Mystery Solved!

Read the tale of The Mysterious Vanishing Gift which I posted a few days ago.

And now for the exciting resolution!

My sister (who is mutual friends with these folks) delivered their gift to me today. I was shocked when she nonchalantly mentioned who it was from, and related the entire unsolved mystery to her before she explained: they thought we had a baby girl. Oops!

My sister encouraged them to sneak the gift away during the party with the intention to replace it with a more appropriate choice. While I understand how my friends may have felt embarrassed, it would have probably been less awkward to just express that feeling at the time, don't you agree?  We would have all had a good laugh about it, and the entire debacle would have never been.

Just in case my lovely friends ever read this stuff, allow me to state for the record that their generosity and thoughtfulness is most appreciated, and their effort to attend our gathering and celebrate with us was the best gift of all. As far as the gender error, it is completely understandable and forgivable!

I am just so thankful to have the mystery solved!

Mysterious vanishing gift

Last Sunday we hosted a Welcome and Blessing Ceremony for our dear baby August. It was the kind of event that left me beaming with joy for the rest of the day! The wonderful people who came to celebrate with us, the love that filled the space, delicious and beautiful refreshments, and our emotive, handcrafted ceremony made for a perfect afternoon.

At the conclusion of the blessing, I headed through the kitchen to bring dessert out of the freezer. On my way I ran into a couple of friends who had just arrived. Unfortunately, they missed the ceremony, but I was very happy to see this family who lived down the street from our old house. After exchanging hellos and hugs, the wife handed me a lovely gift bag emblazoned with the colorful word "BABY" on the side.

"Oh no, you weren't supposed to bring a gift!"

"I know, but we didn't go to any baby shower or anything and we wanted to give you something."

"That is really sweet, thank you so much! I'm on my way to get dessert ready, so I'll set it right here for now. Thank you!"

And I set the gift bag on the corner of my kitchen counter in order to be a proper hostess and serve the promised dessert to our patiently waiting guests.

The afternoon continued gloriously with visiting and laughter, and eventually people began to depart. This gift-giving couple was among the last few families to leave, and as I hadn't had a chance to talk with them much since they arrived, we spent a few more minutes happily visiting in the foyer before they headed home with their two children.

After the party was mostly cleaned up and bedtime routines underway, something reminded me that our thoughtful friends had brought a gift which we had yet to open.  But back in the kitchen, the gift was nowhere to be found. Not in the place on the counter where I left it, or anywhere else. I asked Gary if he moved it, and he didn't even remember seeing it. I called my mother, because she and my brother had been extremely helpful cleaning the kitchen, but neither of them recalled moving any gift.

The gift bag was not small, and it was obviously a baby gift--all poofed up with tissue paper. It could not have disappeared behind a counter appliance or slipped accidentally into someone's bag. After searching increasingly implausible places, I was at a loss. Now the issue was not so much about what was inside the gift bag as the mystery behind its disappearance!

I can come up with only two possible explanations, but would love to know if I've missed another:

1. A child became enamored with the brightly colored gift bag, stole away with it, opened it in secret and somehow destroyed all the evidence.
[But the empty bag and tissue paper would probably be somewhere, and once the child discovered what was presumably a baby item inside, wouldn't he/she abandon it? Or if not, wouldn't the child's parents notice an item coming home that they didn't have before?]

2. My friends were offended that I did not open the gift in their presence, and perhaps took this affront to mean I didn't care enough or want the gift, and so they took it home with them.
[But our friends departed in a very friendly and happy state, without any gift bag in their hand at the time. Could they have sneaked it out to the car earlier?]

I would want to express my gratitude to these friends for their generosity, but now I wondered how I could appropriately do so. And the possibility, even as ridiculous as it seems, that they could have un-gifted the item, made me worry that if I said nothing it would confirm the suspicions (which possibly did not exist) that I did not care about their gift enough to notice it was gone! So I texted the husband: "Am I going crazy? I went to peek at your gift and I can't find it! Did you happen to move it somewhere? So weird. Sure loved seeing you all today!"

No response. Even now, more than a week later.

My husband insists I'm  being paranoid to make the following connection, and he's probably right because these friends don't seem to be the grudge-holding type. But in the interest of full disclosure, I must share this: we attended this friend's 40th birthday party back in March, and Gary accidentally left the envelope I asked him to bring on the entryway table (we had to meet at the restaurant). I was embarrassed showing up to a birthday party empty-handed like that, so I apologized to my friend that his gift card had been left at home. Of course he brushed it off as no big deal.  The thing is, I never followed up and mailed it to him after the party. So I can't help but wonder if the bag's mysterious disappearance is their idea of retribution for my own gift-related gaffe.

What do you think? Foolishness? Perhaps, but how would you explain this bizarre phenomenon?

At last!

I have my husband to thank for providing the material for today's post.  Gary came home last night very excited to show me the "blog-worthy" picture he took at the grocery store.  How thoughtful, and on Day 18 of Nablopomo, his assistance is most welcome. 

Reeeally, Campbell's? 'Spose I should throw out the 3 cans of Spaghetti-O's that are hanging out in my pantry now, since they are clearly UNhealthy. I just love marketing campaigns and food labeling that unmistakably emphasize a product's former inferiority. Just yesterday afternoon, several hours before Gary brought me this beauty, I reached for a box of tea packets at my friend's house which boasted "Improved Taste!" I chuckled under my breath, but never mentioned it to Gary, so you can see how we truly have a profound mystical understanding. Thanks, Gary. It's nice that my blog can be a team effort. 

I know you've seen them too. Won't you please share some of the marketing delights you've noticed which tend to have the opposite of the desired effect on your interest in the product?

Your park information specialist

Here is another tale of excitement and intrigue from Chicago, although rather than fascinating or thrilling, this one is downright funny. Or at least it is to me. 

The piece of conceptual art pictured above is official called Cloud Gate, but we referred affectionately to it as "The Bean" and I'm certain we're not the only ones.  As we approached the giant sculpture in Millennium Park a woman appeared next to us, seemingly from thin air. I believe she may have been crouching in the bushes. Anyway, as she bent down to extinguish her cigarette on the sidewalk beside her, the woman introduced herself:  "Hello ladies, I'm LaFawnduh*, your park information specialist." She explained how she could answer any questions we had about the park or Cloud Gate, and offered to take our pictures together.  Rachel and I knew precisely where this was going, but my darling, innocent mother jumped on the opportunity to have a photographer without hesitation. 

LaFawnduh confidently led us over to the far side of The Bean, where she all but pushed a group of girls taking their own pictures there out of the way by explaining that she was the park information specialist and would be happy to take their pictures after she was finished with ours. The whole time, I felt uneasy about the situation, and you can see it on Rachel's and my expressions in all our photos. 

And the instinct was not unfounded. After returning the cameras, LaFawnduh launched monotonously into her memorized spiel about representing Rainbow House, a shelter for abused women and children or something and asked for a donation.  Her speech sounded fake; it reminded me of a teenager forced to sell wreaths door-to-door, where their eyes wander about the ceiling instead of looking at you....in fact, she did a perfect impression of this guy from Office Space (one of the best movies EVER). I noticed that the lanyard around her neck held a name badge on which she'd written her own name in Sharpie, and I could just make out the schedule of events printed on the back, with dates listed in April 2010. A lot of Conventions are held in Chicago; it would be pretty easy to come across a discarded lanyard like this and turn it into an official "park information specialist" accessory. I rolled my eyes when she couldn't see. 

My mom gave LaFawnduh five dollars, which we all agreed was fair, since in spite of the odd situation, she cleared the area and took some great pictures that we would not have been able to capture without her.  It only took her 5-10 minutes, so that's a pretty fair wage, too. But rather than thank us graciously, LaFawnduh took the bill, then looked expectantly between the other three of us and asked in an incredulous tone, "And...this will be from all of you?" When we confirmed and thanked her again, she put the money in the pocket of her hoodie, slung her backpack over one shoulder and walked away saying "Have a nice day" over her shoulder. I laughed. 

Here is LaFawnduh "helping" another group of unsuspecting tourists. 

My problem now is that I looked it up. Rainbow House is a real non-profit agency in Chicago dedicated to supporting victims of domestic violence. Was LaFawnduh truly raising funds to support their efforts, or just using the name of a real organization to cultivate genuine sympathy for her endeavor? I will never know. It still seems sneaky to claim to be a park information specialist on one hand, and ask for donations afterward on the other hand. I would prefer a more direct approach: tell us up front that you volunteer in the park on behalf of Rainbow House, and would gladly take our pictures if we would consider a small donation to support the cause. And then have some official paperwork, a nametag, etc. to help us believe that your operation is legitimate. And whether or not you are honestly fundraising or just trying to make some cash for yourself, be grateful for every dollar you get. 

A great picture of my mom and Cloud Gate reflecting Chicago's skyline.

*I don't actually remember our "park information specialist's" name, so I borrowed this one from  Kip's girlfriend.

The perfect diet

Recently I was forced to witness an exchange of emails between a couple of ladies sharing ideas about gluten intolerance in their children. I say forced because it was sent out as a Yahoo Group message, so reading their e-mails felt like unintended eavesdropping.  And this is where I restrain myself against launching a rant about the gluten-free fad.

I do have to mention, however, that several months ago a friend was confiding in me about her weight loss struggle, and said that she was going to try going gluten-free. Because this is not a very close friend, all I felt comfortable doing was nodding and smiling. What I wish I could have said is this: "Gluten is wheat protein. Protein is good for you. Unless you are have a diagnosable condition in which your body cannot tolerate the substance, then gluten is good for you." That is only part of what I wish I could have said, actually. But it's the most innocuous portion, safe for public consumption among friends.

Back to the email exchange mentioned previously. I didn't really want to read those messages, but it's hard for me to ignore words that are in front of my face. In the final response, the mother who asked for advice thanked the other woman for sharing her advice, and then wrote (read carefully):


I am going to start looking into a glutton free diet. 

I read that and immediately thought, "Now that's the diet for ME!"

Forgive me for being insensitive to her child's health challenges, but I found this typo to be laugh-out-loud funny. And seriously, purging my diet of gluttony would do just the trick for improved health and body composition. I have actually saved the conversation in my email box since it was received over 3 months ago, supposedly to remind myself to write a blog post about it, but perhaps also to serve as a frequent reminder of the perfect diet. 

They give Visas to 3-year-olds now?

Lately my 3.5-year old daughter asks many, many questions during bedtime stories. She wants to know all the why's and how's surrounding the illustrations and between the lines of the narrative. Sometimes the odd nature of her questions leaves me simultaneously baffled and impressed. 

Tonight we read "More Bugs in Boxes." It is a pop-up book, and admittedly not one of my personal favorites. On page 3: 

What kind of bug is in the shiny BLACK bandbox?

A SCARLET strawberry bug with a bunch of baby berry bugs.

I tried to suppress the rolling of my eyes when Madelyn caught my hand to prevent the page from turning. She asked why the baby bugs are under the mommy's wings. Before I could respond, she attempted to answer this query herself: "Is it because they are hiding from creditors?"

?? Cr--? Oh...

"Do you mean predators?" (Her favorite TV show is Dinosaur Train, so it's not a far leap to assume...)

"No, Mom. Creditors."

Riiiight. What else don't I know about you, Miss Madelyn?

Confused by the brown thing in the toilet

Pulling up behind this van at a stoplight, I couldn't help but fixate on the image.  I couldn't imagine what kind of business would promote itself with a photograph of a toilet full of poo. Even a plumber would have more decency than that, right?

Which means it couldn't possibly be a picture of poo. And since I was stopped directly behind this van and had to squint to decipher the image means it isn't very effective at conveying their message. Although my confusion led me to actually read about the business, but I still find it odd that a company specializing in leak detection would opt for a picture of a lumpy brown mouse climbing out of a toilet. It just looks like poo. 

I like to say poo. 

What more do you want from me?

Here's what happened at the grocery store last week.  I loaded up a cart FULL of items I needed for a party we were throwing at Curves where over 100 guests were expected. Mainly my list consisted of large, heavy ingredients such as about 10 jugs each of cranberry juice, ginger ale, and lemon-lime soda.  It was one of those annoying shopping trips where I didn't manage to find everything the first time through the aisles and so ended up zigging and zagging back through the store a couple of times pushing an overburdened and unwieldy cart before ultimately completing my mission.  For the sake of convenience, I threw a handful of items needed for my own kitchen into the cart as well.  Three-year-old Madelyn was being relatively tolerant and well-behaved considering the circumstances.

When I had finally collected everything on the list, I surveyed the checkout lines. They were all similar--about 3 people in each with relatively equal conveyor belt loads. So I just picked the closest one, and when space became available, began hoisting my goods onto the black rubber belt.  Madelyn loves to help with that part.

My cart was more than halfway unloaded when the old lady behind me piped up.

"Isn't this the EXPRESS LANE?"

My heart dropped into my stomach as I looked up to see that little lighted square sign indicating that her words echoing in my head were indeed accurate.

I was mortified. And remorseful. Which should have been made apparent by my subsequent actions, in which I first apologized genuinely and profusely.  Old lady's response to this was, "they may as well just take down the sign."  I then explained my blunder to the cashier (who was still ringing up the groceries of the customer in front of me) and asked if I should move.  When she assured me it was fine and she would take care of me, I still hesitated to finish unloading my cart, and offered--no, implored--the cranky lady to go ahead and check out before me, since she only had a handful of items and my transaction was going to be lengthy. For some inexplicable reason she refused and repeated her indignant opinion that they should remove the Express Lane sign, as it was clearly doing her no good AT ALL.

By this time there were a couple of other people behind her in the un-express lane, so it was with nearly tangible penitence that I laid down the black plastic order separator and added my "personal" groceries to the conveyor belt to be purchased separately from the business-related groceries.  Now not only had I committed a cardinal sin of grocery check-out etiquette, but added insult to injury by having to make two distinct transactions.  Hey, I had warned Ms. Cranky and tried to insist she go first. And by the way, my second purchase totally fit the criteria of the Express Lane, so there.

In spite of that fact, I completed my two misguided purchases feeling as though eyes were boring into the back of my head.  Even the cashier, who had told me it wouldn't be a big deal, didn't offer any consolation. And my lovely daughter, who continued to be patient throughout this process, seemed to give everyone more of a reason to despise me--that mom who brings her annoying little brat to the store and gets in everyone's way making a mess and being too loud--rather than eliciting the usual pleasant, entertained responses.

I apologized in words. I apologized with my facial expressions. I all but pleaded with the old lady to check out ahead of me.  What else could I or should I have done?

Bumper wisdom

Yesterday I saw this bumper sticker on the back of a big truck:

THIS IS AMERICA.

SPEEK ENGLISH.

At first I chuckled, thinking that the misspelling was intentional.  A bit of ironic humor.  But then I determined that it was not a comedic bumper sticker.

And that is a sad, sad mark against English-speekers everywhere.

41.5 hours of isolation

Oh, if only it were as good as that title sounds. In reality, I was without a cell phone for a day and a half, which feels rather isolating compared to my usual level of connectedness.

I've temporarily misplaced my phone before. Haven't we all? Usually I find it within a couple of minutes of noticing its absence by retracing my steps and of course the simple call-your-phone-and-listen-for-the-ringtone trick. Most often the phone has been left on the passenger seat of the car when I gathered up my stuff, or set unwittingly on a shelf in my closet when I removed it from my pocket to change.

Do you know what turns 'misplacing your phone' into 'losing your phone?' I'll tell you. If you don't realize that you've misplaced your cell phone until the battery has expired, and it is not in any visible location, then you have lost your cell phone.  Since my phone's battery was nearly dead before it disappeared, I was left to super-sleuth this mystery.

Here are the known facts:

• My husband called me at 3:46pm when I was driving away from a gas station 20 miles from home. This was the last call I made or received on the missing phone.
• From there, I drove directly to my house and parked the car in the garage.
• I carried my sleeping daughter to her crib, brought all my stuff inside the house, made a sandwich in the kitchen, and started working in my office.
• At 5:17pm the phone's absence was discovered.

Based on those facts it is clear that my phone had to be somewhere in my house, car, or garage. Normally, that incontrovertible evidence would be reassuring, because it would offer the relief that the phone was not stolen or left behind at one of any number of errand-running locations.  However, as my search grew longer and more intense without success, the indisputable fact that it had to be here somewhere became inconceivable.

Sometimes my cell phone slides under the seat of the car or between the seat and console. I checked there. Gary checked there. Gary checked again with a flashlight. I checked with a flashlight again from every possible angle and in every possible crevice.  I looked under the cars and in corners of the garage where the phone might have been inadvertently kicked after dropping. Nothing.

Of course I checked all of the obvious places in my house too, again and again, anywhere that the phone might possibly be.  Then I found myself looking in places that the phone could not possibly be. The shower. Cupboards I haven't opened all week that are too high for Madelyn to reach. Pockets of clothes I had not been wearing.

It was garbage collection night. I put on my flip flops and jacket, then went out to the curb in the rain with a flashlight and searched through our garbage and recycling bins.  How easily my phone could have been knocked off my desk into one of those receptacles and then gathered up unknowingly with the rest of our refuse. No amount of digging revealed my phone, and I was cold, wet, and grossed out.

It had to be somewhere, but it was nowhere.  I envisioned seemingly impossible ways that the mystery could eventually be solved:

Gary, on some future moving day: "What do you know your phone got in the bottom of this file cabinet drawer!"

Me, searching for a bag of peas: "Oh here it is, at the bottom of the freezer!"

The vet: "Here's the reason Kezia's been vomitting all day."

The plumber: "I've seen a lot of things stuck in a P-trap before, but I don't think you're going to want to use this phone again."

We have a land line, but it is set up as a fax line on which we can also make outgoing calls. So thankfully I was able to use the handset to call the people who depend on communicating with me and tell them I wouldn't be receiving calls and I didn't know for how long. I'm on my computer most of the day anyway, so I explained that they could email and ask me to call them if they needed to. But it made me nervous for my husband to be unable to call me during his work day.  And to think that others might leave an urgent message and not realize that I did not intend to ignore them.  Then Saturday morning, while Madelyn and I prepared to leave the house to run several errands in various corners of the city, I grew increasingly anxious about not having any way to contact someone were the need to arise. I even packed up my laptop and Clear mobile modem so that I could access the internet if I needed directions or information or needed to contact someone for help.  I can even send text messages right from my beloved Gmail.  Many great ideas come to me when I'm driving, or I remember people I've been meaning to call back, etc., so the thought of spending a day in the car without my phone was unnerving for a variety of reasons.

