As you can tell I have added a few features to the site this week. I didn't have too much reading for class, so I spent some time on the internet. There is a new feature where you can add your email address and every time I update the site you get an email alerting you. I also included a visitor counter. It is the blue box with the JV on it or something. Since I am a fan of statistics, the feature breaks down the number of visitors the site has and does some type of pie graph report. It's quite interesting. But, let me move on before I sound incredibly nerdy.

The last two weeks do not have conclusions or winners, so here they are...
From my Feb. 19 entry (when I get a rind stuck on my finger at Nordstrom) the winner is BRIAN BIGGS, who wrote "I would have immediately cut the ring off, and make a personal vow to punish myself physically whenever the mind clouds itself with unholy wedding fantasies. The fingers swelling up? That's God telling you that you aren't ready to think such things yet!" Thanks for keeping it real, bro. Your gift is being sent via UPS to the Mario's Warehouse.

THE CONCLUSION for the Ring Story...I ended up prying the ring off about 30 mins later while walking around Brass Plum. My "think thin" mantra really worked that time and looking at the tight fitting clothes also helped.
Visit www.preciousplatnium.com to see my ultimate wedding band.

For the entry from Feb. 22 (when I was about to get my backside "treatment" from Gillian) the winner is...ABRA COOPER who wrote "as much as i love gillian, i would take her advice, but have the actual action performed by some hot guy i met at a bar. asking him to fix my rear would be the coolest pick up line ever!"
Classy Coop, classy! Your gift is arriving in the form of Me and it will be on an Air Nippon flight.

THE CONCLUSION, I let Gillian punch my butt! Perhaps it was a temporary solution to a long term problem, but it stopped the pain. Gillian has HEALING HANDS! In a related story, my friend Allee and I are going to start training for a half marathon. I will have Gillian driving next to me in a white van at all times, ready to punch!
For more info on becoming a proctologists visit... http://www.aoa-net.org/Certification/proctology.htm

Now for my new entry...

This international travel thing is new to me. Since I was so busy transferring schools in the states during my undergraduate career I never really had the time or the money to go aboard. Instead I got to change schools every year and make new friends and enemies. However, I am planning a big trip to Japan in March to visit Abra. Then from there we are also going to a Rugby tournament Hong Kong. So I am very excited to be heading to the motherland of my people (for those of you who don’t know this—I am Chinese), as well as looking forward to spending some quality time with my best friend.

For some reason I thought that it would be easy to contact my friends who live in different countries. I was always able to email Judi in France or Courtney in Brazil. But for some reason I had the most difficult time trying to call Abra in Japan with my calling card the other day. I thought that perhaps I could just pick up the phone, say “Hi Japan…this is Jolina…is Abra there?” Instead there were a lot of numbers and, like, strange dial tones. Then I had to input a country and a city code to dial out of the US—madness I tell you. It was all very frustrating for a first time international caller. I ended up panicking and calling Zandra for advice. After all she was a world traveler and I assume she knows how to use the phone.

What made my dumb dialing problem more difficult was the fact that I was very embarrassed. Why was it so hard to make a phone call—was I really that dumb? Was it that incredibly hard to call someone long distance? Do other people have problems with country codes and dialing instructions? Well…I ended up actually reaching Abra’s answering machine in Japan, but the little recorded Japanese voice on the other end didn’t tell me when she was getting home. I was very sad that I had wasted an hour of tears and frustration just to reach a machine.

The next day, the Director of the department asked me to contact a faculty member in Vietnam. I was rather hesitant to complete the task since I had such a hard time calling Japan the other evening. The Director said that it was urgent and that I needed to call immediately. It was probably around 6 am Vietnam time when I dialed the numbers I that were written down on a post-it note. Instead of hearing a greeting from the Embassy Hotel in Vietnam I heard a very upset, tired man answer in Vietnamese. “Hi Vietnam…this is Jolina…is Prof Ingle there?” I wanted to ask…but instead I panicked—I had messed up an international call AGAIN!

“Oh no!” I thought…I just pranked a Vietnamese man…WHAT WOULD YOU DO? Try to say “Sorry Wrong Number” in broken Vietnamese in a phrase book you found off the internet, or Ask if Mike Rotch is there?

Since I only had one comment posted on the last entry I have decided to give you more time to enter your comments on the Thursday, Feb 19 entry, but also give you a brand new "What Would Jolina Do?" I will annouce the winners and the conclusions to both of these stories during my next entry.

Now for the new "What Would Jolina Do?"...

