The following are a few snippets from this year's Christmas Eve dinner experience:
Everybody, at one point or another, mangling the names of new acquaintances, and then, later, due to too much champagne, mangling them again (and in one case, thrice).
Scoring my favorite part of the turkey – the tenderloin, natch.
An impromptu (and remarkably off key) rendition of “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music (you know, “Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens”, etc.) mostly mumbled until the chorus, the lyrics of which everybody knows, if not the notes.
Stilton soup, just like it sounds. If you like Stilton and you like soup, then consider this a little slice of heaven. No lie.
Everybody catching up on everyone else’s news.
The following interchange: My grandfather, who is enjoying remarkably good health in his late eighth decade is engaging in a good-natured comparison of his hearing aids with those of my cousin Belle’s father-in-law, Eugene. The little devices have been dug from their snug homes and are lined up on the table. This is how the brief and priceless conversation goes -
Eugene: Hey, those are good lookin’ earpieces, Jack!
Grampa Jack: Huh? What?
Sampling the champagne (blanc de noir) and the pinot and the riesling and the pale ale.
Two pieces of pumpkin pie, one smothered in real freshly whipped cream, the other with Kool Whip. As far as I'm concerned, the best of both worlds.
Lots and lots of hugs and laughter and comfortable chatter.
Eugene’s titanium arm, almost all the way to the shoulder. He's bionic! Need I say more? The under-5 set was enraptured. Well, if the truth be told, so was I.
Coming back home and hitting the hot tub – a little post feast bloat ‘n’ float.
Truly a warm and wonderful occasion, if I do say so myself.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Monday, December 10, 2007
The Real Poop
What is it about defecation that makes men think it’s an appropriate office reference?
Yes, we’re all biological beings, and I’m not particularly squeamish, but come on. They trumpet it around, virtually wearing a sandwich board that says “I’m on my way to take a dump.” Bruce, an affiliate whose sweat glands seem to work overtime, consistently walks by with his People magazine crammed into his armpit, winks and says “I’ll be in the library if anyone needs me.”
Nasty. I don’t want to know that.
You’d think, though, that the fairer sex would have a little more restraint. Don’t get me wrong – better out than in, I say. But somehow, at least twice a week, I walk into the bathroom on my floor and the same member of the janitorial staff is pooping in it. I know this because I am a creature of habit and I have a stall preference. Also, she can’t be any taller than 4’9”, and her feet don’t touch the floor when she’s on the throne. Now, this isn’t a class issue where I characterize hardworking people as the lumpen proletariat. However, as a custodial employee she has her pick of any bathroom on any floor, yet she consistently chooses my bathroom, my stall.
Why mine?
Our bathroom is nice, ‘tis true, but I used to work on the 25th floor, and that bathroom is nice, too. Good smelling soap, fluffy tissues, perfumed lotion, not to mention clean stalls, self-flushing toilets and lots of room for makeup application. 25 is nice, for sure. Not nice enough for her, I guess.
Yesterday, upon entering, I immediately hear a flush, then eerie silence after that. Turning the corner, I see My Door closed. Rats. I can tell it’s her because of the cart parked out front with the yellow cartoon sign depicting stick men slipping on freshly mopped floors. In the split second I decide to leave and come back once she's gone, I hear the stall lock slide open. Instead of enduring the indignity of getting caught slinking out of the ladies' room, I turn on the water and fiddle with the soap dispenser in a misguided attempt to appear casual.
What does she do? She comes out of the stall and totally mad dogs me.
She slams two rolls of toilet paper down on the counter and, glaring, unlocks the paper towel dispenser, banging the metal door against the wall to refill it. Sighing heavily as if I'd just stolen her parking space, she clangs the door shut again. I’m just washing my hands. I imagine the whistle of an airborne cardboard wrapped tampon careening toward my head and, rethinking my needs, get out while the getting’s good.
Escaping out from under the oppressive gaze of StinkEye, I see two men across the hallway, newspapers in hand, enter the men’s room. Envious, I suddenly understand the fixation. They get a little break, and can network or chat about sports or Republicans or tasseled cordovan loafers while catching up on a little lite reading and working up an appetite.