As I was buckling Madelyn into her carseat, these concerns were making me apprehensive. Like I had so many other times during the past 40 hours, I began searching in my vicinity again. I knew I had looked under these car seats half a dozen times, but I also knew that the phone could not have simply immaterialized.  So back down to the floorboards I went, and noticed this time a piece of plastic casing beside the seat that was slightly open, making me wonder if the phone could have slid off the seat into this little pocket.  I could not see it in there, but while peering intensely into the dark, I did notice a tiny corner of silver plastic hiding behind a black metal bracket. Could it be?

Yep, it was. My phone was there under the car seat as I originally guessed, only it was somehow nestled in a little cranny-nook that was nearly impossible to see--even with a flashlight--from all the vantage points we attempted. I even scratched up my hand a bit trying to jimmy it out of its hidey-hole. Now, had the battery not been dead, I could have heard that the phone was indeed in the car, and would have been able to see the light from its screen to easily locate it.

They say you don't know how much you use something until it's gone. What a bunch of bull.  I know exactly how much I use my phone, and the moment I realized it wouldn't be easily found, I was distraught.  I am truly grateful to live in a time where communication is so easy and prevalent.  Some folks wistfully yearn for the "simpler times," but to them I say, "How simple was it to call a tow-truck from the side of the freeway?" "How simple was it to ensure that you were never running behind for fear you might miss an important meeting because you couldn't call to say you'd be there in ten?" "How simple was it to stop at a gas station and use the grimy yellow pages to look up the phone number for the store you couldn't find?"  "How simple was it to gather up the kids for an urgent trip to pick up the last dinner ingredient before your husband got home, even though he drives right by the grocery store on his way?"

The mystery of the disappearing phone is solved. And what a relief.  Because I like my "complicated" days of mobile communication.

Southern "hospitality"

I experienced some pretty amusing glimpses of customer service down "sath," and although there were plenty of people who classified the friendly, hospitable stereotype, I thought it would be fun to share my brushes with the people of "Nashvul" (apparently Nashville rhymes with bashful, so get it right!) who don't quite fit that mold.

Bell Service is for Wussies
After courteously checking us in at the Gaylord Opryland, the front desk staff person carefully showed us on a map of the property how to navigate to our room. This very large resort is made up of several sections that were added on at different times, with varied main levels, all connected through gorgeous indoor gardens.  The result is a very confusing labyrinth of passageways and winding staircases.  We were certainly appreciative of her detailed instructions.

We set off in the right direction, map in hand, our two suitcases apiece rolling along behind. The first time viewing these atrium with magnificent waterfalls and full foliage was awe-inspiring.  Each set of stairs we encountered was accompanied by a nearby ramp, so we were able to enjoy the scenery without complication--until we reached the escalators. The receptionist had specifically instructed us to approach two sequential sets of escalators and go up them both (the escalators in question are shown on the left in the first photo above).  My mother and I each had one large and one medium-sized rolling suitcase in addition to our backpacks, laptop bag, and another bag.  The prospect of trying to successfully board and then disembark an escalator with our cumbersome baggage made us wonder aloud three things, in this order: First, why weren't we offered bell service for our luggage, or at least told where we could ask for it? Then, why did that woman direct us toward two escalators when she could plainly see we had a significant amount of luggage to drag along? And finally, where in the nearest elevator?

The answers to our first two questions would never be realized. To the third question, we set out to find the answer, which was not as simple as you might assume. We followed a path into a lodging tower, assuming we'd find an elevator there. We did, eventually.  Into the surprisingly tiny elevator we awkwardly crammed ourselves and all our suitcases, but upon exiting at the next floor up we realized that this one only offered access to the rooms in that tower. We hadn't noticed any alternate option, but back into the elevator we went. I swear at this point we could have passed for some bumbling tourist characters in a Saturday Night Live sketch: suitcases tipping over, on and off and on the same elevators, going around in circles, tripping over ourselves, all Charlie Chaplin-style.  Oh, the hilarity, had we been set on fast-forward to a honky-tonk piano rag. But in reality--not so funny.

I actually cannot remember how we finally found our wing of the hotel with its main level 3 floors up from the ground floor, even now that I am comfortably familiar with the layout. I was probably so frustrated and then relieved that I didn't care how, because I knew every other time we came here we would use the escalators meant to bring us.

Contender for 'Most Odd Response from a Retail Employee'

A mall within walking distance of our Convention hotel + free time = dangerous.  But I had left the tags on the dress I brought for our Awards Banquet in hopes I might be able to find one I liked even better, so that was the primary purpose in going to the mall.  The first time, anyway.

My mom and friend Lana helped me search and gave advice in the dressing rooms. One possibility we found was a frilly, ivory dress with a black satin empire waist tie.  Very pretty, but strapless and quite short. My broad shoulders make some strapless dresses less flattering, so the girls set out to find coverage options, something along the lines of a shoulder shrug.  The one they brought back didn't really "go" with the style of the dress, so we asked the fitting room attendant if they had any others.  We described what we were looking for, and her uninterested response went something like this:

"Yeah, we have one that's kind of, like, lacy?...but I don't know if you'll like it or whatever."

...

And that was it.  Her expression implied that we could go find it if we wanted to risk the chance I might not like it, but she wasn't about to go out of her way to sell it to us.

Do you normally know if people are going to like anything in your store? Isn't that WHY we shop and then try things on? I don't know if I'll like it either, but I can't determine that until I SEE it.  We then had to ask her to tell us where we could find the mysterious article and trudge off in search. It turns out that I didn't like it.  So according to that girl's logic I shouldn't have even bothered looking.

I found this cute shrug instead, and although I didn't end up getting the ivory dress and this piece didn't coordinate with the dress I did wear, I still like it.

Sorry to Trouble You, Ma'am

We went on the greatest little dinner cruise with a group of other Curves owners--some friends from home and some new friends we now adore.  I wondered if the General Jackson Showboat would be a lame, cheesy tourist attraction, but it was actually really fun and the "Country Music USA" performance was exceptional--even with my limited appreciation of country music, I was entertained.  The musicians were highly skilled and so full of enthusiastic energy (unlike many of the Disney on Ice skaters).

Mom on the balcony overlooking the General Jackson Showboat stage

Before the show began we were served a delicious dinner.  The staff allowed us to squeeze two extra seats into our table to accommodate our group, but as the salad was passed around it was apparent that the amount had not been adjusted for our larger company.  Our server wasn't in the room at the moment, and I wanted to have the situation handled before anybody was sitting hungry with an empty plate for too long, so I wandered over to the nearest dining room personnel to inquire.

