Thought I'd put up another post just so that last bitter post isn't the first thing at the top of this blog. ;) There isn't much going on. I'm trying to get a lot of homework done. I've been very busy so far this quarter. I'm working a lot of hours in the library and biostatistics has a large homework load. Speaking of work . . .
I'm going to be a TA for plant biology next quarter!!!! O_o Look out freshmen! I'll be going to Blakely Island one weekend which means I'll putting the knowledge I gained from my GIS summer class to use. In fact, it and Stephanie are basically the reasons I have this job next quarter. ;) Steph has a lab next quarter for an animal physiology class that I'm not taking during the same time as the lab for plant biology. Anyway, I'm a little nervous about being a TA. I hope I don't scare them too much with my love of plants and I also hope that I can keep up with grading . . . my kids had better be on the ball because my schedule is going to continue to be pretty rigid. Make-up labs aren't really going to be possible.
The only other thing going on in my life right now besides homework is Andy. I am finally going to get to see him tomorrow. Yay!!!! It's been waaaaaay too long. I miss that guy . . . He's coming over here and bringing his DS in case I need to work on homework. I'm trying to decide if we'll actually get out of the apartment and do anything like Chinatown or the Seattle Center, but I'm not seein' it happening. On a final note,
www.angryalien.com (watch the movies you've seen)
www.msdewey.com (you have to experiment in order to get her to say anything amusing. Mostly she's just disturbing. But "nuclear weapons" is kind of funny. )
The Happy Homeworker
It's me, happy!
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Monday, October 16, 2006
Dear Resident
(Some long and bitter thoughts on a recent experience. Note: Resident should actually always be under-lined as well but blogger makes no allowance for this. I tried to scan in the actual note but my new scanner/printer has defeated me.)
Dear Resident:
First off, I must congratulate you. The chivalrous note you left on my car window on Saturday managed to make me feel utterly reviled. It takes true talent to make the courtesy of a note into an insult. Not only did you belittle my intelligence by assuming that I can’t read, you also made me feel quite thoroughly hated and outcast. You managed to make me sense that I was somehow less worthy because I am in possession of only a lowly commuter parking permit and not the hallowed and rare Resident parking permit. It amazed me how much of your abhorrence for my infraction into your ordered world managed to leak into a note that I’m sure you intended to write in a spirit of pious condescension considering that at first you nobly refrained from involving Safety and Security. This note was even more poignant for me because I am a Resident of the 35 W. Cremonas, as you put it. I was only issued a commuter parking permit because the quota of sacred Resident parking permits had apparently been filled and given to persons more worthy than myself. All this from a sheet ripped from a graphically-designed paper pad and inscribed with just two sentences in a girly handwriting stuck under a windshield wiper. Only a person of prodigious endowment could manage to make such a small number of polite words so enormously full of loathing.
However, you didn’t stop there. Oh no, your chivalrous behavior went much further than that. With me already feeling generally disliked and misfit, you decided that clemency is overrated in such cases and, when given the choice between offering a benevolent mercy and an impartial justice, you chose instead to teach a lesson. So, when in the morning you discovered my rude and mean 1990 Dodge Spirit still in the rebellious location, your righteous indignation was fully fired. Consequently, at 9:30am of a Sunday morning, you called Safety and Security with nostrils flaring. And, when asked the momentous question by the polite and perfunctory phone operator, “Would you like the car ticketed or towed?” you uttered a fateful and decisive, “Towed.” Now, feeling almost sentimentally paternal as you hung up the phone, you thought to yourself how much you would be teaching this deprived Dodge and its obviously idiotic owner.
Fast-forward to 10:00am on the same Sunday morning. I sat in a pew, naively listening as my pastor taught a lesson on Christian connections being the true source of knowledge when my phone rang in church. Mystified and embarrassed, I quickly reached into my purse and silenced it. Every one of the contacts on my phone list knows that I regularly attend the first service at my church and work in the nursery for the second. The number was one that my phone didn’t recognize and I was even further mystified when the caller left a message. Intending to check the message after first service got out I immediately proceeded to forget all about it. I headed blissfully to the 25-35 month-old room unaware of the lesson I was currently being taught.
Fast-forward again to about 12:00pm. Finally free of charming but clinging infants, I decided to check my messages. A respectfully bland voice informed me that my car was to be towed immediately unless I called by 10:45am. This was, quite obviously, not an option unless I suddenly discovered a thus-far hidden but remarkable talent to control time. I informed my friends and co-workers of my misfortune and they express their distress as well. Downcast, I hope at least that the bill will not be more than fifty dollars. Ha. Poor, simple driver . . .
I thought I might as well try to put a little balm on the wound since my car was most obviously already in impound, so I accepted an invitation to a home-cooked meal. After a very pleasant lunch at the home of a lovely lady from church, my friends and I headed home in our small carpool. Once home, I call Safety and Security. Another bland, polite voice informed me that the ever-obliging Lincoln Towing had been more than happy to pick up my infringing vehicle. A call to Lincoln Towing was next on the list and after the simple and mostly non-threatening questions of “Where?” and “When?” had been answered, I dropped the bomb and asked the central query, “How much?” Now, up until this point, I was attempting and almost managing, a nonchalant and almost laissez faire attitude. It was when this crucial question was answered that I decided there was going to be crying involved. A lot of crying. What was the ill-fated answer to this all-important question you ask? The answer was a song to the tune of $212.16.
Well, after crying for awhile, checking my bank account balance and then crying some more, I decided to call my parents. Choking out the dire news of my now apparently ended life through one end of a telephone wire for what seems the ten-thousandth time in my experience, I struggle painfully through the whole tangled mess. My sensible and caring father reminds me patiently of the existence of credit cards, tells me that they’ll be willing to pay for it, and calms my panic, if not my guilt. The guilt I refer to stems from the fact that my stupid conviction is now costing my parents a totally unnecessary $212.16. This conviction I speak of is one I previously held that anyone who got annoyed enough with me for parking somewhere incorrectly would have me ticketed first, not towed. This has been my experience with the system thus far and I assumed, based on my experience, what the outcome of remaining in a parking spot twenty-four hours after receiving a most courteous note demanding that I get out would be. My room mate for the previous two years regularly had people parking in her spot. She, however, had the strange tendency to ticket them first before assigning them the massive punishment of towing. Only if she recognized a previous offender would she ever even consider a towing order. Now, she never did have to even try to have anyone towed because there was never a second offender. This is odd and there must be some key difference in the approach used that I am missing because I currently have the most passionate desire I have ever possessed to park in a horizontal position across at least three parking spaces behind this building. Yes. Very odd indeed.
Next, my friend Emily, being sweet and generous and everything else my splendid and good parking teacher is most apparently not, she blithely agreed to take me to Lincoln Towing. She actually agreed to interrupt her studies, waste her gas, and risk driving a car that may or may not be at 100% currently in order to drive me to retrieve a car that had been parked incorrectly and towed justly. Not only that, but she refused any gas money from me because she took pity on me in my situation and decided to be compassionate. Now there’s a word that’s apparently new to at least one member of this community . . . compassion.
It may surprise some of my readers at this point to find that I am not writing this missive in any attempt to clear myself of guilt. Oh no, I am definitely guilty. I am simply trying to point out the wrongness of my accuser’s attitude. I admit it. I have a commuter’s parking permit. The four-space parking lot where I was located behind the 35 W. Cremona building at 9:30am this Sunday morning when the call was made to have me towed is reserved for, as we all know by now, Residents only. I was parked there with an incorrect permit. I know that according to the law I am guilty. Does any of this sound familiar to any Christian theology majors out there?
Anyway, Emily and I arrived without incident at the Lincoln Towing headquarters. Irony of ironies, there was a Christian fish on their sign. (And for the readers’ edification, I would also wish to inform you at this time that there is even more irony contained in this story. The most painful irony of all is that this Sunday was my turn for carpool driving duty and had I not been concerned about a chronically overheating engine, I would . . . well, to be honest I probably would only have been towed at a later date as I somehow cannot doubt the conviction of my most virtuous teacher.) All irony aside, Emily waited in the bowl of a parking lot as I walked up to the graffiti-covered “guest center”. (Can I really be called a guest if I receive not an invitation, but a detainee notice?) I walked in determined to be polite and as pleasant as I could be under the circumstances I thought that they must not see very many friendly attitudes and really all they did in the end was take the call and charge slightly exorbitant prices for it. They truly have a minimum modicum of blame in this, certainly less than that owned by myself and my most moral teacher. I was going to be grown-up and strong. I held onto this ideal for all of about thirty seconds when my turn at the window came at last.
As I told the woman behind the window my car’s license number and make and model she just shook her at me and half-smiled while saying, “No.” “No?” I queried, thoroughly confused and somehow minutely hoping that that smiling, “No” meant something good. “No.” she repeated again before continuing on, “My driver did not like getting you out of the space,” she grinned in what I suppose she thought was a “lighten-the-atmosphere” manner, “Man, he sure did have a time.” I stared at this apparently kind-meaning woman with no thought in my head but the one screaming, “If he had such trouble then why didn’t he just leave it there!” This woman went on with the process of pouring lemon juice in my wounds in the guise of friendly jests and advice designed to make me feel more at ease by informing me that her parents had a 1991 Dodge Spirit too that, “went up like nothing else.” She asked if I am currently experiencing any engine problems because a new engine would run me fifteen-hundred dollars. When I told her of the overheating problem she said, “Yep, that’ll about do it. My parents were having oil pressure problems when their engine exploded. I would be thinking about upgrading if I were you. My little 1999 Dodge Neon out there only cost me twenty-five hundred.” Stupefied by this onslaught of cheerful torment, I only nodded in dumb agreement as I began to sign various papers. I tried to act tough as I felt tears starting to come again, but I only managed to hide them only for about a minute by pretending to have something in both of my eyes simultaneously until they begin to spill out at a rate where I could not prevent them. It was not active crying, just tears, so the towing lady doesn’t notice anything different until she looked up as she handed me another paper and said with an open-mouthed look of shock and sympathy, “Don’t cry!” I smiled and thoroughly forgave this kind-hearted, if somewhat tactless, woman because she has such a gentle heart. “I’m okay.” I reassured her as I finished signing the last paper.
Finally, our interaction was done and I headed out to my car and added some more anti-freeze and water into the radiator as my dad has been directing me to do in case there’s an air bubble in the line. Emily had been waiting in her car for me the whole time just to make sure everything was alright. As I got in my car assured at last that the ordeal was, for my part, over, I let out an ill-timed sigh of cathartic relief. Key in ignition, I attempted to start my car. The key would not budge. The car was thoroughly in park, and I had no idea what else could be causing key-turn failure. So, out of the car I went, shooting a quick word of reassurance to the still-waiting Emily, and headed toward the towing Mecca. The kind woman proved once again how kind she truly is and didn’t even wait for me to come to the front door but saw me coming and instead got up and met me at the back door. She informed me that my steering wheel may be stuck, reassured me that the car isn’t actually harmed and that if I would like to wait for someone to help me she’d have a driver returning in fifteen minutes because it is going to take a “strong hand.” A little confused, I returned to my car and attempted what I thought may have been the nice woman’s instructions, turning the steering wheel as hard as I can while turning the key in the ignition. It worked and I was glad to have had this woman’s help in my ordeal. Emily saw me start it and announced out the window that she intended to follow me home because of my over-heating problems. As I began to pull away from my parking space half-under a cedar tree on a slope, I waved at the kind woman in the graffiti Mecca to let her know her advice worked. I switched on my blinker to signal a turn that was apparently worth $216.12.
Once back at home, I went to the commuter’s parking lot across the alley from the back of 35 W. Cremona from which I have already once been kicked out by a note claiming a reservation of an un-marked spot (which started my parking endeavor in the consecrated Resident parking spots in the first place) but someone had some sort of yacht club truck that was blocking at least two additional un-marked spaces besides the one claimed by the fancy silver car. So, I headed to the outcast parking lot: the Cremona lot by the Bertona Building. I slipped into the first spot I found that didn’t seem to be the territory of anyone in particular, noticed that my engine was once again dangerously overheating, and promptly headed in a direction opposite of my apartment. I plunked myself down at one of the cold, concrete tables outside of the SUB and just thought blank, bitter thoughts. Cheek down, I gloried in pity until I had had almost enough and headed back to my apartment and the much-contested parking spot.
