Will not teach for cash

Time for a new post. . . .

This morning, I received a startling email. I subscribe to a Creative Writing listserv that announces writing contests, calls for submissions, and teaching jobs. This particular digest included an ad for a creative writing instructor at Centenary College.  The ad goes like this:

"Instructor wanted for 2-credit poetry writing course for the fall semester (September through December, 2009) at, Hackettstown, NJ. MFA required. The course meets once a week for approximately two hours. Salary $900. Centenary College is in the process of developing a creative writing minor. We anticipate ongoing teaching opportunities."

As quickly as my eyes widened at the "poetry instructor wanted: Centenary College" line, they also calmed down because I know that there are two Centenary Colleges in these United States (the "Jewel of the South" where I teach and the other one in New Jersey).  But still.

So I sent this to my husband, who did the following math (which, notably, does not even account for taxes):

Let's see, 18 weeks x 3 hours class per week. Plus 1 hour prep and 1 hour grading for every hour in class. No travel if you taught via video alongside your normal Creative Writing course this fall. That makes this offer approximately $5.56/hour. Of course, since the pay is capped, there is a natural disincentive to doing a good job if that means spending more time. What they're really offering, in economic terms, is a minimum wage job with a singular price floor/ceiling and an incentive for the employee to do a poor job.

Right.

I'm reminded of the advice we MFAs received at the University of Florida from the tenured prof who provided the massive lectures for Technical Writing: 400 students in the live lecture on Monday nights, 100-200 more in the video replays that happened at least two other nights a week.  We MFAs served as his teaching assistants, instructing the smaller "lab" sessions (18 students in a computer lab where we practiced whatever writing that week's lecture covered).

The prof told us very frankly that if we excelled as teachers of those labs, we were wasting our time and working too hard: that we weren't being paid enough to be great teachers and that our main task was to do our own graduate work. Therefore, he expected us all to be mediocre as TAs.

Once, I remember having an issue with a particular student, and I asked the prof about it; he advised me well about what to do but also starkly told me where to draw the line, reminding me that to be mediocre got his praise but to go the extra mile got his disapproval. This is partly because he didn't think the students were worth the trouble (the good ones would figure it out despite my mediocrity) but mostly because he didn't think it was really my job. 

He had a point or two there.

Looks like Centenary @ Hackettstown should expect the same kind of mediocrity.  Even poets should know better than to work for that pay.

Mamma Mia!

"It would be charity to call the plot contrived."

Uh huh. It's almost a poor imitation of a Shakespearian comedy. And a total loss if not for all its beautiful people.

Also, if not for mother-in-law's monstrous large DP and fourth-act seat dancing, plus sister-in-law's extra butter on her low-calorie "small." But that doesn't have anything to do with the movie. Except to say that if you plan on seeing it, please take fun people.

So Mamma Mia! does not offer a stellar plot. Nor stellar singing. And I mean "not stellar" generously. But my main problem with the movie is simply this: every character lives for self and his or her fleshly pleasures without any hint of self-control or order at any moment, and they are all rewarded for it.

I don't want to complain that the movie fails as art (as Ebert deftly noted, it does not aim to be good in that way). And I don't actually want to complain that the movie heralds debauchery, though it does. Instead, the movie unearthed in me some sadness. Sadness that many viewers might secretly (or not so secretly) long for their lives to have such freedom as these characters seem to have.

Maybe some of us wish our twenties were full of one-night stands, or wish that our moms were cool enough to headline our drunken bachelorette parties, or wish for such steamy moments on the beach with beautiful lovers, or wish that we could become rich off three divorces and then fill our lives with plastic surgery and younger men. I wish it went without saying that such a life would be wasted. Vanity.

But the real temptation of the movie is to wish for the philosophical and relative freedom in which these characters seem to dwell. Freedom to determine your own identity. Freedom to explore all that life has to offer. Freedom to drink yourself sick. Freedom to sleep with whomever you wish. Freedom to be cool in the eyes of others. Freedom to live in loyal relationship that holds the truth of self-loyalty rather than God-vows at its core. Freedom to prize family over everything else. Freedom to long for the unattainable and actually get it one day. Freedom to write your own story.

It's not the objects of those prepositions that are important: it's the noun. The movie does not claim that drunkenness or promiscuity are necessarily good but that the freedom to choose those if you wish is. That at any cost, one should have personal freedom to choose for oneself what she deems best.