The woman appeared to be a server as well, only she was presently occupied with clearing dishes from the empty tables, where the seats had not been sold.  Before telling her we needed more salad, I simply explained that we were in need of some assistance at our table, and asked if she could help us or if we must wait for our own server.  She hesitated, then asked which table I was from. I told her, and then again she hesitated, without even hearing my request, before telling me that since she was not my server, she would not be able to help me.

I understand how foodservice works, and when gratuity is the primary motivation to serve, not necessarily to ensure a positive experience for its own merit, the altruistic desire to help can disappear.  But since this woman was not busy helping her own customers, it seems to me that she could have listened to my request to see if it was simple enough to handle herself (maybe we were missing a straw and she has an extra one in her pocket), or at least helped me locate my server so he could resolve the issue.  The "I can't help you with that, good luck" attitude in customer service is so foreign to me.

But that was the only little hiccup in the evening, and here's the best part: When we arrived in our room I noticed a little advertisement saying I could text the word "offers" and our checkout date to this number and then would receive special offers to use during our visit on my phone.  I figured I had nothing to lose, and signed up with the hope that maybe we'd get 10% off a souvenir or a free dessert.  Later, my mom and I visited the Attractions desk to inquire about the General Jackson cruise. I was disappointed to learn that the dinner tickets were more costly than we had hoped, and there would not be a lunch cruise sailing at a time we could be available. So we accepted the fact that this event wouldn't be in the cards for us. Until a few hours later, when I received my first (and only, come to think of it) "offer" from the hotel.  Not 10% off. Not a free dessert. Buy one, get one FREE tickets on the General Jackson! We were thrilled, and shared our discount code with everyone who was interested so we had a big, fun group to go with.

Flagrant false advertising

I registered for the ORRC Blue Lake 15k Championship run for a variety of reasons. Of primary importance, the distance and date of the race (last Saturday) fit perfectly with my training plan for the October 25th half marathon. I had also heard that the location of the race in the Columbia River Gorge was quite lovely, and had a few friends on board to join me. In addition, 2009 marks the 35th Anniversary for this particular race event, so the marketing materials promised abundant raffle prizes, hot food at the finish line, and to top it all off, a free pair of running gloves to all registrants.

It sounded like a party I did not want to miss, and after suffering numb fingers through my mid-winter training last January, I was pretty dang excited about getting myself some running gloves for the upcoming chilly season.

My first disappointment manifested when all three of the buddies who originally planned to run with me each pooped out during the prior week for various reasons. All valid reasons, sure, but it left me in the position of driving over an hour from home all alone to run a very long race with no one to motivate or celebrate with me. But I was still very excited about the included pair of gloves, and considered the race an important aspect of my current training regime. Plus I had already paid, and I don't just have money to burn. Thankfully my mother-in-law, who had been planning on babysitting Madelyn for the day, agreed to come along with me and play with her at the park rather than at home. So I had company for the drive, and the valuable motivation throughout the race of loving family members ready to greet me at the finish line.

Luckily, I wasn't very hungry at the finish line, because their "hot food" consisted of hot dogs out of a warming tray on cheap white buns. I would have preferred the bananas and bagels found at many basic post-race festivities. At least there were 7 varieties of cookies to choose from.

The course was not very scenic, as I had been lead to expect. The area of Blue Lake Park that we saw was nice, but the race course almost immediately exited the park and ran alongside a boring road and around the Troutdale Airport field. I didn't catch a glimpse of any lake. It was supposed to be a flat, fast course, and would have been were it not for the severe wind blowing against us. For half of the race it felt like we were running uphill or against a slowly retreating wall. I had never before experienced a headwind strong enough to slow me significantly and require such effort to persevere. That made these 9.3 miles harder than they probably otherwise would have been, and it has kind of psyched me out for the 13.1 coming up in a few weeks. I just need to allow myself to slow down and stop being so competitive.

Anyway, like usual I sat through all of the raffle drawings and my ticket number was never called.

At least I got those sweet running gloves, though, right?

Of course I didn't expect our free gloves to be New Balance or Nike. But in my (albeit limited) experience, running gloves look something like this:

Obviously a person can go running wearing whatever keeps his or her hands warm and comfortable. It's just that the only type of gloves I have ever seen classified specifically for running are made of a high-performance material, are lightweight, water-resistant, and perhaps have a reflective strip since if you're running in the cold it is also highly likely that you are running in the dark. So I expected some generic, non-branded version of the same idea. Perhaps something like the middle example, as that is a brand I've never heard of.

Instead I received these:

And by "received these" I mean "was motioned toward a mountainous pile from which to take any two one-size-fits-all, ambidextrous knit gloves made from recycled fibers." They look a lot like the gloves that came with a set of herb-gardening tools I once received.

I know what you're thinking: They were free. I don't intend to complain as much as to share my amusement at the discrepancy between my imagination and reality, especially when combined with all the other small disappointments. That's all. These gloves are soft and warm, and I'm sure they will keep my hands nice and toasty during a 42-degree run. As long as they don't slip off my relatively dainty wrists, that is. Perhaps I'd be better off just pulling out some of the knit gloves that I already own in my own size! I just don't understand what, exactly, qualifies these as "running gloves." But I'm no expert.

And he wonders why he's unemployed

After getting over the shock of receiving quite unexpected 2-weeks' notice from one of my long-term and highly appreciated Curves employees, I pulled myself together and posted the job opening on craigslist a few days ago. Hiring employees is probably among the most difficult undertakings that my role as owner/manager requires, likely due to the fact that nearly every other aspect of the club operation, member retention, and my own job duties are affected by my ultimate choice. And the interviewing process offers such limited perspective of reality, sometimes I wonder if my instincts should be trusted any more than the flip of a coin.

Craigslist is my preferred method of acquiring applicants, as it is inexpensive and immediately produces a high yield of responses from which to select. Of course, the caliber of people who apply is not always outstanding, but then again, the position of interest isn't typically going to appeal to PhD's. My success in finding the right kind of people for the job improved dramatically when I discovered the category called "salon/spa/fitness" and moved my ad to there from "customer service." The number of responding applicants with a genuine interest in the field and more than call-center experience increased significantly. Working at Curves really is more customer service than anything, but it is nothing like sitting in a cubicle reading a script to people you've never met over the phone. Unfortunately, I've hired applicants from craigslist who didn't last through the initial training, and others who felt their paycheck was well-deserved simply for showing up and not breaking anything. However, I've also discovered some of our most talented team members through craigslist.

