I received a notice from a third-party audit company on behalf of my insurance company. They wanted to know if a chiropractic visit I'd made was a result of an accident of some kind. Me, being slightly muddled of late, never replied -- twice. I supposed it's three strikes and you're out when it comes to nameless, faceless, companies and so I got a third, curtly-worded letter that went something like this:
"You were recently sent two notices on behalf of *name-of-insurance-company-omitted-so-I-don't-get-sued* requesting information concerning medical treatment that may be related to an accident. To date, we have not received a response.
*Audit-company-name-omitted* is a trusted business partner of your insurance company. We are committed to maintaining the privacy of your protected health information. Please take a few moment to complete the questionnaire on the back of this letter.
PLEASE DO NOT DISREGARD THIS LETTER (caps included from the letter).
If we do not receive this information, we will conclude you are not going to cooperate with your health plan in the claims process and will proceed accordingly."
I was struck by the clarity and effectiveness of the letter. It detailed exactly what sort of communication had gone before. It was clear about what I had and had not done. It took some of the curtness away by reassuring me that this strange company was indeed for me and not against me. And then, with a simple turn of phrase, it threatened me both clearly and vaguely.
And, to its credit, the letter did its job. I responded. I didn't know what "will proceed accordingly" meant and quite honestly, I didn't care to find out.
But that letter did make me think: if only it were that easy to illicit a response when it comes to interpersonal communication.
Imagine THAT letter:
Dear (fill in name of person here):
You were recently sent (fill in the number of times you tried to reach out) emails/phone messages/letters/cards/text messages requesting to spend time together/see how you're doing/deal with our issues. To date, I have not received a response.
I am a trusted friend/advocate/partner to you. I am committed to maintaining honest communication while having lots of fun with you.
PLEASE DO NOT DISREGARD THIS LETTER, even if you no longer wish to communicate or have fun with me. There are three easy ways to let me know your wishes:
1. Call me between 10AM and 10PM Pacific Standard Time.
2. Visit www.abusrdcafegirl.blogspot.com and leave me a comment on my blog.
3. Send an e-mail to let me know of your decision.
If I do not receive this information, I will conclude that you are unwilling to cooperate in this process/are a mere fraction of a person/have been kidnapped by mimes, and will proceed accordingly.
Based on this letter, every friend and loved one who's been delinquent in communication would feel compelled to let me know their wishes. I would never wonder if they didn't call or write simply because they were busy, because they didn't want to, or if they had indeed been kidnapped by mimes. Moreover, I would also know how to proceed accordingly. After all, how am I supposed to send the Clown Rescue Posse for you if I'm unaware you've been kidnapped by mimes?
If only it were that simple.
April 30, 2008
April 27, 2008
Questions Asked and Answered
Apparently, there are good questions and then there are bad ones. There are questions asked that beg more questions, and then there are questions asked that you never want to hear the answer to. There are also questions where there are no answers. Those questions are the ones I like the least.
I ask a lot of questions, I always have. Some have found this quality endearing, others find this trait draining and yet others have simply chosen to avoid me altogether. My questions sometimes sound like those of a two-year-old. "But why?" I find myself asking, sometimes in my head and sometimes out loud. Another question I ask often is, "Why not?"
I don't do this to be annoying. Unlike the two-year-old, I do have a great reasoning skills. I ask these questions because I genuinely want to know. I always want to know. Because to know is better than not to know. To know gives me direction, a game plan, ability to make decisions. To not know is hazy and murky. There's no where to go when you don't know. Or rather, you can go places, but you might find yourself stumbling around a lot in the process.
Except I'm learning that there are questions with no good answer. I've been told that these are questions I should not be asking because they will lead to more questions with equally no good answers, or they will bring answers that are hurtful and destructive either in their blatant truth or their blatant lies.
Again, I wrestle with this. I know the truth can sometimes hurt. Should I then choose to be selective about what truths I hear? I also know that lies hurt. But how would I know what a lie is if I don't know what the truth is? And when I get to this point, I feel like the Village Idiot, running around, asking bad questions then being shocked by bad answers.
In any case, I've been told to stay away from these questions as apparently no good can come from asking any of the following:
"What's there not to like about me?"
"What's wrong with you?"
"Why don't you miss me?"
"What do you mean I'm not great?"
"Do you find me exhausting?"
Yes, I know, four of those five questions are about me, and one of them implies that I am better than you. Yes, I know these questions reveal my own insecurities, doubt and selfishness. But when I ask them, I'm not doing it to illicit compliments or praise. I want to know. I want to know because it affects me and how I relate to you. And I know more often than not your answer will be disappointing to me, not because I thought I was perfect and you were wrong, but because I expected better of myself and I was working to be likeable, missable, great, and life-giving. (Although sometimes, I genuinely do think there might be something wrong with you.)
Perhaps there are better ways to ask these questions, and that is part of the work I do on a daily basis. So one day, when I do ask these questions again, I'll be able to do it in a way that isn't so shrill, so doubtful, and it won't look like I was trying to illicit a compliment to boost my self-esteem.
But believe me, I'll want to know your answer. I'll always want to know.
I ask a lot of questions, I always have. Some have found this quality endearing, others find this trait draining and yet others have simply chosen to avoid me altogether. My questions sometimes sound like those of a two-year-old. "But why?" I find myself asking, sometimes in my head and sometimes out loud. Another question I ask often is, "Why not?"
I don't do this to be annoying. Unlike the two-year-old, I do have a great reasoning skills. I ask these questions because I genuinely want to know. I always want to know. Because to know is better than not to know. To know gives me direction, a game plan, ability to make decisions. To not know is hazy and murky. There's no where to go when you don't know. Or rather, you can go places, but you might find yourself stumbling around a lot in the process.
Except I'm learning that there are questions with no good answer. I've been told that these are questions I should not be asking because they will lead to more questions with equally no good answers, or they will bring answers that are hurtful and destructive either in their blatant truth or their blatant lies.
Again, I wrestle with this. I know the truth can sometimes hurt. Should I then choose to be selective about what truths I hear? I also know that lies hurt. But how would I know what a lie is if I don't know what the truth is? And when I get to this point, I feel like the Village Idiot, running around, asking bad questions then being shocked by bad answers.
In any case, I've been told to stay away from these questions as apparently no good can come from asking any of the following:
"What's there not to like about me?"
"What's wrong with you?"
"Why don't you miss me?"
"What do you mean I'm not great?"
"Do you find me exhausting?"
Yes, I know, four of those five questions are about me, and one of them implies that I am better than you. Yes, I know these questions reveal my own insecurities, doubt and selfishness. But when I ask them, I'm not doing it to illicit compliments or praise. I want to know. I want to know because it affects me and how I relate to you. And I know more often than not your answer will be disappointing to me, not because I thought I was perfect and you were wrong, but because I expected better of myself and I was working to be likeable, missable, great, and life-giving. (Although sometimes, I genuinely do think there might be something wrong with you.)
Perhaps there are better ways to ask these questions, and that is part of the work I do on a daily basis. So one day, when I do ask these questions again, I'll be able to do it in a way that isn't so shrill, so doubtful, and it won't look like I was trying to illicit a compliment to boost my self-esteem.
But believe me, I'll want to know your answer. I'll always want to know.
April 25, 2008
As If On Cue...
My cell phone screen died last weekend. It's a Nokia model, one I bought on my 30th birthday last year. Since my move to Los Angeles, I've been able to get five bars of reception everywhere in the city except my apartment. The friendly Customer Service Reps at T-mobile suggested getting one of those phones with the ability to call over the Wireless network. With that, wah-lah, five bars.
The phone's been a symbol of my attachment to Chicago. I even bought it there since I was back for a birthday/Christmas visit. I used it on a daily basis to find some connection back to my past even as I claimed I was building some hope for the future with it.
And then, as if it knew something about where I needed to be, the cell phone from Chicago died. Actually, just the screen went out. So while it still could receive calls, I wasn't able to tell who was calling and I certainly couldn't make any calls out. It was a symbol of what my past three weeks have been like -- being on the receiving end of thoughts and words from places unknown, and being ill-equipped to respond.
T-mobile sent me a new phone that arrived in the mail yesterday. It looked just like my old phone, except when I put in my Sim card, the screen that popped out was not what I recognized. I'm not sure why, but I flashed back to the first call I got on that now-dead phone -- an unexpected but hoped-for birthday call that made me laugh, feel comforted and reassured.
For a moment, this new phone seemed like an impostor. It looked just like the old phone but it didn't have any of the text messages I'd sent, pictures I'd taken or screensavers I'd customized. There's not a record left of the past four months of messages sent or conversations had. The call log is clean. It's like no one ever called.
I'm wondering now if it's a good thing. The phone calls made and messages sent in the past four months have always left me wondering if I was becoming too attached to a city and a dream of a life that wasn't really meant for me. I was always waiting for the old phone to ring, and more often than not, I was always disappointed by its silence or horribly bad reception.
Now, I get to have a new phone. Clean slate. It seems appropriate that the first message I got was from one of my LA friends, a poker buddy confirming a game tonight.
I'm sure the call log will soon be full again. But this time perhaps it'll be a little more balanced between my now, and my then.
The phone's been a symbol of my attachment to Chicago. I even bought it there since I was back for a birthday/Christmas visit. I used it on a daily basis to find some connection back to my past even as I claimed I was building some hope for the future with it.
And then, as if it knew something about where I needed to be, the cell phone from Chicago died. Actually, just the screen went out. So while it still could receive calls, I wasn't able to tell who was calling and I certainly couldn't make any calls out. It was a symbol of what my past three weeks have been like -- being on the receiving end of thoughts and words from places unknown, and being ill-equipped to respond.
T-mobile sent me a new phone that arrived in the mail yesterday. It looked just like my old phone, except when I put in my Sim card, the screen that popped out was not what I recognized. I'm not sure why, but I flashed back to the first call I got on that now-dead phone -- an unexpected but hoped-for birthday call that made me laugh, feel comforted and reassured.
For a moment, this new phone seemed like an impostor. It looked just like the old phone but it didn't have any of the text messages I'd sent, pictures I'd taken or screensavers I'd customized. There's not a record left of the past four months of messages sent or conversations had. The call log is clean. It's like no one ever called.
I'm wondering now if it's a good thing. The phone calls made and messages sent in the past four months have always left me wondering if I was becoming too attached to a city and a dream of a life that wasn't really meant for me. I was always waiting for the old phone to ring, and more often than not, I was always disappointed by its silence or horribly bad reception.
Now, I get to have a new phone. Clean slate. It seems appropriate that the first message I got was from one of my LA friends, a poker buddy confirming a game tonight.
I'm sure the call log will soon be full again. But this time perhaps it'll be a little more balanced between my now, and my then.
April 24, 2008
These Days
These days, I reflect. I think about the whys and why nots. Why do events in our lives turn out the way the do, or why do they not? I wonder about the hows. How does this work? How can it be? I ponder the whens. When did this happen? When will this stop? But most of all, I struggle with the whats. What does this mean? What is God trying to do here?
These days are simple yet complicated. Simple because I wake up and go into my routine. Get ready for work, stop at a Starbucks, work all day making phone calls, sending e-mails and organizing data. In the evenings, I run errands or meet friends, watch some television and go to bed. Complicated because between moments of routine, pain, confusion and sorrow inevitably leak out of me. Complicated, because I walk the line every day between the routine that keeps me functional – eating, sleeping, working so I can pay the bills, and the routine that merely masks all uncomfortable emotions.
These days I try not to miss the past. This past creeps up on me when I least expect it. It comes in the form of a song, a restaurant or a sunset. The problem about the past is that it is exactly just that – past, something of before, something that will not return. These days, I’m realizing that the past may haunt but it will not come back.
These days I find things to do that will occupy my mind space. Math helps, as do games like scrabble and poker. I try to find tasks at which I know I will be successful, or that I can master easily. These days, it is too hard to risk failure. These days, I find myself just ever so slightly more fearful.
These days I am grateful for laughter, sunshine and fresh air. It reminds me that there is still much life to be enjoyed. That I am still allowed to lift my face to the sky, breathe deeply and laugh one of those laughs that come from deep within my belly. There’s not much that strikes me as funny these days, but every now and then there’s that one thing that’s so ridiculous, or witty, or incredulous that I cannot help but laugh. And when I do, I begin to feel like these days will eventually pass and there will be other days, better days, days with hope, days with a future.
These days are simple yet complicated. Simple because I wake up and go into my routine. Get ready for work, stop at a Starbucks, work all day making phone calls, sending e-mails and organizing data. In the evenings, I run errands or meet friends, watch some television and go to bed. Complicated because between moments of routine, pain, confusion and sorrow inevitably leak out of me. Complicated, because I walk the line every day between the routine that keeps me functional – eating, sleeping, working so I can pay the bills, and the routine that merely masks all uncomfortable emotions.
These days I try not to miss the past. This past creeps up on me when I least expect it. It comes in the form of a song, a restaurant or a sunset. The problem about the past is that it is exactly just that – past, something of before, something that will not return. These days, I’m realizing that the past may haunt but it will not come back.
These days I find things to do that will occupy my mind space. Math helps, as do games like scrabble and poker. I try to find tasks at which I know I will be successful, or that I can master easily. These days, it is too hard to risk failure. These days, I find myself just ever so slightly more fearful.
These days I am grateful for laughter, sunshine and fresh air. It reminds me that there is still much life to be enjoyed. That I am still allowed to lift my face to the sky, breathe deeply and laugh one of those laughs that come from deep within my belly. There’s not much that strikes me as funny these days, but every now and then there’s that one thing that’s so ridiculous, or witty, or incredulous that I cannot help but laugh. And when I do, I begin to feel like these days will eventually pass and there will be other days, better days, days with hope, days with a future.
April 13, 2008
The Absurdity of Grief
I guess the only time when grief can truly hit you is when you finally admit to yourself that something really bad has happened. Before that point you may feel sad, you may feel anxious, you may feel fear, but you will not feel grief.
I’ve done grief a few times in my life, so I’m fully aware of the way I express grief – I weep. I weep uncontrollably, loudly and pretty much at any given moment. It’s messy, it’s ugly, it’s incredibly embarrassing but it’s the way I do it.
I would love to be the stoic that withdraws from the world, writes dark and angry poetry and then makes a fortune off of my art. But unfortunately, since I’m not into slicing an ear off, I suppose I will have to accept the weeping.
I’ve gone back on forth on whether it’s a good thing to be able to cry. Crying is cathartic. But the weeping can come at the most awkward and inconvenient times, such as when someone asks the simple question, “How are you?” or when you’re watching a movie with a bunch of guys who while kind, generous and caring, really, don’t have the tools to deal with a teary-eyed girl.
I’m coming to notice the signals of the onset of weeping. First there’s the squeezing of the heart, then the shortness of breath, then the watering of the eyes. If I catch this early enough, I know to excuse myself and go somewhere I can weep in private.
Today was one of those days that I saw the weeping coming. And so I left the group I was with, got into my car in the parking lot, and of course, started tearing up almost immediately. I started the car and drove though, simply because I didn’t want to be caught in the parking lot and have to explain why I was a sobbing wreck.
Driving gave me the illusion of privacy. I was just another car on the roads of West LA. I could cry over the death of hope with a certain expectation of being left alone. When I pulled to a stop light, I started to sob. Large, loud, heart wrenching sobs. I leaned over my steering wheel and let it out. Simply because I could.
Except.
Moments later, I hear a howling, followed by an over-dramatic sob.
I look over and the car next to me is watching me. In the back seat are three young men laughing at, presumably, me.
Suddenly, I’m struck by the absurdity of it all. I’ve always thought that I would be dignified in my grief. Turns out, to the world, my expression of grief appears melodramatic, comic even.
Surely I am better than this? Surely I can be more original, more fascinating, more creative in my grief?
Tomorrow, I shall buy a notebook and some pencils. Try to write some ethereal verse or a post-modern novel or something. Because for goodness sake, I am truly better than this cliche I've become.
I’ve done grief a few times in my life, so I’m fully aware of the way I express grief – I weep. I weep uncontrollably, loudly and pretty much at any given moment. It’s messy, it’s ugly, it’s incredibly embarrassing but it’s the way I do it.
I would love to be the stoic that withdraws from the world, writes dark and angry poetry and then makes a fortune off of my art. But unfortunately, since I’m not into slicing an ear off, I suppose I will have to accept the weeping.
I’ve gone back on forth on whether it’s a good thing to be able to cry. Crying is cathartic. But the weeping can come at the most awkward and inconvenient times, such as when someone asks the simple question, “How are you?” or when you’re watching a movie with a bunch of guys who while kind, generous and caring, really, don’t have the tools to deal with a teary-eyed girl.
I’m coming to notice the signals of the onset of weeping. First there’s the squeezing of the heart, then the shortness of breath, then the watering of the eyes. If I catch this early enough, I know to excuse myself and go somewhere I can weep in private.
Today was one of those days that I saw the weeping coming. And so I left the group I was with, got into my car in the parking lot, and of course, started tearing up almost immediately. I started the car and drove though, simply because I didn’t want to be caught in the parking lot and have to explain why I was a sobbing wreck.
Driving gave me the illusion of privacy. I was just another car on the roads of West LA. I could cry over the death of hope with a certain expectation of being left alone. When I pulled to a stop light, I started to sob. Large, loud, heart wrenching sobs. I leaned over my steering wheel and let it out. Simply because I could.
Except.
Moments later, I hear a howling, followed by an over-dramatic sob.
I look over and the car next to me is watching me. In the back seat are three young men laughing at, presumably, me.
Suddenly, I’m struck by the absurdity of it all. I’ve always thought that I would be dignified in my grief. Turns out, to the world, my expression of grief appears melodramatic, comic even.
Surely I am better than this? Surely I can be more original, more fascinating, more creative in my grief?
Tomorrow, I shall buy a notebook and some pencils. Try to write some ethereal verse or a post-modern novel or something. Because for goodness sake, I am truly better than this cliche I've become.
April 9, 2008
Surprises In The City
I've always had mixed feelings about moving to Los Angeles. I had ten very good years in Chicago. I was really happy. I was comfortable. It seemed counter-productive to leave a life that I'd worked so hard to build and that I loved so much, to move to a city I knew very little about, to take a job that while interesting, was really more stress than it was worth, to leave everyone that I loved and cared for to be in a city where almost everyone was a stranger.
Even as I chose to take a risk, there was still a part of me that saw Chicago, and everyone there, as what a perfect life would look like. I wondered if Los Angeles would ever match up.
But this city, being the way it is -- colorful, vibrant and full of life, is also full of surprises.
Today, I'm touched by unexpected kindness in times of trial and trauma. If I was back in Chicago, my closest and dearest friends would have surrounded me in this time, wrapped me in their love, held me close and protected me. They would have prayed for me and with me. And I would have never thought that there were other forms of comfort that even existed.
In Los Angeles, comfort comes in surprising and unexpected ways. It comes in a walk to Starbucks with a co-worker, where we talked about nothing but building a desk, silliness at work and the weather. It comes in funny e-cards, telling me that it does get better, and that time will bring healing. It comes in Happy Hour, sharing stories about love lost and found. It comes in offers to go to lunch, offers to vent and offers to find me some distractions.
Turns out that comfort is comforting, no matter what shape or form. Everyone is eager to reach out and care for me. And I'm surprised by this. Because I am rarely this gracious, or this open, or this kind, or this giving.
It was so easy in Chicago to keep myself surrounded with the people I knew. Each of them met my needs. I didn't have to show anyone much about myself because I had enough friends who knew me and gave me what I needed before I even knew I needed it.
In LA, I find myself having to ask for what I need. And I find myself humbled by how quickly and willingly everyone responds, whether or not they know me well, share my views or my beliefs.
At this, I am surprised. But for this, I am grateful.
Even as I chose to take a risk, there was still a part of me that saw Chicago, and everyone there, as what a perfect life would look like. I wondered if Los Angeles would ever match up.
But this city, being the way it is -- colorful, vibrant and full of life, is also full of surprises.
Today, I'm touched by unexpected kindness in times of trial and trauma. If I was back in Chicago, my closest and dearest friends would have surrounded me in this time, wrapped me in their love, held me close and protected me. They would have prayed for me and with me. And I would have never thought that there were other forms of comfort that even existed.
In Los Angeles, comfort comes in surprising and unexpected ways. It comes in a walk to Starbucks with a co-worker, where we talked about nothing but building a desk, silliness at work and the weather. It comes in funny e-cards, telling me that it does get better, and that time will bring healing. It comes in Happy Hour, sharing stories about love lost and found. It comes in offers to go to lunch, offers to vent and offers to find me some distractions.
Turns out that comfort is comforting, no matter what shape or form. Everyone is eager to reach out and care for me. And I'm surprised by this. Because I am rarely this gracious, or this open, or this kind, or this giving.
It was so easy in Chicago to keep myself surrounded with the people I knew. Each of them met my needs. I didn't have to show anyone much about myself because I had enough friends who knew me and gave me what I needed before I even knew I needed it.
In LA, I find myself having to ask for what I need. And I find myself humbled by how quickly and willingly everyone responds, whether or not they know me well, share my views or my beliefs.
At this, I am surprised. But for this, I am grateful.
April 6, 2008
When You Say I Love You
I guess it could happen in any relationship.
