Dear Reader,
Sometimes I think that there are some things that are impossible to master. I'm pretty sure that one of them is eBay. You know the deal; anyone in the world can sell anything they want in the site, and anyone else in the world can bid to purchase it. So you've got the benefits of finding things that you could never find anywhere else, such as a vintage ad featuring Lucille Ball selling cigarettes. What a find. And since you bid for your prices, you have the opportunity of paying less than you would otherwise, if you have the skills. Years of experience have proven to me that I don't.
I have the sneaking suspicion that I just might be stupid.
When I had the opportunity to go to Mexico, I had previously heard that sellers there had the tendency to haggle, which would be great for us because we could bargain for dirt-cheap prices. PetiteSoeur was especially enthused, as she has an affinity for small shops which sell hand-made crafts (like soap and Amish furniture) and has had some haggling experience at these venues. Little did we know that we were in for a great surprise. It turns out, Gentle Reader, that sellers are in it for the profit (who would have guessed?), and they are used to the American tourists and what they are willing to pay, especially in the really touristy areas where we were. They also know your weaknesses, which is an added hazard. They know that you're a stranger in a strange land, and that if you have ever haggled at all, it was with a kind old lady at a bead shop who let you take two dollars off a pair of earrings because there was a visible flaw. They also know that you are used to shops where you are always right, and you approach the merchandise before anyone approaches you. So the vendors there who make the most money do so by shocking you with their bluntness and misunderstanding of the concept of personal space, and while you're distracted trying to tell yourself that it's the culture or what not, they fool you into paying a lot more than you have to. A lot of them will lie to you then, if the initial shock isn't sharp enough. They'll call you pretty or compliment you on your Spanish (which they did to PetiteSoeur and HermanaMayor, respectively. No one complimented me.), and they'll tell you they bought it for five dollars so they couldn't possibly sell it for less that six. In my experience, they're mostly like the jalopy dealer in The Grapes of Wrath, and if you've read it, you'll know what I mean.
So, I realize that eBay isn't Mexico, and it's not a used car dealership, but it's probably the closest thing we have on the World Wide Web. Someone wants to sell something, and they want to make a profit, and you've got nothing but a picture and a description to tell you what you're in for. Of course, eBay is a kind of ocean of deals and vendors—while most are minnows, you always run into the sharks. I've run into them. Then there's also the competitive aspect of it all. You see the Lucy ad, and you think it's probably worth having, but you know you can do without it. Until, of course, you realize that someone else wants it. So then comes the frenzy, because it's only okay to not have it when the other guy doesn't have it either. And then there are the people who want you to pay by check instead of online (TRAP!) and the people who are actually selling Asian pirated whatever. Somehow, I just don't see that much of a difference between Mexico and eBay, where people attract you with the illusion that you are getting something for nothing. It's too complicated for me; there's too much risk and skill involved. So I've abstained, for the most part. I don't even have an account anymore, and I think that the next time I go to Mexico, I'll leave the spending money behind. Instead, I go through channels where the prices are set and non-negotiable. What bothers me is that I know that if I really wanted to, and if I had enough courage and know-how, I could really get a bargain on eBay or in Mexico. I just can't bring myself to do it.
I guess we just aren't raised to take charge with our prices.
Regards, best wishes, and economic prowess,
-Cecily Jane
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
That Darned Apostrophe
My Dear Reader,
I try really hard to be tolerant of the grammar and punctuation mistakes of others. I really do. After all, most of those rules are fairly arbitrary and ridiculous. In fact, a vast majority of the more technical ones were made up by some guy or other in the 18th or 19th century who wanted to make English more like Latin (which is both impractical and lame). But there's a fine line between rules that are completely ridiculous and those that make a person lose credibility when used incorrectly. For example: if you say "Those oranges is excellent," people are going to ignore the nice vocablulary and wonder if you ever passed third grade. One of these blunders, one that just so happens to be on my pet peeve list, is the confusion between "its" and "it's." For example:
**It's bothered me for years, but I have no idea why guys are supposed to wear ties. I have decided that it's to hide the buttons on the dress shirt, but I have no empirical evidence.
I try really hard to be tolerant of the grammar and punctuation mistakes of others. I really do. After all, most of those rules are fairly arbitrary and ridiculous. In fact, a vast majority of the more technical ones were made up by some guy or other in the 18th or 19th century who wanted to make English more like Latin (which is both impractical and lame). But there's a fine line between rules that are completely ridiculous and those that make a person lose credibility when used incorrectly. For example: if you say "Those oranges is excellent," people are going to ignore the nice vocablulary and wonder if you ever passed third grade. One of these blunders, one that just so happens to be on my pet peeve list, is the confusion between "its" and "it's." For example:
(Good message; bad punctuation.)
Now, I'm sure there are a lot of people out there who are going to say that there's not really that big of a difference. Maybe there isn't. Maybe it really doesn't matter. Still, messing up your apostrophes will make you look like an imbicile every time, not to mention the fact that Henry Higgins is out there somewhere howling in pain. So, in order to help those who are less punctuationally aware, I will now spell it out for you in an easy-to-remember way that just might change your life forever. Or something.
First of all, you have to understand that like every other symbol in the written language, the apostrophe means something, and the meaning is actually very simple. When you see an apostrophe, you are indicating that something has been left out. Ta da! So when you're leaving something out (like the "a" in the contraction that I just used, which would be more formally spelled "you are"), put that apostrophe in there. When there's nothing to be left out, the apostrophe does not belong. That's right; it's not to be used to pluralize things. You can just save yourself a keystroke on that one:
Okay, so there's one, and only one, exception to this rule: the possesive. You're probably thinking that there's nothing left out when I say "Cecily's hair is shiny and soft." Well, you're wrong, but that's only because you aren't well-versed in Old English.* Since you probably don't speak Old English as a primary language, we'll just skip over that and say that we do it for reasons that most people have forgotten, kind of like wearing ties.** So, it's probably easier if you just think that you do it because you're supposed to, and get on with your life. Fourth graders do it every day.
This leads me to the it's and its conundrum: which is which? When do you use what to mean who? I don't know why this isn't more clearly taught in elementary schools, though I'm sure the teachers of America are doing their best. Here's the deal: "it's" means "it is" and "its" means the possessive form of "it." "Baby, it's cold outside," is just another way to say, "Baby, it is cold outside." Something is being left out, hence the apostrophe. Now, in a sentence like, "The apothecary saw his flask, filled with its deathly poison," you're not really leaving anything out, at least, nothing that most of us are actually aware of. So the basis of it is this:
"It's" equals "it is" equals something being left out equals apostrophe.
"Its" equals the posessive "it" equals nothing left out equals no apostrophe.
Really, the only reason that there is a difference is that when you use "it's" in both places, there are problems with clarity. So to make things clear, the punctuation wizards of days past decided that "it's" should have the apostrophe since the "it is" contraction actually gets rid of a letter in Present-day English. And there you have it. Learn how to correctly use apostrophes, Gentle Reader, and you will find that you will impress people of all social and grammatical circles.
Regards, best wishes, and careful proofreading,
-Cecily Jane
*The apostrophe actually shows the loss of two letters in the possessive: "h" and "i." That's right; people used to say things like "George his sheep are in the pasture" instead of "Jojo's iPod is off the hook." I'm not sure how this was used in regard to both genders (like if they would have said "Jane her" or what); I'll have to do more research on the topic.**It's bothered me for years, but I have no idea why guys are supposed to wear ties. I have decided that it's to hide the buttons on the dress shirt, but I have no empirical evidence.
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Stuck!
My Dear Reader,
I recently realized that the "cool" kids I knew growing up—the ones who managed to break just about any rule and get away with it—were people who simply had the gift of strict obedience to the millions of unwritten societal rules that govern our everyday behavior. Try standing in an elevator and facing away from the door, and you'll know what I mean. There are some things we do that are just wrong, without rhyme or reason, and they make us extremely uncomfortable. I have a theory that our rules of behavior are more complex than we even comprehend, because I've known a few behaviorally savvy people who could stand backwards in an elevator and escape unscathed, and I've come to the conclusion that the laws of society are kind of like the laws of physics, and that when we understand better we can do more. Unfortunately, when it comes to the behavioral laws, I'm generally the kid sitting in the corner with the dunce cap, unless I'm lucky enough to find myself in the presence of someone else who is an even bigger social idiot. I have proven beyond any doubt that I can make just about any conceivable situation about as awkward as possible, to the point that my blunders would probably astound you. Of course, I'm not the worst in the world—like I've said before, on a scale of one to ten, with Steve Urkel as one and the Fonz at ten, I'm about a six. For those of you keeping score at home, that means that I've barely got a D in Life. It appears that because of my seeming inability to comprehend the rules of society that I tend to become inevitably "stuck" in certain situations, where all that I have learned from Madre and Padre have abandoned me, and I feel like I've come across a pocket of space where gravity is considered passé. Allow me to explain.
