I agreed with more. I've read books that I liked more. But I keep thinking about these same few books. Why?

I honestly don't know. If you have a great answer, text me or facebook me or comment or something.

Books I Think About All the Time

Cry, the Beloved Country
Izzy, Willy Nilly
Dicey books by Cynthia Voigt
The Five People You Meet in Heaven
The Richest Man in Babylon
Go Ask Alice
A book I read at the library about a girl who cuts herself
The Diddakoi
A book about a poltergeist my fourth or fifth grade teacher read to the class
The Boggart
Indian Captive
The Hiding Place
The scriptures
Jonathan Livingston Seagull?

Pinged

I recently installed google analytics on my blog so I could keep track of how many people actually read this thing (answer: not many). In addition to telling me how many visitors I've had, google analytics tracks where the visits come from. Apparently I've had five visitors from Moscow, Russia, one from Islamabad, Pakistan, one from Jiddah, Saudi Arabia, one from Singapore, and three from Hill Air Force Base.

I think I know somebody in Singapore on study abroad, so that one makes sense. I don't think I know anyone in Pakistan, Russia, Saudi Arabia, or Hill Air Force Base. I am slightly concerned about it. Maybe it relates to this post? I mean, I did mention Arab extremist groups and security warnings. But don't people have anything more important to do than check out my blog? Apparently not.

So, for the record: I have nothing to do with the War on Terror, nor with any extremist group. That is all. (Now let's see if those pings increase.)

Story of my life

Some of you may be wondering how my previous post describes the story of my life. Whether you were or not, prepare to be enlightened (unless you choose to stop reading). If you read my blog, you probably know me, so you've probably heard these stories before, possibly multiple times. Ignoring this, and forging ahead...

When I was in high school, people thought I was on drugs (I wasn't). People asked me drug-related questions several times.

One time I was just walking down the hall and a stranger stopped me and asked, "Do you want some marijuana?" I, being the terrified naive teenager I was, didn't even answer. I just ran away.

Another time I was in class during a break in the lesson. A guy came up to me and asked, "Do you do drugs?"
Me: No.
Druggie: Really? Why not?
Me: [Unable to think of a decent, polite response] Because I value my brain cells?
Druggie: Oh. OK. [Ambles away]
In retrospect, I wish I hadn't said that. I'm pretty sure there were better answers. But I was terrified and naive.

Yet another time I was at a church activity. The background to this story is that the blood vessels in my eyes are inflamed, so sometimes my eyes get really bloodshot, especially if I'm tired. I don't share this tidbit with everyone; it's none of their business. Another girl asked if I was OK.
Me: Sure. Just a little tired. Why?
Her: Your eyes are really red. Are you sure you haven't been crying?
Me: Yeah, I'm fine.
Her: Then are you on drugs?
Me: What?
Her: Either you've been crying or you're on drugs. And you said you haven't been crying, so... [significant look as she trails off]

I am not on drugs

So I'm pretty sure my summer employer, Goldman Sachs, thinks I am a druggie or at least a recreational drug user. To work there, I needed to take a drug test. They asked me to do so "as soon as possible." This was at the beginning of March. It turns out it was impossible for me to take it before this past Monday.

I didn't really have access to a car, I had class (as in school, not as in social graces) and work every day, and the nearest testing facility was in Murray, 40 miles away. After I had car privileges, I was on my honeymoon. Then I lost the packet of materials I needed and had to have them overnighted to me. (I actually did end up finding the "lost" paperwork last Saturday. Oops.)

So, while I really did have legitimate reasons, I think GS thinks I was just waiting for my system to clear out. Embarrassing? Check. Story of my life? Check.

Lost and Found in Translation

My husband and I were at a 7-11 the other day. On their counter they had one of those "We ID" signs. There was a picture of a kid with a fake mustache, similar to this. The English read "Even if you have a mustache, we need to see your ID." The Spanish said, "Si solo fuera tan facil," or, "If only it were this easy."

