I know, I know. It's been a while. The problems with updating stem from the fact that I am now unemployed. Besides the fact that I have incredibly slow internet access at my house, I have also been consumed with many other activities. I have been sleeping late, devouring Melrose Place reruns, eating peanut butter sandwiches, and painting pottery at Lillian's lovely store. I have also been reforming my life goals to conform with advice from Dr. Phil. I know that revelation may instantly alienate some of you readers, but the man is a friggin' genius. Anyway, the steady flood of updates which (I promise!) will hereinafter flow from my keyboard now begins, with the story of why it was necessary to leave my employment position. (Can you tell from the incredibly long sentences that I have also been catching up on my Jane Austen novels?) While catching up on my reading, I came across a lovely little story that has been gnawing at me lately. The story goes like this (mind you, I take IMMENSE amounts of storyteller's license). The philosopher Confucius dreamed that he was visited by an angel (I will call it an angel for lack of a better word, although I may be somewhat confused about Confucius' theology). Anyway, this angel offered to take Confucius on a tour of Heaven and Hell. Confucius, of course, immediately accepted (and, the lawyer in me would add, signed a waiver releasing the angel from liability for injury suffered during the trip). The angel took him to a place that was absolutely beautiful. It was a huge banquet room, with tables groaning under the weight of delicious-looking food. The aromas were overwhelming and Confucius said, "Heaven is so much better than I ever could have imagined." The angel said, "you're mistaken. This is not heaven. This is hell." Confucius said, "how could this be? This place is so wonderful." The angel told him to look at the people. All of them were weak and skinny, and looked as if they were starving. "Why are they so hungry?" asked Confucius. The angel said, "each of these people were brought to the banquet table and given chopsticks which are five feet long. They can look at the food and smell it, but they can't manuever the chopsticks to get any of it to their mouths." Confucius looked at their hands and, sure enough, they each had enormous pairs of chopsticks, and some of the stronger were trying in vain to move food to their mouths. The angel told him that they were going to see heaven. Confucius closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he thought at first that they were still in hell. The banquet hall was identical. The food and the smells were still as beautiful as they had been. Then the angel told him to look at the people. They were fat and happy and smiling and singing and laughing. But in each of their hands were the same pairs of enormously long chopsticks. So Confucius asked the angel, "why aren't the people in heaven starving? They have the same long chopsticks." The angel answered, "yes, but in heaven they use them to feed each other." This entire story is a roundabout way of explaining that I left my job because I wasn't being fed. The essence of heaven or hell is not about where you are or what is there with you. It's about who you're with. My job was hell because my boss was constantly trying to feed himself with five-foot-long chopsticks. And I was starving. So I chose to leave. I do not have a job to go to, just at present, and I really don't have any income. But I am surprisingly fat and happy.

I quit my job. I am among the unemployed. I am among the poor but proud. I quit my job.

So I saw on cnn.com a while back (I am a cnn.com JUNKIE) that the post office is now selling cloud stamps.  That's right people, start getting in line to get your pictures of clouds.  Have they given up?  I realize that with the advent of e-mail, the postal service has lost some steam, but good grief.  It's like they don't even try to be interesting. 
     So in my relentless pursuit of knowledge, I turned to the USPS web site (isn't it a bit ironic that they have one?) to see what else they choose to place on the nation's correspondence.  The answer?  A whole bunch of people I don't know about.  So I looked them up. 
   Apparently James Baldwin is not the other Baldwin brother who they honored on a stamp because he didn't annoy the rest of us by trying to act.  He was a civil rights activist who moved to Paris so that he could have a better perspective from which to write about his life growing up in Harlem.  He wrote books that tackled tough subjects like homosexuality and interracial relationships long before these subjects were commonplace fodder for the literary machine.  He gained much of his skills as a writer from earlier years preaching from the pulpit.  He later said that his years as a pastor gave him an understanding of "that anguish and that despair and that beauty" needed to write.  I'm checking up on his books next chance I get just because he wrote that phrase.
   Next was Edna Ferber, who apparently wrote short stories about an underskirt saleswoman during the 1920s and 1930s.  Why the heck does the USPS think underskirts are important?  Apparently she also wrote "Showboat" and "Giant" (James Dean's last movie) - but how the heck does she rate a stamp?  I really don't understand this?  Did she leave a lot of money to the post office or something?
   They also sell stamps of various wildlife I never heard of (probably the reason for the stamp).  But my question for today is:  who do you think deserves a stamp, and why?  Please leave answers in the comment section below (click on "send me a note, peeps").  I'd love to hear your ideas.