Even now as I write this, the much-desired parking spot is still empty. I cannot help but wonder if all of my jest about someone wishing to teach me a lesson has more truth in it than I’d suspect. I cannot help but wonder at all the combined irony of this story . . . that my “lesson” was taught to me on a Sunday, while I was in church. What would I be doing in a resident spot on a Sunday if I was actually a commuting student? Wouldn’t I be at home somewhere else? What’s more, why on earth did this anonymous teacher decide to bring the towing company down on my head when she would have had to at least try to assume that I would be at church even if I were somehow there without my car? I cannot honestly pretend that I believe for even one second that any person on this earth is so utterly un-imaginative that they cannot think of another way for someone to get to church besides taking their own car. The second irony I find is that were it not for the off-putting tone of the note in the first place, I probably would have minded it in spite of a car-load of groceries that I had to abandon to my room mate to unload because of an immediate need to run to work, pop tart in mouth, and a concern for my engine which was apparently about to undergo pyrotechnics according to the towing lady. The third and most ironic irony of all is that this lesson was taught to me so enthusiastically at an institution that claims to “seek to model a grace-filled community.” That believes that each person should, “strive to treat each other and all people with respect, kindness and care.” And finally sets for its members the goal of “becom[ing] examples of grace, forgiveness, and civility in a culture that is too often polarized and contentious.” (taken from the Statement of Faith for Seattle Pacific University)
So park, 35 W. Cremona! Park to your hearts’ content! The hero of the empty parking spot has triumphed! Never again will this lowly alas, resident, not Resident darken the spaces of the Cremona alley parking lot. Rest assured I will walk across the street with my groceries. I will never again dare to raise myself above my station or trust in the compassion of others. Tried and convicted within a span of twenty-four hours by a jury of one, I receive my judgment. I will avoid being a part of this community of which I am apparently an undeserving member. I acknowledge my plain commuter status. You need not charge my parents another $212.16, my teacher, the lesson is learned. March on Christian soldier, knowing that you are painstakingly right. My lesson is thoroughly learned.
Dear Resident:
First off, I must congratulate you. The chivalrous note you left on my car window on Saturday managed to make me feel utterly reviled. It takes true talent to make the courtesy of a note into an insult. Not only did you belittle my intelligence by assuming that I can’t read, you also made me feel quite thoroughly hated and outcast. You managed to make me sense that I was somehow less worthy because I am in possession of only a lowly commuter parking permit and not the hallowed and rare Resident parking permit. It amazed me how much of your abhorrence for my infraction into your ordered world managed to leak into a note that I’m sure you intended to write in a spirit of pious condescension considering that at first you nobly refrained from involving Safety and Security. This note was even more poignant for me because I am a Resident of the 35 W. Cremonas, as you put it. I was only issued a commuter parking permit because the quota of sacred Resident parking permits had apparently been filled and given to persons more worthy than myself. All this from a sheet ripped from a graphically-designed paper pad and inscribed with just two sentences in a girly handwriting stuck under a windshield wiper. Only a person of prodigious endowment could manage to make such a small number of polite words so enormously full of loathing.
However, you didn’t stop there. Oh no, your chivalrous behavior went much further than that. With me already feeling generally disliked and misfit, you decided that clemency is overrated in such cases and, when given the choice between offering a benevolent mercy and an impartial justice, you chose instead to teach a lesson. So, when in the morning you discovered my rude and mean 1990 Dodge Spirit still in the rebellious location, your righteous indignation was fully fired. Consequently, at 9:30am of a Sunday morning, you called Safety and Security with nostrils flaring. And, when asked the momentous question by the polite and perfunctory phone operator, “Would you like the car ticketed or towed?” you uttered a fateful and decisive, “Towed.” Now, feeling almost sentimentally paternal as you hung up the phone, you thought to yourself how much you would be teaching this deprived Dodge and its obviously idiotic owner.
Fast-forward to 10:00am on the same Sunday morning. I sat in a pew, naively listening as my pastor taught a lesson on Christian connections being the true source of knowledge when my phone rang in church. Mystified and embarrassed, I quickly reached into my purse and silenced it. Every one of the contacts on my phone list knows that I regularly attend the first service at my church and work in the nursery for the second. The number was one that my phone didn’t recognize and I was even further mystified when the caller left a message. Intending to check the message after first service got out I immediately proceeded to forget all about it. I headed blissfully to the 25-35 month-old room unaware of the lesson I was currently being taught.