Huh. Sure beats working.
Yes, we’re all biological beings, and I’m not particularly squeamish, but come on. They trumpet it around, virtually wearing a sandwich board that says “I’m on my way to take a dump.” Bruce, an affiliate whose sweat glands seem to work overtime, consistently walks by with his People magazine crammed into his armpit, winks and says “I’ll be in the library if anyone needs me.”
Nasty. I don’t want to know that.
You’d think, though, that the fairer sex would have a little more restraint. Don’t get me wrong – better out than in, I say. But somehow, at least twice a week, I walk into the bathroom on my floor and the same member of the janitorial staff is pooping in it. I know this because I am a creature of habit and I have a stall preference. Also, she can’t be any taller than 4’9”, and her feet don’t touch the floor when she’s on the throne. Now, this isn’t a class issue where I characterize hardworking people as the lumpen proletariat. However, as a custodial employee she has her pick of any bathroom on any floor, yet she consistently chooses my bathroom, my stall.
Why mine?
Our bathroom is nice, ‘tis true, but I used to work on the 25th floor, and that bathroom is nice, too. Good smelling soap, fluffy tissues, perfumed lotion, not to mention clean stalls, self-flushing toilets and lots of room for makeup application. 25 is nice, for sure. Not nice enough for her, I guess.
Yesterday, upon entering, I immediately hear a flush, then eerie silence after that. Turning the corner, I see My Door closed. Rats. I can tell it’s her because of the cart parked out front with the yellow cartoon sign depicting stick men slipping on freshly mopped floors. In the split second I decide to leave and come back once she's gone, I hear the stall lock slide open. Instead of enduring the indignity of getting caught slinking out of the ladies' room, I turn on the water and fiddle with the soap dispenser in a misguided attempt to appear casual.
What does she do? She comes out of the stall and totally mad dogs me.
She slams two rolls of toilet paper down on the counter and, glaring, unlocks the paper towel dispenser, banging the metal door against the wall to refill it. Sighing heavily as if I'd just stolen her parking space, she clangs the door shut again. I’m just washing my hands. I imagine the whistle of an airborne cardboard wrapped tampon careening toward my head and, rethinking my needs, get out while the getting’s good.
Escaping out from under the oppressive gaze of StinkEye, I see two men across the hallway, newspapers in hand, enter the men’s room. Envious, I suddenly understand the fixation. They get a little break, and can network or chat about sports or Republicans or tasseled cordovan loafers while catching up on a little lite reading and working up an appetite.
Huh. Sure beats working.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
A Happy Thanksgiving
Today is Thanksgiving, and I’m feeling pretty good.
In my little corner of the world, the sun is shining, creating a lovely warm and cozy apple-pie glow on the walls. It’s chilly outside, the air smells clean, the sky is blue, and all of the best qualities of autumn are manifest. Just enough wind to blow the leaves around without being bitter cold, but brisk enough to justify a good cup of hot coffee and a bracing breakfast. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that I don’t have to be at work. It’s almost as if I fell asleep wearing rose colored glasses and they simply fused to my nose. This holiday for me has been, over the years, comprised overwhelmingly of more incredibly good memories than bad ones (although the few bad ones are real hum-dingers.)
I’m lucky, I know.
Suddenly, and out of nowhere, really, I’m reminded that not everyone shares my enthusiasm for Thanksgiving. For instance, my extended family by marriage is multi-cultural, and there’s no Thanksgiving in Denmark, so for my second cousin currently living in the US, the fourth Thursday in November is simply a few paid days off. There are others, too, who go to great lengths to be anti-holiday, who call it a “commercial non-occasion”.
Fair enough.
I realize that the importance of Thanksgiving doesn’t lie anywhere near the Pilgrim story that we’re given as children. I suppose it’s a handy story, a tidy way to teach tolerance, sharing, learning, giving, and assuredly many other desirable qualities that can sometimes seem quite abstract for the very young. I’m not saying it didn’t happen, because I’m sure that somewhere along the line, the European and Native cultures merged in a harmonious way. On the other hand, no holiday would be complete without a little controversy: there’s the whole “we gave them smallpox blankets and alcoholism” contingency, and that’s okay too. We did, I guess, and whether there was malice aforethought, we’ll never know for sure. At any rate, I’m pretty sure that there is a little too much focus on turkeys and shoe buckles and who brought the cranberries to America’s First Potluck, when the pith of the whole thing is to look inside our wee jaded hearts and find some gratitude there.