About this time of year I start to miss those dog days of summer. At night while I lie under eight comforters with my head dangerously close to the space heater, I dream of lazy backyard barbecues with friends. The coconut scent of sun block, roasting Hebrew national hotdogs and the crisp freshness of freshly squeeze lemonade being poured into a glass filled with ice fill the humid air. I drink in those summer dreams as if they were reality only to wake up to the unpleasant gray sky forecasted to bring showers to the gloomy city of Portland. The other day while I was going through my closet to make room for springtime clothes I found a pair of shorts! Shorts—my legs haven’t seen sunlight since September—did I even know how to wear this unfamiliar garment? These half pants lay on the closet floor as if to mock me. Oh, summer, come soon…I am beginning to forget what you look like.

For me the official mark of summer time in Portland is the opening of the annual Rose Festival by the Queen of Rosaria. No, this is not some science fiction novel, our city really does have a Queen. Selected from a group of area high school girls by the Rose Festival gods, the Queen is required to lord over the festival activities. The activities of this 25 day event include a starlight parade, a grand floral parade, a Pepsi family fun center (think Carnival with cotton candy), Dragon Boat Races on the Willamette River and other Rose Festival sponsored shows and happenings. The whole city is invited to this grand party—young or old there is something for everyone. There are members of the Portland community who get picked to be “Royal Rosarians” every year. They get to wear fun white suits, hats and mini capes. (In a future entry I will talk about my dream to become one of these chosen few, but for now you will just have to wait and find out if my dream comes true.)

Last summer produced particularly pleasant weather for the festival. The entire summer was actually very warm and enjoyable. So, enjoyable in fact I decided to pass up my usual bus commute home and run the three miles from work to my apartment. Geared up with Nike TM Running attire (free publicity Nike TM, feel free to contact me for more advertisement space) I took to the bike and runner friendly streets of Portland. My usual route consisted of the PSU downtown area, then I continued across the river via the Hawthorne bridge. Once on the East side (and the best side) of town, I took the Riverfront pathway past Omsi (Oregon Museum of Science and Industry) to SE Division, then glided home all summer. Ok, maybe I didn’t glide ALL summer, maybe I more like hobbled home during the last part of the summer, similar to a hobbit who has been chased by faceless mad men on a quest to destroy a burdensome ring. Ok, maybe it wasn’t the “greatest adventure,” maybe I more like severely pulled some sort of muscle in my right leg, making it feel like a knotted up rubber band. It was about August when I realized that my backside felt rather odd. It was as if when the muscles in my backside were relaxed they still felt tense. I knew that all I really needed was a good massage on those troublesome muscles. However, I didn’t have enough money to go to Salon Tres Chic in the Pearl to get it worked out. And with Josh at Burning Man (an “interesting experimental community in the Nevada desert”—which is an entirely different entry, by the way) I was pretty much out of luck. There was really no one I wanted to ask to “massage” my backside. Until one day when explaining to my friend Gillian why I was walking funny, I figured out that perhaps all I needed was someone to punch me in the tense area to release the muscle stress. Could this nontraditional, alternative treatment be beneficial to my backside? I was running out of options, so I bent over and…
WHAT WOULD YOU DO?
Would you let Gillian, who is a good friend but definitely not a proctologist, bump your rump OR would you run out of the house (which is how you got into this mess in the first place)?

I hope all of you felt my pain after reading my latest entry about yoga.
This week's winner is...EMILY! Her comment included this wonderful line "I would have them pull up on hips as hard as they could, and then maybe have them lift my legs into an "inversion" (ie a handstand)- fun!" Emily is probably the only person I can see actually being able to pull off an "inversion." Thanks for playing Duffy, your prize is in Guatemala waiting for you!

CONCLUSION: Well...since I am a rather spiteful person I did hold the uncomfortable yoga position and actually, kind of, started feeling a little bit interested in the art of yoga--but I didn't let anyone know it of course. For all of you who have answered Yoga's higher calling--Congratulations. As for me, I will just stick to running.
If you would like to find out more about the PE or Yoga classes offered through PSU at the Peter Stott Center, visit www.pdx.edu for a complete listing of courses.

Now for my latest entry...
I wish I could tell you that I am one of those girls who haven’t thought much about her wedding, but saying that would be a LIE. Instead I will admit that I think about my wedding constantly—when I am brushing my teeth, when I am waiting for traffic to move during rush hour, even when I am eating dinner with Josh. I don’t necessarily try to predict the feeling I will have of finally uniting in holy matrimony with the man I love; I mainly plan out every intricate detail of the reception and the ceremony. I am not completely obsessive. I would rather consider myself a “good planner” or an “informed consumer.” There are various aspects of the wedding that I have researched to some extend and I would like to share them with you. There are just too many good ideas to keep in this brilliant mind of mine.
*The Dress—Perhaps the crown jewel of the event, my dress will be the purest of white with a wonderful flattering neckline--very simple, yet extremely elegant, similar to my personality of course. My hair swept up and topped with a modest diamond tiara. Also, around my neck I will wear a string of pearls given to me by my father on my 23rd birthday and on my feet—Birkenstocks. (I know Birkenstocks may seem a bit odd, but during many of my life changing events I was wearing Birkenstocks—so really it only seems right to get married in them as well.)
*The Flowers—The wedding party and my bouquets will be made of the finest flowers of the late summer season. After observing the typical plants featured in flower shops through out the year, I have found that late August produces the most brilliant red, burnt orange, and magenta flowers. The vibrant late summer/early fall colors will look radiant against my pure white dress and blend in wonderfully with the bridesmaid gowns (which is the next bullet point).
*The Bridesmaids and Maid of Honor (Finalists for these positions will be announced closer to the actual event date)—The dresses for my wedding party will be made of a rich red material. I wanted to infuse the Chinese traditional red color into the color scheme of the event. Each bridesmaid will be able to pick the design of dress that flatters her best, just as long as it comes in the same red color as the rest of the bridesmaids.

So, there are a few details I haven’t quite finalized, but since I probably have some time to work them out I won’t stress just yet.
The following details of the wedding still need a little work:
*The Groom—Probably the second most important role in the event. I haven’t quite cast the male co-star but of course I have someone in mind (Josh), hint hint.
*The Food at the Reception—Steak or Fried Chicken or BOTH? Both so tasty, it's a hard choice!
*The RING!—While this really is the groom’s deal, I think I should have complete control over the ring I will be wearing for the rest of my life. So, to be the “informed bride” that I am, I have visited many jewelry counters and engagement ring websites.
One day, while scanning over the cubic zirconium selection of Nordstrom’s "oversized fake rings for rich, stuffy women" department I found the exact replica of MY wedding band. Despite the fact that the princess cut square gem with matching bejeweled band was a rather small size—ok, I might have been a toe ring—I decided to cram it on to my ring finger anyway. The thrill of seeing such a beautiful ring on my hand made my adrenalin go crazy. Images of my perfect wedding flashed in my head--the flowers, the dress, the cake—I became very warm, so warm I started sweating. My hands and fingers began to swell--making the ring virtually impossible to remove!
WHAT WOULD YOU DO?
Would kindly pay for the ring stuck on your finger and figure out a way to explain to Josh and everyone else why there was a fake wedding band on your hand, or would you cut the ring/finger off?
Find out what Jolina did in the next entry of “What Would Jolina Do?”

I hope you all enjoyed my last entry about my Grandma. If you would like to join me in making a donation to the American Heart Association, or if you would like to find out more about the "Go Red for Women" program, visit www.americanheart.org.

Now...for my next entry...

For those of you who did not know me personally until recently, may have known me through "The Dance." Yes, "The Dance," it all began at Humboldt State University when
my friends and I decided to create a little dance routine to perform when out at parties.
It was a simple series of moves adaptable to any type of music. I showed the "The Dance" to Abra during the Winter of 2000. From there Abra took "The Dance" and all of its power with her to Whitman College that Spring and the legend of "The Dance" was born.

The true irony of "The Dance" is that, as one of the co-creators/co-choreographers of "The Dance" that has swept the nation, I really do not possess any performance skills. Ever since I was young I realized that my body was unable to connect with my mind when it came to dance movements. My ears heard the music, but my body did not correspond. It was rather frustrating being so uncoordinated. I remember watching my parents enjoying an episode of Star Search. "Those kids can really dance," I heard them say. In a fit of jealousy I stormed in front of the TV and screamed "You don't like my singing and you don't like my dancing!" (Because I did in fact not sing well either). After many years of intense psychotherapy, group counseling and soul searching, I have finally come to grips with my short coming, which is why the success of "The Dance" means so much to me. With all the confidence that came from the success of "The Dance" I decided to take up yoga. Could my fluid, creative movements produce another national phenomenon? Could I in fact BE the yogiest of the yogas?
Well...NO, but it will prove to be quite a funny story.

