Down here in the South, we're all getting used to our unwelcome house guests, the cicadas. My suster told me a lot of you childrun don't know what a cicada is, she said some of you might think it's the name of the local drag queen. But, in fact, it's just a bug. It's not a particularly pretty bug and I would say it's a kin to a locust. Maybe like your cousins you don't talk to except when you see them at Thanksgiving or Christmas... the ones you won't friend request on facebook because you don't really get to pick your relations.
I digress... these ugly ass bugs are not that different than you and me. They live under ground for something like 13 years. Then the come up out of the ground and mate and then they die. Well honeys, I lived practically under ground for 21 years, came out, got screwed and now I'm just passing time. But these nasty things don't pay rent, leave their shells all over the place like your in - grate children leave they clothes out all the damn time and you haven't even paid off the Macy's card before they done gone and runned 'em.
Back to the bugs, they just damn nasty. They make a lot of noise at night, again, much like a teenager... but then after 4-6 weeks they are gone... for 13 more years. And we are left to pick up the mess, the dead bugs and the endo skeletons not to mention they produce droppings. It's just not hygentical. I know it's not a word but bugs don't have hygiene - have you ever seen a cicada in CVS? I don't think so.
So the best I can tell you is this, just shut the hell up and deal with it. Pass the time with a mint julip or a nice bubbly white wine cooler or something. It's just going to be Spring this year, but for cryin' out loud wear socks, because that crunch is just not a good sound.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
a shout out for shout's sake
I wrote this letter to the owners of the real estate company who just handled my house buying and selling. I like this letter and I hope you do, too:
Dear Ms. & Ms. Real Estate Mavens,
You know how people always write a letter of complaint when they don't like something, or they get bad service? Well, I think it's just as important to write and let you know how wonderful and fantastic my experience was with your company, in particular working with agent Elaine. I met Elaine when she answered the door to show me my new-soon-to-be-home at Charlesgate and it was just like seeing an old friend. Old in this case refers to length of acquaintance rather than age. Elaine was so friendly, I felt like I knew her my whole life... and she didn't have to sell me much on the house, however she did have to deal with me on the purchase. And, deal she did. She even played hide and seek with my nephews during the inspection. Then, after selling me that house I decided to let Elaine list my other house on Copeland. Let me tell you, even prior to getting the listing that woman worked! She sent over potential buyers and builders to check out my house. My house was no million dollar listing but I felt like it. Elaine is just charming. Who else can tell you that your wallpaper is ugly and you laugh? She even gave me a punch list and it didn't make me want to punch her. She even brought over her own flowers and white bath towels, which we are sure closed the house. Seriously, when we were selling she was a rock star. The house was under contract in two days. Best yet, she got the buyer up on price even when I was yelling through the phone, "let's just take it, let's go with it, I'll sign the damn thing." And, thank God she did because I needed that money on the back end after inspections. Listen, I negotiate with people for a living, but Elaine had be wrapped around her finger the whole way; this as you may imagine is no easy feat. I know I'm just gushing about Elaine and she is kind of a shy person but, come on, she sold the house in two days and got me top dollar in this market- she deserves some sort of a shout out. So, I just wanted to make sure you ladies know how special she is and how much I adore her. More over, I want you all to know how much I appreciated the whole ease of this transaction. Tonight, as I sit back with a glass of wine (or three) I take a breath and realized just how fast and how amazingly well this whole process went. You have no idea the sense of relief I feel, and it's more than the merlot talking. I was prepared to wait out a tough market, maybe lose some money, or worst yet... rent my house out. Can you imagine me as your landlord? That couldn't end well. I can't thank Elaine enough. My family and friends can't thank her enough because they would have had a hard time if that place sat empty dealing with my emotions. I don't know if there's something special in way of recognition you can offer Elaine, maybe a corner office, a trip to the bahamas, nominate her for realtor of the year, or get her an assigned parking spot. Or maybe you can embarrass her by reading this inappropriate email at her sales meeting? It's really kind of a love letter, isn't it? My only regret is that I don't have another house to sell, but give me a little time.
Yours,
Brian Barry
the happy homeowner
Dear Ms. & Ms. Real Estate Mavens,
You know how people always write a letter of complaint when they don't like something, or they get bad service? Well, I think it's just as important to write and let you know how wonderful and fantastic my experience was with your company, in particular working with agent Elaine. I met Elaine when she answered the door to show me my new-soon-to-be-home at Charlesgate and it was just like seeing an old friend. Old in this case refers to length of acquaintance rather than age. Elaine was so friendly, I felt like I knew her my whole life... and she didn't have to sell me much on the house, however she did have to deal with me on the purchase. And, deal she did. She even played hide and seek with my nephews during the inspection. Then, after selling me that house I decided to let Elaine list my other house on Copeland. Let me tell you, even prior to getting the listing that woman worked! She sent over potential buyers and builders to check out my house. My house was no million dollar listing but I felt like it. