There is no amount of money that can bring someone back from the dead. There is no amount of money that can take away the pain of that loss.
Families of those killed or injured this past spring at Virginia Tech are as aware of that as others who have suffered that kind of loss.
And yet some of them are saying, “Show me the money.”
On August 15, Tech representatives announced the school's intent to distribute the entire amount of the privately donated $7.1 million Hokie Spirit Memorial Fund to the families of those who were killed and to the survivors. Even uninjured students who were in Norris Hall classrooms where the shootings occurred may choose to receive free tuition for their remaining years at Tech or receive a one-time payment of cash.
Many intended recipients have stated they think they are entitled to more than the fund will provide.
Thomas J. Fadoul Jr., a Vienna, Va., lawyer who claims to represent the families of nearly two dozen students killed at Tech, is quoted in a July 18 Washington Post article saying relatives of those slain at Tech “…are entitled to ‘at least what the 9/11 people got’” (Va. Tech Relatives Seeking Payment; Attorney Says State Should Create a Fund, July 18, 2007).
I am sickened and so very disappointed.
These grieving people and their representatives appear to be using the tragedy of the terrorist attacks to set the bar for compensation.
In fact, Fadoul says his clients believe the generosity of the people of the nation, even the world, to contribute money toward those in need after the tragedy, is not enough for them. They want more, and someone will pay.
Who will pay? More innocents — possibly even the people suffering the loss.
If Tech has to shoulder the burden for any kind of financial payout, future Tech students could see their tuition increase not because the commonwealth has not supported their schools, but because the families and survivors want cash to assuage their wounds.
If the Virginia legislators set up a separate fund with state monies, all residents of the commonwealth will be required to contribute. Virginia residents whose families were affected by the shooting could themselves pay into a fund from which they receive monies.
The point is, money is not free. When “someone pays,” we all pay: increased insurance costs, higher tuition, tax dollars routed from one fund to another, increased tax obligations levied on all Virginians.
We are a litigious society. A few years ago, I was acquainted with a European woman in the U.S. on a work visa. She sued her boss for sexual harassment. She didn’t say a word to him or his supervisor to address the issue at hand, but went straight to court because, she said, that is how she saw things were done around here.
What a damning observation.
During my daily run, I have heard George Mason University testing its emergency announcement system. I can imagine universities around the world are doing the same, particularly before students return to campus for the fall semester. The April shooting has highlighted possible needs to increase security measures, identified shortcomings in the current student emergency notification system and helped both administrators and students figure out how to make such measures work.
Those who want Tech to “pay” should be able to see how everyone is paying — and making changes to try to prevent this kind of horror from happening again. There are no guarantees in life, but we must always attempt to do our best to protect ourselves and our charges against the evil and insanity of the world around us. If any additional money is collected or taxes and fees levied, let it be for this.
I am not among the 32 families who lost their children or spouses or the 27 families whose members suffered injuries. I am so very sorry for their losses. I cannot imagine their grief, their sadness. I wasn't in the classroom with bullets flying around me. I cannot imagine the fear, the loss of innocence and feelings of safety.
But demanding more money is not going to assuage the grief and fear. Press the issue of campus safety, work toward a solution on the issue — but don’t demand more money because someone else got more.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Yeeeeeeeerrrrrrrrr Out!
Well, there's good news on the America Online front. Oh, not from AOL, but from Wells Fargo Bank.
Having given up on the fax, Mom waited a few extra days to see if the letter would be delivered. When it wasn't, she decided to go for the jugular: the credit card. In a matter of minutes, it was put to rest.
The Wells Fargo customer service representative was patient and a good listener. She asked Mom when the first call was made to AOL, when subsequent calls were made and, most importantly, what AOL did.
I imagine credit card companies get these kinds of calls all the time from cranky customers — and I imagine many of the calls are received with little support and enthusiasm. Being in customer service, I have heard some great stories myself. If this woman has been on the job longer than a week, she's heard some doozies: sad stories of people who don't want to pay and will make up any story to get out of it. She also knows when a story rings true, as Mom's did.
This attentive rep was indignant on Mom's behalf. "The first customer service rep wouldn't take the death certificate? Oh, that's unacceptable," she exclaimed. "And when was that call?"
"May," Mom said, "and I spent an hour and a half trying to figure out the passwords."
