Lunch Lady

Jack’s freaked out by the hot lunch at school.

He doesn’t eat the hot lunch– I pack him a lunch every day– but, nonetheless, it scares the heebies right out of him. I’ve tried to explain to him that there are some days he might want to get the hot lunch– the menu sometimes features pizza and grilled cheese sandwiches and cheeseburgers. But Jack is steadfast in his rather unreasonable fears.

He’s also convinced that there must be something wrong with the milk there.
Me: Jack– you know there’s cold, cold milk in the hot lunch line. If you want you can buy a milk at school…
Jack: No, Mommy! There’s only brown milk and red milk and blue milk. There isn’t white milk. I like white milk.
Me: Jack I’m positive that you can get regular white milk at school.
Jack: No, Mommy. (And he says this with his eyes closed and a sad, sad look on his face while shaking his head slowly.)

Today I got permission from the principal and the secretary to come and eat lunch with Jack. Jack was very excited. He thought this was a great idea. He couldn’t wait for school to start today so that it would “hurry up and be lunch time.” All morning he rushed me, “Mommy! Is it time to go to school yet?”  Consequently, we arrived at school about 20 minutes early to be early. We ran up the road to the gas station and picked up treats to kill some time. Jack trotted right into school announcing to everyone we passed, “My Mommy packed me a lunch but she’s going to come and eat a hot lunch with me.”

I came back at his lunch time. Jack’s school does recess first– so the secretary invited me to go out and see Jack. I watched him for a while behind the door– I don’t get to see him that way very often. He looked like every other little boy on the playground– running and somewhat dissheveled and calling out to his friends. It’s good to see him like this. To know that he’s having a good time at school. That he’s making friends. That he’s not like the little boy in his class that has a perpetually tear-stained face from being separated from his mother. Jack spotted me and waved me over. There are about a dozen balls being kicked and thrown about by the boys (the girls seemed to be content with the sidewalk chalk and swings. Things haven’t changed). I greeted his little friends and made small talk with the kids in his class that I’ve met. When it was time to line up for lunch Jack and I got into the line towards the back. He held my hand and commentated the walk into the lunchroom.

At his table we sat across from each other. A little Indian girl sat next to me. She’s chatty. We met on Monday when I took treats into Jack’s class for his birthday. Her mother comes to school in beautiful saris. The little girl has a disappointingly American name. She showed me her pink Hello Kitty lunch box and her disappointingly American lunch– a prepackaged peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The kid next to Jack had a sandwich, a container of tuna salad, crackers, fruit, and cookies. Jack had a piece of pizza, strawberries, milk (in his thermos), some Apple Jacks, and a cookie (at least I’m honest).

I got into the line with the kids for the hot lunch. There’s a Purell station, too. The children liked that everything was new to me. They were full of information on what would happen next. I was the last one in line so by the time I got my lunch– grilled cheese, tomato soup, carrot and celery sticks, fruit salad, and milk– there was only about 10 minutes left to eat.

Jack looked suspiciously at my lunch.
Jack: Mommy! What is that? Is that bread?
Me: Jack– it’s a grilled cheese. Look. See?
Jack: Is that celery? and carrots?
Me: Yes. And this is fruit. And this is soup. And this is (chomp, chew) an amazing sandwich. Do you want a bite?
Jack shook his head: Will you open my cookies?
Me: No. Eat your pizza.
The kid on Jack’s right, left, and to my right and Indian Michelle parroted, “Jack! You can’t eat cookies first!”
(This was explaining the leftovers in his lunch some days…)

The lunch lady came out to ask, “How’s your lunch, Mom?” I thanked her– for the lunch and for taking such nice care of the children. She’s a nice lunch lady with a teeny, tiny kitchen. It’s just crazy, crazy small. And she seems like a very squishy, kind woman. A perfect lunch lady for small children. I told her my Mom was a lunch lady when I was small. She liked that. “I volunteered one day, back in when I was in junior high, to work in the cafeteria– who knew this is what I would be doing now!?”

Lunchtime flew by. I almost couldn’t finish my soup. It was a great lunch and, by the end of it, I’d almost convinced Jack that the blue milk was really just plain, regular milk. (The brown milk turned out to be chocolate and the red milk was strawberry flavored.) Jack gave me a big kiss before he left to get in line and his little buddy Alarik gave me a hug. I got a lot of high-fives, too.

I know that Jack won’t always think it’s neat for me to come to school and eat or work… so I’m soaking this up now while I can.

And I’m definitely going back on grilled cheese day.

Julie & Julia & Terri & Trisha (part 2)

I'd meant to stage a pretty, pretty shot. I'd intended to have some of the Boeuf Bourguignon perfectly plated. Maybe garnish it. And then, in the frenzy of finishing it up and dishing up plates for Trish, Keegan, Maddie, Robby, and myself I forgot. So here's a picture of a very, very happy husband and his nearly empty bowl.

So, apparently, being trendy has its rewards. (At least, in this case, eating my words is delicious…)

I didn’t like jumping on the “I’m going to make Julia Child’s Boeuf Bourguignon because I saw the movie…” bandwagon but I’m glad I did.

Turns out its worth the effort. The meat soaks up all that yummy wine and stock as do the onions and ’shrooms. It’s a rich, rich dish yet not heavy or cloying. Trish declared it “a good summer time pot roast” or “an anti-gravy pot roast.”

Robby lapped it up, too.

Julia recommends serving it with noodles. We thought that sounded rather shrieky. She also suggested boiled potatoes– but we all like mashed better. It was a good combo. I tried to make some braised carrots because Julia’s recipe is pretty scant on carrotage… but I was distracted by the Just Home From School Jack’s antics and nearly turned the carrots into charcoal. Next time I’d add more carrots in at the beginning. You can’t have too many cooked carrots. Especially when they are in stock and wine.

I’m putting Mastering the Art of French Cooking on my radar. Hopefully a nice hard cover copy will turn up at the library sale this fall?

Bon appetit Julia. Thanks for a great dinner.

September 20, 2009

Dear JackRabbit,

It’s beyond my imagination how it is already the eve of your Fifth Birthday. Never, ever have five years flown by so quickly!

This has been such a great year– I’ve loved Four-Year-Old-Jack most of all– this year we discovered your imagination and creativity. You tell us stories now. Your wildest dreams are bigger– and so are your nightmares (though thankfully you are still small enough that you’ll crawl into bed with us to chase the monsters away again. And, by the way, you are a hoot to sleep with– you scrunch, then sprawl, then flip, then, suddenly, flop… You’ve managed to simultaneously slap me in the eye and knee Daddy in the groin so that both of us are groaning and “ow!”ing while you sleep through it all…) You make us laugh every day– you’re a ham, through and through.

You’re frustratingly stubborn, too– you have an independent streak that defies our best attempts on some days… It still makes me crazy that there are so many foods you won’t try– but, just when I start to despair that your palate will forever be limited to grilled cheeses, pizza, and “chicken” sticks you turn around and pop a brussel sprout in your mouth and declare it, “Good!” You surprise us all the time.

This has been the Year of the Map– you have poured over maps of Michigan, Ohio, the United States, Europe, and the world… you’ve learned your state capitals and every major sea and lake on any map you’ve looked at twice. I hope it means you’ve liked the places we’ve taken you to– and that, like your Mommy and Daddy– you long to see more of the world and to revisit the parts you’ve already seen.

We took some good trips this year, kiddo– kicking off your year with the trip to Ireland with Momma and Eric. You aren’t supposed to remember as much as you do– I love that even now, a year later, you’ll suddenly find the familiarity or similarity in something here with something we saw on our whirlwind trip around the Emerald Isle. We’ve been  Up North and to Ohio and to a “waterpark,” and aquarium, farmer’s markets, the zoo, and to the beaches of Family Camp.

We’ve read books– your favorites this year are I Know an Old Lady, The Kissing Hand, Hug, Curious George’s Big Book of Curiosity, “The Learning Book” with Daddy, your big Animal book, and Green Eggs and Ham. You still love Cars and now you love Finding Nemo. You love to play pretend– restaurant (where what we order is never, ever available– but your suggestions always are… such a weird restaurant and yet Daddy and I come back again and again…), or pirate sword fights (with teeny playmobile swords), and with the little wooden village set from Ireland, “Mommy, this is the pohb.”

You’re a whiz at puzzles. You love church. You sing “I Am the Church” and the “States Song” all day long. You do a great impression of the “music truck” (other people would refer to that as the Ice-Cream Truck…). You can say the Lord’s Prayer and your own little prayers that are so earnestly honest that Daddy and I are utterly convinced that our God is a joyful God.

