The Subway Lunatic

As a college student I always have a schedule that is filled to maximum capacity. Between classes, rehearsals, and meetings there isn’t a lot of time to eat. Today I decided that in between dance rehearsals I would grab some food from Subway. I figured that this would be a good idea, because it was quick and easy to eat. Also, it was an off time so the line wasn’t that long, which was important, because I can be rather impatient.

As I walked to Subway my mind kept racing. As much as I enjoy a good Subway sandwich, this particular Subway is infamous for messing up my order in some way or another. I always try to be polite when this occurs, but today was just one of those days. If anything went wrong it would have put me over the edge and I would have been in a funk for the rest of the day. I certainly could not afford to have my mood spoiled with the massive amounts of work I had to complete on top of all of my other commitments.

Long story short, I decided to go ahead and place my order. The woman behind the counter kindly asked, “Ma’am. What would you like?” An immediate sigh of relief came across my face. It looked like today was going to be a good day. I responded quickly stating that I wanted a “six-inch turkey on wheat with provolone toasted”. I got excited about this sandwich and the two cookies that I always order to accompany my meal. My meal, however, was the least exciting part of the following sequence of events. This is not about how I was disappointed that they over toasted my sandwich and it crumbled in my hands, or even that they gave me two burnt cookies that were way to crunchy for my liking. No, this story is about what happened AFTER I got my food.

After I paid for my food, one of my suitemates, Justine, popped into Subway and we decided we would stay and eat together. I got back in line with her so I wouldn’t have to sit awkwardly alone (I don’t do well with those types of situations).  Just as Justine, opened her mouth to place her order a woman stormed into Subway and started ranting. This woman was about 5 feet tall, and had a red hoodie on as well as a scarf wrapped around her neck. She looked ridiculous and Justine and I were both taken aback. After a few moments we gathered that the woman was upset, because her order was wrong. She had placed an online order and after picking it up and opening it up she realized that it was incorrect.

Another Subway Lunatic: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kgMXLdqGPUk

I stood there is disbelief. The Subway worker who had greeted me and my friend so nicely, calmly looked at the woman and just said, “Ma’am could you please calm down? If you give me a receipt or a name I can look up the order and fix it.” However, this was not good enough for the woman. Instead, she made a horrible scene and proceeded to use language that my parents would both be ashamed of if they ever heard me use, and most certainly should never be used in a church. The worst part was that she was even directing these words towards the other workers who weren’t event involved in the matter.

Oh, but that’s not all. Everything got worse when we realized that the customer’s friend, who she had trusted to place her order, entered it wrong online, so it was not even the worker’s fault that her food was not what she was expecting. Imagine that? Her food was wrong, because of her friend’s incompetency and not the worker’s.  

Clearly this woman was in the wrong, so my shock level skyrocketed when she turned to Justine and me and said, “These people are absolutely ridiculous. Can you believe they can’t even do something as simple as get my order right?”

I looked at that woman, and gave her the most bizarre face she had ever seen (look below at my attempt to recapture the moment). We told her we did not agree with her, and then looking a little embarrassed, she ran back out of Subway.

We all finally thought the woman was gone for good, so the employee who had been dealing with her recollected herself and maintained her cool. We could tell that the employee was both baffled and upset over what had just happened. I know I was impressed by the fact that the employee kept a smile on her face, and continued to refer to the woman as “Ma’am” despite the fact that she was most likely older than the customer. She looked at us and apologized for the rowdiness we witnessed, and we reassured her that we understood what had happened.

Justine and I went to sit down and finally enjoy our meals, and then to our disbelief the woman came back. She asked for the manager, who simply apologized and made the woman another sandwich. When she finally left, a few tables filled with students started a round of applause. This day was too much for me, but it did teach me one thing.

Always be nice to the people that prepare your food, because they can spit in your food. Okay, maybe that’s not the point of this story, but it does bring me to the point that being pleasant is key to making any situation better.  I admire that one worker for staying polite, and not compromising her job by feeding into the raging customer. Some people get worked up and make a big deal out of petty things in life. Really, the small stuff is insignificant. If you don’t respect others, then they will not respect you either. Trust me. I’d rather have a crumbled sandwich and cookie than ruin potential relationships with people. But then again, that’s just me. Maybe I’m the crazy one. 