"Well, that's when the payments stop," she explained. "We will credit your account for those months, and we will write them a letter telling them that. And the next payment — well, you won't have another payment."
My call from Mom came literally minutes after she decided to call the card company. "Chrissy, it's done. Can you believe it?"
That is customer service, and that is how I expect my mom to be treated.
Take that, AOL!
Having given up on the fax, Mom waited a few extra days to see if the letter would be delivered. When it wasn't, she decided to go for the jugular: the credit card. In a matter of minutes, it was put to rest.
The Wells Fargo customer service representative was patient and a good listener. She asked Mom when the first call was made to AOL, when subsequent calls were made and, most importantly, what AOL did.
I imagine credit card companies get these kinds of calls all the time from cranky customers — and I imagine many of the calls are received with little support and enthusiasm. Being in customer service, I have heard some great stories myself. If this woman has been on the job longer than a week, she's heard some doozies: sad stories of people who don't want to pay and will make up any story to get out of it. She also knows when a story rings true, as Mom's did.
This attentive rep was indignant on Mom's behalf. "The first customer service rep wouldn't take the death certificate? Oh, that's unacceptable," she exclaimed. "And when was that call?"
"May," Mom said, "and I spent an hour and a half trying to figure out the passwords."
"Well, that's when the payments stop," she explained. "We will credit your account for those months, and we will write them a letter telling them that. And the next payment — well, you won't have another payment."
My call from Mom came literally minutes after she decided to call the card company. "Chrissy, it's done. Can you believe it?"
That is customer service, and that is how I expect my mom to be treated.
Take that, AOL!
Sunday, August 12, 2007
"Customer Service" -- NOT in AOL's Vocabulary
When the Internet boom started back in the 1990s, America Online was there with easy-to-use tools, round-the-clock service, community building and more. It felt like everyone was on AOL.
And maybe they were. I know I was, as was my dad. I decamped before the new millennium for a local company. Dad, however, stayed, as did Mom.
Now Dad is no longer with us, may he rest in peace — but his AOL account is. And that, my friends, is the trouble.
Mom, whose user name is on the account, decided this past May to cancel the AOL account. Dial-up was painfully slow, she planned to purchase a new computer and she wanted a fresh start. So she called AOL customer service, who asked for Dad's mother's middle name for customer identification. Mom knew it, but not how to spell it, and despite the assistance the customer service rep gave her to help her guess that (and another password) correctly, she was not able to give a satisfactory answer. After 90 minutes, she was in tears.
"All I want to do is cancel my late husband's account!" she exclaimed. "Can't I send you his death certificate?" The rep was sorry, but without the password, Mom was unable to conduct business on the account.
When I heard about that transaction, I was incensed. My next trip to Los Angeles began with a call to AOL. I bypassed the whole "mother's middle name" crap and went straight for the rep. When I explained the situation and Mom's first encounter, the second rep was very apologetic and promised to fax a form to Mom within 48 hours and would cancel the account within 48 hours after receiving the completed form. I hung up, thinking, "Wow, and all that without Nana's middle name. Waaaait, that was too easy. Let's see what happens Monday."
So, 48 hours later, when the form had failed to arrive, I called back and spoke to yet a third rep. It appears the 48 hours was only "work" hours, and despite AOL's 24-hour customer service, business faxing was not conducted on weekends. So Rep #3 promised to fax the form "or mail the form to the billing address on the account in three to five days."
Mail? That was news to me. I wasn't taking any chances. "Or? Why not and?" I asked through gritted teeth.
"Oh, you want both," he sighed.
"Well, considering the unreliability of AOL's fax service, um, yeah, I absolutely want it by mail," I responded, trying with little success to mask my frustration. "So, you will fax and mail it to my mother? The fax will be within 48 hours and the mailed form will be within five days?"
Rep #3 confirmed that schedule.
"And within 48 hours after that, the account will be closed?" I clarified.
"Yes, within 30 days," he added. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
Wow, more new information. "Wait, 30 days?" I asked.
"Yes, once we receive the form, the account will be cancelled within 30 days," he explained. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
I couldn't stand another moment of this lousy conversation where nothing akin to "customer service" was being offered to my family, so I responded curtly, "No, thank you. Simply doing what you have said you would in the time frame you have noted will be sufficient. Thank you." I should have asked if that was 30 business days (which translates to six weeks, not counting holidays).
Well, that was five working days ago (or seven "AOL 24-hour telephone or e-mail customer service" days). Not only has the fax not arrived (and yes, we tested the fax machine to make sure it was working properly), the letter also has not arrived. Twice I attempted to cancel the account online, but with Dad gone, so went the super secret password required for online transactions (which is different than the super secret password for telephone service).
When Monday dawns, Mom or I will be on the phone with the credit card company, explaining how we do not wish to continue to pay AOL for a service we have been unable to cancel.
I am very angry at the first rep who took advantage of a grieving widow and refused to tell her how to cancel the account.
I am very angry at the second rep who didn't explain clearly what a "day" is for a 24-hour company and did not get the form faxed.
I am further angry with the third rep who again didn't manage to get the form sent on time.
I know AOL is a multi-billion-dollar mega-corporation with oodles of "customer service" reps who handle hundreds of calls a day. That is the reason I left them in 1996 and turned instead to a company up the road from me, where a tech who lived in my neighborhood stopped by my house on a snowy day to help me install the software needed to start my Internet service. "Service" means something else entirely to a company such as AOL or J.C. Penney, the latter of which didn't bother to post my payment in time and couldn't manage to clear the mistaken late fee that grew for months (until my last call was turned over to "collections" — which, strangely enough, could make a late fee disappear, as well as cancel the account, all in a single call received after normal business hours in my time zone).
Maybe it's the Little Mary Sunshine in me (that AOL is slowly strangling with this horrible treatment), but when someone calls my place of business, it's personal. I confirm a fax is sent, I put the letter in the mailbox, I follow up with a telephone call. Everyone else in my organization does the same. If there's a whiff of a customer's request falling through the cracks, we find out who and why — and trust me, it does not happen again. In Fairfax, customer service still means something.
What a shame that with AOL, it does not.
And maybe they were. I know I was, as was my dad. I decamped before the new millennium for a local company. Dad, however, stayed, as did Mom.
Now Dad is no longer with us, may he rest in peace — but his AOL account is. And that, my friends, is the trouble.
Mom, whose user name is on the account, decided this past May to cancel the AOL account. Dial-up was painfully slow, she planned to purchase a new computer and she wanted a fresh start. So she called AOL customer service, who asked for Dad's mother's middle name for customer identification. Mom knew it, but not how to spell it, and despite the assistance the customer service rep gave her to help her guess that (and another password) correctly, she was not able to give a satisfactory answer. After 90 minutes, she was in tears.
"All I want to do is cancel my late husband's account!" she exclaimed. "Can't I send you his death certificate?" The rep was sorry, but without the password, Mom was unable to conduct business on the account.
When I heard about that transaction, I was incensed. My next trip to Los Angeles began with a call to AOL. I bypassed the whole "mother's middle name" crap and went straight for the rep. When I explained the situation and Mom's first encounter, the second rep was very apologetic and promised to fax a form to Mom within 48 hours and would cancel the account within 48 hours after receiving the completed form. I hung up, thinking, "Wow, and all that without Nana's middle name. Waaaait, that was too easy. Let's see what happens Monday."
So, 48 hours later, when the form had failed to arrive, I called back and spoke to yet a third rep. It appears the 48 hours was only "work" hours, and despite AOL's 24-hour customer service, business faxing was not conducted on weekends. So Rep #3 promised to fax the form "or mail the form to the billing address on the account in three to five days."
Mail? That was news to me. I wasn't taking any chances. "Or? Why not and?" I asked through gritted teeth.
"Oh, you want both," he sighed.
"Well, considering the unreliability of AOL's fax service, um, yeah, I absolutely want it by mail," I responded, trying with little success to mask my frustration. "So, you will fax and mail it to my mother? The fax will be within 48 hours and the mailed form will be within five days?"
Rep #3 confirmed that schedule.
"And within 48 hours after that, the account will be closed?" I clarified.
"Yes, within 30 days," he added. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
Wow, more new information. "Wait, 30 days?" I asked.
"Yes, once we receive the form, the account will be cancelled within 30 days," he explained. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"
I couldn't stand another moment of this lousy conversation where nothing akin to "customer service" was being offered to my family, so I responded curtly, "No, thank you. Simply doing what you have said you would in the time frame you have noted will be sufficient. Thank you." I should have asked if that was 30 business days (which translates to six weeks, not counting holidays).