On our own, we will express such freedom only for temporary hedonism because we cannot possibly see the virtue of present agony for later joy. Oddly, that does seem the unapologetic moral of the movie. The characters themselves would not balk at admitting it. Why not get pleasure now? Why not rule the self?

The fact that we weren't made to do so is sufficient reason for me. But the eventual outworkings of it are compelling as well. The self is too short-sighted to get even the best pleasure now. If you're smart enough or powerful enough, you could acquire for yourself the best pleasure you can see now. But there's a world unknown beyond it. It's impractical to depend on the self for the highest pleasure.

Even the movie shows us this. Donna has suffered these twenty years because she didn't have the self-discipline when she was young to actually work at relationship. She has made it fine and worked hard and raised a lovely daughter, but she has suffered loneliness and fatigue and, ironically, loss of pleasure. All this, at least in part, because she did not work at love but expected it to land in her lap. She chunked the "agony" (as it were) of living in community because she preferred rule of the self unto immediate pleasure insofar as she could see it.

In the postmodern way, she eventually gets her pleasure . . . the man after whom she has secretly pined all these years. That's hardly a spoiler: it's a romantic comedy, after all. But will it last? She will have to set aside herself to do so. She will have to prefer his good over her own, and he hers. Methinks there is a tragedy to follow.

Moore Saying More on Transracial Adoptions

Russell Moore adds comments to the recent debate about transracial adoption here. A provocative tidbit to whet your appetite:

Right now, there are untold numbers of children, many of them racial minorities, languishing in the foster care system in the United States. Would the social workers really have us believe that it is better for an African-American child to grow up bounced from home to home in this bureaucratic limbo than to be a child to parents whose skin is paler than his? Do they really believe that a white Russian child would do better to live in an orphanage until she is dismissed at eighteen to a life of suicide or homelessness than to grow up with loving African-American parents?

This approach loves the abstract notion of humanity more than actual humans. It neatly categorizes persons according to their racial lineages rather than according to their need for love, for acceptance, for families. Our love for neighbor means we ought to prioritize the need for families for the fatherless -- regardless of how they're skin colors or languages line up with one another.

But there's an even bigger issue here: the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Just Curb It

My giddiness over the curbside recycling program about to begin in Shreveport is slightly ridiculous, but I ain't proud. I can hardly wait to get our blue cart: it may arrive as early as next Monday. I can hardly wait to figure out a new use for our current in-house recycling bins. I can hardly wait to not separate our recyclables.

I can hardly wait for Micah to have more time to get my Saturday beignets, though I am slightly concerned that without the coincidental function of taking the recycling out, he won't have as much reason to go get said beignets.

And when I read this morning that one of the recyclable items one can place in one's blue bins is . . . glass bottles. Well, I about fell out of my chair. The local recycling joint won't take those (last I checked, anyway).

So let's all get ready to smile the first day we have a multicolored trash day, the brown and blue together at the curb. My oh my.

To do

Women in Christianity and Islam

Weekend before last, I served as co-leader of a discussion on "Women in Christianity and Islam" for a Christian-Muslim Relations program organized by the Christian Leadership Center at Centenary. What glorious fun. And it left me with much to think about regarding biblical womanhood, the grace of God through Jesus Christ, compassionate ministry, and real faithfulness. Maybe some other things too. But in an effort to at least post some bits about this, here are some lessons I learned from the experience:

1) Lesson: putting a face to those who don't love Jesus as the Redeemer is a blessed thing indeed. It was a true blessing for me personally to meet and dialogue with the Muslim convert who served as the other co-leader for our session (let's call her Asna). She is a learned woman and I look forward to developing a friendship with her.

2) Lesson: regarding womanhood and faith, I have more in common with Muslims than with most Christians. That is, as a complementarian Christian (one who believes that men and women are co-equal in creation and redemption but distinct in role), I have way more in common with Asna and Muslims like her at least regarding the roles of men and women than I do with egalitarian American Christians. Asna seemed intrigued to learn that the idea of gender distinction is in the Christian Bible too, and that at least I would say that the Biblical ethic is adamant that no sex or type of person has inherent second-class status to anyone else, that we are all equally depraved and then also, in Christ, equally redeemed.