I whipped out the microscope, and this is what I found. I am deeply thankful:
1. For the experiences, good and bad, that made me the person I am today.
2. That I have to use both hands and a few of my toes to count the people in my world who truly love me for who I am and whom I can trust with my life. My life. Are you kidding me? That’s a gift, for sure.
3. That I won’t be cooking this holiday. The local E.R. is pleased, too.
Have a safe Thanksgiving, and here’s to your Alka-Seltzer always being within arm’s reach today.
In my little corner of the world, the sun is shining, creating a lovely warm and cozy apple-pie glow on the walls. It’s chilly outside, the air smells clean, the sky is blue, and all of the best qualities of autumn are manifest. Just enough wind to blow the leaves around without being bitter cold, but brisk enough to justify a good cup of hot coffee and a bracing breakfast. Of course, it doesn’t hurt that I don’t have to be at work. It’s almost as if I fell asleep wearing rose colored glasses and they simply fused to my nose. This holiday for me has been, over the years, comprised overwhelmingly of more incredibly good memories than bad ones (although the few bad ones are real hum-dingers.)
I’m lucky, I know.
Suddenly, and out of nowhere, really, I’m reminded that not everyone shares my enthusiasm for Thanksgiving. For instance, my extended family by marriage is multi-cultural, and there’s no Thanksgiving in Denmark, so for my second cousin currently living in the US, the fourth Thursday in November is simply a few paid days off. There are others, too, who go to great lengths to be anti-holiday, who call it a “commercial non-occasion”.
Fair enough.
I realize that the importance of Thanksgiving doesn’t lie anywhere near the Pilgrim story that we’re given as children. I suppose it’s a handy story, a tidy way to teach tolerance, sharing, learning, giving, and assuredly many other desirable qualities that can sometimes seem quite abstract for the very young. I’m not saying it didn’t happen, because I’m sure that somewhere along the line, the European and Native cultures merged in a harmonious way. On the other hand, no holiday would be complete without a little controversy: there’s the whole “we gave them smallpox blankets and alcoholism” contingency, and that’s okay too. We did, I guess, and whether there was malice aforethought, we’ll never know for sure. At any rate, I’m pretty sure that there is a little too much focus on turkeys and shoe buckles and who brought the cranberries to America’s First Potluck, when the pith of the whole thing is to look inside our wee jaded hearts and find some gratitude there.
I whipped out the microscope, and this is what I found. I am deeply thankful:
1. For the experiences, good and bad, that made me the person I am today.
2. That I have to use both hands and a few of my toes to count the people in my world who truly love me for who I am and whom I can trust with my life. My life. Are you kidding me? That’s a gift, for sure.
3. That I won’t be cooking this holiday. The local E.R. is pleased, too.
Have a safe Thanksgiving, and here’s to your Alka-Seltzer always being within arm’s reach today.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Badly Needed Break
Working for a behemoth company can have its benefits.
Today, as is usual in anticipation of the holiday weekend, we close early so people can get a head start on the holiday. It’s a ghost town, because most folks got this so-called head start last Saturday, and already are where they will remain until next Sunday. If you’ve actually managed to straggle into the office, you’re either hating it because you’re paid by the project, at least one of which isn’t anywhere near completion, the deadline looms and your assistant is already in Cabo; or you’re loving it because you’re hourly, get paid a whole day’s wages for a half a day’s work and can’t wait to get the hell out of Dodge.
Needless to say, I’m stoked.
There is a boulder of salt here: All of the idiocy that I would normally encounter over the course of an eight-hour workday becomes condensed into half that time period, turning my morning into a korporate keystone kops of sorts. I’ve been doing this long enough to know the drill, and have learned to take the preemptive strike. The absolute first thing I do is send out a reminder to everyone that the office is closing at noon (!) so many of the regular afternoon office services will occur early and that anyone needing my assistance ought to let me know as soon as possible.
