Business Minded – Diary of Ann Franks

POW

Published on October 4, 2013October 26, 2022 by Diary of Ann FranksLeave a comment

This has been one of those weeks. Since attending a funeral on Monday, the following days consisted of what appears to be a coordinated effort by a number of people to either drive me scream-crying into the street, or to force me to punch someone in the face.

“I am going to punch someone in the face,” is, in fact, my new mantra. Not that I had an old mantra.

Apparently, I am having some anger issues.

I DID manage to go to the gym twice this week and row myself into a state of calmness, which was nice, and may have saved several people from being punched in the face.

I also treated myself to a couple of trips to the tanning bed. I fool myself into thinking this is okay for me because I am vitamin D deficient and so the tanning session is actually therapeutic. Two days ago, the orange-colored young man who checked me in asked what I was using to tan. I told him, “myself.” He quickly went into the annoying sales pitch for tanning lotion that is the bane of my existence and yet another behavior that makes me want to punch people in the face.

He insisted that I apply my $20 credit toward some lotion to help with my tanning. Out of curiosity, I asked him how much the one he was shoving at me cost. He gleefully told me that after the $20 coupon, I would only need to pay $68 to have the joy of owning that lotion. I nearly spit at him. I DID laugh out loud, which he did not take well. His orange complexion turned decidedly rust colored.

I informed him that I don’t spend that kind of money on anything relating to my physical maintenance. Seriously. That’s Neimans money. I’m a CVS girl. But Palm Beach Tan wants me to spend $88 full price for something called “Dark D Light” or some such. Actually, he also showed me some “more affordable” options called “It Factor” and “Bringin’ Sexy Black.”

I kid you not. That is not a typo.

I don’t know who names these things, but I really want to punch that person in the face.

When I refused again, he warned me that when you don’t use lotion, your skin REFLECTS THE LIGHT FOR 8 MINUTES. Therefore, I wasn’t getting the best out of the tanning bed session. I found this confusing since they tell me I can’t stay in the tanning bed for more than 12 minutes lest I fry myself. But now I’m not doing anything but wasting time for 8 of those minutes? Make up your mind, people.

I don’t need this sales quota fear mongering – especially from some 20-year-old oompa loompa.

I refused to participate in the ridiculous conversation any longer unless he was going to let me punch him in the face, which I doubted.

So now, I have a little healthy color and have made it through the week without hurting anyone.

We’ll call that a win.

And maybe make some adjustments to the hormones I’m on.

THEY CALL IT “HOLIDAY SPIRIT” BECAUSE IT MAKES YOU WANT TO DRINK

Published on December 2, 2012 by Diary of Ann Franks1 Comment

Due to medication and someone having the terrible judgment (sorry, Mom, but it’s true sometimes), I was left to my own devices in the mall. As the story goes, Mom met me at Northpark Center to generously purchase my early Christmas present, birthday present and perhaps Easter gift, all in one.

Once she departed, I drifted over to Brookstone where I bought a FABULOUS new cover and keyboard to go with my FABULOUS new ipad. So far so good except the part that I left out about how my iPhone charger “socket?” is corroded, which is highly unusual and caused my numero uno IT contact at work – to whom I immediately sent an email from the store – to respond to my email with probing technical questions like,

-Are you using some “odd ball” charger?
-Are you working on the beach at the ocean?
-Have you tried not breathing on it?

He has promised to help me Monday if I bring him a flaxen haired fair maiden and two pigs. Not necessarily in that order.

ANYWAY, off I go with my new stuff… oh, I forgot to say I moved the car because this mall is BIG and I HATE malls, so I moved my car closer to where the Brookstone was so I would have to deal with less people NOT GETTING OUT OF MY WAY. (Can you even imagine how stressed I am when not on 10 mg of Valium?)

I do the deal at Brookstone and stroll (or power walk with elbows jutting out to take up as much space as possible so I don’t get knocked over by people) to the nearest exit (right by Macy’s) and drive happily away. Until I am 5 minutes from home in my medicated stupor and realize I did NOT go into Macy’s (the other reason for going to the mall) and pick up my new black riding boots and scrumptious patten leather pumps. You see, I had purchased them days ago but had to wait to pick them up until after the 28th to save 25% – and so they “THE MAN, i.e. Donald Trump” could lure me back into the shoe department.