Your hugs are fiercely wonderfully squeezey. You give “mah!mah!mah!” kisses or dole them out in “4– because I’m 4″ amounts.

I couldn’t love you more if I tried, JackRabbit. Everyday you make my heart bigger and make me look at the world around me differently– I’m kinder. More tolerant. Less ready to judge. Kudos, kiddo, on that.

I was hoping this year that you’d have a little sibling to love. You’ve asked about one and you love the babies around us… and maybe we’ll still have a littler person one of these days. I hope so. I’m not ready for this to be my last night with a four-year-old in the house.

Still… I can’t wait to see what Five-Year-Old-Jack does. You’ve kept us on our toes and each year has been impossibly better than the one before it– so work your magic, Little Man–.

We love you, so awfully much,

Mommy

Bad News, a coda.

The surrealish lighter side of our recent dark days:

Sitting in the ER exam room (in my pretty, pretty gown that kept gaping open. Argh.) there were strange delays beyond the usual ER delays. Susan was with me. Calm, soothing Susan. The nurse rushed in at one point to tell Susan and I that “We haven’t forgotten you– we just have two guys that need to be airlifted out.” Susan and I gaped at each other. Airlifted out? That can’t be good. We sputtered out our curiosity–”why?”  The nurse threw the word “Nascar” over her shoulder as she rushed away again. Nascar? Wow. Our curiosity was tempered soberly with the assumption that there must have been a crash of some sort. This proved a decent distraction. On the way back from a test the bed I was on was caught up in a traffic jam of hospital equipment outside of a trauma room overflowing with EMTs, gurneys, machines, and hospital staff. A nurse looked at me sternly and pulled the curtain closed (Yes, because at that particular moment in my own trajectory I was soooo interested in what was going on.) while an orderly moved enough stuff out of the way so they could push me past it all and back into the room. I breathed a little prayer for the people in that room. When the nurse finally came back to us we asked after the two men. “Were they drivers?” The nurse looked confused. “The Nascar men that were airlifted–,” we prompted. Nurse sighed exasperatedly, “No. They weren’t drivers. They’re people that think they can get on top of an RV when they’re drunk and not fall off.” Yes. Apparently this is a really common occurence in our little ER on race weekends– drunken idiots falling off of the tops of RVs and schoolbuses. Falling on to lawnchairs, grills, their friends below. And other men that pick up still-hot grills to move them. (Well, one can’t be too careful. If the skies are raining drunken race fans then surely one would choose to pack up their still-smoking grill to be safe.) We laughed out loud while the nurse apologized for our wait. When the doctor came back in he apologized, too. We told him we’d heard that it was a Nascar weekend–. He said it was the perfect storm, really– the Nascar races coupled with the end of the county fair. “Imbreedapalooza” was what he called it. Again, we laughed out loud. I asked the nurse, “Would it make you feel better to know we are both college educated? Susan has her masters, too.” The nurse laughed, “There is more education concentrated in this room then the entire floor right now.”

Later that night there was a comedy of errors when the nice nurses on the Joint Replacement wing tried to find one of those fold-out chairs for Robby who was staying the night with me. They found one on the Pediatric floor and brought it up only to realize that to get it in the smaller room (apparently people don’t spend the night with their loved ones getting a new knee?) would require them pulling my bed out into the hall first. We ended up putting me at an angle and Robby half-blocking the narrow hallway in… making the nurses that came in to change the IV have to crawl over his head in the wee smas of the morning. And, while we are grateful for their gesture– it was really kind of them– we aren’t all that sure that he wasn’t better off with the two chair set up he’d been wraggling with prior to their kindness.

While all this was happening the new CNA (or whoever it is they let take vital signs but not really do anything else)– and she was really, really new– couldn’t get a viable pulse in one of my arms. She’d have called it. I’d be buried now. Thankfully her supervisor was able to ascertain that she might want to use the other arm before recording that I was without any viable blood pressure.

Fast forward to the next day. I’m laying in the recovery ward, waking up groggy. There is a man across from me– I can sort of see the shape of him (I don’t have my glasses) because our curtains are both open. He’s yelling,  ”F***K! F***************K!” His nurse shushes him and asks him not to curse. Reminds him that there are other patients. What exactly are you in for if, when you wake up in Recovery, you are yelling such a strong word? Did he fall off his RV?

