For the sake of argument, let's say I work at a company that keeps a list of salaries in a file that has password protection.
And I want to compare my salary with everyone else's. I work in a very competitive environment and I want to be sure that I am being compensated fairly. Heck I'd like to know what my colleagues are making so I know where I stand.
I've worked for the company for four years. I have an excellent work record. No black marks for me ever. In fact, my work history is superior enough that I'm considered an up and comer.
It happens that I work for the person who knows the password to the files. One day I find out what the password is. Perhaps I see it on a piece of paper lying out on her desk. Or I watch her hands while she types it on he keyboard. Or I know her dog's name and just give it a try to see if it will work. Suddenly I'm in.
I use the password to access the secret salary files to find out where my salary stands in relation to everyone else.
Ooops, I get caught. The security system rats me out. In fact, I'm discovered while still on the computer looking at the salaries.
What should my punishment be? Should I be put on probation. Fired outright? Should I lose my bonus? Be demoted? Or should the cops be called to arrest me?
How about two years' probation? Any future infractions and zero tolerance would be initiated and I'd be fired. I would also lose my bonus and any future promotions would be deferred until I was off probation.
No cops need to be called to arrest me. No harm. No foul. Just a breach in judgment and my character has been brought into question.
This was not a crime of violence. Sabotage. Or an attempt to steal secrets. This was breaking the rules. Ironically, many companies pride themselves on thinking "out of the box" and breaking rules. In fact, one place I worked, the rules were -- there are no rules. So go figure.
Interestingly, when it comes to what people make, many companies are now publishing all salaries so everybody knows what everybody else earns. Apparently it removes an entire level of anxiety in the workplace. And also removes imagined slights. Listing salaries could also help to insure that there really is equality between male/female wages. Or not.
Now, for a real life example.
There's a high school senior around here named Jonah who was caught redhanded looking at password protected class rankings and ACT scores. He is a smart AP student who may have been trusted with the password for his job as a math tutor for other students. Or he figured it out somehow. Either way he got into the files and got caught.
The administrators were alerted that someone was online in an unauthorized area by the security system. So they went around the school checking out student computers and looking at what the kids had on their screens. They caught Jonah on his laptop.
At that moment, what would you do? The two scenarios, school and workplace, are similar. Except the kid doesn't make any money. And he's not going to be around long enough to serve a probation period.
Unlike the salaries, which have traditionally been kept secret, he was looking at some information -- the class rankings -- which used to be publicly posted and not secret at all. In fact in many schools they are readily available.
This was not a crime of violence, espionage, sabotage, or theft at all. It was a kid who was nosy and didn't consider the consequences. And, as studies have shown, lack of judgment is an problem endemic among teenagers whose brains are not yet hardwired for maturity.
In the district where Jonah attends high school, the students are encouraged to be competitive, almost to a fault. But when they want to reap the fruits of their efforts and find out where all their hard work got them, the door has been slammed shut in their faces in recent years.
The administration decided that class rank at this elite high school shouldn't be used on college applications. They feel that class standing gives unfair advantage to students from inferior schools. In other words, a valedictorian from a poor school should not have an artificially inflated advantage over any of the first fifty students in a class of 1000 at Jonah's much more competitive school.
Back to Jonah and how he got whaled on by the high school adminstration.
If I had caught Jonah, I would have taken his computer and had a member of security drive him home immediately.
In one week he would have to bring his parents back to school with him. At that time he would appear in front of the administrators to present an essay on what he thought should be the consequences of his behavior. He should also provide recommendations for changes to the system to keep students likehimself from accessing unauthorized areas on the computer. Finally I would also have him write to the college he plans to attend with an accounting of his behavior.
I would also inform the student body and their parents that a student had been caught looking at ACT scores and class rankings. And remind everyone that there are consequences for this behavior.
I have the feeling that in Jonah's case, the consequences for looking at his class ranking and comparing ACT scores may not be specificially outlined in school policy.
Here's what seems to have happened so far according to newspaper reports and students I have talked to:
Jonah was put on suspension immediately. He has had to take his courses from home for the last three months. He was not allowed to go to prom. He will not be permitted to attend graduation. And the local police, at the behest of the school, have arraigned him for a misdemeanor computer crime.
Kids caught with illegal substances with intent to sell receive much less harsh treatment.
This whole episode is a lesson in overkill.
I think part of the problem is something troubling in high school adminstrators. They wield a unique kind of power that they are loathe to relinquish to parents, teachers, and especially students.
What they really hate more than anything is when you can outsmart them. I tried to work with the adminstrators in charge of the seniors at Jonah's school, asking permission to videotape interviews with their supervision, but they finally said, no, we just don't want to deal with this.
So, we stopped asking permission and decided just to do what we planned and apologize later. We got the job done and never had to apologize to anyone.
I bet Jonah tried to find out his class ranking by asking what it was. I am sure he wanted to know where he stood vis a vis his ACT scores against the other kids in his class. Why shouldn't he have that right. It's the main reason kids work so hard in high school.
But I'm sure he was turned down with each request. Instead of trying to find a solution that would work for both sides, the hammer just came down on the nail.
It's not Jonah's job to negotiate for a solution. It behooves the school to find an answer that is satisfactory for both parties. But pulling rank is so much easier.
So Jonah took matters into his own hands to find out for himself. [I don't know ifhe really did this, but I could understand if he did.]
Here's where another problem lies: Jonah made the administrators look like fools. Some kid cracked their code and made it look easy.
Middle managment bureaucrats of any stripe get really pissy when you usurp their power or they lose face
Yes, they caught him redhanded. But what exactly did he do?
Read something about himself? O-o-o-o. He didn't access social security numbers or change his grades. There was no criminal intent. Yes rules were broken. No real crime was committed.
What this episode reveals is that the school has a very smart kid. But he's only eighteen so he's also an idiot.
Despite protests from fellow students and parents who don't even know this boy, Jonah is still stuck inside the whale.
As I recall from the original story, he eventually got out.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Dear Diary
Hey, I have a whole day off today. I don't even have to fix myself up to look put together for a party, because I already did that yesterday.
I got home last night in time to see the rerun of the maudlin Memorial Concert from the Mall. "Yes, ladies and gentleman, if you think the story you just heard about that heroic soldier made you cry, here's two more that will have you blubbering with snot blowing out of your nose."
I'm not sure why Joe Montagne is the host every year, but I'm not complaining -- him being from Chicago and all. So is Gary Sinise. I know why Gary is on -- at least I think I do. Besides being a friend of Montagne's, the rock band he leads entertains the troops in Iraq for the USO. Rock band? Why yes. I think's it's named after his character, Lt. Dan, in Forest Gump. Lt. Dan's Band. Soldiers treat him like he really is Lt. Dan. A little like life imitating art imitating an old movie.
What elixir of youth is that guy John Schneider drinking? He still looks as young as he did fifty, sixty years ago, jumping into his redneck roadster on the show that introduced America to Daisy Dukes. Fine by me. Sings good too, in a John Davidson Up With People way.
Colin Powell, the man who woulda shoulda coulda been our first Barack Obama, made his annual and, now rare, public appearance since Rumsfeld drummed him out of the White House.
I stayed up past midnight watching every minute of this yearly paean to patriotism, because, frankly, I like to sing along with Gladys Knight when I'm waiting for the Zantac to kick in. In fact, almost all the songs, except for whatever Sarah Brightman happens to be yodeling, are in my key.
Everything about Sarah seems surreal, from her preternaturally perfectly-pitched soprano voice [I'll look up preternaturally], to her Rapunzel-like hair [which comes with its own wind machine], to her voluptuously impossible body. Her hand movements are weird however. Odd. Awkward.
[I'll look up "paean" too, see if I spelled it right first of all, and used it right, second of all.]
Yesterday at the barbecue we had Bill Kurtis steaks. He's the guy on A&E who used to host every single show. He was an anchorman on CBS news in Chicago. Now he's so rich from producing American Justice and Cold Case Files and some other one I can't remember, that he has a cattle ranch in his home state of Kansas. He raises organic, grass-fed beef, which usually sells for twenty dollars a pound at high end grocery stores. I guess some grocery store had a fire sale on meat, so we were treated to grilled ribeye steaks from Kurtis' Tallgrass ranch. They tasted very good, but they definitely had a different flavor. Fescue?
Naturally, with plenty of wine and food to fuel our conversation, talk turned to death, my favorite subject. This was a racially homogeneous crowd, although we did have some religious diversity -- Catholic, Jewish, and Protestant. Everybody weighed in on cremation or not. Burial or not. Donation of organs or not. The usually upbeat stuff you talk about around the dinner table at a holiday party.
I allowed as how in a world where I could have anything I wanted, I'd pay to have the Edwin Hawkins' Singers come perform Oh Happy Day at my memorial service. That got some looks as everyone imagined the sounds of uplifting, joyous black gospel music emitted from the white bread and cottage cheese Episcopal church in the arch-Republican WASPy town where I was raised. After a moment of what-can-you-say silence, someone retorted, "Would you have the Jesse White Tumblers, too?"
I guess my request was considered as off the wall as someone black wanting Barry Manilow to sing Mandy at his or her funeral, followed by a performance featuring the Flying Wallendas.
Luckily we had some lemon meringue pie for a segue.
Mark your calendars -- the one year anniversary of the police invasion of my home is coming up in June. Should I send formal invitations? In fact, I was wondering whether I ought to call Officer Krumpke, who spearheaded the cover up, and ask him to dinner. I mentioned my willingness to extract some measure of revenge, even if it takes a long time, and a regular reader of my blog suggested that I write a note that says "Officer Krumpke gave me herpes." And leave it in my bedside table to be found upon my demise.
That's why I keep this journal. People care.
I got home last night in time to see the rerun of the maudlin Memorial Concert from the Mall. "Yes, ladies and gentleman, if you think the story you just heard about that heroic soldier made you cry, here's two more that will have you blubbering with snot blowing out of your nose."
I'm not sure why Joe Montagne is the host every year, but I'm not complaining -- him being from Chicago and all. So is Gary Sinise. I know why Gary is on -- at least I think I do. Besides being a friend of Montagne's, the rock band he leads entertains the troops in Iraq for the USO. Rock band? Why yes. I think's it's named after his character, Lt. Dan, in Forest Gump. Lt. Dan's Band. Soldiers treat him like he really is Lt. Dan. A little like life imitating art imitating an old movie.
What elixir of youth is that guy John Schneider drinking? He still looks as young as he did fifty, sixty years ago, jumping into his redneck roadster on the show that introduced America to Daisy Dukes. Fine by me. Sings good too, in a John Davidson Up With People way.
Colin Powell, the man who woulda shoulda coulda been our first Barack Obama, made his annual and, now rare, public appearance since Rumsfeld drummed him out of the White House.
I stayed up past midnight watching every minute of this yearly paean to patriotism, because, frankly, I like to sing along with Gladys Knight when I'm waiting for the Zantac to kick in. In fact, almost all the songs, except for whatever Sarah Brightman happens to be yodeling, are in my key.
Everything about Sarah seems surreal, from her preternaturally perfectly-pitched soprano voice [I'll look up preternaturally], to her Rapunzel-like hair [which comes with its own wind machine], to her voluptuously impossible body. Her hand movements are weird however. Odd. Awkward.
[I'll look up "paean" too, see if I spelled it right first of all, and used it right, second of all.]