Instead, I had to return to the mall on Saturday. Saturday. In December. A MALL. I searched – and I am not joking – 40 minutes for a parking space which I found far, far away from my destination and put on my game face. You’ll have to take my word for it. Game face is SUPER SERIOUS and has been known to make people clasp their small children a little closer.

Guess what happens at Northpark Center in December? Holiday Events. LOTS of them.

EVERYWHERE.

I passed Santa’s Toy Shoppe Puppet Theatre, Gingertown Dallas, and the Holiday Performance Area. Not sure what was happening there, but it involved a choir, then I saw them shove a bunch of semi-nude dancers on stage. The only explanation I can come up with for the costumes was that the next group – possibly the Cirque Dreams Holidaze – had absconded with every sequin in the tri-state area.

I made my way back out of Macy’s and crossed the mass of humanity watching the latest festive performance. Then and there, a Christmas miracle happened.

I was speeding unencumbered toward the exit, when from behind me in the performance area, I heard the strains of… Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries – and I smiled in victory.

AN ALTER EGO EVENING

Published on October 4, 2012December 9, 2012 by Diary of Ann FranksLeave a comment

After the vacation posts, I’ve had trouble getting back into the regular swing of writing. Work is insanely busy. The boys came home from their respective colleges for a visit. Work is insanely busy. Did I say that already? Really, really busy.

So busy, in fact, that we (the marketing and graphics team) went to dinner and drinks last night to celebrate basic survival and sanity. Things for which we have a whole new appreciation.

A good time was had by all and we only embarrassed ourselves a dozen times or so. I don’t know what happened to my normally professional, yet fun group, but I think someone put something in their drinks. Okay, OUR drinks.

It started out innocently enough, at a table in the bar over a pre-dinner cocktail. With dry ice.

Then, we moved into the quiet, elegant dining room where only a few other tables held diners who spoke softly to each other as the soothing sound of the water feature lulled them into a delusion. The delusion that five women could sit at a table together – not working late for the first time in weeks – and not totally lose their minds.

My breakdown began when I was told by the waiter that my favorite items at this restaurant (which I had been bragging to the girls about for DAYS) were no longer on the menu.

“No giant onion rings?”

“No,” the mellow voiced waiter, Jordan, answered. “But we have a new item. Corn.”

“Corn?” My eyebrows scrunched together as I tried to make sense of this.

“Whiskey creamed corn. It’s excellent.”

“Jordan, do you see that no matter how excellent it is, it’s not a giant onion ring?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. What about the bacon wrapped cheese stuffed shrimp?”

Sadly, Jordan admitted, “We don’t have that anymore.”

“I see.”

“Well, just bring us some of that delicious bread I’ve been craving all day.”

“The ones that come in little six packs?”

“Yes, those.”

“Yeah, we don’t have those anymore. We have baguette now.”

“Kill me.”

As I inelegantly rested my forehead on the table, proud of myself for not banging it against the surface over and over, a strange thing happened.

The marketing team’s alter egos came out to play.

We had the F-bomber, Madame LOUD, the Spiller, the Instigator, and my mother.

The F-bomber was in rare form and seemingly unaware of her ferocity, or the fact that we were the only people speaking loudly enough to be heard in the whole restaurant.

Also suffering from some sort of inner ear anomaly, was Madame LOUD. Normally, at work, when Madame comes close to discuss something “privately” her volume level is so low I have to lip-read. Not that she is unusually quiet all the time, but the volume knob typically doesn’t get stuck at 11. It usually hovers around 5-7. At our table near the front door, in a quiet restaurant with a handful of people, she was determined to include the kitchen staff in our conversation, lest they feel uninformed.

At this point, I started channeling my mother, who continued to “Sssshhhh” people with a hand gesture reminiscent of an agitated sock puppet.

It didn’t work.

The Instigator managed to keep herself out of trouble, but offered encouragement to everyone else around her. Mostly by laughing.

The Spiller doused herself in red wine, which she tragically thought had only stained her skirt, but had in fact sloshed all over the white blouse she wore. The pronouncement of relief as she dabbed at her black skirt – completely unaware of the giant red stain virtually under her nose brought on a fresh burst of laughter from the table and scowls from those near us. And an MF bomb.