Several years ago, when my height failed to exceed four feet, I found myself playing with a friend in her backyard. At one point, she ran into the house and told me to wait, promising me that she would be right back. Your powers of imagination will be put to the test, Gentle Reader, when you try to imagine the way I felt when, after waiting for a good ten minutes for my friend to return, I looked through the sliding glass door and into their kitchen and saw the family sitting down to dinner. Now, I knew quite a lot about dinners by that point in my life, and I knew that there were very strict rules that governed their operation. Singing was not allowed.* Playing with food was extremely distasteful. But above all, it was an act of treason for any person to interrupt another's dinner unless someone was bleeding or on fire. I was neither, which put me into quite a dilemma. If I knocked on the door and asked them to let me go home, would her father wave his hand and say, "Off with her head"? What if her parents didn't know that their daughter had invited me to play, and they thought I was a robber or other miscreant? No, it was too much to risk. I looked around, and saw only one means of escape: a door in the fence that led to freedom. Besides the fact that I would have to walk past window and give away my presence, there was one major problem with this escape plan. The fence was about six feet tall. I was seven. It was then that I determined that I would have to live there. I told myself that it wouldn't be so bad; there was a lot of ivy growing along the back fence that would make a great make-shift bed, and maybe I could convince my friend to come by every once in a while and give me a slice of bologna. It took me another ten minutes to gather the courage to walk to the door, stand on some rickety boxes, and reach the latch on the door so I could go home. Needless to say, I was traumatized for life.
I always thought that as I got older, I would develop social graces that would protect me from awkward situations. In fact, it was something that people kept telling me was around the corner. "You're just a kid," they'd say, or, "you're just in your awkward teenage years." After that, people started saying, "you're only a freshman," until I was no longer a freshman, when they seemed to have run out of excuses. I'm pretty sure that this means that I'm doomed. In fact, though I have aged a good fifteen years since I was trapped in my friend's backyard, there are still instances where I get "stuck." Like last week, when I had to do a group presentation. You see, there were a lot of people in the group, so we delegated. Some people were presenting, while others were in charge of doing research and getting materials in place. I was put in the research category, and I fulfilled my duty as well as possible, but when it came time to give the presentation, I had this idea that the entire group was going to stand up, even if only a few were designated as presenters. Now, at the time I was suffering from a mild head cold, which was affecting my judgment, so I'm sure you can understand my discomfort and confusion when the only people standing in the front were me and the assigned presenters, and I'm sure you can guess that that discomfort was intensified when the other three people started acting out a scene from the book we were supposed to do the presentation on, meaning that it instantly became painfully obvious that I was not in on the joke. So I did the best thing that I could possibly do. You see, I couldn't really just go back to my seat. I was already standing in front of the class. So I just kind of inched my way to one side of the room, put my back against the wall, and slid down until I was sitting on the floor. While I watched them. For ten minutes. It was just plain awful.
It's kind of funny when the same kind of social disaster happens to you long after you are supposed to have outgrown awkward behavior. And just a tinge more embarrassing than it has to be. Still, I guess it makes for a good story, and at least I can write stories without a fear of being awkward.
Regards, best wishes, and social comfort,
-Cecily Jane
* This rule was drilled into me as a child because of my constant attempts to disobey it.