Nearing the End (China Part 6)

So the deal was that I was supposed to go on this trip across China to appreciate its academic and cultural aspects. But let’s be real. I basically spent the month partying with bunch of internationals.

Upon arriving in Xi’an, we had the choice to split into different groups and see the places that interested us. Being interested in healthcare, I figured I’d check out one of their hospitals and actually learn something. The next morning we hopped on a “Welcome to take the traveling bus” bus and prepared for a 40-minute ride towards the fringes of the city. As per usual, there were more guides than there were buses, so we sat around for a while waiting for them to come to an agreement. A well dressed woman no older than 25 finally hopped aboard, and from what I understood her name roughly translated to “Slow Birch Tree". It turned out she knew nothing about hospitals, so she spent the entire time regaling us with stories about bike riding.

I’m glad they got us a bus that was travel enabled.

I was told that the hospital in question served several thousand people, so naturally I expected to see something fairly large. I envisioned many people sitting in a waiting room to be seen by a vast number of newly trained medical school graduates. I assumed that the hospital would be a bit old, but full of new technology bought from a growing supply of Chinese money.

Yeah. Right.

Apparently waiting rooms weren’t even part of the floor plan… all two stories of it. I’m not even sure you could say the hospital had two floors since the only thing on the second floor was an excessively large office/shrine. The room had a very long table made to accommodate about 12 people, which was a perfect fit for our small group and our guiding doctor to hold a small Q&A session. It turned out he was the ONLY doctor, that no one actually used the room, and that the large communist flag and Mao portrait on the walls came courtesy with the hospital.

HEALHT SERVICE.

Fortunately, the lone doctor didn’t appear to have much on the books that day. Out in the main hallway (remember, no waiting room) were three adults and two “baby-no-pants”. The latter was our coined term for the established fashion of Xi’an toddlers – the ones who wore a white Hanes t-shirt, some Crocs (usually red), and the breeze between their legs. We saw more toddlers sporting this look than not, so it was only natural that we develop some sort of name for the fashion. Regardless, the five people looked content to wait while us “big potatoes”, as Slow Birch Tree called us, continued our tour through the hospital.

The hospital was so self sufficient as to have its own storage facility for hazardous waste. They just needed to make the warning sign a little larger so people didn’t mistake it for an outhouse.

Does a number 2 count?

But alas, we Americans waste absurd amounts of money paying “specialist” companies to service our hospitals, so who were we to complain? The Chinese had efficiency down to an art. That said, there is a line when it comes to sacrificing luxury for savings, and they definitely crossed it down at the pharmacy (just 5 paces from the surgery room). Apparently having something synthesized from porcupines was far too much trouble; it was simpler just to take a whole dead porcupine home with you. While I’m sure there was nothing wrong with them and they were thoroughly bathed before ending up in the pharmacy, there’s just something about a dead porcupine that makes me not want to put it in my mouth.

Now obviously I’m being a bit harsh on what is still a developing country, but then again I can’t help but reflect on the most startling differences between Chinese and American healthcare. The Chinese definitely lack a lot of refinement in their services, but they also found some solutions to problems we can’t seem to get rid of. For instance, if you want to reduce the ridiculous number of people visiting American hospitals for minor issues, make the hospital so unaccommodating that only three adults and two baby-no-pants decide to rough it out on any given day. You want to cut down on prescription drug costs? Pair up with community animal shelters and offer the cure wholesale.

At least they don’t give you the whole dog when they prescribe a dog bladder.

I’m sure some of you might tell me to visit the coastal cities and marvel in the progress they’ve made, but I’ll turn around and tell you to take a small walk in any direction from your popular tourist traps.  You’ll find yourself back at the Xi’an hospital – just maybe without the dried blood on the floor. That said, I'm not sure why you would want to visit places that look like America anyway. Follow my advice, and bravely wander from all the shiny buildings. My only request is that you take pictures; you wouldn’t want to forget the coolest parts of China.

 

Had to be sure you were getting the real thing.

The Squeeze

Recently, my family and I drove up to Buffalo, New York from our house in D.C., a projected eight-hour drive. The purpose of the trip was to spend a week with my grandparents to help them clean out their house before they moved permanently to their second house in Florida. I was extremely excited for this trip, because it meant I would be eating delicious home cooked Korean food that no restaurant could replicate in addition to being able to steal some of my mother’s vintage sweaters from the 80s. Looking back, I can say my family and I definitely “got closer,” but I will never again want to cram 4.5 people into a tow truck.