There are a lot of things I’m grateful for these days but that I have a sense of the absurd is right up there.

 

 

 

Yesterday I had my follow-up appointment with my doctor. All seems well.

Visitation

When someone you really, really loved dies it changes funerals from there on out. 

Our friends called the other night. Our friend Will’s father had died. I’ve known Will and his family since college. We drift in and out of the other’s life every few years. My memories of his dad are warm and vague. He was kind to me. He had a good sense of humor. In their family the father was the quieter one. The rest– mother, son, and daughter– told stories that piled on top of the other’s and collided with unbelievable punchlines– but believable because these were the kind of people to whom such zany things happened. The father, while capable of telling his own stories, seemed content to sit in the shadow of their performance. He’d throw out a wry remark. I liked that about him.

I haven’t seen our Will and his wife in person for two years? three? but the phone call negated that. News of someone else’s father can hurtle you back in time to a place where your own gut was kicked in. We’ve been lucky. But we’re at the age now where these kinds of calls will come to us more frequently.

It’s distracted me this week. Thinking of their loss. Thinking of my loss. Walking through the blur of those days in my head. The long, long list of decisions that must be made immediately. Decisions and choices and options that are all completely final. Irreversible.

The obit was well written. We suspected (and we were right) that Will had crafted the words. It wasn’t the standard obituary that has been assembled out of a questionaire. It has style and heart. It was an interesting read. The things I already knew were layered in things I didn’t.

Last night I went to Will’s home town for the visitation. My friends, Wally and Katie, offered a ride which was a gift. (Time with them, under any circumstances, always is a gift.)  But particularly when Robby and I were trying to figure out how to manage a visitation and a four-year-old. Our only option seemed to be an awkward tag-team arrangement involving the parking lot.

I’d never been to this particular funeral home– but they are all alike. The overwhelming odor of flower arrangements. The soft, pink lighting and quiet music. Displays of photographs and accomplishments. Guestbooks. Lots and lots of chairs. There are always wide stairways with awnings that dip low (is that to shield the family from the happy world or the world from the sad family?)

Seeing my friends– the wife thin and pale and tired– she worrying about him– and he with eyes welling up and not the quick wit or acidic remark… made my throat lumpy. They had, until a few days ago, all their parents. Now there’s been a shift in the dynamic of their family. The shift that takes away the safety net of there being another generation. MentallyWill’s added his mother to his responsibilities because he is the only son. Wally, as another only son, offered wise words to this new role. And while he spoke I realized that he, too, was back to the days when it was his father that had died and he stood to greet the people that had come.

I wondered who else in the room shared that perspective. Who’s death had tempered their response, their actions, their presence, their empathy?

And I wondered what would remain in ten years– what memory would be sharp enough to pierce the fugue. A classmate’s father died the same week as my Dad’s. Our fathers were in the same funeral home. We had not kept in touch but I remember thinking how strange it was that noone of all the many people we’d grown up with in school– some that went to both visitations– would understand the other as we did in that moment.

Wally and Katie and my old friends talked for a while and then we said our goodbyes and headed back home. I hoped that the longest night for them would be brief. That today will be bearable. And each raw day that passes until it isn’t so sharp and mean and unexpected.

Their little family has a gift– a little niece due around Thanksgiving. She’ll make this first year of First Without a year of Firsts With. I hope that she gets some of his kindness. His wryness. She’ll hear a lot of his stories told by other voices. I get so sad sometimes thinking that Jack didn’t get to overlap with Dad. There are no photos of the two of them playing or birthday cards with my Dad’s loopy signature… and yet, sometimes, it’s as though he gets more of Dad than even my nieces did (and there are great Dad stories they starred in).

Keegan’s War of Words

Trish said 17 hours ago:

…So he’s prepared for the big stuff–potty usage, adults that will help, alphabet, states and capitals, stranger danger. BUT have you taught him ALL the swear words?

(to those that don’t know that Keegan story…I’ll let Terri tell it when she’s having a slow day!)

 

I might be mixing Keegan stories together– a little Keegan Mixed Metaphor?– but, as I recall it happened like this:

My sister picked up young Keegan (I think she was in kindergarten or first grade?) from her elementary school one day. Maddie got in the backseat chattering about her day, happy to regale her Mom with the adventures du jour. Keegan walked deliberately to the car and got in silent and sullen.