Fast-forward again to about 12:00pm. Finally free of charming but clinging infants, I decided to check my messages. A respectfully bland voice informed me that my car was to be towed immediately unless I called by 10:45am. This was, quite obviously, not an option unless I suddenly discovered a thus-far hidden but remarkable talent to control time. I informed my friends and co-workers of my misfortune and they express their distress as well. Downcast, I hope at least that the bill will not be more than fifty dollars. Ha. Poor, simple driver . . .
I thought I might as well try to put a little balm on the wound since my car was most obviously already in impound, so I accepted an invitation to a home-cooked meal. After a very pleasant lunch at the home of a lovely lady from church, my friends and I headed home in our small carpool. Once home, I call Safety and Security. Another bland, polite voice informed me that the ever-obliging Lincoln Towing had been more than happy to pick up my infringing vehicle. A call to Lincoln Towing was next on the list and after the simple and mostly non-threatening questions of “Where?” and “When?” had been answered, I dropped the bomb and asked the central query, “How much?” Now, up until this point, I was attempting and almost managing, a nonchalant and almost laissez faire attitude. It was when this crucial question was answered that I decided there was going to be crying involved. A lot of crying. What was the ill-fated answer to this all-important question you ask? The answer was a song to the tune of $212.16.
Well, after crying for awhile, checking my bank account balance and then crying some more, I decided to call my parents. Choking out the dire news of my now apparently ended life through one end of a telephone wire for what seems the ten-thousandth time in my experience, I struggle painfully through the whole tangled mess. My sensible and caring father reminds me patiently of the existence of credit cards, tells me that they’ll be willing to pay for it, and calms my panic, if not my guilt. The guilt I refer to stems from the fact that my stupid conviction is now costing my parents a totally unnecessary $212.16. This conviction I speak of is one I previously held that anyone who got annoyed enough with me for parking somewhere incorrectly would have me ticketed first, not towed. This has been my experience with the system thus far and I assumed, based on my experience, what the outcome of remaining in a parking spot twenty-four hours after receiving a most courteous note demanding that I get out would be. My room mate for the previous two years regularly had people parking in her spot. She, however, had the strange tendency to ticket them first before assigning them the massive punishment of towing. Only if she recognized a previous offender would she ever even consider a towing order. Now, she never did have to even try to have anyone towed because there was never a second offender. This is odd and there must be some key difference in the approach used that I am missing because I currently have the most passionate desire I have ever possessed to park in a horizontal position across at least three parking spaces behind this building. Yes. Very odd indeed.
Next, my friend Emily, being sweet and generous and everything else my splendid and good parking teacher is most apparently not, she blithely agreed to take me to Lincoln Towing. She actually agreed to interrupt her studies, waste her gas, and risk driving a car that may or may not be at 100% currently in order to drive me to retrieve a car that had been parked incorrectly and towed justly. Not only that, but she refused any gas money from me because she took pity on me in my situation and decided to be compassionate. Now there’s a word that’s apparently new to at least one member of this community . . . compassion.
It may surprise some of my readers at this point to find that I am not writing this missive in any attempt to clear myself of guilt. Oh no, I am definitely guilty. I am simply trying to point out the wrongness of my accuser’s attitude. I admit it. I have a commuter’s parking permit. The four-space parking lot where I was located behind the 35 W. Cremona building at 9:30am this Sunday morning when the call was made to have me towed is reserved for, as we all know by now, Residents only. I was parked there with an incorrect permit. I know that according to the law I am guilty. Does any of this sound familiar to any Christian theology majors out there?
Anyway, Emily and I arrived without incident at the Lincoln Towing headquarters. Irony of ironies, there was a Christian fish on their sign. (And for the readers’ edification, I would also wish to inform you at this time that there is even more irony contained in this story. The most painful irony of all is that this Sunday was my turn for carpool driving duty and had I not been concerned about a chronically overheating engine, I would . . . well, to be honest I probably would only have been towed at a later date as I somehow cannot doubt the conviction of my most virtuous teacher.) All irony aside, Emily waited in the bowl of a parking lot as I walked up to the graffiti-covered “guest center”. (Can I really be called a guest if I receive not an invitation, but a detainee notice?) I walked in determined to be polite and as pleasant as I could be under the circumstances I thought that they must not see very many friendly attitudes and really all they did in the end was take the call and charge slightly exorbitant prices for it. They truly have a minimum modicum of blame in this, certainly less than that owned by myself and my most moral teacher. I was going to be grown-up and strong. I held onto this ideal for all of about thirty seconds when my turn at the window came at last.