* * *

We had been on the road for several hours. Dad put on cruise control and was pushing 90mph. Jim Dale’s voice lulled the cabin. Mom began to nod off in the front seat, and even Taso (my dog) finally became used to the subtle rocking of the car. The car had remained, for the majority of the time, silent since we had put in the tape, apart from the occasional grunt from Dad indicating he wanted food or water, or a complaint from my sister, Regan.

As we approached the six-hour mark, our Toyota Land Cruiser, which had served us well on the road the past couple years, failed us (and without warning). What used to be blurs of green forest on the right and cars to the left morphed into thick, impenetrable, billowing clouds of smoke. Dad yelled, vulgar language filling the cabin. We managed to pull off the to the shoulder of the highway. I don’t know how we did it, but we made it. We exited the car promptly, just in case the smoke got into the ventilation system. Whether or not it did, I was already coughing (it must’ve been psychological, I guess). The Land Cruiser’s engine continued to emit grey smog 10 feet in the air. It was as if we had a personal emergency snare that screamed ‘Disaster Here.’

Dad called AAA and the police, however, neither served to be much help because when asked for our location Dad replied with, “Uh…we’ve been on Route 15 for about six hours…we’re headed toward Buffalo…Oh, here you go, we are definitely past the large shrub on the right side of the road, you know the green and brown one?” The conversation continued for several minutes.

Whether it was an hour later or several I couldn’t tell you, but eventually I heard a low rumble of the tow truck coming around the bend. The driver hooked our car up and then opened up his passenger door. There was only room for one. But we had four people and a dog, how was that going to work?

Dad got in next to the driver, and Mom squeezed in next to him. Regan sat on Dad’s lap, while Taso sat on Mom’s. Where did I go? I got the floor. I crumpled up like a used piece of paper and shoved myself under the dashboard among my parent’s feet.

The ride seemed to last an eternity, and it was miserable to say the least. Each time the driver touched the brakes I slammed into the front of the dashboard. I’m pretty sure circulation to my lower half stopped within the first 5 minutes.

Eventually, I felt the truck come to a slow labored stop. I heard the door of the truck open and the driver get out. We had made it. The sign from the Toyota dealership lit up the cabin of the truck. We got out and saw my grandparents waiting for us with their car. They drove us to their house and I was welcomed with the familiar smell of Korean food. It was nearly midnight, but we all sat down for dinner anyways, looking back on the day and laughing about it.

* * *

The rest of the week was enjoyable and relaxing. I ate my body weight in my grandma’s cooking and took home an extra suitcase of vintage clothes and other trinkets that I found digging around in their basement and my mom’s old room. Luckily, our car was fixed before the end of our stay and our ride back was less eventful. Within an hour of being on the road, Jim Dale’s voice was back on the speakers, and in a short eight hours we all arrived home.

Winslow's Home - Not So Homey

As a college student with Celiac Disease, I brought my car to school in order to ease gluten-free living in St. Louis. Food shopping has been fine and I’ve been getting by on Van’s Gluten Free Waffles, Edy’s Strawberry Frozen Fruit Bars, and Special K Protein Shakes; but I find that nothing compares to a hearty meal at a delicious restaurant. To remedy my growling tummy, I decided to start venturing off WashU’s campus and try new restaurants around the area.

One Sunday morning my friend Jacob and I decided to go for brunch. I wanted to go to First Watch, a franchise diner that even has gluten free potatoes, but Jacob insisted on trying somewhere new. He understands my frustrations with gluten free dining in St. Louis and took it as his civic duty to find a fabulous gluten free brunch place.

He directed me to Winslow’s Home. a St. Louis favorite located at 7213 Delmar Blvd, only a few minutes from WashU’s campus, barely needing my car to get there in a timely fashion. I agreed to go if they could make me eggs, even though secretly I was craving First Watch’s home fries. When it was our turn to order, I asked for two eggs sunny side up, and decided to be daring and ask if the breakfast potatoes were gluten free; what harm could it do?