Within 48 hours of posting the opening, I had over 20 resumes in my inbox. Among them are several truly exceptional candidates (thank you, 12% unemployment rate), and more than several that I shall politely decline to interview. But no response to my employment ad has ever made as big of an impression as this, from one Nathaniel Davis, Jr. I have copied and pasted it EXACTLY as it arrived in my email box:

..................................................................................................

RE: FAT WOMESN EXERCISE COACH

HEY I WANT TO TRAIN YOUR FAT ASS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I MEAN IT TO LATE TO LOSE WEIGHT BUT THAT OK YOU CAN ALWAYS RUN CIRCLE AROUND EACH OTHER BEING THAT YALL SO DAM FAT YOU MIGHT GET TIRED ON ONE STEP.

OK GO EATS SOME DONUTS I KNOW YOUR HUNGRY FROM READING THIS>

..................................................................................................

Sigh.

This message is clearly intended to provoke. And by responding to it, he wins that game.

BUT...

there are so many things that should be said to this jerk! Not the least of which is, "Learn English you idiot!" In addition, the misconception that Curves is just for fat people really chaps my hide and is always tough for me to ignore. Then there's the fact that I am not hiring someone to train my fat ass, so his insults are not only repulsive, they are entirely erroneous. But of course any logical refutation from me would fall on deaf ears.

But I got to thinking, 'who is this loser?' To have found my post he must have been perusing the job listings on craigslist, which leaves only two viable possibilities: a) he is a lonely, punk-assed teenager with nothing better to do than surf the web looking for ways to boost his ego by sending scathing emails to individuals who he can assume would be wounded by his efforts, or b) he is a guy looking for a job on craigslist with the same character flaws as the punk described in a). I struggled to envision a grown man seeking employment who could be so stupid or entertain such a waste of time, so I assumed the former to be the most logical scenario.

I knew that responding with righteous indignation would only fulfill his wishes. And explaining how hard I laughed at his preposterously pitiful grasp of both the English language and human decency would also be worthless, because he wouldn't get it. But I could not bring myself to simply delete the email without satisfying my desire to demean this shameful excuse for a person in some small way.

So I sent him a little note:

This is really how you spend your time? How pathetic!

It doesn't encompass the full wrath I wished to unleash, but it curbed my amused outrage. If I expected any response, it would be one similar to the first email. I predicted that Mr. Davis, Jr. certainly had it in him to release his full vicious potential, but I hoped that maybe he'd worry about his mom finding out and would just leave it alone. Instead, I received this response not 10 minutes after I sent my note (again, copied and pasted exactly as he typed it):

..................................................................................................

no! not really , i been unemployed for a year I have an BA in Sociology; an i'm just frustrated. i have applied for many jobs on craigslist just like this one an never get an relied, I actually own 2 german rockwallers, but Im a dawg love, I'm not interested in employment; you could say it pathetic, but I really wanted to see due employers responded. An to due that I had to say something crazy

Hey my bad I hope Didn't scared you also I wouldn't do any thing that crazy.

..................................................................................................

Whoa! I've had to read this over several times in order to interpret, but I think I've got it now. Allow me to translate. Ahem.

No! I am a complete loser who can't spell or compose a complete sentence. I like to tell people that I have a bachelor's degree, even though any college that would offer one to me should be discredited. Otherwise, the entire idea of the degree ought to hold no merit whatsoever. I applied to work at your Curves last year [see below] and you didn't give me any relied [I cannot for the life of me figure out what this word is supposed to be]. I have a couple of big dogs [maybe?] but even though I said I am frustrated about being out of work I am not interested in employment. However, I wanted you (a due [?] employer) to respond to me, and thought that by insulting your clientèle and your core business philosophies I could get your attention. That is not pathetic at all.

Now, I can't tell if his last line ("I wouldn't do any thing that crazy") implies that working at Curves would be crazy and he wouldn't actually do that, or if sending the insulting email would be crazy and he wouldn't actually do that. But he actually did both. Well, he didn't actually work at Curves obviously, but when I searched in my amazing Gmail account for his name to find the emails I wanted to copy for this post, I discovered his resume submitted in November 2008. He GENUINELY APPLIED for a job at my Curves last year. I am sure he does not remember this or have any idea that I now know this, but it makes the entire debacle that much more hilarious to me!

I reviewed his cover and resume, and there is nothing unusual about it. Other than misspelling "craglits.com" and "exercose," his writing is intelligible and professional. It's amazing how a year of unemployment can change a man. And also amazing how one can spell the same word "do" and "due" in sequential sentences. And I use that last term loosely.

What's in a name?

Okay, far-out trends in baby-naming have been around for a while: unique spelling of standard names, unexpected pronunciation of names which at first appear ordinary, odd nouns and adjectives serving as names, and the like. I always enjoy Bridget's posts about intriguing (or hilarious) name discoveries, such as this recent one where she cited a like-minded blogger's response to the list of babies born at a certain hospital in Idaho last year. A report like this always give me a hearty laugh (or several building in succession), but it also hurts my tender heart a bit considering the future of these unfortunate souls, given atrocious names without their consent, is not a joke. And it hurts my brain to ponder the mental capacity and selfish motives from which such names were spawned. Come to think of it, my eyes probably hurt the most, though, from attempting to phonetically sound out names like Taicyr, Kenideigh, and Adicyne.

The divergent trend I predict for the future is probably already occuring. There will continue to be parents who insist on standing out, eventually forced to mutilate the sacred gift of a name even further until the only remaining prospects resemble un-pronouncable groupings of letters drawn from a hat. "Hello, uh, Ialeuskj?" "No no no. It's pronounced Jack." Riiiiight.

We're already seeing the influx of "vintage" names returning, the likes of Rose, Pearl, Henry, and Afton (yep, even my own grandmother's name). After a while, parents who want to make a real statement about their baby's individuality will start choosing names from Generation X: the ones so overused they all but disappeared from new birth records, a phenomenon which will eventually allow them to be "cool" again one day. When I'm fifty there will probably be lots of new little Jessicas, Madisons, and Taylors. Of course, the question remains whether agreeably old-fashioned names like Mavis, Gerard, and Myrtle will make a comeback one day.