3) Lesson: the issue of women and faith might serve as an entry point for interfaith ministry. My presentation just hinted at the distinctions between complementarian and egalitarian views in Christianity, and Asna's just hinted at the issues relevant to women and Islam. Both of us had lots more we could have said, and our "audience" engaged interestingly; I am hopeful that we might see more discussion on precisely this topic in the future.

For example, Asna was rather intrigued to hear that the Bible does talk about head coverings for women, that the idea of veiling as such is not completely foreign to the Christian Bible. She wants a copy of the notes I made for my talk so that she can check out the New Testament scriptures I noted; she is eager to share these with so-called Christians who stop her in Wal-Mart and think she's nuts for wearing full burkha. I chuckled at the idea of a veiled Muslim woman challenging the biblical illiteracy of so-called Christians in the grocery check-out line.

4) Lesson: genuine understanding is an important entry point for interfaith ministry. The whole program, though it featured interfaith prayer and a panel discussion where Muslims and Christians called one another brother, was no kumbayah session of inarticulate pluralistic doctrine. Now, to be sure, many of those present (though the crowd was very small in general) definitely thought that, but that was not the overt theme of things. Rather, the overt theme seemed to be respect for theological distinctions even if they are not reconcilable; the general call was one of peaceful dialogue, which I dare say we should all welcome.

5) Lesson: be a person of your book. The last imam to speak in the panel discussion called all of us there to be people of our books, earnestly living out what righteousness we read there. He repeated it often, the importance of our books. At our church, we take this for granted, that Christians determine to live in faithfulness to God's revelation in His Word, and maybe we forget that it's not an altogether common belief among so-called Christians in general.

In "our book" we Christians will hear the call to humble but urgent ministry, to radical acts of love, to passionate and thoughtful relationship . . . all through serious attention to the supremacy of Jesus over all things. But most of the "Christians" in attendance that day wouldn't have agreed with that last part. At my lunch table, two women actually dismissed the idea of original sin as not in the Bible at all "unless you read Genesis literally" but as a mere fiction of the Catholic church. I was so baffled that I could not compose a reply. Later, they were surprised to hear that I actually believed Jesus is the only way, truth, and life, and that no one comes to the Father but by Him. I'm still confused as to how someone could call herself a Christian and not believe that.

But the point here is that I think we may find in our local Muslim community people who are willing to dialogue about what God has actually said; the larger Christian community locally may not, ironically, be as interested in that. Oh the urgency of speaking compassionate truth to those around us who claim to be Christians as well!

6) Lesson: hanging around people who sincerely believe they must work hard to earn God's reward will sure highlight the preciousness of God's powerful grace through Jesus. The experience of being with these earnest Muslims made me recall with awe at so many points that Jesus died to make so many of the things they desire available to sinners like me completely and freely. He has set us free from bondage to sin! His Holy Spirit empowers us to walk in righteousness! I cannot begin to describe, then, the renewed joy in my own heart: our Jesus is indeed unique, precious, exalted, and good.

Perhaps more on observations from that day and beyond later. But for now, I have an assignment from one of my students to write a 10- to 15-line poem in trimeter. I have two lines:

Cheap bread and pickled fish:
a side dish, not a meal.

Now for eight more and something for them to say. . . .

We got to get some of that re-form!

Bobby Jindal, the reformer. Bobby Jindal, the ethicist. Delivering an ultimatum to the Ruth's Chris Steak House and other legislative institutions in our fair state.

The New York Times followed his campaign closely, which I found interesting: just a state governor's campaign. No, a minority campaign (he is a Republican) in a corrupt little state where governors are more like princes. Jindal talked big and won the public like Huey Long on the back of open trucks, the gospel of fairness coming soon to a yard near you.

So it's no surprise that today the national paper showed Governor Jindal resting in his office while the legislature grumblingly okayed most of his ethics bills (save the one blasting retirement benefits to legislators convicted of state-related crimes, because we the people want to make sure Edwin Edwards and Representative Jefferson have a pillow to rest their heads on in their golden years). Adam Nossiter's story is a must-read, partly because it is informative but mostly because it is beautifully written. Clever, like a Cajun confessing he bought bad lobster traps.

Como?

"Wonder Pets" in Portugese? How glorious has our world just gotten?

I think I'm having visions; it's a world like this one but with awesome grammar.

The New York Times is officially neat-o. For all you semicolon lovers out there, here's an article for you: a story about a real-life punctuation hero.