Instead of getting the reassuring answer I usually get at First Watch, the cashier looked over to the woman next to her and merely repeated the question I asked. The woman asked me, “No gluten…that’s no corn, or sugar, or something, right?” I remained calm, smiled, and said, “Gluten is wheat, rye, barley, oats, flour…” Both women blankly stared back at me. I didn’t feel good about this.

After a few silent seconds I asked, “Can you ask the chef? I have Celiac Disease.” When they continued blankly staring at me I said, “I’m highly allergic to gluten.” Once they heard allergy they began taking me somewhat seriously. The woman emerged from the kitchen very quickly and confirmed with the chef that the potatoes were gluten free. That was easy. Sort of.

As I paid, feeling confident in my brunch choice, I noticed on the menu under sandwiches it said, “GLUTEN FREE ADD $2.00.” I was excited and confused at the same time: excited because I could finally have a gluten free grilled cheese off the East Coast, and confused as to why the women at the cash register didn’t know what gluten free was. But I didn’t care; gluten free bread in my home away from home, what could be better? I instantly texted roommates and decided that we had a date at Winslow’s for next Friday morning. Gluten free grilled cheese would remain on my mind all week.

Friday couldn’t have rolled around slower, but Lexi, Julia, Emily, and I knew what we were in for: Winslow’s Home Gluten free grilled cheese. My roommates could sense my excitement building up all week so they let me order first. I ran up to the counter and proudly ordered, okay-ing the additional $2.00 for gluten free bread.

When I went to pay, I asked if the gluten free sandwiches were made separately from the regular sandwiches to avoid cross-contamination. It was more of a rhetorical question, just to ease my mind, but my dad taught me to always ask. Winslow’s has plenty of organic, farm fresh foods; I figured they’d know all the ins and outs of gluten free, especially since they offer gluten free bread.

I was wrong.

Once again, the cashier looked over to the woman standing next to her (a different women this time) for an answer; they both looked at me as if I had nine heads. The woman then asked, “What do you mean?” I began explaining that gluten free needs to be made separately. She replied “We don’t think about those type of things.” I could not believe her patronizing tone. I responded, calmly but firmly, that gluten free must be made separately due to the severity of Celiac Disease and cross-contamination. This explanation was lost.

She again responded, “We don’t think about those type of things.” I was shocked. I then began explaining that they cannot advertise their food as gluten free if it is not gluten free. I continued explaining cross contamination, the severity of my situation, and how sick I could be if I ate this sandwich due to the false labeling. She did not care. She was neither understanding nor apologetic.

My Celiac advocacy emerged, along with frustration, and I told this woman that they absolutely CANNOT advertise their sandwiches as gluten free when they are grilled on the same machine as gluten sandwiches. I said that I have a disease and ingesting even the slightest bit of gluten can make me extremely sick. I asked to speak to the manager, and she said she was the current manager; her name was Sara. I asked to speak to the owner, but she was currently at the farm. Just perfect.

Sara did not seem concerned and continued patronizing me, probably hoping I’d back down. I would not. I demanded the owner’s contact information, and she gave me a business card, still unapologetic. She didn’t realize what gluten free actually meant, and tried excusing the miscommunication with the new introduction of gluten free bread in the restaurant. It was unacceptable.

Not only did I feel patronized due to my young appearance, but also due to my disease and eating restraints. I was frustrated, as were my roommates. They felt as if I was spoken down to, ignored, and disrespected. When I swore I would never step into Winslow’s Home again, they agreed to never give the small restaurant business either.

I checked out the Winslow’s Home website, and under the About Us tab, it states:

I did not feel cared for or welcomed. The food attempted to be diverse by offering gluten free, but it was not done so properly, so that statement was false. I am a part of the St. Louis community being a Wash U student, but felt ostracized.

Under the Food tab, it states:

My food was not thoughtful. It was not prepared honestly.

  

If I ordered a supposed gluten free grilled cheese sandwich, it would arrive at my table unreliable. Unsafe. 

  

My food would not make the utmost impact on my senses, heart and soul, but rather on my small intestine, stomach, and digestive tract.

Unfortunately, my off campus experience at Winslow’s Home was NOT a positive one. I contacted the owner via email, and did not receive an apologetic or understanding response. She claimed that they do not advertise as gluten free, which was untrue because the sign blatantly said “Gluten Free Add $2.00.” Check out a screenshot of the email I received below. (Click on photo to view larger.)