Yesterday at the barbecue we had Bill Kurtis steaks. He's the guy on A&E who used to host every single show. He was an anchorman on CBS news in Chicago. Now he's so rich from producing American Justice and Cold Case Files and some other one I can't remember, that he has a cattle ranch in his home state of Kansas. He raises organic, grass-fed beef, which usually sells for twenty dollars a pound at high end grocery stores. I guess some grocery store had a fire sale on meat, so we were treated to grilled ribeye steaks from Kurtis' Tallgrass ranch. They tasted very good, but they definitely had a different flavor. Fescue?
Naturally, with plenty of wine and food to fuel our conversation, talk turned to death, my favorite subject. This was a racially homogeneous crowd, although we did have some religious diversity -- Catholic, Jewish, and Protestant. Everybody weighed in on cremation or not. Burial or not. Donation of organs or not. The usually upbeat stuff you talk about around the dinner table at a holiday party.
I allowed as how in a world where I could have anything I wanted, I'd pay to have the Edwin Hawkins' Singers come perform Oh Happy Day at my memorial service. That got some looks as everyone imagined the sounds of uplifting, joyous black gospel music emitted from the white bread and cottage cheese Episcopal church in the arch-Republican WASPy town where I was raised. After a moment of what-can-you-say silence, someone retorted, "Would you have the Jesse White Tumblers, too?"
I guess my request was considered as off the wall as someone black wanting Barry Manilow to sing Mandy at his or her funeral, followed by a performance featuring the Flying Wallendas.
Luckily we had some lemon meringue pie for a segue.
Mark your calendars -- the one year anniversary of the police invasion of my home is coming up in June. Should I send formal invitations? In fact, I was wondering whether I ought to call Officer Krumpke, who spearheaded the cover up, and ask him to dinner. I mentioned my willingness to extract some measure of revenge, even if it takes a long time, and a regular reader of my blog suggested that I write a note that says "Officer Krumpke gave me herpes." And leave it in my bedside table to be found upon my demise.
That's why I keep this journal. People care.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Working Eighteen Hour Days
I tried to load an entry from where I'm working. But it wouldn't. No matter what browser I used. So I copied and pasted it at home -- and I can't change font sizes or typefaces. Or edit the thing. So you're on your own until I have more time to spend more than ten minutes fixing things. I recommend holding your breath and trying to read this whole thing without stopping.
As one gets older -- okay, ME -- and the possibility of croaking begins to loom large in my legend -- I have started to wonder how I'm going to go. Long, slow, and painful? Short and sweet? Or some combination of the two? I have lost more than one friend in recent years to deaths that were never on their radar as young people. One was a high school football star who could run like the wind well into his forties. He died of sleep apnea shortly after he turned 60. He got a disease nobody had ever heard of which required a heart/liver transplant and left him with chronic diarrhea. To stop him up they gave him an opium derivative. Unfortunately that can slow your breathing way down. Way way down. So, one night, after he'd gone to sleep, he just stopped breathing. Since he used to cheat on his wife pretty regularly, I think he worried about dying in someone else's saddle more than anything else. Now that Ted Kennedy has been diagnosed with a brain tumor and radio docs are giving him only eighteen months or so, I started to reflect on what I should prepare myself for. Naturally, I assume that whatever I come up with will bear no relation to how i really go. I'm sure Senator Kennedy never dreamed he'd get a brain tumor. He was probably gearing up for a stroke or a heart attack. I wondered about leaving this world the way Sonny Bono and one of Robert Kennedy's kids left us -- slamming into a tree on a ski slope. Dead in a second. On the other hand, probably not, since i don't ski. In fact, I only ride a gondola up to the top of a mountain so I can eat lunch. Then I catch a gondola again for the ride back down. How about dying while climbing up Mt. Everest? That's usually reserved for people who never think they're going to die. Otherwise they wouldn't be up there in the first place. Very doubtful I'll be checking out that way. Unless I fall out of a plane, land on the summit and fall over the side. I do know a guy who had a bad heart whose insane, thrill seeking wife convinced him to join her on an expedition to the top. He's dead. Barely got out of base camp. It's one thing to fantasize about having an heroic death. Reality is usually something entirely different. And most likely it's something stupid, like passing out into a bowl of soup and drowning. I was in an earthquake once in LA. At first I thought I had lost my balance. Then I realized it was a quake. For some reason I wasn't afraid of dying. Since I had just stepped out of a shower nekkid, I was more worried about getting some clothes on so I wouldn't have to run outside in my birthday suit. I reflected on that later. Apparently I'm missing the fear factor. Maybe it's because I'm older and I don't think I've missed out on a lot. On the other hand, I procrastinate a lot, too. More and more people seem to plan their funerals in advance and say good bye to their loved ones while there's still time, after first hiring a caterer to handle the company who'll be stopping by after the funeral service. When my time comes I'll probably be doing something else. Oblivious to my imminent demise. My last words will be, "Oh, s**t." And not because I'm about to meet the Grim Reaper. Because there are wet clothes in the washer, my bed isn't made, and my dry cleaning is hanging on the mail box.