I recently realized that the "cool" kids I knew growing up—the ones who managed to break just about any rule and get away with it—were people who simply had the gift of strict obedience to the millions of unwritten societal rules that govern our everyday behavior. Try standing in an elevator and facing away from the door, and you'll know what I mean. There are some things we do that are just wrong, without rhyme or reason, and they make us extremely uncomfortable. I have a theory that our rules of behavior are more complex than we even comprehend, because I've known a few behaviorally savvy people who could stand backwards in an elevator and escape unscathed, and I've come to the conclusion that the laws of society are kind of like the laws of physics, and that when we understand better we can do more. Unfortunately, when it comes to the behavioral laws, I'm generally the kid sitting in the corner with the dunce cap, unless I'm lucky enough to find myself in the presence of someone else who is an even bigger social idiot. I have proven beyond any doubt that I can make just about any conceivable situation about as awkward as possible, to the point that my blunders would probably astound you. Of course, I'm not the worst in the world—like I've said before, on a scale of one to ten, with Steve Urkel as one and the Fonz at ten, I'm about a six. For those of you keeping score at home, that means that I've barely got a D in Life. It appears that because of my seeming inability to comprehend the rules of society that I tend to become inevitably "stuck" in certain situations, where all that I have learned from Madre and Padre have abandoned me, and I feel like I've come across a pocket of space where gravity is considered passé. Allow me to explain.
Several years ago, when my height failed to exceed four feet, I found myself playing with a friend in her backyard. At one point, she ran into the house and told me to wait, promising me that she would be right back. Your powers of imagination will be put to the test, Gentle Reader, when you try to imagine the way I felt when, after waiting for a good ten minutes for my friend to return, I looked through the sliding glass door and into their kitchen and saw the family sitting down to dinner. Now, I knew quite a lot about dinners by that point in my life, and I knew that there were very strict rules that governed their operation. Singing was not allowed.* Playing with food was extremely distasteful. But above all, it was an act of treason for any person to interrupt another's dinner unless someone was bleeding or on fire. I was neither, which put me into quite a dilemma. If I knocked on the door and asked them to let me go home, would her father wave his hand and say, "Off with her head"? What if her parents didn't know that their daughter had invited me to play, and they thought I was a robber or other miscreant? No, it was too much to risk. I looked around, and saw only one means of escape: a door in the fence that led to freedom. Besides the fact that I would have to walk past window and give away my presence, there was one major problem with this escape plan. The fence was about six feet tall. I was seven. It was then that I determined that I would have to live there. I told myself that it wouldn't be so bad; there was a lot of ivy growing along the back fence that would make a great make-shift bed, and maybe I could convince my friend to come by every once in a while and give me a slice of bologna. It took me another ten minutes to gather the courage to walk to the door, stand on some rickety boxes, and reach the latch on the door so I could go home. Needless to say, I was traumatized for life.
I always thought that as I got older, I would develop social graces that would protect me from awkward situations. In fact, it was something that people kept telling me was around the corner. "You're just a kid," they'd say, or, "you're just in your awkward teenage years." After that, people started saying, "you're only a freshman," until I was no longer a freshman, when they seemed to have run out of excuses. I'm pretty sure that this means that I'm doomed. In fact, though I have aged a good fifteen years since I was trapped in my friend's backyard, there are still instances where I get "stuck." Like last week, when I had to do a group presentation. You see, there were a lot of people in the group, so we delegated. Some people were presenting, while others were in charge of doing research and getting materials in place. I was put in the research category, and I fulfilled my duty as well as possible, but when it came time to give the presentation, I had this idea that the entire group was going to stand up, even if only a few were designated as presenters. Now, at the time I was suffering from a mild head cold, which was affecting my judgment, so I'm sure you can understand my discomfort and confusion when the only people standing in the front were me and the assigned presenters, and I'm sure you can guess that that discomfort was intensified when the other three people started acting out a scene from the book we were supposed to do the presentation on, meaning that it instantly became painfully obvious that I was not in on the joke. So I did the best thing that I could possibly do. You see, I couldn't really just go back to my seat. I was already standing in front of the class. So I just kind of inched my way to one side of the room, put my back against the wall, and slid down until I was sitting on the floor. While I watched them. For ten minutes. It was just plain awful.
It's kind of funny when the same kind of social disaster happens to you long after you are supposed to have outgrown awkward behavior. And just a tinge more embarrassing than it has to be. Still, I guess it makes for a good story, and at least I can write stories without a fear of being awkward.
Regards, best wishes, and social comfort,
-Cecily Jane
* This rule was drilled into me as a child because of my constant attempts to disobey it.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Sister Moment #4: "Help, I'm Dying!"
My Dear Reader,
I don't know why professors always manage to have their assignments due on the same day as every other professor on campus. I have this theory that they get together and plan it during their monthly Bingo nights, but due to the secret nature of these ritualistic gatherings, evidence comes somewhat sparse. But last April, on the last day of classes, I had something due for just about every class that I had. For some classes, I had multiple things due. It was because of these assignments that I was awake in the wee hours of the morning typing furiously on my laptop, Eris, who was named after the Greek goddess of discord because of her notorious bad tempers.* It was about seven in the morning before I let myself take a break to grab some breakfast, which was when the real trouble started.
You see, I'm short person. It runs in my family. I actually used to be the tallest child before YoungerTwin turned twelve. I was seventeen at the time. Anyway, my lack of height often means that just about every pair of pants I own is too long for me, especially pajama bottoms, because they tend to be in the one-size-fits-everybody-but-you category. And since I was wearing the afore-mentioned pajama bottoms at the time, I just so happened to catch the hem of my pajamas with my big toe, causing me to trip and fall down really hard.** My face hit something on the way down, and it hurt really bad, but I thought I was okay. That was when I noticed something dripping onto the floor.
My first thought was to see if something was coming from the ceiling, though I wasn't sure at the time what would be dripping from there or why. It took me a couple of seconds to realize that the drops were coming from a spot that was right between the corner of my left eye and my left temple. And then I realized that the drops were blood, at which point I became very concerned. Then I realized that the thing that I had hit on the way down was the very blunt, very metal drawer handle, which was now completely bent down. I must have come down harder than I thought. As calmly as possible, I ran to my bathroom screaming, "Help, I'm dying!" and cupping my hands around my face so the blood wouldn't get on the carpet. I screamed it a couple of times before HermanaMayor and ASLMajor woke up to see what all of the commotion was about, perhaps wondering if I had managed to impale myself with a spear. It wasn't far from the truth. The shock of everything was annoying my best judgment, which then decided to go on a short vacation away from all of the noise. So when my roommates came out to fight off the barbarians and instead found me bent over the sink and bleeding everywhere, they were very confused when I asked them if they could find me a Band-Aid. This started an exchange between my sister and I that went something like this:
HermanaMayor: "A Band-Aid?"
Cecily: "Yeah, maybe two."
HermanaMayor: "Cecily, you're bleeding everywhere."
Cecily: "Hence the Band-Aids!"
HermanaMayor: "What on Earth were you doing?"
Cecily: "Well, my foot caught the bottom of my pant leg and . . ."
HermanaMayor: "Were you dancing in the kitchen again?"
Cecily: "No!"
HermanaMayor: "Mmmm-hmmmm."
Cecily: "Are you going to get me some Band-Aids or do you want me to get the carpet all bloody?"
HermanaMayor: "Cecily, that's pretty bad cut. I think you need to go to the hospital."
Cecily: "I can't. I've got all of these papers to write and . . ."
HermanaMayor: "Cecily, I am not going to just let you stand there and bleed to death. You obviously need stitches, and I'm going to take you to get them."
Cecily: "But you don't understand. I've got, like, five things due today."
HermanaMayor: "Cecily, you need to go. I'd take you right now, but the Student Health Center doesn't open until 8:00."
Cecily: "Ha!"
HermanaMayor: "I'm taking you at 7:45."
Cecily: "Okay, fine."
So HermanaMayor got me a rag to put on my face and I returned to Eris. There I was, trying to hold my face together with one hand and write brilliantly with the other (which, as those who know me well will understand, is a little easier for me because I only type with one hand), while HermanaMayor was attempting to convince me that my wound was serious. I was getting pretty far on my homework when 7:45 came around, at which point HermanaMayor had to pry me away. The waiting room was pretty full when we got there, so I had to wait for a while before a doctor would look at me. Until then, everyone in the waiting room took turns looking at me, since the rag I was holding to my wound was actually really big and it probably looked to them like I had melted half of my face off. The nurses kept trying to get me to take the rag off and bleed on the floor, because their boss had told them if there was one more bio-hazard spill, they would get a new carpet. I refused. When I finally got to see the doctor, I ended up getting ten stitches because the wound was really, really deep.
In case you were wondering, I ended up getting all of my assignment turned in on time, once I called the professor for my first class of the day and explained to her that I had just gotten ten stitches, was in shock, and barely able to stand up. She was really nice about it, actually. Eris and I used the extra time to finish everything, and it truly was a team effort. I've still got a little scar by my left eye, and the drawer handle is still really bent, but I think I'm actually pretty lucky. After all, if the handle had hit me a little to the right, I would have poked out my eye, and a little to the left would have hit my temple. That would not have been good.
So I guess HermanaMayor kind of saved my life, since the cut went down also to the muscle. Of course, if you knew her, you'd know that she's the kind of person who does that from time to time. She's pretty darn awesome like that.
Regards, best wishes, and safety,
-Cecily Jane
*As opposed to Eros, the Greek god of love. Yes, I know the difference. I don't know why people never seem to believe me. Have you read The Orestia? I rest my case.
**There have been certain individuals who have been spreading lies that I fell because I was dancing in the kitchen. To these individuals, I would like to say that I was there and I should know. I never dance alone in my kitchen in my stocking feet before ten.
I don't know why professors always manage to have their assignments due on the same day as every other professor on campus. I have this theory that they get together and plan it during their monthly Bingo nights, but due to the secret nature of these ritualistic gatherings, evidence comes somewhat sparse. But last April, on the last day of classes, I had something due for just about every class that I had. For some classes, I had multiple things due. It was because of these assignments that I was awake in the wee hours of the morning typing furiously on my laptop, Eris, who was named after the Greek goddess of discord because of her notorious bad tempers.* It was about seven in the morning before I let myself take a break to grab some breakfast, which was when the real trouble started.
You see, I'm short person. It runs in my family. I actually used to be the tallest child before YoungerTwin turned twelve. I was seventeen at the time. Anyway, my lack of height often means that just about every pair of pants I own is too long for me, especially pajama bottoms, because they tend to be in the one-size-fits-everybody-but-you category. And since I was wearing the afore-mentioned pajama bottoms at the time, I just so happened to catch the hem of my pajamas with my big toe, causing me to trip and fall down really hard.** My face hit something on the way down, and it hurt really bad, but I thought I was okay. That was when I noticed something dripping onto the floor.
My first thought was to see if something was coming from the ceiling, though I wasn't sure at the time what would be dripping from there or why. It took me a couple of seconds to realize that the drops were coming from a spot that was right between the corner of my left eye and my left temple. And then I realized that the drops were blood, at which point I became very concerned. Then I realized that the thing that I had hit on the way down was the very blunt, very metal drawer handle, which was now completely bent down. I must have come down harder than I thought. As calmly as possible, I ran to my bathroom screaming, "Help, I'm dying!" and cupping my hands around my face so the blood wouldn't get on the carpet. I screamed it a couple of times before HermanaMayor and ASLMajor woke up to see what all of the commotion was about, perhaps wondering if I had managed to impale myself with a spear. It wasn't far from the truth. The shock of everything was annoying my best judgment, which then decided to go on a short vacation away from all of the noise. So when my roommates came out to fight off the barbarians and instead found me bent over the sink and bleeding everywhere, they were very confused when I asked them if they could find me a Band-Aid. This started an exchange between my sister and I that went something like this:
HermanaMayor: "A Band-Aid?"
Cecily: "Yeah, maybe two."
HermanaMayor: "Cecily, you're bleeding everywhere."
Cecily: "Hence the Band-Aids!"
HermanaMayor: "What on Earth were you doing?"
Cecily: "Well, my foot caught the bottom of my pant leg and . . ."
HermanaMayor: "Were you dancing in the kitchen again?"
Cecily: "No!"
HermanaMayor: "Mmmm-hmmmm."
Cecily: "Are you going to get me some Band-Aids or do you want me to get the carpet all bloody?"
HermanaMayor: "Cecily, that's pretty bad cut. I think you need to go to the hospital."
Cecily: "I can't. I've got all of these papers to write and . . ."
HermanaMayor: "Cecily, I am not going to just let you stand there and bleed to death. You obviously need stitches, and I'm going to take you to get them."
Cecily: "But you don't understand. I've got, like, five things due today."