Well, that was five working days ago (or seven "AOL 24-hour telephone or e-mail customer service" days). Not only has the fax not arrived (and yes, we tested the fax machine to make sure it was working properly), the letter also has not arrived. Twice I attempted to cancel the account online, but with Dad gone, so went the super secret password required for online transactions (which is different than the super secret password for telephone service).
When Monday dawns, Mom or I will be on the phone with the credit card company, explaining how we do not wish to continue to pay AOL for a service we have been unable to cancel.
I am very angry at the first rep who took advantage of a grieving widow and refused to tell her how to cancel the account.
I am very angry at the second rep who didn't explain clearly what a "day" is for a 24-hour company and did not get the form faxed.
I am further angry with the third rep who again didn't manage to get the form sent on time.
I know AOL is a multi-billion-dollar mega-corporation with oodles of "customer service" reps who handle hundreds of calls a day. That is the reason I left them in 1996 and turned instead to a company up the road from me, where a tech who lived in my neighborhood stopped by my house on a snowy day to help me install the software needed to start my Internet service. "Service" means something else entirely to a company such as AOL or J.C. Penney, the latter of which didn't bother to post my payment in time and couldn't manage to clear the mistaken late fee that grew for months (until my last call was turned over to "collections" — which, strangely enough, could make a late fee disappear, as well as cancel the account, all in a single call received after normal business hours in my time zone).
Maybe it's the Little Mary Sunshine in me (that AOL is slowly strangling with this horrible treatment), but when someone calls my place of business, it's personal. I confirm a fax is sent, I put the letter in the mailbox, I follow up with a telephone call. Everyone else in my organization does the same. If there's a whiff of a customer's request falling through the cracks, we find out who and why — and trust me, it does not happen again. In Fairfax, customer service still means something.
What a shame that with AOL, it does not.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
Charles Simic, New Poet Laureate
In celebration of our new U.S. Poet Laureate Charles Simic, here's a poem for you:
Watermelons
Green Buddhas
On the fruit stand.
We eat the smile
And spit out the teeth.
Now, go read some of his other poems, and consider attending the 2007 National Book Festival to see him read and discuss his work!
"Watermelon" is from Return to a Place Lit By a Glass of Milk by Charles Simic. Published by George Braziller. Copyright © 1974.
Watermelons
Green Buddhas
On the fruit stand.
We eat the smile
And spit out the teeth.
Now, go read some of his other poems, and consider attending the 2007 National Book Festival to see him read and discuss his work!
"Watermelon" is from Return to a Place Lit By a Glass of Milk by Charles Simic. Published by George Braziller. Copyright © 1974.
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
Hair by Any Other Name Would Not Smell as Sweet
The next time I say, “It’s just hair,” you have my permission to laugh aloud at me.
This week, I had a bad haircut. Not just a bad haircut, the more I think about it. It was the worst haircut I’ve had in years. (Alicia might disagree because she hasn’t been too thrilled with my hair stylists for a while.)
I’ve had bad haircuts: bangs an inch long (cut on the eve of the worst flu I’d had in a decade and a week after starting a new job), uneven layers (both on the same side and on opposite sides of my face), a short haircut that frightened the cat (Mao sniffed my head for days trying to figure out where all that hair went). Each time I swore I’d invest in my head.
The next time, I would instead just swear. I am a little embarrassed to admit it: I might not have returned to the exact scene of the crime, but I often wound up right around the corner.
That’s the entire reason I grew my hair so long for such a long time: I feared a haircut. Any haircut. A trim put me in a panic. It also is unabashedly the reason I no longer wear bangs (see bad bang reference above). When in the stylist’s chair, I sit petrified and thin-lipped, pleading with the licensed professional to not cut more than an inch. I look stern and unapproachable, not even reaching the level of comfort to try a little small talk with the poor scissor wielder.
You would think with that kind of fear, I would pull a John Edwards and lay out a hefty sum for an excellent cut. You’d think. However, until two days ago, I was a firm believer in Hair Cuttery. I told myself experienced stylists cut hair in those shops. Could an $11 haircut be a quality cut, like they showed in their ads? Was there truth in advertising? Could I discover a gem in a cheap salon? Could I risk it?
I decided to take the risk.