Somewhere around this time, for some ill-conceived reason, the general manager brought us complimentary bottles of red and white wine. (I think to make up for the onion ring and bread disappointment.) But REALLY? What was he thinking? Were we not loud and obnoxious ENOUGH? He was GIVING us bottles of wine?

The red was gratefully accepted, but the white FREE wine was rejected by Madame LOUD on my behalf. Too sweet. With a look of complete confusion on his face, the poor GM went away and came back with something oakier and more buttery. (Like the missing bread used to be.)

He also agreed that the wine he tried to foist on us (for FREE) was pretty sweet for a Chardonnay.

The Instigator giggled.

Jordan rolled his eyes and wished us far, far away.

I shushed everyone. Again. Unsuccessfully.

Today, the Instigator has a bruise on her shoulder-blade. (Madame LOUD became Madame I Don’t Know My Own Strength.)

The alter egos have not been seen since.

ANGRY BIRDS AND THE LOST WEEKEND

Published on April 15, 2012 by Diary of Ann Franks2 Comments

My name is Ann and I am addicted to Angry Birds.

I’m late to the party on this. My brother had already long conquered all the thieving, good for nothing pigs when I first downloaded the free version of the game on my iPhone. It wasn’t long before I upgraded to the full version. And the rest is history.

For those who are unfamiliar (if anyone out there is), Angry Birds is a game in which these cute, crafty, snuffly green pigs have stolen the birds’ eggs from their nests. Now, the birds are understandably angry. The Flock consist of red birds, yellow birds, black birds, blue birds and white birds. As you get further along, a few new additions come into play. There’s a very frustrating boomerang bird, an orange bird that blows up like a balloon, and a big brother bird. Each jumps hopefully into a giant catapult to be launched at the pigs’ fortress in order to squash them. Each bird has its special trajectory and talent for destroying the various parts of the fortress, depending on how you draw back the catapult and aim.

It’s awesome.

The game has been downloaded 50 million times. No, not by me alone. According to Paul Kendall at The Telegraph, everyone from Dick Cheney to John Hamm are playing. And you don’t need a smart phone for it. It’s available for PC and Mac as well.

Yesterday I played for probably – uhm, way too many hours. I refuse to calculate specifically for fear I will become depressed and launch into a productive frenzy to counteract my wasted Saturday.

I did realize somewhere along the way that my left hand was cramping from holding the phone and I was starting to list to one side from trying to encourage the falling lumber, steel or rocks to land on just ONE MORE stinkin’ pig.

That technique doesn’t work, by the way.

There’s just something so satisfying about crushing those little green guys and having one or two birds left (who do little celebratory flips, by the way, and shout Wheee!) that makes me indescribably pleased.

The problem is, how am I supposed to answer on Monday when people ask how my weekend was?

“Great! Got stuck on the Birdday Party level 18-2, but think I’ve got that goofy orange bird sorted out now and fully expect to kick butt on Surf and Turf by Tuesday.”

People will talk.

In whispers.

While rolling their eyes. Their little piggy eyes…

I should seek professional help.

And maybe go do some laundry or something constructive.

Just as soon as I get to the next level.

Wheeee!

“You’re goin’ down, pigs!”

TORNADO TOWN – DON’T TRY THIS AT HOME

Published on April 4, 2012April 4, 2012 by Diary of Ann Franks4 Comments

Yesterday was a big day in the metroplex. We had a dozen tornadoes reported on the ground. Being at work in the downtown area, I had little clue so much drama was taking place. We DO have floor to ceiling windows on the North and South sides of the building, so I have a good view of the sky most of the day. But as far as I knew yesterday, the weather was the norm for Texas this time of year. Major thunderstorms. Big whoop.

I may have even said “Big whoop” at some point.

Then, I noticed our automatic blinds were closing, which irritated me because it was storming and I like to watch the clouds as they form little puffs or tails. I had just rounded the corner muttering to myself and heading for my boss’ office when one of our IT guys stepped off the elevator and announced, “There’s a tornado on the ground. We need everyone to take shelter.”

I have not heard these words at work before. I’m in a three-story office building on the edge of the West End in Dallas. Near the highway. A couple of highways. And Reunion Tower. I guess ever since that tornado struck downtown Fort Worth in 2000, tornadoes are cocky enough to pop up anywhere they feel like it.