You have four hours, people. Use them wisely.
Now, the fact that we lock up at noon has been broadcast for at least a week, and as referenced earlier, is standard operating procedure before a company paid holiday such as this one. However, my email seems to arouse some of the office cube zombies, and the quest for fresh brains begins.
With this in mind, I give you the ten lamest questions I fielded today. Enjoy.
1. Wait, what time do you leave today?
2. This packet needs to go Priority. Can it be there by 10:30 tomorrow?
3. How cold is it out there right now?
4. This is so weird. Isn’t Thanksgiving usually the 24th of November?
5. Is the Tokyo office closing early, too?
6. What’s today? Wednesday?
7. Okay, I just read your email. Doesn't the mail get processed at 4:00?
8. How bad will the traffic be, do you think?
9. Oh, right, we’re closing at 12:00. What time zone?
10. How many days until Christmas?
Think, people.
Today, as is usual in anticipation of the holiday weekend, we close early so people can get a head start on the holiday. It’s a ghost town, because most folks got this so-called head start last Saturday, and already are where they will remain until next Sunday. If you’ve actually managed to straggle into the office, you’re either hating it because you’re paid by the project, at least one of which isn’t anywhere near completion, the deadline looms and your assistant is already in Cabo; or you’re loving it because you’re hourly, get paid a whole day’s wages for a half a day’s work and can’t wait to get the hell out of Dodge.
Needless to say, I’m stoked.
There is a boulder of salt here: All of the idiocy that I would normally encounter over the course of an eight-hour workday becomes condensed into half that time period, turning my morning into a korporate keystone kops of sorts. I’ve been doing this long enough to know the drill, and have learned to take the preemptive strike. The absolute first thing I do is send out a reminder to everyone that the office is closing at noon (!) so many of the regular afternoon office services will occur early and that anyone needing my assistance ought to let me know as soon as possible.
You have four hours, people. Use them wisely.
Now, the fact that we lock up at noon has been broadcast for at least a week, and as referenced earlier, is standard operating procedure before a company paid holiday such as this one. However, my email seems to arouse some of the office cube zombies, and the quest for fresh brains begins.
With this in mind, I give you the ten lamest questions I fielded today. Enjoy.
1. Wait, what time do you leave today?
2. This packet needs to go Priority. Can it be there by 10:30 tomorrow?
3. How cold is it out there right now?
4. This is so weird. Isn’t Thanksgiving usually the 24th of November?
5. Is the Tokyo office closing early, too?
6. What’s today? Wednesday?
7. Okay, I just read your email. Doesn't the mail get processed at 4:00?
8. How bad will the traffic be, do you think?
9. Oh, right, we’re closing at 12:00. What time zone?
10. How many days until Christmas?
Think, people.
Friday, November 16, 2007
One Moment, Please
Two receptionists having a conversation:
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Liz: “Hey girl, it’s me. I’m calling back to try to make some (beep) plans to (beep) get together…(beep) Do you need to get that?”
Me: “Yeah, hang on a sec…”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Random Caller # 1: “Sam Shenanigan, please.”
Me: “One moment please.” (boop, boop, boop, boop)
Me: “Okay, I’m back. Get together? Lessee, uh, what about (doodle-doodle) December…uh…” (doodle-doodle)
Liz: “Oops, you hang on now… [Warehouse Mania - You can leave your...] They hung up.”
Me: “I can hear you talking to customers. You calling from your cell?”
Liz: “Yeah. Anyway, December? (beep) That sounds (beep) good. I’m thinkin’ (beep) the…”
Me: “One second.”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Random Caller # 2: “What? Who is this?”
Me: “This is Multi National Mega Global.”
Random Caller # 2: “Oh, I’ve got… I’ve got the wrong number.” Click.
Me: “Okay Liz you there? Wrong number. So, December. What (beep) about Fri… (beep) Hang on…”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Random Caller # 2, again: Click.
Me: “Tsk. It was a hang up. All right, Friday the 7th? How does (doodle-doodle) that work for (doodle-doodle) you and...I’ll hold.”