I no longer dine at Winslow’s Home, so I have not seen if they made changes to their gluten free options or not, and I hoped that no gluten free patrons became ill from the false labeling. But relief came my way with this photo a friend sent to me a few weeks ago:

Maybe my complaining worked? But even if I was not the cause for this warning, hopefully I helped fellow Celiacs or gluten intolerant people from getting severely contaminated at Winslow’s Home.

Please do not get me wrong - I've heard Winslow's Home is delicious and provides a cozy atmosphere. Check out their website here: Winslow's Home. If you're not gluten free, I'm sure you'll have a wonderful experience!

Want to learn more about Celiac Disease? Check out the Celiac Disease Foundation website!

The Evolution From Stranger to Daughter

We arrived in a broken down ranchera bus- 22 North American students in the midst of the Ecuadorian mountains. Just as the shrill of a mooing cow awoke me to the reality of my distance from home, I looked off to my right and spotted a pack of villagers. I jumped of the rickety open-air bus and stepped for the first time upon the ground that was to be my team’s construction site for the next three weeks of our stay in this foreign country. I began to gaze at the smiling faces of welcoming strangers. Their pupils gleamed, and their cracked-tooth smiles seemed so genuine that I could not help but return the gesture. Each extended a firm hand as I timidly approached them, however we had no connection other than our agreement to build a new community center in exchange for their generosity to provide us homes for the upcoming weeks.

As the final student hopped off the bus, our only ride to civilization drove off and disappeared in the distance. Our leader interrupted the awkward silence and greeted the community, she called “atención”. My eyes immediately turned as I timidly listened for my name to be called. Stretching my fingers and shuffling my feet, I anxiously stood for 10 minutes until my name was read. I was brought into the center of the circle to be united for the first time with Merci and Cesar, and their daughter Sandy-my gracious home-stay family.

The first few days I became accustomed to my new routine. Waking up to pestering sounds of honking pigs and barking dogs, I’d amble to the table to find a bowl of oatmeal made by my host mother with milk from the backyard’s cows. Quickly eating, I would then hike 30 minutes through the unpaved mountains to the construction site, passing immense stalks of greenery unlike any shrubs I would find back home in the backyards of Connecticut. Working strenuously beside the community’s members, I’d use broken Spanish to discuss my home life and ask questions about their lives. I gradually became more comfortable using Spanish to communicate to pass the time while mixing pavement and hauling rocks.  Slowly, I evolved from the little blonde girl, to Cassandra, the friend and member of Merci and Cesar’s family.

Everyday as the sun descended, I would leave my working friends to head “home”. After my initial culture shock, I’d adjusted to my home-stay’s thin wooden walls, absence of electricity, and outdoor bamboo shoot they’d call a shower. I was beginning to feel more comfortable in my new surroundings, yet I still did not feel I had made a personal connection with my home stay family. Though I was enjoying my time on the program, I deeply wanted to gain a personal connection with my host family.

In an effort to break the strong language barrier, I attempted a variety of activities. One evening I pulled out a large map I brought to show the family where I was from. This sparked conversation and questioning about my home life that allowed the family to learn more about me, but lead to me feeling any closer emotionally to them.

Attempting again, I introduced my home stay family to the traditional American game of monkeys in a barrel. We laughed as we each struggled to pick up each monkey, but the laughter seemed to come more from a place of nervousness than genuine enjoyment with each other. I continued my efforts by showing pictures of my friends and engaging in conversation at the dinner table, but unfortunately I still felt distant with the members of this foreign home I had been thrust into.

About nine days into my stay, I stood in the kitchen. Although not a conventional kitchen, it housed a few shelves, a sink that drew water from the backyard waterfall, a few knives hung loosely by slipknots of string, and a burner that one could ignite with an ordinary match. I peered out the kitchen’s window hole to witness Merci and Cesar toiling in the overgrown fields while Sandy strutted around, letting her glossy black hair flap freely, as her doughy fingertips chased after the squawking chickens. Merci called to Sandy, and standing by her mother’s side, Merci stroked her head repeating “oh mi hija”, the words all the mothers in the community used when referring to their daughters.