Wondering why our PA system was a human being rather than a PA system, I followed him around the corner to my work space and listened as he told our side of the office the same thing – and to head for the West stairwell or the break rooms. Now.

Strangely, I grabbed my purse. Then I stood a moment trying to decide which sounded better. Stairs or break room. I made eye contact with the “boss man” who happens to be one of the architects who designed the building. He says, “Break room.” I follow.

A crowd had already gathered. It was just tight enough to bump elbows with people, which from what I hear means it’s a good party. “It’s not a party until your elbow is in someone else’s drink.” See? Like I said.

Standing in the middle of a room during a tornado went against all the training I received as a child in Texas. Even though I was safely away from windows and potentially flying shards of glass, homeless people and debris, it just felt wrong. I know my tornado alley friends can relate. At some point during our academic careers we spent the better part of a day crouched on the floor of the hallway at school, foreheads touching knees and hands covering our heads – like little yoga turtles, while outside the sky turned green.

For a brief moment yesterday as I stood there like Queen Elizabeth, holding my purse on my forearm, I considered getting a Sharpie and writing my name and my “In Case of Emergency” contact on my arm. I also giggled a little when I thought of taping my driver’s license to my chest.

It does not feel like an emergency when you are standing in a crowd of people who are updating their Facebook status (John Doe is “Huddled in a break room with lots of people I work with but barely know – waiting for death, or a coffee, whichever comes first.”) The ability to watch radar images on an Ipad was a new twist to “Storm Watch” for me. Everyone’s screens were very RED.

After about 5-10 minutes we were told to return to our workspaces but be prepared for “round two” any time. I never even realized that in addition to the tornado I heard about in Lancaster – the one with the giant trailers flying through the air – there were many, many more. I contacted my husband and he said he thought they tested the sirens on the first Tuesday of the month, and therefore had pretty much ignored it.

I called my mother, who worries, to tell her I was alive and well and that my employers were keeping us informed.

Me: Hi, mom. Just got out of the break room where they had us huddled.

Mom: You were in a lunch meeting?

Me: No. We were seeking shelter. From the tornadoes.

Mom: There are tornadoes? Are any near Sarah’s school??!
(Sarah, the adorable grandchild who is the first priority. As she should be.)

Me: I’m fine, thanks. And no. I think Sarah’s in the clear. As are you. Now.

Sigh.

All in all, over 800 homes were damaged by as many as 12 tornadoes. That’s impressive, even for Texas. Even more impressive – somehow we seem to have escaped without any loss of life. Let’s keep that up this Spring, shall we?

Oh, and in case you were interested, the new drainage system Hubby dug works great. He was wandering around in the backyard during the “siren serenade” a.k.a. “the attack of the viral spirals” yesterday to confirm it.

He may not be that bright, but he’s cute, and his drainage work is impeccable.

DON’T JUDGE – GRAMMAR PET PEEVES

Published on March 13, 2012March 13, 2012 by Diary of Ann Franks12 Comments

Today’s LetsBlogOff asks us: What is your grammar pet peeve?

My friends anxiously await this answer, I‘m sure. Hey, being the grammar and spelling police may not always be appreciated, but as far as I’m concerned, it should be counted as a super power.

I have quite a few of these pet peeves, as it turns out. In some cases, things I find unacceptable – or even contemptible, are making their way into common usage. This, in my opinion, is evidence of our society heading straight to hell in a handbasket. I know I should probably worry about bigger things, but let’s face it; Good grammar and proper etiquette are what separate us from the apes. (That 15 foot wall helps, too.)

The use of apostrophes when referring to a decade, such as the 1980’s, causes me pain. Not unbearable pain, but I am definitely uncomfortable. 1980s. There. Better.

I am also a big supporter of the word “handsful” versus handfuls, mothers-in-law versus mother-in-laws, and bucketsful versus bucketfuls.

I get pretty tired of seeing “accept” and “except” used interchangeably.

I cringe when I see professional letters that begin with Dear Sir, instead of Dear Sir:

The use of i.e. (that is) rather than e.g. (for example) drives me insane.

I have also noticed the element “lead” substituting for the verb “led.” The good news? That little error eliminates quite a few resumes in my stack for review.

Cockiness like that leads to karmic retribution like this –

The other day, I was writing and realized I had no idea if I should type the word “past” or “passed.”