Liz: “Just a minute. [Warehouse Mania - You can leave your cares with us. Who? Oh, he’s in a meeting right now. Would you like his voice mail? Thank you.] Okay, Friday the 7th.”
Me: “Do you still have to say that whole spiel every time?”
Liz: “Yeah, it’s sick, don’t you think?”
Me: “Man, I thought mine was bad. Okay, back to the 7th. I’m out of here at five, so maybe we meet up at GingerBeer’s?”
Liz: “How about this: let’s do cheap and have a (beep) potluck or some (beep) thing at…Go.”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Random Caller # 3: “Hi, this is Jody from Corporate. I’ve got Mr. King on the line for Mr. Shenanigan. May I connect you?”
Me: “Hi Jody. Okay, go ahead.”
Jody: “Go ahead, Mr. King.”
Mr. King: “Put me through to Sam.”
Me: “One moment please.” (boop, boop, boop, boop)
Me: “Jeez, when it rains it pours. So you said potluck. Hello? You still there?”
Liz: “[…and thanks for calling Warehouse Mania. Bye now.] Okay, you there?”
Me: “Hi. Potluck?”
Liz: “Oh, yeah. I’m thinking we could go up to Stuart’s (beep) house and… (beep) Yeah, go on.”
Me: “Hold on.”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Random Caller # 4: “This is not a joke! Business owner, you are qualified for a…”
Me: Click.
Me: “Liz, I’m back. It was one of those recordings.”
Liz: “Was it ‘Estimado cliente’ or ‘This is not a joke’”?
Me: “’This is not a joke’. Anyway, the 7th, Stuart’s, potluck. You still a (beep) vegan?” (beep)
Liz: “Listen, I (doodle-doodle) gotta go.” (doodle-doodle)
Me: “Well, (beep) why don’t you (beep) send me an email?” (beep)
Liz: “Cool. I’ll (doodle-doodle) do that. So glad (doodle-doodle) we got to (doodle-doodle) chat!”
Me: “Me too, girl! (beep) Let’s talk (beep) soon!”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Liz: “Hey girl, it’s me. I’m calling back to try to make some (beep) plans to (beep) get together…(beep) Do you need to get that?”
Me: “Yeah, hang on a sec…”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Random Caller # 1: “Sam Shenanigan, please.”
Me: “One moment please.” (boop, boop, boop, boop)
Me: “Okay, I’m back. Get together? Lessee, uh, what about (doodle-doodle) December…uh…” (doodle-doodle)
Liz: “Oops, you hang on now… [Warehouse Mania - You can leave your...] They hung up.”
Me: “I can hear you talking to customers. You calling from your cell?”
Liz: “Yeah. Anyway, December? (beep) That sounds (beep) good. I’m thinkin’ (beep) the…”
Me: “One second.”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Random Caller # 2: “What? Who is this?”
Me: “This is Multi National Mega Global.”
Random Caller # 2: “Oh, I’ve got… I’ve got the wrong number.” Click.
Me: “Okay Liz you there? Wrong number. So, December. What (beep) about Fri… (beep) Hang on…”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Random Caller # 2, again: Click.
Me: “Tsk. It was a hang up. All right, Friday the 7th? How does (doodle-doodle) that work for (doodle-doodle) you and...I’ll hold.”
Liz: “Just a minute. [Warehouse Mania - You can leave your cares with us. Who? Oh, he’s in a meeting right now. Would you like his voice mail? Thank you.] Okay, Friday the 7th.”
Me: “Do you still have to say that whole spiel every time?”
Liz: “Yeah, it’s sick, don’t you think?”
Me: “Man, I thought mine was bad. Okay, back to the 7th. I’m out of here at five, so maybe we meet up at GingerBeer’s?”
Liz: “How about this: let’s do cheap and have a (beep) potluck or some (beep) thing at…Go.”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Random Caller # 3: “Hi, this is Jody from Corporate. I’ve got Mr. King on the line for Mr. Shenanigan. May I connect you?”
Me: “Hi Jody. Okay, go ahead.”
Jody: “Go ahead, Mr. King.”
Mr. King: “Put me through to Sam.”