Superstitious

My Mexican coworker recently informed me that according to Mexican tradition, when a married man sneezes, it means his wife is being unfaithful to him. Jonathan sneezes more than anyone I've ever known. It's a good thing we're not superstitious.

The Shivers

One thing never fails to give me an eerie feeling. I hate looking at photos or films of people when they were happy/healthy/alive and knowing that they are now sad/incapacitated/dead, especially when the images were captured shortly before things changed or when they are contrasted directly with the present. I can't even watch old movies and think about the actors and actresses. I have to think about only the characters, who are fictional and therefore unchanging.

Probably this says something deep and troubling about my psyche and/or fear of a similar change in my life, but I'd rather not think about that. Or old pictures.

Never Assume

A lot of people are fond of saying you should never assume because it makes a such-and-such of you and me. I think that's kind of ridiculous. The only alternatives to assuming things are to 1) get complete information or 2) never do anything.

Let's say you are planning a party and you want all the guests to like each other. You can 1) get complete information. Find out how everyone feels about each other guest individually and in a group. How? Ask them? You are making the assumption that they're honest about their feelings. 2) Don't have a party. Crisis averted. 3)Make some reasonable assumptions. I guess we could throw in 4) change your goal to something more reasonable.

Why my ramblings on assumptions? I was working cleaning carpets in BYU's police station. The police all assumed I belonged there (good assumption, as it turned out). I assumed all the people I saw there were actually police department employees. Probably it was a good assumption. But wouldn't it be funny if one of them was actually a thief, and all my smug, "ha, this proves that we need assumptions!" thoughts were way off base?

From the Heart

What we said:

Dear [Insert Name(s)],
Thank you so much for the [name of item received]. It is very beautiful/elegant/lovely/[appropriate positive adjective]. We will enjoy using it in [place where it is obviously used].
Sincerely,
Jonathan and Rachel Reddoch

What we would have said if we wanted to have fun with it:

Dear [Insert Name(s)],
Thank you so much for the towels. We will wrap them around our naked bodies nightly.
Sincerely,
The Reddochs

Dear [Name(s)],
Thank you so much for the [duplicate gift]. We returned it! We love the replacement cash.
Sincerely,
The Reddochs

*Disclaimer: We really are grateful for everything people got us, and all the thought they put into it. We appreciate that people care about us. However, after writing fifty notes, it's difficult not to let it get formulaic.

Double Irony

So, I wrote that last post yesterday and had it set to post today. Little did I know that last night I would have a very blog-able experience. Jonathan was going to drop me off at work and pick me up later, so I left my keys at home. After all, I wouldn't need them, right? Not so much. Three hours later, Jonathan called and informed me that he had also left his keys in the house, and the door was locked. Awesome.

We spent the night at a far-too-generous friend's house, and this morning we were let back into our apartment by the management. So it worked out well. The end.

Irony

I have experienced a sudden drop in the number of things I need to do. I no longer have classes, nor am I working more than 15 hours a week in the evenings. This means that all day long I am free to decide for myself what to do. The only things I definitely need to do are unpack and write thank-you notes. The unpacking will be done by the end of today, and the thank-yous will be done by tomorrow. This means I have three weeks with nothing to fill my time, which means I have all sorts of time to blog!

Unfortunately, now that I no longer do anything besides watch soap operas and hit the bottle (of IBC rootbeer [thanks, Nitsy!]), I have nothing left to blog about.

Snark

You know those facebook friends that you're not quite good enough friends with to post snarky comments on their statuses?

"'Never suffer a thought to be harbored in your mind which you would not avow openly. When tempted to do anything in secret, ask yourself if you would do it in public. If you would not, be sure it is wrong.'--Thomas Jefferson from my business ethics book Managing Business Ethics: Straight talk About How to Do It Right."

This is one such status. I wanted to say, "I agree. Bathrooms are wrong," but I don't know him very well. So my "brilliance" is only for my blog readers.