As I told the woman behind the window my car’s license number and make and model she just shook her at me and half-smiled while saying, “No.” “No?” I queried, thoroughly confused and somehow minutely hoping that that smiling, “No” meant something good. “No.” she repeated again before continuing on, “My driver did not like getting you out of the space,” she grinned in what I suppose she thought was a “lighten-the-atmosphere” manner, “Man, he sure did have a time.” I stared at this apparently kind-meaning woman with no thought in my head but the one screaming, “If he had such trouble then why didn’t he just leave it there!” This woman went on with the process of pouring lemon juice in my wounds in the guise of friendly jests and advice designed to make me feel more at ease by informing me that her parents had a 1991 Dodge Spirit too that, “went up like nothing else.” She asked if I am currently experiencing any engine problems because a new engine would run me fifteen-hundred dollars. When I told her of the overheating problem she said, “Yep, that’ll about do it. My parents were having oil pressure problems when their engine exploded. I would be thinking about upgrading if I were you. My little 1999 Dodge Neon out there only cost me twenty-five hundred.” Stupefied by this onslaught of cheerful torment, I only nodded in dumb agreement as I began to sign various papers. I tried to act tough as I felt tears starting to come again, but I only managed to hide them only for about a minute by pretending to have something in both of my eyes simultaneously until they begin to spill out at a rate where I could not prevent them. It was not active crying, just tears, so the towing lady doesn’t notice anything different until she looked up as she handed me another paper and said with an open-mouthed look of shock and sympathy, “Don’t cry!” I smiled and thoroughly forgave this kind-hearted, if somewhat tactless, woman because she has such a gentle heart. “I’m okay.” I reassured her as I finished signing the last paper.
Finally, our interaction was done and I headed out to my car and added some more anti-freeze and water into the radiator as my dad has been directing me to do in case there’s an air bubble in the line. Emily had been waiting in her car for me the whole time just to make sure everything was alright. As I got in my car assured at last that the ordeal was, for my part, over, I let out an ill-timed sigh of cathartic relief. Key in ignition, I attempted to start my car. The key would not budge. The car was thoroughly in park, and I had no idea what else could be causing key-turn failure. So, out of the car I went, shooting a quick word of reassurance to the still-waiting Emily, and headed toward the towing Mecca. The kind woman proved once again how kind she truly is and didn’t even wait for me to come to the front door but saw me coming and instead got up and met me at the back door. She informed me that my steering wheel may be stuck, reassured me that the car isn’t actually harmed and that if I would like to wait for someone to help me she’d have a driver returning in fifteen minutes because it is going to take a “strong hand.” A little confused, I returned to my car and attempted what I thought may have been the nice woman’s instructions, turning the steering wheel as hard as I can while turning the key in the ignition. It worked and I was glad to have had this woman’s help in my ordeal. Emily saw me start it and announced out the window that she intended to follow me home because of my over-heating problems. As I began to pull away from my parking space half-under a cedar tree on a slope, I waved at the kind woman in the graffiti Mecca to let her know her advice worked. I switched on my blinker to signal a turn that was apparently worth $216.12.
Once back at home, I went to the commuter’s parking lot across the alley from the back of 35 W. Cremona from which I have already once been kicked out by a note claiming a reservation of an un-marked spot (which started my parking endeavor in the consecrated Resident parking spots in the first place) but someone had some sort of yacht club truck that was blocking at least two additional un-marked spaces besides the one claimed by the fancy silver car. So, I headed to the outcast parking lot: the Cremona lot by the Bertona Building. I slipped into the first spot I found that didn’t seem to be the territory of anyone in particular, noticed that my engine was once again dangerously overheating, and promptly headed in a direction opposite of my apartment. I plunked myself down at one of the cold, concrete tables outside of the SUB and just thought blank, bitter thoughts. Cheek down, I gloried in pity until I had had almost enough and headed back to my apartment and the much-contested parking spot.