As one gets older -- okay, ME -- and the possibility of croaking begins to loom large in my legend -- I have started to wonder how I'm going to go. Long, slow, and painful? Short and sweet? Or some combination of the two? I have lost more than one friend in recent years to deaths that were never on their radar as young people. One was a high school football star who could run like the wind well into his forties. He died of sleep apnea shortly after he turned 60. He got a disease nobody had ever heard of which required a heart/liver transplant and left him with chronic diarrhea. To stop him up they gave him an opium derivative. Unfortunately that can slow your breathing way down. Way way down. So, one night, after he'd gone to sleep, he just stopped breathing. Since he used to cheat on his wife pretty regularly, I think he worried about dying in someone else's saddle more than anything else. Now that Ted Kennedy has been diagnosed with a brain tumor and radio docs are giving him only eighteen months or so, I started to reflect on what I should prepare myself for. Naturally, I assume that whatever I come up with will bear no relation to how i really go. I'm sure Senator Kennedy never dreamed he'd get a brain tumor. He was probably gearing up for a stroke or a heart attack. I wondered about leaving this world the way Sonny Bono and one of Robert Kennedy's kids left us -- slamming into a tree on a ski slope. Dead in a second. On the other hand, probably not, since i don't ski. In fact, I only ride a gondola up to the top of a mountain so I can eat lunch. Then I catch a gondola again for the ride back down. How about dying while climbing up Mt. Everest? That's usually reserved for people who never think they're going to die. Otherwise they wouldn't be up there in the first place. Very doubtful I'll be checking out that way. Unless I fall out of a plane, land on the summit and fall over the side. I do know a guy who had a bad heart whose insane, thrill seeking wife convinced him to join her on an expedition to the top. He's dead. Barely got out of base camp. It's one thing to fantasize about having an heroic death. Reality is usually something entirely different. And most likely it's something stupid, like passing out into a bowl of soup and drowning. I was in an earthquake once in LA. At first I thought I had lost my balance. Then I realized it was a quake. For some reason I wasn't afraid of dying. Since I had just stepped out of a shower nekkid, I was more worried about getting some clothes on so I wouldn't have to run outside in my birthday suit. I reflected on that later. Apparently I'm missing the fear factor. Maybe it's because I'm older and I don't think I've missed out on a lot. On the other hand, I procrastinate a lot, too. More and more people seem to plan their funerals in advance and say good bye to their loved ones while there's still time, after first hiring a caterer to handle the company who'll be stopping by after the funeral service. When my time comes I'll probably be doing something else. Oblivious to my imminent demise. My last words will be, "Oh, s**t." And not because I'm about to meet the Grim Reaper. Because there are wet clothes in the washer, my bed isn't made, and my dry cleaning is hanging on the mail box.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Lifestyles of the Rich & Famous
I have had some rich friends in my life. With names you would recognize. I grew up in an era and a part of the country when debutante parties and cotillions were de rigeur as soon as a female turned eighteen. I was lucky just to be invited, although I had brothers who were escorts. One thing I noticed was that the older the money the more understated the invitation. It's been years, but there was a whole lexicon for deciphering what you were actually invited to.