HermanaMayor: "Cecily, you need to go. I'd take you right now, but the Student Health Center doesn't open until 8:00."
Cecily: "Ha!"
HermanaMayor: "I'm taking you at 7:45."
Cecily: "Okay, fine."
So HermanaMayor got me a rag to put on my face and I returned to Eris. There I was, trying to hold my face together with one hand and write brilliantly with the other (which, as those who know me well will understand, is a little easier for me because I only type with one hand), while HermanaMayor was attempting to convince me that my wound was serious. I was getting pretty far on my homework when 7:45 came around, at which point HermanaMayor had to pry me away. The waiting room was pretty full when we got there, so I had to wait for a while before a doctor would look at me. Until then, everyone in the waiting room took turns looking at me, since the rag I was holding to my wound was actually really big and it probably looked to them like I had melted half of my face off. The nurses kept trying to get me to take the rag off and bleed on the floor, because their boss had told them if there was one more bio-hazard spill, they would get a new carpet. I refused. When I finally got to see the doctor, I ended up getting ten stitches because the wound was really, really deep.
In case you were wondering, I ended up getting all of my assignment turned in on time, once I called the professor for my first class of the day and explained to her that I had just gotten ten stitches, was in shock, and barely able to stand up. She was really nice about it, actually. Eris and I used the extra time to finish everything, and it truly was a team effort. I've still got a little scar by my left eye, and the drawer handle is still really bent, but I think I'm actually pretty lucky. After all, if the handle had hit me a little to the right, I would have poked out my eye, and a little to the left would have hit my temple. That would not have been good.
So I guess HermanaMayor kind of saved my life, since the cut went down also to the muscle. Of course, if you knew her, you'd know that she's the kind of person who does that from time to time. She's pretty darn awesome like that.
Regards, best wishes, and safety,
-Cecily Jane
*As opposed to Eros, the Greek god of love. Yes, I know the difference. I don't know why people never seem to believe me. Have you read The Orestia? I rest my case.
**There have been certain individuals who have been spreading lies that I fell because I was dancing in the kitchen. To these individuals, I would like to say that I was there and I should know. I never dance alone in my kitchen in my stocking feet before ten.
Friday, February 1, 2008
The Beloved Gordon B. Hinckley: Man of Humor
My Dear Reader,
This was a man who will be forever remembered as the man who could elicit laughter from the pulpit. President Hinckley was never short on jokes, and they always came when you least expected it. When something was taking too long or not working out, President Hinckley would diffuse the situation with his singular sense of humor. A friend of mine once heard that during a tense meeting with others in the Church administration, things started to get out of hand, and people got a little more emotionally involved than necessary, at a crucial point in the meeting, one of the atendees turned to the Prophet to ask his opinion on the matter. President Hinckley said something to the effect of, "Well, I think that I shouldn't have had pork chops for lunch today, because they definitely do not agree with me." The story ends with the Church officials laughing at the Prophet's comment, and then are able to continue the meeting in a more appropriate manner.
Now, even though the story is a second or third-hand tale, and I can therefore offer no actual proof that it actually occured, I know that it is the kind of thing that President Hinckley would do. After all, I've watched him give dozens of speeches, and I know what kind of jokes he makes. They are always positive, meaning that they never, ever bring anyone down. President Hinckley was a man who never spoke ill of anyone, even when joking. Instead, he had the unique talent of pointing out very odd and humorous things in the average world. For example, in the last General Conference, when he offered his final address to the Church at large, he said something that absolutely no one expected: “Now, my brothers and sisters, we live with an interesting phenomenon. A soloist sings the same song again and again. An orchestra repeats the same music. But a speaker is expected to come up with something new every time he speaks. I am going to break that tradition this morning and repeat in a measure what I have said on another occasion.” Only President Hinckley would say something about that, and only President could get away with it. We all laughed as he explained to us his reasons, partly because of the way he delivered it, and partially because he presented something of an unnoticed paradox.
In fact, President Hinckley’s sense of humor is so well-known in the Church that we Mormons tend to laugh (with him, of course) any time he would do something that no one would expect, which was fairly often. Once, when my maternal grandparents were missionaries in Palmyra, there was a window in one of the building that was stuck so it was partially open. The problem still had yet to be fixed when President Hinckley came to visit him, but it wasn’t when he left, because President Hinckley had gone to the window and fixed it himself. What ninety-plus-year-old man goes and fixes a window like that? You just have to laugh at that, because you know that he would. After all, the instances where he made us laugh intentionally were too great to number.
