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    Changes from Oraclehottie

    Oraclehottie - over 3 years ago (Oct 24, 2016, 4:57 PM)
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      # Chapter 1: Where did we leave off?

      I always thought it was strange the way he closed his eyes right before he asked a question. It was as if he were seeing the question in his mind: where to use _inflection_, how to curl his _lips_, whether and how to use his hands for **emphasis**. But when he opened his eyes and began to speak, I was moved by the passion of his words, the tenderness of his sentiment. It was too bad, I suppose, that I was expected to hate him with all my heart for all the things he did to my mother before I was born.

      Even so, as I stared at this man with the magnetic personality and the clear, blue eyes, I couldn’t help but wonder what he could have _done_. What could this man, this sparkling, wondrous man, possibly have done to earn my mother’s ire? I watched him with something like rapture and marveled that he, drawn in wild colors and with such broad strokes, could have been part of my mother’s monochrome at all. How could her life ever have encompassed his? Was she once brilliant and bright, all technicolor and enchantment, or was he once tranquil and subdued, hiding behind everyone else’s—anyone else’s—glory? I couldn’t picture it, though. I couldn’t picture it for either of them, neither she in full color nor he in restraint. They were incompatible figures, and though miraculous in their own ways, (perhaps, if I'm feeling generous), it was a study in futility to attempt to imagine them existing in the same palette.

      He sat on the other side of the table, across from me, arms folded across his chest, eyes closed in pre-question contemplation, and suddenly I was overcome with twin desires: to smash him over the head with a cast iron skillet, or to extend my hands, inviting him to dance. Somewhere, on a radio or television in another house, perhaps on another street, someone was listening to boogie woogie music. It was all I could do to remain impassive. My thighs ached with the effort.

      For years, we've been wrongly focused on time spent at work as a measure of productivity. The thing is, that measure of productivity simply makes no sense. For some reason, reasons I can't begin to understand, managers have a tendency to think others aren't working unless they can see them... but guess what? Just because your employee is sitting in their seat at their computer does not mean they are being productive.

      George Costanza famously demonstrated this on Seinfeld when he locked his keys in his car in the Yankee's parking lot, making it look like he was the first one in and last one out every day. Check out what he had to say on Seinfeld: