They let us leave work early today. No, that's not what made me upset.

What made me upset was the ride home on the Metro. There aren't a lot of people on the Metro at 3 p.m. and most of them are either tourists or people going shopping.

Well, today, some of the "people going shopping" were three obnoxious teenage boys from somewhere in Southeast. Two of them kept "rapping" really loudly about AK/47's and other such nonsense, while the third kept shouting, "COULD SOMEONE PLEASE TELL THESE MOTHERF**KERS TO BE QUIET?! I'M TRYING TO SLEEP HERE!!!"

Then, as if it wasn't already bad enough, a rather large woman got on the train and these boys (trying to pretend they were men by talking about their massive genitalia) started singing derogatory songs directly at her. And, of course, no one said anything to them because they would have a) started a fight or b) started a ruckus about racism.

No matter what, the race card would have been played. "I wasn't doing anything, they just hate me because I'm black and from Southeast."

No, I don't hate you. I'm just angry with you because you're loud and irritating. You're like the tourists from Texas who scream at each other across the Metro and block the doorway, only worse because you live here and should know better. You're like the the able-bodied jackass who doesn't get up to let the old lady who is struggling to stay upright sit down. Why can't you just be considerate and leave people alone? JUST SHUT UP!!! and let me have some peace because I need this time to reconcile myself to the fact that I just wasted six more hours of my life.

I even considered staying on the train for an extra stop because I knew they would be getting off at Pentagon City, but I couldn't surrender.


That makes it ten weeks exactly until my time here at WAC is complete!

Seventy One...

...more days until I no longer have to walk through the mine fields of office politics.

Seventy Two!

That's the number of days, including weekends until I no longer have a full-time job. Going back to school = happy Kate!


I recently finished reading The Color Code, by Taylor Hartman. Usually, I'm not into self-help drivel, but this one was recommended by Molly, who I hung out with recently at a baseball game. Anyway, it was a fast and fairly interesting read, very un-drivel-ly

The Color Code is a personality profile, much like the MBTI or the Enneagram. This particular profiling system categorizes people based on core motives. There are four colors: Red, Yellow, White, and Blue. Reds are motivated by power, Yellows by fun, Whites (me) by peace, and Blues by intimacy. Most people have a little of each color, but are overwhelmingly one of the four. I'm a White with a hearty Blue streak.

I've encouraged the taking of the quiz before and I'm going to do it again. You can take the online one here or you can email me at kje1981 at gmail dot com to get a scanned copy that will actually breakdown your results instead of just giving you your core color.

Now that I've read the book, I am constantly noting behavior patterns and trying to figure out the color of every person I interact with. It's sort of become and obsession actually. If I had the authority, I would make everyone in my office take it, but I don't, so I just guess.

Anyway, every personality test I ever take tells me that I'm a peacemaker, so I guess it must be true. I'm beginning to think, though, that I'm not so much a peacemaker as a peacekeeper. Sure, I am pretty skilled at settling conflict, but I am much more adept at avoiding it altogether. Sometimes this is an admirable quality, but sometimes conflict needs to happen and I won't let it. Often, this type of avoidance leads to worse conflict down the road because it all builds up until someone busts. This was a bigger problem in my childhood, but I still have trouble sharing my feelings (verbally, mother and sometimes my close friends can read my nonverbal cues like a book) and confronting problems.

Part of being a White is the extraordinary talent of dreaming up the "worst case scenario" and then convincing yourself that the worst case is what WILL happen if you take any action. So, as a result, Whites float through life content to be where they are because at least they know the territory. Whites are unmotivated. Whites are boring, to tell the truth...what interests me most is my Blue streak.

There's too much to think about...I think I'll continue my thoughts later. Maybe let some people in on a few of my deeper, darker secrets.