If one thing is clear by now, it should be that President Hinckley, like his sense of humor, was incredibly singular. No one spoke like he did. No one loved the family like he did. No one was humble the same way he was. And I’m pretty sure that out of all of the people I knew, no one laughed like he did. That was why we loved him, and that is why we who knew him will always remember the special way that he touched our lives and turned them for good. There will be more prophets who will have the same authority as President Hinckley did, and the faithful will accept them, follow them, and be inspired by them until the Savior Himself reigns the Earth. But there will never be a prophet like President Hinckley. He was a unique individual, and he holds a place in our hearts that no one else can claim. He was our prophet, our guide, and in a very personal way, he was our friend. In his death, I honor him as I tried to in life, for he was a man who deserved it, if anyone does. It is my sincere hope that we will never forget what he has done for each of us on an individual level.
Regards, best wishes, and beloved memories,
-Cecily Jane
This was a man who will be forever remembered as the man who could elicit laughter from the pulpit. President Hinckley was never short on jokes, and they always came when you least expected it. When something was taking too long or not working out, President Hinckley would diffuse the situation with his singular sense of humor. A friend of mine once heard that during a tense meeting with others in the Church administration, things started to get out of hand, and people got a little more emotionally involved than necessary, at a crucial point in the meeting, one of the atendees turned to the Prophet to ask his opinion on the matter. President Hinckley said something to the effect of, "Well, I think that I shouldn't have had pork chops for lunch today, because they definitely do not agree with me." The story ends with the Church officials laughing at the Prophet's comment, and then are able to continue the meeting in a more appropriate manner.
Now, even though the story is a second or third-hand tale, and I can therefore offer no actual proof that it actually occured, I know that it is the kind of thing that President Hinckley would do. After all, I've watched him give dozens of speeches, and I know what kind of jokes he makes. They are always positive, meaning that they never, ever bring anyone down. President Hinckley was a man who never spoke ill of anyone, even when joking. Instead, he had the unique talent of pointing out very odd and humorous things in the average world. For example, in the last General Conference, when he offered his final address to the Church at large, he said something that absolutely no one expected: “Now, my brothers and sisters, we live with an interesting phenomenon. A soloist sings the same song again and again. An orchestra repeats the same music. But a speaker is expected to come up with something new every time he speaks. I am going to break that tradition this morning and repeat in a measure what I have said on another occasion.” Only President Hinckley would say something about that, and only President could get away with it. We all laughed as he explained to us his reasons, partly because of the way he delivered it, and partially because he presented something of an unnoticed paradox.
In fact, President Hinckley’s sense of humor is so well-known in the Church that we Mormons tend to laugh (with him, of course) any time he would do something that no one would expect, which was fairly often. Once, when my maternal grandparents were missionaries in Palmyra, there was a window in one of the building that was stuck so it was partially open. The problem still had yet to be fixed when President Hinckley came to visit him, but it wasn’t when he left, because President Hinckley had gone to the window and fixed it himself. What ninety-plus-year-old man goes and fixes a window like that? You just have to laugh at that, because you know that he would. After all, the instances where he made us laugh intentionally were too great to number.
If one thing is clear by now, it should be that President Hinckley, like his sense of humor, was incredibly singular. No one spoke like he did. No one loved the family like he did. No one was humble the same way he was. And I’m pretty sure that out of all of the people I knew, no one laughed like he did. That was why we loved him, and that is why we who knew him will always remember the special way that he touched our lives and turned them for good. There will be more prophets who will have the same authority as President Hinckley did, and the faithful will accept them, follow them, and be inspired by them until the Savior Himself reigns the Earth. But there will never be a prophet like President Hinckley. He was a unique individual, and he holds a place in our hearts that no one else can claim. He was our prophet, our guide, and in a very personal way, he was our friend. In his death, I honor him as I tried to in life, for he was a man who deserved it, if anyone does. It is my sincere hope that we will never forget what he has done for each of us on an individual level.
Regards, best wishes, and beloved memories,
-Cecily Jane
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