   So I get on the elevator this morning with three men.  I say to one of them (the Ralph Nader look-a-like) "where are you going?" since I am the one standing by the buttons.  "All the way down," he says.  His friend (the one who looks like Sam Kennison) says "that reminds me of a joke," and giggles (I hate when men giggle.  It's gross).  Then Sam says, "but I won't tell it.  Present company."

   We're getting off the elevator and Ralph says, "discretion is the better part of valor."  Is it really?  Is discretion really valiant when you hint at something really gross and then refrain from saying it?  I don't really feel like he's a bastion of manners who stopped at nothing to protect my delicate woman-ears.  Are you to be rewarded for utilizing a filter that should have kept you from uttering the hint? 

   The thing is, had one of my friends told me whatever joke he was hinting at, I probably would have laughed.  It probably would have been funny.  It probably would have grossed me out less than his hint and insane giggle.

   The point is, peeps, the better part of valor is keepin' your yap shut.

   Okay, Martha's in jail, so someone has to repeat the catch phrase to keep it alive.  Actually, on the radio station here the other day they were doing a call-in question on really good things.  So I made my own top ten list, and here they are:

1.  That feeling when you wake up in the morning and panic because you woke up late and you wonder why your alarm didn't go off, and then you realize it didn't go off because it's Saturday and you can roll over and go back to sleep.

2.  When you mail away for a really big rebate, or you send in an expense form at work, and then you forget about it.  Then you get a really big check in the mail, and it's a complete surprise.

3.  That feeling on a long car trip when you REALLY, REALLY have to go to the bathroom, but then you pass a sign that says "Next exit - 11 miles," and then you finally get to the exit and there's a place with a really clean bathroom and you finally get to pee.

4.  Ditto for a really long car trip where you're really thirsty and finally get something to drink (although this can create #3).

5.  Air conditioning.

6.  A fireplace, a cup of hot cocoa (with a little Jim Beam mixed in - that's how we do it in Alabama, folks), and a good book or an old movie while it's raining outside.