Two More Days

DC Can't Handle Weather

We had some pretty torrential rain last night.  Apparently, the entire mid-Atlantic region was being destroyed by water.
A tree came down in our backyard.  It pulled down the gutter and a power line.  If it had been about ten inches taller, it would have crashed through my bedroom window onto the head of my bed.
Our downstairs neighbor had some flooding.  They were trying to bale out their window-wells, but then the tree came down nearly on top of them, so they stopped.  Currently, half of their possessions (electronics, musical instruments, etc.) are residing in our kitchen to keep them from being water-damaged.
Traffic was bad and Metro service was even worse.  Two Metro lines were stopped completely due to deep standing water over various sections of track.  Almost every Blue line train was 8 cars (they are usually 4 or 6).  Despite this unusual circumstance, the trains were still completely packed with people trying to get to work.  My trip, which usually takes me about 15 minutes took a full hour this morning.
For almost the entire hour I was jammed against the door I had come in.  If I had been able to read, it would have been alright, but there was no room to open my book without disturbing everyone around me.  There were also several men with deep, booming voices that insisted on becoming friends on the Metro and speaking at volumes that would not have been necessary at a sporting event.  I finally got to work at 9:45.
The day I take my last trip on the Metro will be my best day in DC!

Seventy Eight

Apparently, this is a band. I can't get the website to work (or I'd link to it), but I like the picture.

Seventy Nine (Men)

This is a painting by Christopher Brown, currently on sale here for $3,000. It is entitled "Seventy Nine Men."

Father's Day: A Retrospective

Retrospective...I don't know if I'm using the word correctly, but I like it, it sounds good, I'm going to use it.

Father's Day has never been a big deal in my family. My parents separated when I was four and I lived with my mother. I'm sure there are plenty of kids of divorced parents who celebrate the day, but after my parents split, my dad didn't take the time to call or write for seven years. My mother did a tolerable job of disguising this fact ( e.g. Christmas and birthday presents "From: Dad"), but she never went to the trouble of having us send him cards or gifts for Father's Day. Once I was old enough to reailze that my father was a deadbeat, I started giving my mother cards on Father's Day, sort of a little family joke.

My dad made several half-hearted attempts to renew a relationship with my brother and me, but his alcoholism and (I suspect) a gigantic fear of failure trod upon his every effort. There came a point, after several of these emotionally devastating failures that I just had to say, "This is enough!" After that point, my father and I had some rather stilted, albeit civil, conversations, but nothing significant. At sixteen, I pretty much cut my father out of my life because my little teenage heart couldn't take it anymore. He lived in my hometown and we would occasionally cross paths. Generally, he would see me first and head the other way. I was somewhat amused by this behavior, but it also made me sad. Of course, being me, I laughed it off and went my way.

My father, Arthur Michael, died in 2004, just a few days before Christmas. I didn't cry. The deaths of fictional characters have elicited more emotion from me. How are you supposed to react to the news of a stranger's death? Honestly, (and terribly) I felt a sense of relief. There wouldn't be anymore uncertainty or any possibility of confrontation or attempts at manipulation. Sometimes I feel a little guilty that I never tried to reconcile, but it's never been more than a little.

This brings me to Sunday. I was watching Mr. Holland's Opus (yes, I know it's sort of lame) Sunday night. When it got to the part where Mr. Holland designs a concert for his deaf son and sings John Lennon's Beautiful Boy, I started bawling. In the midst of my tears, I realized that I was mourning. No, I wasn't mourning my father's death, I was mourning our lost relationship. I was mourning the fact that I have never had a consistent, long-term, non-romantic relationship with any man. I was mourning the years my father missed with my brother and me because he couldn't remain faithful to his wife.

I distinctly remember one night, during my father's first attempt to reenter our lives. He was babysitting so that my mother could go somewhere. I was 10 or 11 and I had the flu. I fell asleep with my head in my dad's lap, so when my mom got home my father tried to move me without waking me up, but I'm too light of a sleeper for that. As he was leaving, he asked my mother if there was any chance they could try again. After seven years of non-communication, my mother's answer was, "It's too late." Maybe if it hadn't taken him seven years to ask that question, things would have turned out differently. Maybe I would have been reminiscing about happy memories and mourning my father's passing Sunday rather than wishing for a father like the ones in happy movies.


This is pretty much how my hair looks today...

The Bomb

Look! It's Tim Inge riding to his death before he gets too old. And there I am, the happy bunny listening to an iPod.