I enrolled in an afternoon yoga class at Portland State University during my senior year of college. My instructor, a very lean and flexible older man who I will refer to as "Gumby," was intent on letting the class know that we all needed to "live in the moment. For your yoga is only as good as you are that day." Yeah, ok. That makes me really motivated to try harder tomorrow. Perhaps, it's the basketball player in me, but shouldn't this physical activity require some sort of competition? So, I spent 9 weeks "living in the
moment" of sheer and utter pain. My fluid, creative movements, turned out to be
more like a baby elephant trying stand up for the first time. I moved awkwardly across the matted floor among delicate ceramic sculptures that curved and danced from Upward
Facing Dog lotus bloom positions to downward facing warrior salutation poses.

"Should my own soul feel created from millions of luminous points of dancing light?" I
heard one girl ask another girl who looked more like a pretzel. "Yes, yes, your
soul should feel like that. I feel like my feet are rooted to the ground, and up I grow--
hands branching out like a tree touching the deepness of the blue sky."
HOLD ON ONE MINUTE...
Are they doing the same yoga that I am doing? Are they doing the same yoga that anyone else in the world is doing? Because all I feel is a wedgy growing up my backside and some gas moving about in my stomach. The class got even worse when we had to
"get into groups" and help each other with the unforgiving yoga positions.
"Doesn't this release feel like you can live your day with a free soul?" asked my group
member.
"Sure." I replied as I got into the dogward facing dog position. “Gumby” suggested
that the other members of my group lift my hips up so that I can feel the extent of the
downward dog. I felt them lift my mid-section as if to shake my spleen out of position.
Hold it Jolina, I thought to myself. You are stronger than this; don't let these yoga
weenies make you feel weak.
"Can you handle the strength and power that is yoga? Or, would you like us to stop now?" My group members asked.

WHAT WOULD YOU SAY?
Would you keep your pride and hold the position? Or, would you "let yourself be as good as you will be for the day” and give up the pose?
What would you have said to the yoga yahoos?
Find out what Jolina did in the next entry from “What Would Jolina Do?”

So, I hope all of you enjoyed reading about my bathroom adventure on Treasure Island. This week's winning entry is from ZANDRA, who wrote "using the bathroom is definitely a good idea -- they don't have public bathrooms anywhere in San Francisco, forcing one to do such things as beg some guy in the Walgreens in Chinatown to use their dirty employee bathroom behind the locked door to the warehouse." Thanks for sharing Zandra. Also, YOU DO NOT HAVE STOP COMMENTING on an entry once a winner has been identified, I would love to hear feedback on past entries. Perhaps there could be a few winners from each week--it really depends on how I feel since I am in charge! Haha.

As for last week's "What would Jolina Do?" entry...
You bet I peed! Regardless of looking like a “crazy American.” Later we found Ben and Andy, they asked where we had went because they had found bathrooms on the other side of the parking lot.
Ah well…at least I got a good story from that ordeal.
On a side note, I received an email from Katelin yesterday. Ironically, she has just moved to San Francisco with Ben and her apartment has a wonderful view of Treasure Island.

For more information on visiting San Francisco and for a listing of bathrooms, visit www.sanfrancisco.com.

So, on to this week's entry...