Seriously. I decided to change the whole sentence to avoid hurting my brain, which was obviously on vacation.

And for that, I feel ashamed. Kryptonite, indeed.

But I’ll get past it.

Ah ha!

Ah ha?

Damn it.

To read other pet peeves about grammar, click the logo below, and enjoy!

ANOTHER YEAR OLDER, BUT NOT MORE MATURE

Published on January 9, 2012January 9, 2012 by Diary of Ann Franks5 Comments

Today is my birthday. I share it with Richard Nixon, Joan Baez and Kate Middleton. I missed Elvis’ by just one day.

I have no particular plans for this year’s event. No Anntastic adventure or Annapalooza. For one thing, it is a Monday. A Monday that for some unknown reason I have not taken as a vacation day. Unless a kind soul has hidden a carton of Sofia’s under my desk, it will be a Monday like any other. Only I will invariably feel older.

Then again, I always feel at least a year older on Mondays. And today promises to be abysmal. I have four meetings. Everyone knows a day containing more than one meeting is a day in which you get nothing done. Instead, you sit in rooms talking about things you need to get done. then you schedule a follow-up meeting so everyone can keep track of what’s been done. And not done.

What kind of birthday fun is that? If groups of people are going to gather on my birthday and demand my attendance, there should at least be cake involved. (Or in my case, queso.) Plus, candles and champagne.

Wait. I have a diabolical idea. At least it will amuse me.

What I’ll do is walk into every meeting today a few minutes late. I’ll back into the room as though I’m talking to someone in the hallway. As I turn around to face the conference table I will jump back and GASP. Then I’ll slap my hand to my chest and gush, “Oh my goodness! You GUYS!! A surprise party? For me? You SHOULDN’T have!!!”

That should liven things up.

Or get me fired.

Happy Monday to all!

UPDATE:

I was greeted this morning with a little surprise from my team. Awwww. They’re the best.

UNSUCCESSFUL SANTA

Published on November 30, 2011November 30, 2011 by Diary of Ann FranksLeave a comment

Have I mentioned that I hate shopping for the holidays? Well, I do. Each year I attempt to come up with some idea that will make the whole experience less stressful, but it fails miserably.

I am no good at choosing just the right thing for someone, unless they hit me over the head with hints about what they want. Repeatedly. And preferably purchase and wrap it for me. That’s right. I’m not even good at gift wrapping. I just throw paper on whatever it is, slap some tape on the seams crookedly and it’s done. No bow. Oh, and sometimes I cut a ragged strip of wrapping paper from which I fashion really bad gift tags.

Martha Stewart would have me flogged.

This year I am again determined to do better. Seriously, it can’t get any worse unless I just start tossing the gift in the actual shopping bag under the tree, receipt and all.

In my first step toward improving, I found a website where you can create or purchase some really creative things. And by creative I mean smart ass. Nothing inspires me more than that. A gift I can really get behind. A gift with attitude.

I think I hear Christmas bells!

Check this out. T-shirts. This one is for the friend who keeps encouraging me to go camping.

This is for my brother.

This little gem from “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” is for hubby.

This beauty is for one of the architects I work with. Could be an annual giveaway.

Enough T-shirts. Now for something different. Like a notebook. Or a threat. Or a notebook threat?

I may have to give this to the HR Director to take to meetings. The bottom right hand corner clarifies in small font: “With Kindness.”

For my lovely team members? This is perfect. They too can go to meetings armed with this deceptively nice-at-first-glance notebook.

And for me, I’m getting this little accessory. It’ll come in handy at holiday parties where I am expected to mingle with irritated children who are up past their bedtime. It’s a festive button!

I’m sure I can find someone’s stocking that needs this addition. Not as good as a Betty Ford Clinic button, but still…

A few items confused me…

In what world does this ornament say, “Merry Christmas?”

Oh, dear.

And lastly, a sentiment we can all get behind.

What’s that? No good?

That’s it. I’m buying liquor for everyone this year. One size fits all.

OH, THE DRAMA

Published on November 8, 2011 by Diary of Ann Franks15 Comments

Today’s LetsBlogOff topic is: What did you want to be when you grew up?

I can tell you this sincerely. I NEVER said to anyone during my childhood, “What I want to be when I grow up is a marketing person for an architecture and interior design firm, because there I will find appreciation, encouragement and respect.” I’m still not sure how I got here. But that’s another topic entirely.