Eighty One...The Year I Was Born

A side note: I was born on exactly the same day as Paris Hilton. *shudder*

Cyrus...My Real Hero

I wrote a post a couple months back about the movie Take the Lead. Currently, I am watching the documentary, Mad Hot Ballroom, that Take the Lead is very loosely based on. The Antonio Banderas movie was great, in a terrible way, but seeing the real life story is so much better. These are real inner-city 5th and 6th graders. Most of them are awkward, shy about touching the opposite sex, not interested in dancing like old people, etc., but they really come around.

I would say that my favorite kid, by far, is Cyrus. Pictures were not readily available, so I gave up, but he's on the website if you want to check it out. Just go to the website, click on "Cast." He's the one with the blonde afro under the heading Tribeca. Cyrus was a small wonder...surprisingly articulate whenever he opened his mouth.

Favorite quote from Cyrus, "I want to be an architect because when you're an architect, first of all, you can earn a lot of money and, second of all, it's the only job where you can really really use your imagination to make something. Like if I were gonna make that building, I wouldn't make it like that. That's a really ugly, boring building."

Swing seemed to be the dance that the kids got into most. Made me want to learn to dance. Take it from me, real fifth graders awkwardly dancing is much more inspirational than a bunch of 20-something year old actors/professional dancers pretending to be high school kids. See Mad Hot Ballroom, as long as you have a heart you won't regret it.

Eighty Four (Somewhere In PA)

Blogger's Killin' Me...

Sometimes I become overwhelmed by how much I want to say about everything. I may not be much of a talker, btu I have so many ideas rolling around in my head just waiting for a chance to be written down. This post is going to be dedicated to the inanities of my life. Sit back and buckle your seat belts, it's going to be an entirely boring ride.

BREAKING NEWS: My trusty co-worker, Katie, left yesterday afternoon, ne'er to return. I will miss her company, but it's good that she's getting out of here because the slow times really drive her crazy. Her presence went a long way toward keeping me sane amidst the insanity that seems to inhabit every office in the world. A few of us treated her to lunch at Luna Grill as a last hurrah. The food was delicious and not too expensive.

Emily left for Oregon this morning. While there she will be attending Joel's graduation from his MBA program and spending lots and lots of time with her family. I will have the house to myself for five days, which, despite my fondness for Emily, I am sure I will enjoy very much. Most of my waking hours will be spent watching movies and ripping music from my CDs to my computer. Which leads to the update on my little plastic idol...

I received a replacement iPod from Friday evening. They have yet to send me the return envelope, so I currently have both the old, faulty one and the shiny new one that is still encased in the protective plastic in which it arrived. I purchased a case for it, which should be arriving any day. My older one is still functioning most of the time, so I will continue to use it until I have to return it or I have all my music loaded to the new one, whichever comes first.

Ross, one of my favorite co-workers, lent me a book called The End of Faith, by Sam Harris. He was so intrigued by the book that as soon as he finished reading it, he started again. Since I'm going to seminary in the fall, he thought it would be a good book for me to read. Harris' main point is that ALL religion needs to go the way of the dinosaur or everyone is going to die. A secondary arguments is that ALL war, past and present, has been caused by religion... So far, I see some of his points, but I feel like he's arguing against perceived fallacy by using fallacious arguments. I'm sure I'll write more once I've finished the book.

Your Body Is A Temple, IDIOT!

My dear college roommate, Rebecca, recently got a tattoo on her foot (on 6/6/06, to be exact). It's a stylized version of the word "grace" in Greek. She designed it herself. In my opinion, it's small and lovely. What's more important, it means a lot to her. It's her middle name and a very important tenet of our faith in Christ.

Her decision to get a tattoo was not made lightly. Several years ago, she discussed it with her parents and, in an effort to honor them, she waited until she was married before seriously considering getting it done. She's discussed it with her husband and while he didn't rush off to the tattoo parlor with her, he was willing to support her thoughtful and prayerful decision. Knowing Rebecca, I'm sure she's prayed about it more than once.

So, today, while she was showing the tattoo to a co-worker, a man she had never met asked her if she was religious. When she told him she was a Christian he hopped up on his soap box and began lecturing her about the body being a temple that should not be damaged. Rebecca wasn't really prepared for this sort of attack and though she didn't respond angrily, she wished she could have been more eloquent.