As you know Saturday is Valentine’s Day. I have never really been a big fan of Valentine’s day since I find the “holiday” to be rather over commercialized and, frankly, a bit annoying. I would rather just let Josh, my boyfriend, know that I love him everyday we are together, rather than save it up for February 14th and rely on little chalky candy hearts with “BE MINE” printed on them to say the words for me. So, I have decided to use this space to write about another important event that takes place this month. The American Heart Association declared February “American Heart Month.” This year the Association is encouraging Americans to “Go Red for Women” since each year cardiovascular diseases take the lives of nearly half a million women in America.
According to the American Heart Association, the "Go Red For Women" campaign helps you discover unique lifesaving power by learning about heart disease and stroke and taking positive action to reduce your risk of both. Red is the American Heart Association’s color for women and heart disease and they encourage you to make it your color, too. Education on this health issue is very important to me since my grandmother, Rosie Chan, died from a heart attack in November of 2002. It is ironic that a women with such a giving and caring heart ended her life when her heart gave out on her. The lose was devastating for my family and I; however, our fond memories of her do live on. There are so many stories I could tell about my grandma. She was a great woman who taught me a lot, listened to my problems and always made me feel loved. On of my favorite memories is of watching her make a cherry pie--one of my favorite desserts. I can still see the fresh graham cracker pie crust in a shiny metal tin overflowing with bright red cherries topped with fluffy whipped cream.
My grandma was also very good at knitting. When I was in kindergarten she would make me knit caps to wear during the winter. I remember one knit cap in particular that I was not very fond of. It was bright red, but instead of just being solid red there was a 2 inch band of white around the entire edge of the cap. My head looked like a gigantic red cherry nestled in a cloud of whipped cream, similar to that of my grandma’s cherry pie. However, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings by not wearing it. So, I wore it to school and during recess I brought it to the playground with me and “accidentally” buried the bright red cap under a few feet of saw dust. It looked like red cherry and whipped cream filling in a saw dust crust next to the back of the metal slide.
When I got home my mom and my grandma asked me what had happened to my cap. I said that I might have lost it at the playground then gave them a sad pout. The school day came and I thought I would be cherry head free, but instead my mom took another red knit cap from the closet. I hope the ground is hungry, I thought, because I will be needing to make another cherry pie.
Now as I think back on those red knit caps I would want nothing more than to be able to "go red for women" and wear one of them on my head, to feel the warmth of my grandma and to once again tell her that I love her. So, this entry I do not have a “What would you do?” Instead, I will ask…if you have time this Valentine’s weekend who will you say “I love you” to? Is it someone that you see everyday, but take for granted or perhaps a love one that is no longer with you?
Visit “What would Jolina do?” next week to read Jolina’s next entry.

Just wanted to say THANK YOU to every one who has visited the site and made comments. I am really enjoying this site so far and can't wait to share more fun stories with all of you.

As for last week's "WHAT WOULD JOLINA DO?" I ended up taking all of the food I had stolen and placing it between two plates. I, then, placed the plates between some campus mail envelopes I was holding (remember I was running some "errands.") When the Dean turned to look at me, I said "Oh, I thought the Infocus project was in here--my mistake." I don't think he saw the food smashed between my documents, but I am sure he wondered why I smelled like lunch meat as I passed by. Just a side note: don't eat cheese that had been sitting out for a while. I think karma got the best of me when that evening I had a slight stomach ache.

So...I am sure you all would like to know the "Winner" of last week's entries...
And I am going to chose....ALTHEA!
She wrote "If i had been in that position, i would've pretended that i was now working part-time for Catering, and grabbed the whole platter! Then, I would have scooted past him...not without offering him one last Greek olive, of course. =)"
My cousin--always thinking! The part-time catering thing = genius, only wish I would have thought of that.
You're "prize" is in the "mail."
So, now on to my latest "WHAT WOULD JOLINA DO" entry...

For those of you who know me well, you probably have heard me say that San Francisco is my
least favorite city in the world. Every time I say that people look extremely shocked, some (like Zandra)
even outraged. It is not the Bay Area that I dislike--I happen to love Berkeley and am
really pulling for those Golden State Warriors to light it up in the NBA, San Jose, Los Gatos--totally rock. It is the city of San Francisco itself that makes my blood boil and my skin crawl. Why do I have such as
reaction? Is it similar to my hatred for (non)funny man Ben Stiller? Well...even though
I have experienced many weird moments in this city, this one story stands out in my mind as
one of the most embarassing, and the most hilarious story I may ever tell.

You see, one evening during Freshman year of college a few friends and I decided to leave Stockton, CA and head to the big city of San Francisco. Dressed in a light blue party dresses and heels, my friend Katelin and I enjoyed a fun meal with our friends, Ben and Andy (one of the few times I have actually enjoyed myself within the San Francisco city limits). Since the restaurant we had chosen had a "50's Diner" theme
I was not hesitant to drink down a few glasses of authentic Cherry Coke straight from the fountain.
They were so tasty and refreshing, one more glass wouldn't hurt, right?

After dinner we headed back to the car to find another place in the city to hang out. No one
quite knew where we should go, and to be honest I didn't care where we ended up just as
long as the place had a bathroom. The once enjoyable cokes, soon became quite a burden on my
blatter. Katelin, too, was feeling the effects of her beverages. Andy, the driver of the
car, assured us that we would soon find a place to stop. However, the city of San Francisco
is riddled with one-way streets, angry drivers, and unclear signs. As if we were a lost raft
sailing through the rough current of the city, the car floated farther and farther away from
anything familiar. As if sucked onto a waterslide, our car was forced on to some type of on ramp that lead us on to the bay bridge. All this time I was holding my breathe, tightening my body, not wanting any "accidents' to occur. As, to not get too far from the city, we decided to take the "Treasure Island" exit.
Perhaps there we could stop and use the restroom? However, when we got out of the car, our hopes of discovering a hidden toilet treasure were soon shattered, when we came to find an abandoned parking lot. The island was dark and surrounded by a thick iron gate. Among our feet lay the skulls and bones of the brave women and men who came before us in search of a toilet, and failed to return to San Francisco to tell their tales of woe.