You'll think it can't be, that this must be some fiction crafted by Lynne Truss or maybe a trusty follower; you'll think that follower could be me. But no, it's a real writer in a real city with a real writerly job doing writerly hero work; he knows a "pretentious anachronism" when he sees one, and he holds it up for all the train riders to learn.

So, a raised glass for Mr. Neches, please, and for all his winking friends.

The Centenary . . .

Speaking of adopting pets, the big college just did.After receiving votes from 1400 alums, faculty, staff, currents students, and even a batch of prospective students, Centenary College (alma mater, hail) has announced an additional mascot. We'll remain the Gents and Ladies, of course, but now we have a Catahoula cur named Skeeter to tote around and love.

What a beautiful dog. And from a rescue shelter too. Even better.

Go Skeeter the Gent!

Moral Compass

This is sure to offend and worry, but I'd like to hereby champion this small but reasonable blog post about The Golden Compass.  

Let us celebrate the imagination and guard our children with active instruction, not knee-jerk boycott.  Let every Christian be a cultural critic and a public philosopher, engaging the world (the kosmos) with compassion and information and wisdom . . . not an uninformed grinch or a prudish fearmonger, avoiding the world with anxiety and control and faithlessness.

Dying Well

The good bits in this article are the names: Tanya O. Walker-Butts, Gaines C. McCorquodale, Loretta L. Pettway, and Dr. Sumpter D. Blackmon.  Apparently, everyone in Camden, Alabama, gives a middle initial when speaking with a reporter from the New York Times.

But the bad bits in the article start early, like the second paragraph:

Over the last eight years, the refusal of patients to die according to actuarial schedules has led the federal government to demand that hospices exceeding reimbursement limits repay hundreds of millions of dollars to Medicare.

Darn those patients, refusing to die on a timetable that would please insurance agencies.  Reminds me of that Monty Python skit: "I'm getting better!" the old man says.  "No you're not," says the Cleese character, who proceeds to beg the rotating "Bring Out Yer Dead" gatherer to help him a bit.  He finally agrees and finishes the elderly one off with a hit to the head.  

An unfortunate picture of our Medicare situation today, it seems.  Preferable to whack the ill prematurely on the head and lob them on top of the wheelbarrow with the rest of the dead than to provide help and care until the last natural day.

It seems rather grievous to me that we would not consider it a privilege to serve the dying.  A civilized society such as ours has ample resources; indeed, we are so technologically advanced that we have ample means to create the problem in the first place by medically prolonging life past when it wants to live.

Let us protect our elderly and care for the dying.  No unnecessary tubes or needles but simple, authentic service.  Hospice can be a true blessing, enabling the ill to celebrate their final days sometimes in their own homes but always with comfort.  What a wonder!  

So shame on Medicare for fleecing hospice providers just because they actually did a good job, continuing to care for the dying even when they refused to die.  And may we all instead show much mercy, learning to show such care to those around us.

Mumble, mumble

Here's a nod to Myles' alter ego, whose new biopic "I'm Not There" I'm officially excited about . . . not least because it features Cate Blanchett as the young Bob Dylan. So that's two reasons why Myles is surely salivating for the movie. Wow.

Glover praised by decrepit old man

According to the Shreveport Times, Mayor Cedric Glover gave a "well-delivered and comprehensive" State of the City address yesterday. At least, that's what former Mayor James Gardener thought, but his term ended fifty years ago, and things may have changed a little since then.

James Gardner, who served as Shreveport mayor from 1954 to 1958, said he felt optimistic about what Glover said about Cyber Command and his support for the initiative.

"I think he's doing well," Gardner said after noting Glover's address was well-delivered and comprehensive.

Gardner may be quite a fine man and a stellar former mayor, but if he is the best we have to critique the current mayor's speaking skills, then we are lacking. Even if he was a young mayor, he's pushing past 70 now. What he knows about the cyber command center brewing across the river also seems (therefore) doubtful. Nobody at Centenary can figure it out, so my bet wouldn't be on the senior ex-mayor.

But maybe I'm speaking out of turn. Wouldn't be the first time. Maybe Gardner is young, or a young 80. And maybe he is a cyber command genius. But the Times would do well to say so. As it is, their source made me guffaw rather than aw.

Hold on to the weak

What a wonderful post by David Powlison over on the Between Two Worlds blog. Moves me toward words of gentleness and courage.

(The blog's link to the Mad TV sketch didn't work when I tried it, but you can see it here.)

More Gore

"Why would he run for president when he can be a demigod?"

Sure. Good question. Al?

"My cellphone. Something's wrong with my cellphone."

Please adopt.

This afternoon, I had a meeting at school to discuss how we faculty types might help our FYE students do better research and ask more interesting research questions. When I came home, Gram and Noel were hanging out in his room, investigating the window and carpet fuzz and exciting things like that. I should have kept that going.

Instead, when Gram left, I absentmindedly turned on the television and heard Alexis Stewart (Martha's daughter) lamenting her 42-year-old infertility and gladly confessing to Oprah that she spends $28,000 every month feeding her idol of pregnancy.

My heart sank. It sinks again every time I think it. That's about as much as an international adoption costs, and she's been spending it every month for almost two years now. With the money Alexis Stewart has spent trying to make a mini-me, she could have adopted 44 American children.

Do billionaires have more right to children that look like them and act like them? They certainly have more ability to ensure that product. But the poor middle class suffers most from this idol, it seems; Oprah also featured a couple who has taken out second mortgages on their homes to accommodate their IVF bills, and another couple who traveled to India for a foreign surrogate mother because it cost less than half of an American surrogate. (Notably, again, the latter couple could have adopted an Indian child for the same cost as their surrogate experience.)

I shudder at the financial implications, for it seems unethical to spend money in this way. Infertility has become a multi-billion dollar industry while children yet live in orphanages all over the world.

Thankfully, current discussion on Oprah.com's discussion boards (which I only had time to momentarily skim) mentions the need for balance and some responders cry out for adoption. More, though, praise the information, glad to have company in the infertility wars.

God help us to not idolize our wombs. I am reminded of my own son, who stands (literally) at the precipice of walking and makes us marvel and rejoice every day. But I am also reminded of women I know who have recently carried their babies to full term, but not to life. And I am reminded, again, of the 200+ children conceived as a result of sexual assault, finding love and comfort now in a daycare in Congo.

Please, let us practice hospitality. Will the childless not welcome the motherless and fatherless into their homes? Let us welcome them all the more for having entered our families through a strange providence rather than a medical phenomenon.

Hardly imaginable

As noted on the Think Christian blog, this is no easy read, but I commend it to you with all sobriety and caution (for it conveys some rather disturbing details): today's New York Times article "Rape Epidemic Raises Trauma of Congo War" should give us all pause as we consider the plight of humans across the globe.

The article features the work of Dr. Denis Mukwegeat the Panzi Hospital of Bukavu, a tremendous place. Their website notes that they counsel women and their husbands, when applicable, toward real forgiveness of their aggressors and perseverance together. The hospital also hosts a daycare for children conceived from sexual violence, counting more than 200 such children in their care between 2003 and mid-2006.

It remains unthinkable to me that such atrocity would happen anywhere, on my street or in the wilderness, and yet this story suggests that violence toward women has become the norm in Congo. And this points us to at least three tragedies.

First, the obvious tragedy that women would be so violated, physically assaulted because they are regarded as chattel, economic means to a political end, mentally and emotionally and physically annihilated by men who have lost any semblance of control or real humanity.

So we see the second tragedy: that these men would become so inhuman that they would perpetrate such acts, and in widespread manner. They not only do evil but approve of others who do so, and help commit the crimes against other humans, perhaps in an attempt to simply justify one's own lawlessness. And suddenly, the standard of real manhood drops: the norm becomes rape and murder, divorce and war.

And the third tragedy remains for the children, some of whom carry disease and all of whom carry stigma into this world. All that results in more stigma and maybe even abandonment, even as they dwell in a sick land that seems only to wait for them to grow up so that they may join the war too. May God heal the land and the people, not just "that" land and "those" people but we who are their sisters and brothers, and soon.

Maybe one day I'll become a librarian

Apparently, it's now cool to be a librarian. Kara Jesella's recent New York Times piece "A Hipper Crowd of Shushers" confirms that information fluency isn't just for geeks. Or at least that geeks can sometimes do cool things, like get tattoos and order drinks according to their Dewey Decimal book-title equivalence?

Some people have too much stuff in their brains.