Of course, Mr. Soap Box's rant got my panties in a bunch for several reasons. First, he was not a part of the conversation and his opinion was not solicited, therefore, he should not have offered it. Second, if he is claiming to be "religious" himself it must be a rather unloving, judgmental, ungraceful religion. Third, 1 Corinthians 3:16-17 (the passage with the "temple of the Holy Spirit" phrase) is in no way related to tattooing. In the passage in question, Paul is expounding on the need to build a solid foundation in Christ working with materials that will not be burned away. There are bigger things at stake here.

As our discussion progressed, Rebecca sent me a link to this article . It was concise and helpful. It's worth reading the mother's response if you get a chance. The phrase "perfect creation of God" really got to me. Carried to it's extreme, this phrase could be used as an argument against medical attention of any kind or the donning of clothes. It's also really sad that she thinks all children with tattoos must have a disappointed mother out there. That's crazy! My mother wouldn't be shouting joyfully from the rooftops if I got a tattoo, but she certainly would not be disappointed in me and I bet I could even get her to go with me to the studio.

Rebecca also sent this blurb about another "no tattoo" proof text:
"Many Christian will quote Leviticus 19:28 when stating that Christians should never receive a tattoo: "Do not cut your bodies for the dead or put tattoo marks on yourselves. I am the Lord" - Leviticus 19:28

"A true translation of Leviticus 19:28 could never have mentioned the word "tattoo." Tattoo is a Polynesian word that entered the English language after the voyages of Captain Cook to Tahiti in the 18th century - which is when tattooing became popular again in the West.

"I have done a great deal of research into this subject as a host, writer and producer of a documentary series, The Vanishing Tattoo, on tattooing for National Geographic. It is widely accepted among biblical scholars that Leviticus 19:28 referred solely to the practice of people cutting themselves and rubbing in ash when in a period of mourning. The ash rubbed into wounds left permanent marks, the marks referred to in Leviticus 19:28."
Several of my friends have tattoos. Getting tattooed hasn't changed their personalities or damaged their witness for Christ. In some situations, tattoos and piercing can even be an "in" with groups who might not be receptive to more straight edge folks. Please don't think I'm suggesting everyone should be tattooed or pierced, but it seems a serious misrepresentation of the message of Christ to attack someone for having done either.

All this to say: BACK OFF, MR. SOAP BOX! My Toon can get a tattoo anytime she wants. She could be covered in tattoos and Jesus would still love her just as much as he does now!

Eighty Seven

Eighty Eight

I thought the other one was just a creative drawing, but apparently, there is an actual species of butterfly with 88's and 89's on their wings. Crazy, eh?

There's No Such Thing As A Free Ride

Walking to the Metro this morning, an old, dark blue sedan pulled up beside me. The driver, an older man wearing sexual predator glasses (you know, the huge tortoise shell ones that make a person's eyes look five times bigger than they are), rolled down his window and announced, "I'm offering free rides to the subway this morning!"

It was raining a little bit, but nothing unmanageable. There was already a girl in the car with him.

Trying not to lie, I said, "Actually, I rather enjoy the walk, but thank you." In my head I was screaming, "Foolish girl!!! Get out of that car! What would your mother say??!!"

SPG replies, "Yeah, but it's raining."

"I'll be fine. Thank you."

The only other time a stranger has rolled down his window and asked me a question, I was six or seven. My friend Brandy and I were walking home from the pool when a similar sedan pulled up alongside us with a pantsless man inside who asked me for directions and showed me his penis. I yelled, "NO!!!", grabbed Brandy's arm and ran as fast as I could in the opposite direction of the car.

Needless to say, even though I'm now twenty-five and living in a more affluent neighborhood, I don't intend to ever get into a stranger's car unless I am accompanied by a strapping young bodybuilder. What was that crazy girl thinking?

Eighty Nine

Juleann suggested reusing the picture for 98, but I thought a new picture would be better.


There aren't any good "90" pictures...and I forgot to post it yesterday, so here's a random picture from my computer.