7.  The smell of roast cooking in the crock pot when you get home from church at my mom's house.

8.  Two words:  bare feet.

   So I had a reader ask me for my opinions on politics.  The truth is, I try not to talk about politics much, as I really am not as knowledgeable about that subject as I probably should be.  Once in a while, someone will assume that I'm a politics nut when I find out that I was a political science major in college.  They'll start asking creepily enthusiastic questions with words like "deficit" that I don't really have a good grasp on.  I'll just look at them and say, "I was a political THEORY major."  They give out a disappointed "oh," and we move on to other topics.  Being a political theory major means that I spent most of my time writing papers on the history of the Catholic Church and its involvement in the racial caste system of Mexico in the early 1800s.  I also spend an all-nighter writing a ten pager on the teachings of St. Thomas Aquinas as compared to the music of Tchaikovsky.  So anyone who asks me about politics will be sadly disappointed.
   I do have definite ideas on a few key issues, which make me feel the way I feel and vote the way I vote.  But I'm starting to get annoyed by people who get hyped up about politics.  I think it's important, and sometimes I like to hear your opinions, but I've found that a lot of people who get uber-excited about politics have the same frown when they find out you don't share their interest. They're very disapproving and they all have the same speech about how politics affects every area of your life, and so you should be immersed in this battle between good and evil...blah, blah, blah.  That's where I glaze over.  Because the truth is, politics is important, and there are times I get excited about it, or angered by it.  But getting excited about politics is a lot like saving the spotted owl.  Yes, it's important and someone should do it, but I'm not less of a good person because I'm not as interested in it as you are.
   That said, my jewel of a boss has found out that he and I have very different political allegiances.  In fact, oddly enough, most of the associates (peons) at my office are on the far opposite side of the political spectrum from the partners (gray-hairs).  My boss has decided to ponitificate (in front of me, not to me) many times about how he is voting for a certain candidate because he "makes sense.  I respect the guy" and because his party apparently has some moral attributes concerning the underprivileged and elderly that my boss finds worthwhile.  Nothing wrong with either of those, by the way.
   This last political monologue from the boss man reminded me of a story my dad used to tell as a sermon illustration (don't worry - I'm not going to give you the whole sermon).  There was a minister who ran a school for poverty-stricken kids.  There were two women who assisted him with these kids.  One came in every morning with a bright smile and got really involved with the kids and with the after-school program.  She volunteered for every charitable effort and everyone thought "what a great person."  The second lady was quiet and sweet, but there was something about her that bothered the minister.  She would avoid touching the kids as much as possible.  He wondered why she even came if she didn't want those kids to touch her.  On the rare occasions when one of them did touch her, she would hug the kid or hold their hand for a while, but as soon as she was able, she would rush to the bathroom where she would frantically scrub her hands with soap.
   The minister thought he had these two women figured out until one day when a reporter came to the school and wanted to do a story on the efforts there.  The reporter interviewed the first lady and included several pictures of her with the kids in his newspaper story.  The minister was looking at the newspaper in front of someone else and they laughed and shook their heads.  "you won't see her again," the person said.  "Why not?" asked the preacher.  The person told him that she liked to see her own picture in the paper and that she liked to be praised for her philanthropic and volunteer efforts, but she knew that if a reporter had been to the school they weren't likely to come back any time soon, so she would soon move on to the next project for which she might win public acclaim. 
   True enough, the happy volunteer didn't show up the next morning, or the morning after that.  The minister realized that what the person had told him might be correct when he saw her picture in the paper for another charitable event two weeks later.
   He began to worry that maybe he had misjudged the other woman who worked at the school (remember the hand washer?).  So he waited until after school one day and asked her about her frequent trips to the sink.  She hesitated for a minute.  "My husband is not a kind man," she said.  "Last year I caught a virus from one of these kids, and my husband was very, very angry.  He told me I could do what I wanted to during the day when he's not home, but that if I ever got sick again, I couldn't come back."  Then her eyes teared up and she said, "I can't get sick because I can't live without these kids."
   You see, it's not so much what you do (who you vote for) that concerns me.  It's the type of person you are - the things inside of you that make you vote for that person that you should worry about.  The truth is, the fact that my boss votes for one person because he's "sensible" and makes "intelligent decisions" and he agrees with his sense of right and wrong really doesn't make me want to vote for that person.  That's because I know my boss doesn't make intelligent decisions.  He isn't sensible, and his sense of right and wrong is INCREDIBLY skewed.  And his concern for the underprivileged and elderly has yet to be demonstrated.
   There's a story in the Bible (you guys are getting a double-dose of religion today, but I figure if we're talking politics we might as well throw in religion) about a widow who puts two pennies in the collection box at temple, because that's all she has.  All the rich men are laughing at her because they made grand and intentionally obvious donations.  But Jesus steps forward and says that she gave more than all of them put together (Maggie paraphrase).  This next statement may surprise you, but I don't think that He was impressed that she gave all she had. The truth is, I think He was more impressed that she had spent a lifetime before that single moment BECOMING the kind of person who WOULD give all she had.  I don't think it was as important to Him that she "cast her vote" for God.  I think it was important that she was the kind of person who would.
   So I'm going to encourage all of you to vote.  But I'm not encouraging you to vote for a particular candidate, and I'm not going to tell you how important your vote is (although, as a Florida absentee voter in the 2000 election, I can tell you it does count).  I am going to say that when you vote, think about the qualities you're voting for.  And ask yourself if you're the kind of person who demonstrates that they value those qualities in your every day life.  For me, election day will be a spiritual and emotional (and secondarily political) process.

Hello, dear readers!  I realize there hasn't been a Maggie Grace update in quite a while.  I'm going crazy at work.  Last night I worked until 10:00 on a motion which "had" to be filed this morning.  My boss was supposed to argue this motion before a judge this morning.  Turns out my boss's wife hit the emergency room at 3:00 this morning, my boss called and asked for a continuance, and the motion doesn't have to filed until next week. Ah, well, such is life.

There are several things you need to be updated on, but here' the short version until I have time to write in detail:
1.  The cruise to Cozumel was FABULOUS.  I thought about buying a little hut on the beach and spending the rest of my life there.  The BF was wonderful (picture dancing on the deck of the ship at one in the morning), the weather was wonderful (in spite of the hurricanes), the food was wonderful (I am now investigating joining Weight Watchers) and the margaritas were wonderful (do the Weight Watchers meetings conflict with AA?).  I was one happy little camper.  The day I came back to work has been officially the worst day of my life thus far.

Is our generation's The Graduate.  Seriously, the stylistic similarities are uncanny.  What a great movie.  Even if you don't like it, you will be able to honestly say you've never seen any movie quite like it.  Go see it.  Now.  I'm not kidding.  Get off your butt!!!! 

On a completely unrelated note, September 19 is Talk Like a Pirate Day.  No joke.  Are you ready for this?  You have less than three weeks to swab your deck, hoist your mainsail, and, um, whatever else it is that pirates do or talk about doing.

http://www.talklikeapirate.com/piratehome.html