Me: “One moment please.” (boop, boop, boop, boop)
Me: “Jeez, when it rains it pours. So you said potluck. Hello? You still there?”
Liz: “[…and thanks for calling Warehouse Mania. Bye now.] Okay, you there?”
Me: “Hi. Potluck?”
Liz: “Oh, yeah. I’m thinking we could go up to Stuart’s (beep) house and… (beep) Yeah, go on.”
Me: “Hold on.”
Me: “Thank you for calling Multi National Mega Global, how may I direct your call?”
Random Caller # 4: “This is not a joke! Business owner, you are qualified for a…”
Me: Click.
Me: “Liz, I’m back. It was one of those recordings.”
Liz: “Was it ‘Estimado cliente’ or ‘This is not a joke’”?
Me: “’This is not a joke’. Anyway, the 7th, Stuart’s, potluck. You still a (beep) vegan?” (beep)
Liz: “Listen, I (doodle-doodle) gotta go.” (doodle-doodle)
Me: “Well, (beep) why don’t you (beep) send me an email?” (beep)
Liz: “Cool. I’ll (doodle-doodle) do that. So glad (doodle-doodle) we got to (doodle-doodle) chat!”
Me: “Me too, girl! (beep) Let’s talk (beep) soon!”
Wednesday, November 7, 2007
Happy Birthday To Me
So, today is my birthday. How do I know? All the freaks come out. It’s exactly one week after Halloween and inevitably someone weird steps out of the periphery.
Observe.
Earlier today, a woman calls the main line of our firm and declares,
“I want to talk to God.”
I don’t work for a church or an organization with any religious affiliation. It couldn’t be any more random.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I want to talk to God.”
Remarkably she isn’t rude about it, or whiny. Often folks on a mission get pushy. Not she. Simply, “I want to talk to God.” If I were to testify under oath, I’d swear she’s lucid.
The first smart-ass response that flies through my head is, “Sam is away from his desk right now, would you like his voice mail?” Given His lofty attitude regarding Himself, the call might actually be for Sam Shenanigan, Captain of Industry.
Instead, I choose the high road.
“Uh, Ma’am, I think you must have the wrong number. We’re a business. You’ve…you’ve reached a business.”
“Oh.” she says, crestfallen. “All right.”
Click.
Two minutes later: “I want to talk to God.”
“Ma’am, this is a business. There’s no God here.”
Really. This is corporate America, people.
“Oh, okay.”
Click.
Third time’s a charm. “I want to talk to God.”
Sigh. You and me both, lady.
“Okay, Ma’am. I’m…I’m not sure where God is right now, may I take a message?”
“Well, my leg hurts.”
“Oh, okay. And your name?”
“He knows.”
“Uh-huh, okay, uh…, well, I’m sure he’ll get the message then.”
“Thank you.”
Click.
No lightning so far.
Observe.
Earlier today, a woman calls the main line of our firm and declares,
“I want to talk to God.”
I don’t work for a church or an organization with any religious affiliation. It couldn’t be any more random.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I want to talk to God.”
Remarkably she isn’t rude about it, or whiny. Often folks on a mission get pushy. Not she. Simply, “I want to talk to God.” If I were to testify under oath, I’d swear she’s lucid.
The first smart-ass response that flies through my head is, “Sam is away from his desk right now, would you like his voice mail?” Given His lofty attitude regarding Himself, the call might actually be for Sam Shenanigan, Captain of Industry.
Instead, I choose the high road.
“Uh, Ma’am, I think you must have the wrong number. We’re a business. You’ve…you’ve reached a business.”
“Oh.” she says, crestfallen. “All right.”
Click.
Two minutes later: “I want to talk to God.”
“Ma’am, this is a business. There’s no God here.”
Really. This is corporate America, people.
“Oh, okay.”
Click.
Third time’s a charm. “I want to talk to God.”
Sigh. You and me both, lady.
“Okay, Ma’am. I’m…I’m not sure where God is right now, may I take a message?”
“Well, my leg hurts.”
“Oh, okay. And your name?”
“He knows.”
“Uh-huh, okay, uh…, well, I’m sure he’ll get the message then.”
“Thank you.”
Click.
No lightning so far.
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