What Color Are You?

Take the Color Code test and let me know! I'm White...

My 100th Post Is All About The Booty...

Went to the Nationals v. Phillies game last night on the company's dime. Sometimes working at a wealthy law firm has its perks. It was a fun night with Emily (who whipped out her Blackberry repeatedly during the game, as did at least two other people seated near us), Mary Katharine (who was treated to two beers by the middle aged men in the section behind us) and Molly (who was trying her hardest to learn everything about baseball in an effort to impress her Red Sox obsessed crush).

This is what we saw while we were there. (Warning: This image is not for the faint of heart!)

Please ignore the Indian family eating $6 nachos and let me draw your attention to the top of the photo. Yes, this is a grown man displaying at least 4 inches of butt crack for everyone seated behind him to see.

Thank you, cellphone technology, for allowing me to capture this moment. I tried to get a better shot, but it's not like I could ask the guy to sit down more slowly while I aimed my cellphone at his ass.

Ninety One (Nobody Can Eat Just One)

I don't even know...but it looks cool. Huh?

Ninety Two

Specimin 92
Crazy woman

Best. Customer Service. Ever!

Apparently Amazon doesn't dilly-dally when someone claims a product is broken. I received an email from them this morning. Here is an excerpt:

Thanks for contacting us at

I am sorry to hear about the problem you experienced with your shipment. I have placed a new order for the item. There is no charge for this replacement.

Here are the details of the new order:
Order Number: 104-5970709-6953552
Shipping Speed: Next Day Shipping
Estimated Delivery Date: June 9, 2006

We'll send you a UPS authorized return service label to return the defective item. You should receive it within the next 7-10 business days; it will be sent in a manila envelope to the shipping address used for the order.
The debate currently raging in my mind is this: Do I a) keep the iPod I already have since it is now functioning and has all my music loaded or b) keep the new one and spend probably 100 hours loading the music again in order to avoid anymore theatrics similar to yesterday's?

Advice welcomed. Most people I've asked have settled on option B, but don't let that sway you.

iPod Disaster Averted

Immediately upon arriving home, I plugged my iPod into the wall to charge and it sprang to life. I gave it a stern talking to and advised it never to scare me like that again. I believe we have come to an understanding.

Ninety Three

Another Freakout Over

I realize now that freaking out over my four month old iPod having issues is silly because it's still under the 1-year manufacturer's warranty. Which means that Amazon has nothing to do with this craziness. I will be contacting Apple for further instructions when I get home and have my serial number handy. Anyway, no matter how expensive the iPod was, it is just a thing that can be replaced and I have so much already.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm really emotional and high maintenance after all...

AND...I got free tickets to tomorrow's Nationals game. I will miss the firm tickets, I tell you what.

Terrible Horrible No Good Very Bad Day

I went to bed last night with a functioning iPod.
I woke up at 3 a.m. with an iPod stuck on a black backlit screen.
It is not recognized by my computer and
it is refusing to be reset.
Makes me want to cry.
Even if I get a replacement,
that means hours and hours of uploading music again.
And...I bought it from Amazon,
so I don't know how the replacement thing will work
since it's after 30 days.

My hope is that the battery will run out
and it will fix itself.


I was trying to find a site that would allow me to make a books-to-read list and found Reader*2. It looks pretty great so far. When you enter the title of a book it offers other recommendations. And, I haven't tested this yet, but I think it also allows you to put your list on your blog. We will know shortly whether that is the case.

High School Musical

My dream last night involved me returning to my senior high alma mater to participate as the lead in an alumni musical.  For some reason, my costume was not sewn yet, but they wanted me to wear it, so it was merely draped over me and nearly fell off every time I moved.  Enter stage left: Jeff Ginger (who I haven't thought about for a long time, but on whom I had a huge crush for my first two years of high school).  It was an odd dream, but I can't remember much of it now except being completely happy that I was the female lead alongside Jeff.  Swoon!
I'm such a dork and I'm okay with that.  This dream led me to do a little searching, though.  And thanks to Google, I found that Jeff is now teaching history at my high school.  It's hard to believe how many people never get out of that place...
The question is...should I send a stalkerish email or just admire from afar?

Ninety-Five (2)

Matin Luther MUST NOT be neglected.

There are supposedly 95 gastroliths in this picture.


Discovered today that I can attach my iPod to my computer speakers at work.  Lovely, since I hate wearing headphones most of the time and worry about my hearing when I do.  WOOT!

In Need Of Rescue

Laura, Marlene, and I went to the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum yesterday. The only other time I've ever gone was about two years ago when I visited DC for the first time. It's a difficult place to go, but also a site I would not want to skip.

As I was walking through the museum (trying to avoid the gaggles of junior highers on year-end class trips), I began to notice that none of the horrors I was "witnessing" were affecting me much. I read the descriptions and viewed pictures of SS raids, Kristallnacht, U.S. and European negligence, and even the deaths of thousands upon thousands of innocent children with relative calm. It was all intellectual assent to history I already knew.

That's when I arrived at the wall memorializing rescuers. There were lists of names and short vignettes recounting various individuals whose efforts to rescue people from the Nazis were extraordinary. There was one Orthodox bishop who was asked to provide a list of all Jews in his city. Rather than doing so, he wrote his own name on a piece of paper and gave that to the Nazis.

The stories of rescue make me realize there were people in need of rescue. It's the rescuers who make the horrors real. Bishops, nuns, newlyweds, farmers...all willing to sacrifice their own security to help the helpless. These are the stories and names that make me break down, that bring tears to my eyes, that make me want to sit and sob for the millions of senseless deaths throughout human history.

It's the same thing with the story of Christ's crucifixion. I listen to all the horrors that Christ went through to rescue us, but it isn't until I hear about the resurrection that it really hits me that Christ was dead. He was dead and it was my fault. That's when the tears flow. Even explaining it to Laura got me choked up. I love a good savior story.


At the end of the permanent exhibition, there is a video of testimonies from survivors they play continuously. One man recounts a tale of happening upon one of his fellow inmates at Birkenau praying. He was outraged. He asked his friend what he could possibly be praising God for in the living hell of the concentration camp. His friend's response was, "I am praising God that I am not like our murderers."

I couldn't handle anymore after that. Not with other people around. I went to the book store.


The USHMM has created a sacred space at the end of the permanent exhibition. It's quiet and beautiful. There are candles to light and several appropriate Old Testament verses inscribed on the walls. Wouldn't it be something if they also created a wailing wall? I wonder how many (or how few) people would avail themselves of that space.

Ninety Six

Looks more like a really weird "S" to me.

Teenage Pregnancy Please!

Some of you who read my blog may also read shotsnaps If you don't, I think you would enjoy it, if only for the beautiful pictures of cute children and nature and stuff. Anyway, I read this article because A.O. linked to it and I thought other people might be interested.

I'm pretty well in agreement with the author. Even though I have managed to remain a virgin lo these twelve or thirteen years since I hit puberty, it has mainly been due to my own shyness and a lack of prolonged temptation.

While in Buffalo, Andrea and I were talking about marriage and sex and babies. She finds the desire to be a mother almost incomprehensible and I couldn't even present a coherent reason why I want to have babies someday except that I just want to. And, I'm ready to admit it...I'm not desperate (yet), but I want a husband and babies. The sooner the better, please God!

Ninety-Eight Days...

Until I spread my wings (and other apt cliches)

I Liked The Canadian, But I Love America

Emily and I watched the National Spelling Bee last night. If you've ever seen the documentary Spellbound, you know how amusing these sorts of events can be. I participated in regional spelling bees (one step before national) twice, so I know how stressful standing on that stage can be... I got seventh out of thirty the first year and third out of 30 the second year. They gave me an atlas for winning third place. I always wondered if they realized a dictionary would have made more sense.

It was the first time the Bee was ever telecast by a network AND the top three spellers were all girls! I was fond of the Canadian, but the persistent girl from New Jersey, who was there for the fifth time, won the whole thing.

Go Karry Close!

Of My Own Design

My last day at my current job is precisely 99 days away.
Now that I've hit the double-digits, I'm going to start a countdown.
Each day I will find a picture that illustrates how many days I have left.