At my local Hair Cuttery, I found a couple of stylists who gave good cut. When they left, I found others who wold do a serviceable cut. I even found one who talked to me before the shampoo, and I thought I found A Keeper.
Then a few months ago, the layering went awry: chunky, fell forward at an odd angle, a little heavier than it should be. I thought I just needed to dry it a little differently.
The next cut seemed to emphasize the weird layering, but I thought it was me. I went back later that evening to have the stylist re-cut it, and it helped — or at least that’s what I told myself.
Just a few days ago, I did it again. The length was too short and the layering was too chunky. I went back an hour later, as the stylist suggested (well, she suggested I return if needed the next day or even later in the week). This time, however, it helped even less than before and I exited the shop with a bad shag bordering on a mullet.
It was exactly what I had feared: Another Haircut Gone Awry. However, my friends proved their loyalty: nary a whisper against the terror on my head. Kathy said it was cute (even after I announced my pending trip to fix it). Shelby complimented how it accentuated my face. Even as I admitted my folly, Rachael simply nodded, saying only that I would enjoy my trip to her favorite spa (and never once uttering the words "damage control").
The stylist who was assigned said damage control managed to pull off a miracle. Oh, it's not over by a long shot: I will need another cut or two to rid my (now much shorter) locks of the damage. However, I am grateful that I no longer cringe when passing a mirror (too afraid to see what my mop looks like after minutes of inattention). Even Alicia likes it, and she's a tough cookie. (David, too — he may love me no matter the state of my hair, but he recognizes a horrific hair cut when he sees one.)
It may be “only hair,” but it’s my hair, and it’s how I see myself. I don’t have to be Rapunzel, but I have to like what I see — and thanks to Than at Comfort and Joy, I have a chance of liking my reflection tomorrow morning after my run.
And that’s saying something.
This week, I had a bad haircut. Not just a bad haircut, the more I think about it. It was the worst haircut I’ve had in years. (Alicia might disagree because she hasn’t been too thrilled with my hair stylists for a while.)
I’ve had bad haircuts: bangs an inch long (cut on the eve of the worst flu I’d had in a decade and a week after starting a new job), uneven layers (both on the same side and on opposite sides of my face), a short haircut that frightened the cat (Mao sniffed my head for days trying to figure out where all that hair went). Each time I swore I’d invest in my head.
The next time, I would instead just swear. I am a little embarrassed to admit it: I might not have returned to the exact scene of the crime, but I often wound up right around the corner.
That’s the entire reason I grew my hair so long for such a long time: I feared a haircut. Any haircut. A trim put me in a panic. It also is unabashedly the reason I no longer wear bangs (see bad bang reference above). When in the stylist’s chair, I sit petrified and thin-lipped, pleading with the licensed professional to not cut more than an inch. I look stern and unapproachable, not even reaching the level of comfort to try a little small talk with the poor scissor wielder.
You would think with that kind of fear, I would pull a John Edwards and lay out a hefty sum for an excellent cut. You’d think. However, until two days ago, I was a firm believer in Hair Cuttery. I told myself experienced stylists cut hair in those shops. Could an $11 haircut be a quality cut, like they showed in their ads? Was there truth in advertising? Could I discover a gem in a cheap salon? Could I risk it?
I decided to take the risk.
At my local Hair Cuttery, I found a couple of stylists who gave good cut. When they left, I found others who wold do a serviceable cut. I even found one who talked to me before the shampoo, and I thought I found A Keeper.
Then a few months ago, the layering went awry: chunky, fell forward at an odd angle, a little heavier than it should be. I thought I just needed to dry it a little differently.
The next cut seemed to emphasize the weird layering, but I thought it was me. I went back later that evening to have the stylist re-cut it, and it helped — or at least that’s what I told myself.
Just a few days ago, I did it again. The length was too short and the layering was too chunky. I went back an hour later, as the stylist suggested (well, she suggested I return if needed the next day or even later in the week). This time, however, it helped even less than before and I exited the shop with a bad shag bordering on a mullet.
It was exactly what I had feared: Another Haircut Gone Awry. However, my friends proved their loyalty: nary a whisper against the terror on my head. Kathy said it was cute (even after I announced my pending trip to fix it). Shelby complimented how it accentuated my face. Even as I admitted my folly, Rachael simply nodded, saying only that I would enjoy my trip to her favorite spa (and never once uttering the words "damage control").
The stylist who was assigned said damage control managed to pull off a miracle. Oh, it's not over by a long shot: I will need another cut or two to rid my (now much shorter) locks of the damage. However, I am grateful that I no longer cringe when passing a mirror (too afraid to see what my mop looks like after minutes of inattention). Even Alicia likes it, and she's a tough cookie. (David, too — he may love me no matter the state of my hair, but he recognizes a horrific hair cut when he sees one.)
It may be “only hair,” but it’s my hair, and it’s how I see myself. I don’t have to be Rapunzel, but I have to like what I see — and thanks to Than at Comfort and Joy, I have a chance of liking my reflection tomorrow morning after my run.
And that’s saying something.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Natasha Trethewey: Native Pulitzer
Natasha Trethewey will blow your socks off. Listen to the Fresh Air interview with Terry Gross. Then go purchase the book Native Guard: Poems, this year's Pulitzer Prize winner for poetry.
Native Guard: Poems also is available at the Fairfax County Public Library (or the library of your choice, I'm sure, for you non-Fairfacians)— so check it out, then go buy it. Just please read it.
What are you still doing here? Go listen to the interview. You will literally exclaim aloud at the terrible beauty of the poems and the grace with which she reads them and responds to them. The stories she tells are touching and compelling.
Have I steered you wrong yet about poetry?
And if you aren't sure what you're missing, here's one she reads on Fresh Air — but you get it only if you promise to go listen, then borrow or purchase her book (like I did even before I got my hands on Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows — that's how good it is).
What is Evidence
Not the fleeing bruises she'd cover
with makeup, a dark patch as if imprint
of a scope she'd pressed her eye too close to,
looking for a way out, nor the quiver
in the voice she'd steady, leaning
into a pot of bones on the stove. Not
the teeth she wore in place of her own, or
the official document — its seal
and smeared signature — fading already,
the edge wearing. Not the tiny marker
with its dates, her name, abstract as history.
Only the landscape of her body — splintered
clavicle, pierced temporal — her thin bones
settling a bit each day, the way all things do.
Now. Go listen to Fresh Air and read her book. You can thank me later.
Native Guard: Poems also is available at the Fairfax County Public Library (or the library of your choice, I'm sure, for you non-Fairfacians)— so check it out, then go buy it. Just please read it.
What are you still doing here? Go listen to the interview. You will literally exclaim aloud at the terrible beauty of the poems and the grace with which she reads them and responds to them. The stories she tells are touching and compelling.
Have I steered you wrong yet about poetry?
And if you aren't sure what you're missing, here's one she reads on Fresh Air — but you get it only if you promise to go listen, then borrow or purchase her book (like I did even before I got my hands on Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows — that's how good it is).
What is Evidence
Not the fleeing bruises she'd cover
with makeup, a dark patch as if imprint
of a scope she'd pressed her eye too close to,
looking for a way out, nor the quiver
in the voice she'd steady, leaning
into a pot of bones on the stove. Not
the teeth she wore in place of her own, or
the official document — its seal
and smeared signature — fading already,
the edge wearing. Not the tiny marker
with its dates, her name, abstract as history.
Only the landscape of her body — splintered
clavicle, pierced temporal — her thin bones
settling a bit each day, the way all things do.
Now. Go listen to Fresh Air and read her book. You can thank me later.
Monday, July 23, 2007
In Case You Were Wondering
Yes, I finished it. I finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows at 11:53 pm Sunday, 7/22.
And yes, I took time to sleep. And eat. Even socialize. The drives to the lakes took a little time, too (as David rowed us out to the middle of the lake, the water splashing against the sides of the boats).
I read David the parts that I had to share (that is, when Bob wasn't there to glare at me as I laughed or gasped or cried -- I was 30 pages ahead of him Saturday afternoon). David said I cried a lot, but he never saw me reading The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.
Give me a call when you finish. We'll discuss.
And yes, I took time to sleep. And eat. Even socialize. The drives to the lakes took a little time, too (as David rowed us out to the middle of the lake, the water splashing against the sides of the boats).
I read David the parts that I had to share (that is, when Bob wasn't there to glare at me as I laughed or gasped or cried -- I was 30 pages ahead of him Saturday afternoon). David said I cried a lot, but he never saw me reading The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.
Give me a call when you finish. We'll discuss.
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