Yesterday, I got an invitation NOT to come to a wedding. This was a first for me. Had I been pre-selected for denial?
I have followed Miss Manners long enough to know that these things happen. I can certainly understand getting an announcement when the wedding is a week away.
But the thing is, I never got an invitation to come to the original event in the first place. Was this a new way to snub people? You are cordially invited not to show up at the wedding we didn't invite you to because you aren't important enough to be there.
These days engagements end with little or no fanfare. Usually the couple has been living together for awhile and no wedding invitations have been sent out. I can only assume that this time invitations had been sent out. Did I mention I didn't get one?
Here's the story: back in February I ran into a young woman I have known through work that I hadn't seen in a long time. Probably because I hadn't been consulting at her company for awhile. Her office was down the hall from where I was, but she passed me on her way to lunch every day.
So one afternoon she chatted me up about her plans to get married to a new Mr. Wonderful. I'd been through four years of her first loser boyfriend, so I was hoping this guy was better than the last. Until I heard that the new guy was much older and they'd only been dating for a couple of months when he popped the question. Apropos of nothing, he was also a rich Moroccan. Which may or may not have explained why she had suddenly dyed her natural blond hair shiny black.
Her family is quite well to do, I guess, back in Feburary, the plan was to invite the whole company to a party to meet this guy. She was all sparkly-eyed and bubbly when she assured me that "You'll getan invitation to our formal engagement party in April."
Well, April has come and gone and yesterday I realized I had never received an invitation to anything -- engagement party, wedding, whatever.
Because when the mail arrived in the afternoon, I opened up a fancy envelope with a fancy 3 x 4 card and an even fancier engraved message [the names have been changed to avoid embarrassment, should you happen to know these people]:
Muffy and Stan
Announce That The Marriage of
Their Daughter
Cutesy Pie
Will Not Take Place
Since I never got any invites, they could have skipped me. But I'm thinking Cutesy Pie remembered our conversation in February and felt she should at least let me know that the engagement party and wedding ceremony that I wasn't invited to were no longer taking place. If it turns out there were no invitations to anything and her parents are just letting people know she's not going to marry the guy, that's weird.
Keep in mind that Cutesy Pie is a woman who stayed with her first boyfriend for two more years after I told her to dump him. Why dump him? One night he'd taken her out to a fancy restaurant and, at the end of their very romantic meal, he had presented her with a beautiful black velvet box, the kind that usually holds a diamond engagement ring, She opened it up and, TA-DA! inside was one of those bumblegum rings you get from a Wal-Mart quarter machine.
This whole episode got me thinking about what other opportunities there may be to send out formal, engraved cards with announcements of humiliating and/or embarrassing events in our lives.
Bob & Deirdre
Announce With Pleasure
The End of Their Difficult Marriage
Although Truth Be Told
Bob Thinks Deirdre
Could Have Cooked More Like His Mother
& Deirdre Would LIke To Remind Bob
That He Couldn't Get It Up Very Often
Or --
Tom and Jennifer With The Tattooed Son
Invite You To Join Us
For A Day At Court
To Witness Tattoo Boy's Sentencing
For His Most Recent DUI
Next Tuesday
At 9:30 AM
Black Tie Optional
In a way I could take it personally that I received an invitation not to come to a wedding, when I hadn't received an invitation to the nuptials in the first place.
The bad news is that I may have missed an engagement party, which, as parties go, are most notable for all the food I could have socked away. The good news is she's not going to marry the guy, who didn't sound much better than her last one.
Maybe in a future announcement we'll find out why I wasn't invited to the wedding in the first place.
Yesterday, I got an invitation NOT to come to a wedding. This was a first for me. Had I been pre-selected for denial?