That moment, when you bear your soul, utter the three little words you've been thinking for quite some time now but never dared to say. You tell yourself it's a declaration of YOUR feelings. And that it doesn't matter if the other person doesn't say it back. You try not to imagine the hurt and the devastation, not to mention, the awkwardness, if that other person just looks at you, doesn't say a word and changes the subject.
Except, in my case... it wasn't to my Someone I'd uttered these words. It was to a vendor I was doing business with.
I didn't mean it, really I didn't. It was purely a slip of the tongue. I had been on Instant Message with my best friend, we were in the process of ending the chat when the phone rang.
And instead of letting it go to voicemail, I picked it up. Because I think, hey, I'm a girl, I know how to multi-task. The vendor and I talk about some business. I give him a quick update, ask him to send me more information.
In the meantime, my best friend is typing her goodbye to me. And she adds, as she always does, "I love you."
And I want to say it back to her, like I always do, over Instant Message. But first, I think to myself, I need to get the vendor off the phone. And somewhere between my head, my mouth, and my fingers, something misfires, resulting in:
Me To Vendor: Thanks so much.
Instant Message: Bye, I love you.
Me To Vendor: Bye. Love you.
Click. I hang up the phone... Followed by...
Me: OH MY GOD! WHAT HAVE I DONE??????
Yes, ladies and gentlemen. I said, "Love you" to a vendor that I do business with. Somewhere on the East Coast, there is a very confused man going, "Did she just say she loved me?"
So, you may ask, what does one do in a situation like this? Do you call him back, clarify that you were talking to someone else? What if, he didn't hear me say that? Then I would have exposed too much and made something out of nothing. And if he did, and was choosing to be a gentleman and ignore it, wouldn't it be even more awkward to dredge it up again?
I chose to leave well enough alone. I didn't call him back. I didn't send him an e-mail to follow up. I did nothing. Except scream in horror and then laugh. Because, you've got to admit. This stuff is FUNNY. You can't make it up.
If you are reading this, dear Vendor, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean it. I don't love you. I'm not trying to put any pressure on you. You don't need to say it back. I do not need this relationship to move to the next level.
And the next time you call me, don't be offended if I send you to my assistant.
That moment, when you bear your soul, utter the three little words you've been thinking for quite some time now but never dared to say. You tell yourself it's a declaration of YOUR feelings. And that it doesn't matter if the other person doesn't say it back. You try not to imagine the hurt and the devastation, not to mention, the awkwardness, if that other person just looks at you, doesn't say a word and changes the subject.
Except, in my case... it wasn't to my Someone I'd uttered these words. It was to a vendor I was doing business with.
I didn't mean it, really I didn't. It was purely a slip of the tongue. I had been on Instant Message with my best friend, we were in the process of ending the chat when the phone rang.
And instead of letting it go to voicemail, I picked it up. Because I think, hey, I'm a girl, I know how to multi-task. The vendor and I talk about some business. I give him a quick update, ask him to send me more information.
In the meantime, my best friend is typing her goodbye to me. And she adds, as she always does, "I love you."
And I want to say it back to her, like I always do, over Instant Message. But first, I think to myself, I need to get the vendor off the phone. And somewhere between my head, my mouth, and my fingers, something misfires, resulting in:
Me To Vendor: Thanks so much.
Instant Message: Bye, I love you.
Me To Vendor: Bye. Love you.
Click. I hang up the phone... Followed by...
Me: OH MY GOD! WHAT HAVE I DONE??????
Yes, ladies and gentlemen. I said, "Love you" to a vendor that I do business with. Somewhere on the East Coast, there is a very confused man going, "Did she just say she loved me?"
So, you may ask, what does one do in a situation like this? Do you call him back, clarify that you were talking to someone else? What if, he didn't hear me say that? Then I would have exposed too much and made something out of nothing. And if he did, and was choosing to be a gentleman and ignore it, wouldn't it be even more awkward to dredge it up again?
I chose to leave well enough alone. I didn't call him back. I didn't send him an e-mail to follow up. I did nothing. Except scream in horror and then laugh. Because, you've got to admit. This stuff is FUNNY. You can't make it up.
If you are reading this, dear Vendor, I'm really sorry. I didn't mean it. I don't love you. I'm not trying to put any pressure on you. You don't need to say it back. I do not need this relationship to move to the next level.
And the next time you call me, don't be offended if I send you to my assistant.
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