Changing the direction of my gaze from out the kitchen window, I spotted a loaf of bread and a tub of locally made white cheese. Wanting to surprise my hard working home-stay family, I began to create a “plato Americano”, an extravagant grilled cheese. Fumbling with the erratic burner stove and dull tools, I managed to stack 3 sandwiches on a rimmed plastic plate.

With the plate in one hand, I walked down the steps, and out to the fields. Winding around shrubs and rocks, I found Merci tending to the family pigs. I handed her my poor excuse for a grilled cheese, and she smiled a broad warm smile. I smiled back, and began to walk away to find Cesar. Suddenly, Merci called out, “Ven aquí”. I ran back while at the same moment she looked at me to say, “Gracias, gracias mi hija”. Astonished at the term of endearment, I smiled even wider at the woman who only a few weeks ago, was nothing more than a stranger. Unsure of what to do or say, with no words and just instinct, I wrapped my arms around my Ecuadorian mother, and without words, and just instinct, she pulled me in tight.

-- Casey Weiss

The Sign

The prospect of owning a dog was one of the few things my sister and I always disagreed on. My sister is not the idealistic airhead that most little girls are between the ages of 7 and 18. She had no aspirations for ponies and never wished on rainbows. She knew the difference between fantasy and reality, having cleverly figured out before she turned 4 that Santa is not a physical person. Yet on this she remained firm to the point of obstinacy: she wanted a dog. She became so entrenched on the issue that my parents started to worry that any stranger with a cute puppy could lure her away.

But the years went by, and Kelly never got her puppy. Every year she became more desperate: first she said that the puppy could be her gift for both Christmas and her birthday; then it was for 2 Christmases and a birthday; then for two of each. She learned how to use Excel purely for the purpose of creating schedules for walking, training, feeding, and grooming the dog. Her determination won over my dad, and then slowly my mom, until I became the final frontier on the quest to pet ownership.

In retrospect, I was never entirely opposed to the idea of a family pet. I will admit to having fantasized about having dogs in my house, bringing warmth to the house with their energy and innocence. In those dreams, the size or breed did not matter; the small dog would sleep on my bed and the big dog would lie by my feet. A German shepherd would guard the house while a corgi would entertain houseguests.

Typical example of my imagination

Yet I hesitated. I love puppies and kitties as much as the next wide-eyed person, but I’m also very practical in my approach to life. Everyone has seen a show on TV where an animal has been mistreated, either through neglect or abuse. My heart cringes at every poorly treated intelligent creature, and I did not want this fantasy dog to be among its ranks. In my house, everyone went about his own business and only really communicated to ask for help. Such a family dynamic is not conducive to housing a puppy that, despite what some people may think, is actually a faster-growing version of a human baby. To bring a puppy home would mean potty training, crating, and budgeting additional time to the already bloated family schedule. Would the dog have free access around the house? How would he or she get out if he or she needed to go use the bathroom? Would my sister really follow through on her schedules? For all my planning and questioning, I never expected it to end the way it did.

On an ordinary Saturday afternoon my family and I were walking out of a Korean barbeque restaurant when my sister spotted a van with the rear opened. Beside it was a shrunken Asian lady, and inside the van itself was what sounded like a litter of puppies. The variety of puppies caught me off guard. I saw a golden retriever, a black lab, and even a pug. Nudged in between all of them was the most beautiful blue-eyed husky I had ever laid eyes on.

Dog, why you so cute?

My sister immediately fell in love with her. While my parents chatted with the lady, Kelly was already playing with the puppy right there in that dirty parking lot. She forgot all about the mundane cares of the world, sitting down on the filth-ridden asphalt as the puppy walked around in circles, curiously sniffing. I could clearly tell that my parents were overjoyed to see her finally so content, and that her happiness had invariably won them over as well. Plus, for four hundred dollars, it was a steal.

So I became the only one on the scene who still wasn’t convinced that buying the puppy was the right thing to do. After all, so many questions still remain unanswered. The lady suggested I pick the husky up to see how healthy she was. I was reluctant, not because I didn’t believe her, but because I was fearful that I may bond with her and become unable to deny her entry to my home.