I have followed Miss Manners long enough to know that these things happen. I can certainly understand getting an announcement when the wedding is a week away.
But the thing is, I never got an invitation to come to the original event in the first place. Was this a new way to snub people? You are cordially invited not to show up at the wedding we didn't invite you to because you aren't important enough to be there.
These days engagements end with little or no fanfare. Usually the couple has been living together for awhile and no wedding invitations have been sent out. I can only assume that this time invitations had been sent out. Did I mention I didn't get one?
Here's the story: back in February I ran into a young woman I have known through work that I hadn't seen in a long time. Probably because I hadn't been consulting at her company for awhile. Her office was down the hall from where I was, but she passed me on her way to lunch every day.
So one afternoon she chatted me up about her plans to get married to a new Mr. Wonderful. I'd been through four years of her first loser boyfriend, so I was hoping this guy was better than the last. Until I heard that the new guy was much older and they'd only been dating for a couple of months when he popped the question. Apropos of nothing, he was also a rich Moroccan. Which may or may not have explained why she had suddenly dyed her natural blond hair shiny black.
Her family is quite well to do, I guess, back in Feburary, the plan was to invite the whole company to a party to meet this guy. She was all sparkly-eyed and bubbly when she assured me that "You'll getan invitation to our formal engagement party in April."
Well, April has come and gone and yesterday I realized I had never received an invitation to anything -- engagement party, wedding, whatever.
Because when the mail arrived in the afternoon, I opened up a fancy envelope with a fancy 3 x 4 card and an even fancier engraved message [the names have been changed to avoid embarrassment, should you happen to know these people]:
Muffy and Stan
Announce That The Marriage of
Their Daughter
Cutesy Pie
Will Not Take Place
Since I never got any invites, they could have skipped me. But I'm thinking Cutesy Pie remembered our conversation in February and felt she should at least let me know that the engagement party and wedding ceremony that I wasn't invited to were no longer taking place. If it turns out there were no invitations to anything and her parents are just letting people know she's not going to marry the guy, that's weird.
Keep in mind that Cutesy Pie is a woman who stayed with her first boyfriend for two more years after I told her to dump him. Why dump him? One night he'd taken her out to a fancy restaurant and, at the end of their very romantic meal, he had presented her with a beautiful black velvet box, the kind that usually holds a diamond engagement ring, She opened it up and, TA-DA! inside was one of those bumblegum rings you get from a Wal-Mart quarter machine.
This whole episode got me thinking about what other opportunities there may be to send out formal, engraved cards with announcements of humiliating and/or embarrassing events in our lives.
Bob & Deirdre
Announce With Pleasure
The End of Their Difficult Marriage
Although Truth Be Told
Bob Thinks Deirdre
Could Have Cooked More Like His Mother
& Deirdre Would LIke To Remind Bob
That He Couldn't Get It Up Very Often
Or --
Tom and Jennifer With The Tattooed Son
Invite You To Join Us
For A Day At Court
To Witness Tattoo Boy's Sentencing
For His Most Recent DUI
Next Tuesday
At 9:30 AM
Black Tie Optional
In a way I could take it personally that I received an invitation not to come to a wedding, when I hadn't received an invitation to the nuptials in the first place.
The bad news is that I may have missed an engagement party, which, as parties go, are most notable for all the food I could have socked away. The good news is she's not going to marry the guy, who didn't sound much better than her last one.
Maybe in a future announcement we'll find out why I wasn't invited to the wedding in the first place.
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
BITE ME
It's been a week since I've posted, except for the fact that I DID post something that took me two hours to write on Sunday and AOL ate it. Ever since they "upgraded" the service here a couple of years ago, it's like playing Russian Roulette when I hit the SAVE button. Will it go into the ether? Will it appear on the page? Maybe. Maybe not. No, I don't like to compose somewhere else and then copy and paste onto my blog. That would be way too easy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)