Growing up with a father people referred to as a “creative genius” made me want to follow his happy footsteps into the advertising industry, which I did for about 12 years, writing and producing TV and radio commercials. One of my earliest jobs required that I go to an office each day by 9:00 AM to view soap operas. (I’m not kidding. This was a real job.) A TV was perched above my computer screen, and I would watch the CBS soaps with headphones on as two other girls watched ABC and NBC. We would type a summary of each show and hand the copy off to a voice talent before the next show began. The voice talent would record each synopsis, and as this was before everyone had internet, or a DVR, or knew how to reliably set their VHS, people who had missed their soap would call a 900 number and pay 99 cents a minute to hear what happened. Insane, right?

BEST. JOB. EVER.

I watched The Young and the Restless, Guiding Light, As the World Turns, and the Bold and the Beautiful. I think I’m missing one… that’s what happens to your brain after subjecting it to that much drama every day.

To earn extra money, I volunteered to do the same thing for Falcon Crest and Dallas in the evening. It was fun to write the copy and insert a little “wink” here and there. It was impossible NOT to get a little tongue-in-cheek about it.

I guess at some point between that early job and the following work on actual commercials I realized what I REALLY wanted to be was a writer. Writing for me is that THING people tell you about. The “Whatever it is you find yourself doing when you’re putting off work is what you should be doing with your life,” thing. It’s like breathing.

Ideally, I would have started this blog years ago when the stepsons were 9 and 12 and providing constant material, but my big plan to be the Erma Bombeck of stepmothers didn’t pan out. Unfortunately, at the time, I couldn’t put the right amount of distance between the observation and the situation to really enjoy it. The ability to laugh came later, with maturity, and the surrender of sanity. So, no book deal, no movie, no big interview on Letterman. Or Oprah.

For now I have to say goodbye to the imaginary vacation house named
“What’s-Your Pointe” I would purchase with the proceeds from my best-selling novel,
“Not Genetically Responsible.” (T-shirts and bumper stickers sold separately.)

Sigh.

But, thanks to the people who read these occasional posts, in a small way, I am what I wanted to be when I grew up.

To see what others in the #LetsBlogOff wanted to be, click the logo. And enjoy!

VACATION DEFLATION

Published on October 4, 2011 by Diary of Ann Franks3 Comments

I’m back.

A 9.5 hour plane ride on “Can you give me LESS space for my legs?” Saturday was followed by “Who am I and what is my name?” Sunday.

My first day back at the office was Monday. Strangely, people seem to expect me to “produce” results of some kind during my hours at the office. Crazy, right? Meanwhile, I keep looking at the clock and wondering – “If I was in Wales, what would I be doing now?” Then, out of nowhere, an email pops up demanding my attention, so I mentally wander back from the rolling hills dotted with little white fluffy sheep and throw myself back into the normal work day.

My normal work day, sadly, does not involve sheep. Or pints. Or cheese. Or castles.

Sigh.

I DID actually manage to download photos from the trip on Sunday, and was able to identify each castle and ruin AND ruined castle. This buoyed my sense of confidence to a ridiculous degree, but those castles DO start to run together a bit. How was it Adrian (a.k.a. Langland Death March Commander from See Wales Tours) referred to them?

Oh, that’s right. He called them ABC Tours.

Another Bloody Castle.

An interesting side note to this whole trip is that when people ask, “Where did you go on vacation?” and I say, “Wales,” they say, “Wales??! Why Wales?”

You should have heard the Londoners’ responses when they discovered we had spent our time anywhere other than their fair city. I’m surprised they even let us stay overnight, considering how we betrayed them with the Welsh. “Wales?? Wales?!!”
(We stayed in London Friday night to see a show and prepare for our Saturday flight out of Heathrow, or as I call it, “The Mall That Thinks it’s an Airport.”)

They took great pains to point out the National Museum and say, “Bloody Wales doesn’t have a museum like THAT.”

“They bloody well don’t!” We agreed hastily and enthusiastically. (Self preservation is strong in those being transported at break neck speed by annoyed but proud taxi drivers.)

I think Wales and England might need to have a little “I’m okay, you’re okay,” discussion. Maybe over a few pints. I’d be happy to act as mediator.