As I held the tiny creature in my arms, I felt a sense of curious wonder. In my hands lied a creature that, without a second thought, would curl up in my arms and give me its full and complete trust. As I held her gently my rationale and emotions waged war within me. There was nothing I would have liked more than to take this puppy home with me that instant and share all my love with her, but I didn’t know if my family or I could handle her long term. How sad must she feel if at first she were to be welcomed with open arms, but is eventually given away as her novelty wears out? I asked the universe to give me a sign: something, anything, to tell me that taking her home was the right thing to do.

People often read situations as they want, seeing meaningful messages in clearly meaningless actions or things. I later learned that animals frequently exhibit this behavior I’m about to describe, but at that moment in time and space it was probably the most meaningful thing I had ever seen.

The cute, furry little blue-eyed animal winked at me.

Shelly is now going on 3 years old. She is probably still one of the best purchases I have made in my entire life.

That’s right. She was as long as about 2 of those red slippers

Minutes 02/29/12

Minutes for Wednesday, Feburary 29th.

Prepared by: Remington Drake

Present: Carmen, Jacqueline, Brooke, Jordan, Leah, Casey, Remington, Robert

Jordan presented the minutes from Wednesday, the 12^th. Suzanne wished to emphasize a point Jordan mentioned, which was that we should refrain from using “however” at the beginning of a sentence. It will be something she looks for in our future assignments.

There was some confusion over the new minutes schedule. Suzanne said she would address it at some other time, so we would not take away from class time.

Topic

Everyone seemed to enjoy the presentation given by Chris. Suzanne compared him to an electrician, or some other individual devoted to a field that has become an integral part of our society. Electronic communication has become an important tool in the workplace, and people like Chris are committed to its growth and utility.

Discussion

Most everyone did well on the persuasive letter assignment. Suzanne noted our improvement in avoiding garbage and filler statements, but she felt we could improve upon our wordiness. Using wordy and redundant statements displays a lack of precision, and it only serves as a crutch to avoid refining one’s ideas. Suzanne will pay careful attention to precision in our midterm assignments.

Exercise

To help us develop an awareness of wordy statements, Suzanne asked each of us to come up with precise substitutions for redundant phrases. 

Examples include:

personal opinion
immediate vicinity
referring back
end result
continue on
first and foremost
hope and trust
each and every one of you
various and sundry
attractive in appearance
at this moment in time

Robert asked if there was a place for nuanced phrases, and Suzanne responded not to use them in workplace communication. While some wordiness is acceptable in academic writing, attempting to write nuanced phrases for workplace communication only dilutes meaning. Conciseness should be a priority.

Topic

Before we began to edit each other’s rough drafts, Suzanne addressed the tenets of good editing:

1. Conciseness:
• Cut out the wordiness
2. Clarity:
• Your writing should not dwell on obvious statements.
• Have a clear point to what you write, and work to express it.
• Don’t be vague; there is no place for ambiguity in workplace communication.
3. Grammar and punctuation:
• While our punctuation is good, we must improve our grammar.
4. Appropriateness to audience:
• The audience is our class, so write in a familiar tone.
• Be sure the topic is about you and not someone else.
• Use of first person is preferred.
5. Idea development:
• Show, don’t tell.
• Know your intent. Seek to write a blog post that is entertaining or enlightening, or one that shows a different facet of your personality.

Important points to remember:

• Each person has a voice that you cannot cut out. You can still make suggestions about how the audience receives the message, but keep the writer’s voice intact.
• If you’re going to correct grammar, be sure you know what you are doing. Uncertain advice doesn’t help.
• Use understandable proofreading marks.
• Don’t over-edit. You want to be helpful, not evil. Remember to give positive comments where they are deserved. 

Topic
The syllabus has the correct due dates for the midterm. Your blog entry must be posted no later than March 4^th, 11:59pm. You are to bring a printed copy to class March 5^th. Both the entry and the hard copy will count towards 50% of your midterm grade.

You will present your entry on March 5^th, and this will count toward the other 50% of your grade.

• It should be no longer than 8 minutes.
• You should avoid stammering, excessive use of notes, and bad comport.
• You are not restricted to what you posted, but stay on your topic. Your presentation should supplement your post.
• If you include a photo, video, hyperlink, or other type of media, you will receive extra credit. It livens the post.

Discussion

We received someone's rough draft to edit. After editing, we met with the writer to discuss corrections.