Trish asked: Keegan, what’s wrong?

(Trish assumed this might be another “Yellow” or “Red” card day. The elementary school the girls attended had a disiplinary system of Green (good), Yellow (a warning had been issued), and Red (the kid’s parents get called because some infraction has taken place. Keegan was often being pulled to one side of the room for talking or “disturbing others”… the problem was that Keegan was too darn smart and finished her work easily then grew bored waiting for everyone else.)

Keegan burst into tears. Apparently the kids, being kids, had set her up. The ressurected joke of the day (this one’s been around for a long, long time) was to hold out your tongue with your fingers and say the word apple.

Go ahead. I’ll wait. Do it.

Yeah. See? Doesn’t sound like apple, does it?

The kids had all laughed and laughed. Poor Keegan didn’t get the joke. What was so funny about the word apple? Trish delicately explained and defined the word asshole.

Keegan was still ticked, “Why didn’t you tell me about that word? If I’d known about it they wouldn’t have laughed at me!”

And then, seizing the Teachable Moment, Trish continued, “But it’s not a nice word at all. Unfortunately some people– mostly grown-ups– don’t have a very good vocabulary so they have to resort to using words like asshole. And a lot of kids use those words because they hear them and they think it makes them sound like grown-ups… and they’re parents don’t tell them they shouldn’t. But you girls are so smart! You have such great vocabularies that you don’t have to use those kinds of words. You can express yourself in so many ways with all the great words you know.”

The girls took this in.

Keegan: “Wait! There are more bad words!?!”

Trish: “Well, yes– there are lots of words that even adults shouldn’t say.

Keegan: “Tell me the other words.”

Trish (slightly exasperated),  “Keegan! There are too many bad words. What am I supposed to do– tell you all of them?”

Keegan: “Yes.”

Trish: “Okay. But once I tell you them then they’ll be in your head and you won’t be able not to know about them. So think about that and if you still want to know all the bad words I’ll tell you them.”

Keegan: “I’ll let you know.”

The best part for us (other than watching us all grab our tongues to see what the joke was– and that WAS funny– Robby, Momma, me, the girl’s Dad, Trish– all with our tongues sticking out…) was Trish’s panic late that night and wondering if she’d have time to put together some kind of list of bad words and could we all help.

For the record– Keegan never asked to know.

Retail Therapy

So we stopped at H&M on the way to pick up my mother at the airport. My nieces and sister talked me into going along (and I was smart enough to remember to yell, “Shotgun!” so I got to ride in front…)

In 15 minutes I bought a dress and a long tunic.

Didn’t even look at the price tags. Just tried them on and marched up to the counter. $68.79 and darn if I didn’t feel a little better.

Of course, after I eat this entire box of meringues from the boulangerie in Lauris, France, I may not fit into either thing.

Huh.

For the most part– even the people you think are jerks– can be really kind once in a while.

There. That’s your thought for the day.

Jack now

If I could, I think I’d keep Jack just as he is now for a while. He’s always been a funny kid but lately he’s turned up the dial a notch on his creativity.

Some highlights:

• We’ve taken the rail off his crib so that he’s sleeping in a little daybed now. It was hard to take off the front piece of the crib. He didn’t mind it– he nestled into his little crib every night without complaint and waited patiently in the morning for us to lift him out again. He could crawl out– and occasionally did– but, for the most part, he was content. My sister and I both slept in our cribs when we were in kindergarten. Like Jack we were small enough and it didn’t occur to us to be insulted. Still. It was time. He likes his new bed. He hops down in the morning and trots into our room casually, “Good morning Mommy.”
• Jack went on his first water slide last week. We took him to a hotel that had a waterslide, pool, and splash area. He was delighted. For about $12 I was able to get a little kickboard, waterwings, and an assortment of little pool toys. He loved the waterwings. The slide was supposed to be for people 48″ tall– Jack is nowhere near that… but, luckily, the rules were pretty lax and no one said anything about it. His face was a mix of pure exhilaration and pure terror when he came down the first time. Robby and I took turns catching him at the bottom, bobbing him in the water, and pointing him toward the ladder for another slide. His joy right now is so complete. So pure.
• We also took him to a friend’s farm museum. We took the free wagon ride with Farmer Brad who kindly let Jack sit up front with him. Jack was thrilled. We sat on haybales next to him while he studied all the things that Farmer Brad did. (Jack yelled, “Giddyup” to the horses who twitched their ears and took a step up.) When the wagon was full Farmer Brad turned and tipped his hat, “Hello, My name is Farmer Brad and I’ll be taking you on this wagon ride today. The horses here are named Duke and Dempsey.” Jack listened politely then turned, stood, pulled my hat off my head, placed it on his own, and announced, “Hello, My name is Woody. Mommy is Jessie the Cowgirl and Daddy is Buzzlightyear. You are all horses.” His first public interpretation. Sigh.
• His new expression when things go wrong, “Oh! This is terr-ible!”
• The fairies have come to live in Jack’s fort. He went out one day to find a tiny door that opens to the fairy that lives inside. There’s been an exchange of little surprises and even a note from the fairies. Jack is enchanted with the whole concept.
• Jack’s gymnastic class culminated in a End of Year Parent’s Program. He forward rolled and bounced and kartwheeled (which, for Jack, is really just swinging his little rear end over while he hops)… and was awarded, with all the other children, a participation trophy. It’s nifty. It lights up and flashes. As trophies go, this one’s pretty snazzy. He was impressed. It has batteries. Batteries are pretty big in a 4-year-old’s world.
• There is genuine chatter now. About anything and everything. Get Jack started on a topic he’s interested in and be prepared to listen for quite a while. Favorite topics include: dinosaurs, Lightening McQueen and his world, coins, and instuctions.
• Georgia-the-Teddy-Bear goes everywhere with us now. To church and the grocery store and to visit Granny. Georgia is always nearby, in Jack’s arms, or in my purse. I can’t think of how any future friend will be as loyal and true as this one.

Well. Time to stop. The little man in question is wondering what is for lunch. Me, too.

Hold, please.

Oprah keeps telling us all that this is our Wake Up Call.

Consider me hitting the snooze button. Sleeping in. Taking the phone off the hook.

I’m tired of all the doom and gloom and blathering on about the economy. Blahdittyblahblahblah.

Monday morning was my first Monday morning in months of not driving to work. Nearly every Monday since September I’ve gone into work early to knock off press releases and the ilk while Jack and Robby negotiate the school day preparations. This Monday we sent Daddy off to work and Jack and I went through the rituals of cereal, clothes, and backpack. I dropped off the little rabbit then drove to the park and willed myself to walk around the 1.3 mile trail twice.

It had seemed like a good idea the week before. Unfortunately the temperature was hovering just over 20 degrees with a biting wind. I looked ridiculous– layers of old ski clothes and my Pakistani Freedom Fighter Hat. (It’s really just an odd shade of green and simple wool hat but it’s made in Pakistan and we’ve always called it that.) I kicked myself for not buying an iPod before the reality of semi-unemployment hit. The first lap went okay. I moved fast enough to stay warm and two sides of the walk really weren’t so bad. The other two sides– were the wind came sheering across the open fields was a bit cruel. Apparently Mother Nature thinks I haven’t been kicked around enough.

On the second lap there was a creepy man hovering in a white van. The kind of van without windows in the back that will be easy enough for the producers on Oprah to find when they are doing the reenactment of my disappearance footage. I walked the long way around it– avoiding the side door and then spotted another creepy man with a backpack who, the closer I walked to him, slowed his gait. We would intersect at the one point in our park where there is no visibility from the road. A stretch through the frozen swamp where the chunks of my body would be found in about 6 weeks when the ground thaws. I turned on my heel and walked back the other way. There are very few incidences in my life where I’ve regretted being born a girl– this would be one of them. Stupid creepy men and their vans and backpacks.

I walked again on Wednesday– this time I ran for 100 steps, walked for 100 steps on the first lap. Again– an iPod would have improved my lot. At least it was well above freezing. I lapped an old lady. (She had an iPod, by the way.) Today the price of all my good intentions is a flare up of plantar facsiitis… Mother Nature could care less whether or not I’m healthier. (And she probably has a freakin’ iPod, too.)

Tomorrow I’m walking with my mother-in-law. She’s better than an iPod. We’ll mock the super serious healthy people together.

We’ll see what the next weeks hold. In the meantime call the front desk and tell them to hold my calls.