Even now as I write this, the much-desired parking spot is still empty. I cannot help but wonder if all of my jest about someone wishing to teach me a lesson has more truth in it than I’d suspect. I cannot help but wonder at all the combined irony of this story . . . that my “lesson” was taught to me on a Sunday, while I was in church. What would I be doing in a resident spot on a Sunday if I was actually a commuting student? Wouldn’t I be at home somewhere else? What’s more, why on earth did this anonymous teacher decide to bring the towing company down on my head when she would have had to at least try to assume that I would be at church even if I were somehow there without my car? I cannot honestly pretend that I believe for even one second that any person on this earth is so utterly un-imaginative that they cannot think of another way for someone to get to church besides taking their own car. The second irony I find is that were it not for the off-putting tone of the note in the first place, I probably would have minded it in spite of a car-load of groceries that I had to abandon to my room mate to unload because of an immediate need to run to work, pop tart in mouth, and a concern for my engine which was apparently about to undergo pyrotechnics according to the towing lady. The third and most ironic irony of all is that this lesson was taught to me so enthusiastically at an institution that claims to “seek to model a grace-filled community.” That believes that each person should, “strive to treat each other and all people with respect, kindness and care.” And finally sets for its members the goal of “becom[ing] examples of grace, forgiveness, and civility in a culture that is too often polarized and contentious.” (taken from the Statement of Faith for Seattle Pacific University)
So park, 35 W. Cremona! Park to your hearts’ content! The hero of the empty parking spot has triumphed! Never again will this lowly alas, resident, not Resident darken the spaces of the Cremona alley parking lot. Rest assured I will walk across the street with my groceries. I will never again dare to raise myself above my station or trust in the compassion of others. Tried and convicted within a span of twenty-four hours by a jury of one, I receive my judgment. I will avoid being a part of this community of which I am apparently an undeserving member. I acknowledge my plain commuter status. You need not charge my parents another $212.16, my teacher, the lesson is learned. March on Christian soldier, knowing that you are painstakingly right. My lesson is thoroughly learned.
Monday, October 02, 2006
After the First Week . . .
Hey all-
After the first week of being in the apartment, Stephanie and I are finally getting settled in. I only have two more pictures to hang and all of my boxes are unpacked. I also have a box of stuff that will be taken home with me on my next trip. ;)
This Saturday morning, Steph and I finally broke in the appliances in our kitchen besides the microwave by making ourselves a big breakfast. It was tasty. We made pancakes, bacon, and scrambled eggs. :)
Yesterday (Sunday) Andy came over after church and got to see our place. :D He showed me a game called Okami that I am terrible at like every other game. ;) That doesn't mean it wasn't fun, but at the end of the day I was still drawing (a major part of the game, uses the joystick) like a scribbling two-year-old. :P But we had oven-baked pizza with Brad (who was also visiting) and Steph so it was kind of like a double-date-day. :) Then we watched The Village which I convinced Stephanie wasn't a horror movie by saying that she liked it. Stephanie still isn't sure if she feels the same way about it, but she admitted this morning that she felt better about it this morning than she did last night. Something about the distance. ;)
Tomorrow I have a beautifully mostly unplanned day. It's been very busy with all my work hours so it'll be nice to be able to dedicate a few hours together to doing relaxing, non-work things. :)
Anyway, I'll be blogging about something boring and most-likely apartment related sometime soon.
-The Relaxing Resident
After the first week of being in the apartment, Stephanie and I are finally getting settled in. I only have two more pictures to hang and all of my boxes are unpacked. I also have a box of stuff that will be taken home with me on my next trip. ;)
This Saturday morning, Steph and I finally broke in the appliances in our kitchen besides the microwave by making ourselves a big breakfast. It was tasty. We made pancakes, bacon, and scrambled eggs. :)
Yesterday (Sunday) Andy came over after church and got to see our place. :D He showed me a game called Okami that I am terrible at like every other game. ;) That doesn't mean it wasn't fun, but at the end of the day I was still drawing (a major part of the game, uses the joystick) like a scribbling two-year-old. :P But we had oven-baked pizza with Brad (who was also visiting) and Steph so it was kind of like a double-date-day. :) Then we watched The Village which I convinced Stephanie wasn't a horror movie by saying that she liked it. Stephanie still isn't sure if she feels the same way about it, but she admitted this morning that she felt better about it this morning than she did last night. Something about the distance. ;)
Tomorrow I have a beautifully mostly unplanned day. It's been very busy with all my work hours so it'll be nice to be able to dedicate a few hours together to doing relaxing, non-work things. :)
Anyway, I'll be blogging about something boring and most-likely apartment related sometime soon.
-The Relaxing Resident
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