My daughter's name is Madelyn. Does the Y in her name place me among the ranks of baby-namers to be ridiculed? First, consider the facts: My husband and I both had an affinity toward the name Madeline, (pronounced as it rhymes with "inn" not "ine") long before we were expecting a child. We met with a financial advisor once, and I was struck with the name on her business card: Madelyn Stasko. I had never seen that spelling of an already favorite name, and loved how it assured correct pronunciation of the easily mistakable--although more typical--spelling. This woman was probably in her fifties, so was not a product of a recent naming fad. Throughout my pregnancy several years after meeting Ms. Stasko, the name Madelyn remained on our short list until the very end (obviously), but I did a lot of searching for the right name. My primary concern with Madelyn was that it had recently spiked in popularity, and I didn't wish the fate of ever-present last initial on my daughter as I had growing up. But it came down to a gut feeling about what was right. We did not intentionally name our daughter after the random financial advisor with whom we haven't spoken in years, it was simply the first time I had ever encountered that phonetically correct spelling. Since my father, Bryce, is also a financial advisor, perhaps our Madelyn Bryce will grow up being a wise investor.

My own name is very standard. I've always felt it was too boring, in fact. As a Barbie-doll playing child, my favorite part of the whole make-believe experience was selecting my Barbie's name-of-the-day. A favorite, which I gleaned from some sci-fi book, was Tanda. Awesome. But even a totally normal name like Kristen gets misspelled and mispronounced all the time. Kristin is of course the most common spelling error, but I also get these variations on spelling and pronunciation: Christen, Kirsten, Christin, Christine, Kierstin, Christian, Kristan, and more.

Now, having only heard my name spoken aloud, one is left to venture a guess at the spelling. I have had to spell my name over the phone and to receptionists all my life, and it isn't even a weird name. There are multiple acceptable spellings of even the most seemingly basic of names, like Sara(h), or Bridget(te). Of course you start going down the Saeruh and Bryjit routes and I'm no longer on board. But truly, I've never felt that the need to spell my name for people was any huge burden, and I hope that my daughter will agree. A little twist on an old favorite is nothing I get too worked up about.

What I do find slightly disrespectful is when people can see my name written clearly, and still misspell it. My email signature is clearly embedded in every message. My Facebook profile makes no mistake of the name by which I am known. Yet people reply directly to my messages with 'Hey Kristin.' Being intimately familiar with this little irritation, I make a concerted effort to get people's names right. I feel that if the letters are right there in front of you, the courteous thing to do is take an extra moment to ensure accuracy.

I feel more strongly that names ought to easily be pronounced correctly by sight-reading than that they ought to conform to some specific spelling rules. I met a new friend the other day whose name is Alyssa. Her parents specifically named her after the Alyssum flower, but for a reason which evades me insist that her name is pronounced Uh-LEE-suh. I would typically spell that Elisa or Alisa. Any first crack at Alyssa will be pronounced Uh-LISS-uh. Am I right? At least she could laugh about it.

As a general rule (which always have exceptions), names should include only necessary letters. Huntter and Tyhler are not appropriate exceptions. Maybe a helpful hint for parents-to-be is to imagine your child's name typed in Copperplate Gothic across the top of a fine linen-paper resume.

TRITON DUKE SMITH

ROWDY EASTTON SMITH

TYKEN RAYLEE SMITH

See? It really works to weed out the names that will never have a chance of being taken seriously. Those examples come straight from The List (actually Rowdy was from the 2007 list, but 2008's Tyken Raylee has a twin sister named Tylenn Braylee. I'm sobbing for them as I type this). I'm also sobbing for little Xoie (yep, that's like Zoey for all us lame people). Do your eyes hurt yet?

In summary, I like unique names, and don't even mind unique spellings within limits. But babies grow into children with insensitive peers, and children grow into adults who may want to command respect. Names like Brinley Sue and Chasitie aren't going to help. One conjures image of a redneck, the other a prostitute. And I just don't know what people will think of when they meet Taggart and Zaylee. Just go read the whole post so I can quit listing examples. There are too many great ones, I can't help it!

Not homonyms

sedimentary ~ one of the three main types of rock (the others being igneous and metamorphic rock), formed by the deposition and compression of small particles.

Sample of correct usage in a sentence: Limestone, dolomite, and sandstone are all types of sedimentary rock, which covers 75-80% of the Earth's land area.

With the intention of describing the desk job which aided in the expansion of your waistline, the word you are looking for is sedentary.


pitcher ~ 1. a vessel used to contain liquid, usually having a handle and spout for pouring. 2. the player on a baseball team who launches the ball toward home plate to begin each play in attempt to retire the batter.

Sample of correct usage in a sentence: When I saw the Yankees' pitcher in the bar, I bought him and his friends a pitcher of beer.

In discussions relating to photography, the word you are looking for is picture which is pronounced with a hard 'k' sound at the end of the first syllable. Of course, both words may be appropriately used if you have taken a picture of a pitcher.


mortified ~ a synonym for embarrassed or humiliated, as in when one is made to feel uncomfortable because of shame or wounded pride.

Sample of correct usage in a sentence: There were only two of us in the car, so when my date had to nonchalantly roll down his window to clear the gas I had passed, I was mortified.

When you are extremely frightened, or intend to describe your intense fear toward a particular object or situation, the word you are looking for is terrified. To say, "I am mortified of spiders" implies only that you might be ashamed if one were seen in your company.

Flashback Friday: An awful friend, that's me

I was in second grade at the time, about 7 years old. We lived less than 15 minutes away from my cousin, Rachel. Our birthdays are only 20 days apart, and we were very close playmates as little girls. I loved getting together with Rachel any time the opportunity arose.

The phone rang one day after school. After answering it, my mother handed me the phone saying, "it's for you."

I was delighted to hear my cousin's voice at the other end, inviting me to come over and play! Getting together on a school night was slightly unusual, but that didn't bother me one bit! Covering the mouthpiece with my hand, I eagerly asked my mom if she could drive me over. After having me confirm that it was okay with Rachel's mother, my mom allowed me to accept the invitation.

Before I hung up, brimming with excitement, Rachel casually suggested that I bring my collection of My Little Ponies and accompanying accessories. Usually we played with Pound Puppies or Barbies, so I was surprised, but not deterred.

Jacket on. Shoes tied. Wide, flat box of Pony paraphernalia gathered. And off we sped to Rachel's house.

My mom waited with the car running in the driveway while I knocked on my Aunt and Uncle's door. The moments I waited, holding that oversized box in front of me on their doorstep, were too long. Eventually Rachel's mother slowly opened the door and peered out through the crack. A perplexed look spread across her face when she saw me, and she opened the door wide.