Another guest post, this time from Auntie Vicki

Since my no-blog mom tagged herself, I decided to tag another non-blogger: my aunt Vicki. Here they are together in a photo from last Christmas, Vicki on the left looking rather like their father, and my mom on the right looking rather like their mother (Santa hats notwithstanding):
I don't think anyone will mind my saying that this guest post comes not merely from my aunt but from Noel's third grandmother, insofar as she does a great deal of mothering toward him and is generally grand. So, enjoy these 8 random facts about my aunt Vicki, guest-written by my aunt Vicki:

1. I love books. Not just the words in them, although that is like unlocking a mystery, but I love the feel and look of books. I love the shape of books. I love the adventure of books. I love the anticipation of starting a new book – the hope that it will quickly engage me. Then, when it does and I can’t wait to get to the end, I’m so excited about the next book – not always knowing what it will be. Excited, yet at the same time, apprehensive – because maybe it won’t grab me. But – they most always do! And, thanks to Jen, I love librarything.com – there I can see all my books at one time – the art of the covers and the comfort of their existence.
2. I love mornings. I love the beauty of God’s creation – the way the light comes through the trees in my back yard; the song of the birds as they welcome the day and welcome me into it. I can’t wait for those days when the weather is kind enough to allow me to I throw open my windows and welcome the promise of a new day, a new opportunity. Even rainy, overcast days – I love the mornings!
3. I’ve recently rediscovered that I love mowing and weed eating! There is something soothing about the monotony of those straight lines and the smell of the freshly cut grass. If that by itself wasn’t enough – then I edge. Oh my, the wonder of a freshly cut edge where the grass meets the concrete! In addition to the beauty and zen-ness of the mowing, there is that little bit of righteousness I feel about actually breaking a sweat and “exercising” – while doing something that gives me pleasure in and of itself!
4. I fear heights. When living in California, I seriously could not consider taking a job that would require me to be higher than the third floor (although I did once work on the fourth floor – with constant trepidation). The Seattle Space Needle – no way. The new bridge over the floor of the Grand Canyon – kill me now! I once was invited to dinner at the top of one of the tallest buildings in San Francisco. I was with a bunch of people and didn’t want to appear foolish, so went – trying the entire time not to have a panic attack. Fortunately – it was foggy – so there wasn’t much to see. I think that’s all that saved me (and the fact that I purposely sat with my back to the window). But my fear of heights is only related to attachment to the ground. I don’t mind flying – in fact enjoy it. And – one day before I leave this earth I hope that I can take a hot air balloon ride!! High? Yes. But not attached to the ground!!
5. I once had dinner with Orville Redenbacher. It was at Benihana’s in San Diego – where you eat around a hibachi grill with several other people. Well, this day Dan and I went in, were led to a table with only two other people and low and behold one of them was Orville Redenbacher. He was like a caricature of himself – his grin, large black-rimmed glasses, shock of white hair, brown tweed suit and famous bowtie. He was there with his publicist – and was in the midst of a conversation about his recent trip on the Goodyear Blimp (now that I don’t want to do – height fear notwithstanding!). When we sat down he introduced himself, gave us a round sticker of his face which he autographed and then proceeded to spend most of the time there in conversation with us about popcorn!
6. I would love to play a musical instrument that would allow me to play with a group (in my dream – a symphony orchestra). I play the piano, but that is not a “group” instrument. Ideally it would be the cello (which I played in junior high school). I love the vibrations of a cello and its mellow tones. But it could also be the oboe. I would love to be part of great music – not a standout, just part of it!
7. I have my father’s hands (Nancy has mother’s hands). I recently compared my hands with my fathers’ – held them up, side by side – they were the same. I see character in my hands and I see wrinkles and aging skin. I see my hands a lot these days – on the computer keys, playing the piano, holding a book, patting Noel. I think I’ve noticed them most recently because when Noel holds them, or sucks on my fingers, there’s such a contrast between my hands and his. My hands are large, more tanned than his. Yet, I like my hands. There seems to be experience in my hands – evidence of days past and lessons learned.
8. I love competition – games and sports. I wish I had the talent and physical ability to figure skate. I’d love to play golf again. I love a good baseball game – being there, not so much watching on TV. I’m crazy about game night. Won’t ever turn down an opportunity to play Scrabble, Boggle, Bridge, Taboo, Settlers of Catan, Balderdash – or just about anything. OK – maybe I’m not so anxious to play Worms (I’ll never figure out those controls). I’m unfortunately addicted to computer games – I always know just one more game will be the BIG one! The BIG win! So – anytime, anyplace – deal the cards, set up the board – whatever. I’m there!