Just when all hope seemed to wash away, in the distance a clean, brilliant light streamed down upon
a vacant San Francisco tour bus. "Run for it!" yelled Katelin, as we stumbled toward the bus,
our party heels, feeling more like peg legs. Once aboard, we made our way to the back of the bus
where a toilet stall awaited us. But just as my body finally relaxed, the sound of voices speaking in Japanese
filled the bus and the engine began to rumble. My eyes were blinded by flashing bulbs of
Japanese brand cameras as I turned to face my audience.
WHAT WOULD YOU DO???
Would you run off the bus and find some other place to pee? Or, would you finish what you came to do?
Let me know what you think!
Find out what happens to Jolina in the next installment of "WHAT WOULD JOLINA DO?"

After reading the wonderful online journal that my best friend, Abra, has been writing while working abroad in Japan I was inspired to start writing one of my own. However, I was hesitant to start a journal for fear that I would bore my audience with my lackluster tales of riding the bus to work, eating lunch at my desk, and watching the O.C. So, I decided to take this online journal one step further in order to keep my readers’ interest and to make my life seem much more exciting. My journal is titled “What Would Jolina Do,” because rather than just telling you what I do each day, I want to be able to give you an opportunity to tell me what you would have done in the situations that I find myself in. For example, in the entry to follow I will be discussing my workplace. But before I tell you whether or not I ate the stolen deli lunch meat, I let you tell me what you would have done. My goal is to make this site rather interactive and I encourage you to post comments. The next time I make a journal entry I will tell you how my last situation ended and also tell you whose comments I liked the best. If possible, the person who submitted my favorite comment may also receive a fun prize! (Ok, maybe not a fun prize, you may just get a nice hand written note from me on University stationery).

So, now that I have gone over the rules, I will begin my first real entry.


Today, like most days, I have decided to not do any more work. After all it is 3 pm on Friday afternoon and I consider this the start of my weekend. For those of you who do not follow my life closely, I am an office coordinator for the Executive Leadership Institute at Portland State University. It’s a nice little job. I have my own office, my name is on the door, and I wear work clothes (except for on Fridays, when I am in my casual wear). The floor that my office is on has two meeting rooms, a Boardroom and the Dean’s office. The Dean, who is a small, older man has been the over seer of this school for approximately 129 years. He is not a scary man, but rather a very intimidating presence. He speaks few words, but demands much attention. He has a slow stride that is amplified by loud leather shoes— the click clacking can be heard from quite a distance. The Dean often has lunch meetings in the Boardroom with elaborate catered meals and fizzy beverages. This afternoon while trying to look as though I was running some errands around the building, my nose caught the sweet scent of ripe fruit and fresh bread that floated out of the Boardroom and danced in the lobby. Despite the fact that I had just eaten, my stomach’s curiosity pulled me toward the door. From the looks of the room, a meeting had just ended and Catering Services had not yet cleared the plentiful, Mediterranean themed spread. This void of activity in the meeting room is what I like to refer to as the “looters lull.” During said lull, people from around the building who were not invited or direct participants of the meeting can sneak into the room and take as much of the food as they please. It is sort of an unspoken act, but ultimately the biggest defense for partaking in this act is “this food was going to be thrown away anyways, might as well eat it.” It is not necessarily shameful to be caught with your hand in the cookie jar per se, but if the Dean ever found out about it, he would give you one of those “looks” and the shear and utter embarrassment alone would be punishment enough. However, being the rebel soul that I am I decided to swoop down over the food, swiftly picking up pieces to feast on later, then all of a sudden I heard the steady click-clack of polished leather shoes. The pace remained constant, but the sound got closer and closer to the Boardroom’s door. “The Dean!” I thought, as I quickly starting shoveling stolen lunch meat, cheeses, crackers, exotic fruits, brownies and cookies upon a 3 inch round plate, “Must conceal the evidence!” I ran my fingers haphazardly through the elegant display of comestibles, then at the door the leather shoes stop and I see the Dean turn his head slowly toward me…
WHAT WOULD YOU DO? (Let me know what you would have done in this situation by responding in the Comments section of the website. Find out What Jolina Did during in her next entry!)