"Kristen?...Hi honey, um, what are you doing here?" She said something like that. Oh no. Rachel told me she asked her mom, but clearly she did not. We were going to be in trouble.

But my aunt continued, "Rachel isn't here right now." My mother joined us on the doorstep to hear the explanation of where Rachel was and why it would have been impossible for her to have invited me over to play on this particular afternoon. I just stood there awkwardly burdened with a box overflowing with neon My Little Pony manes.

On the shameful drive home, my mother and I deduced that it must have actually been my neighbor from across the street who invited me over. This actually would make more sense, being that it was a school day, and we frequently entertained ourselves with the MLP make-believe. Lindsey never introduced herself, and I simply jumped to the hopeful conclusion that the playmate on the other end of the line was my cousin Rachel.

I have always wondered if Lindsey heard me enthusiastically asking my mom if I could go to Rachel's house and play. Did she think I had simply forgotten her name? And how did she react when, while anxiously awaiting my amble from across the street, she instead watched me shove my box of Ponies into the car, hop in excitedly, and drive far, far, away from her?

I think when we got home I might have called and apologized. That would, of course, be the right thing to do. But I can't remember if I sheepishly went over to play with my second-choice friend that day or not. I might have been too embarrassed.

Craigslist Capers: Snowboard surprise

I am deep in the process of attempting to purchase some decent snowboard equipment for my husband and myself through craigslist. I just sold both our sets of skis through the very same online marketplace, so I have a wad of cash which I consider to be my budget for the new gear. I really love craigslist and sincerely appreciate the baffling fact that the majority of its usage is absolutely free, yet we can enjoy it without the distracting bombardment of sidebar ads and pop-ups.

Each time I dive into the craigslist world I am reminded that there are some pretty clueless people out there. And I frequently encounter some peculiar situations, postings, and people. So I am introducing a segment here on Beyond Mommy called Craigslist Capers. I hope you enjoy it and will feel compelled to share your own entertaining craigslist experiences.

This particular hunt for two complete snowboard sets has been mentally intense and surprisingly time-consuming. We need two different specific sizes, I have particular tastes, and I am on a budget. There are not very many full sets including board, boots, and bindings for sale, and of those that even list the important details, only a few comprise the correct combination of boot and board size for either of us. Generally, those are completely hideous.

So I resort to my "craigslist dance," adding items I like to Favorites folders labeled for different combinations of board only, board with bindings, complete sets, boots for me, boots for him, etc. Then I email questions to the owners, make lists of combos I like on paper, and map out how I might be able to meet these handfuls of people to get everything I want in one trip. All of this might seem inordinately complicated (I know my husband thinks so), but consider it necessary when you live 30-60 minutes away from most craigslisters, and due to specific preferences want to limit the number of times you have to endure the awkward, "no thanks, I don't like your personal belongings, but I appreciate you answering all my emails and driving here to meet me for nothing."

I asked several people to email me photos, because either the ones on craigslist were too small or they hadn't posted any. In one instance, I could see that the snowboard had an artistic graphic printed on it but couldn't make it out. The owner resonded to my request with 5 photos. The two showing the bottom of the board appeared to be nearly the same picture. The third picture was a close-up of the Palmer logo which is already pretty clearly shown in the following, which were the best I got showing the top of the board:

You can see that there is some sort of design there around the right binding. It looks like it might be abstract painting or a stained glass design...possibly a television set there on the side.

The specs of the board fit my criteria for the mens' board, and it was a great price for their claim of it having never been used, so I agreed to meet them to take a look. I was already looking at a board for me in Oregon City (which I also did not end up buying because it was too small), and the owner of the Palmer above agreed to meet me in the same parking lot. Knowing it was a little out of her way, I tried to find a meeting place more convenient for her, but she insisted.

Following the customary pleasantries confirming that we're looking for one another, the short, round woman hauled the snowboard over to my car. I inspected the surfaces and edges first. It didn't look brand new as she claimed, but perhaps it was all only the result of garage storage.

My brief examination made its way toward the end of the board containing the graphic. It suddenly became clear why the owner didn't send more forthright photos (although it would have made more sense to simply do so).

The image is a cartoonish painting; in a style reminiscent of the old Garbage Pail Kids cards, or some of the more offensive Mad Magazine renderings. It depicts a disgusting, obese, hairy man sitting in a ratty armchair surrounded by empty liquor bottles. A fat cigar hangs between his crooked, yellow teeth, with a couple dozen more butts overflowing from a nearby ashtray onto the floor at his feet. On the wall behind him is a tiny framed pictured of a naked woman.

I gathered up my confidence and remained nonchalant when I said to the woman, "This looks like a really nice board. But I have to admit, the graphic doesn't really suit my husband's personality."

Before I even finished the sentence she conceded, "Not your style?"

Her immediate understanding, followed by the abrupt departure which seemed lightly laced with irritation leads me to believe that they have been having trouble selling this snowboard because of one common denominator.

In light of that, I don't understand why they don't simply embrace the board for what it is and focus on attracting an appreciative audience. No one is going to simply "not notice" the illustration. So by concealing it, they wasted my time as well as their own, and who knows how many others'. In addition, I believe they would actually sell the board more quickly by advertising it for what it is. The market for that artwork exists. But the people (boys) who would be interested in it will only see polka-dots until you put the edgy rebellion right in their faces. Then you won't have to bother with people who would never consider it.

Headlines

My friend Karen sent an email with a whole slew of these things. The following collection were the funniest to me, so I decided to pass along a good laugh. Enjoy.

CRIME SCENES

Oooooooooooh. It's a quarter. I see now.

I make the same mistake ALL THE TIME.

Boy, were their faces red.

At first I hoped this Mr. Beto lost his job as Senior VP of investments. But then I realized that what I really hope is that the person who submitted this "question of general interest" received a blunt smack on the back of the head.


NEWS

Why you should never rely on statistics.

Come on, doesn't this paper have an editor?

FOR SALE

Why would an individual have a wide selection of brands and designs of toilet paper to begin with?

Will file this one away in case I meet anyone named Grady, and then he dies. I do love the implication that an interested buyer would not have to be named Grady.

You never know when a collection of old people will come in handy. I'd be really disappointed if it was just a stack of magazines.

An impossible contradiction.

Just wanted you to know.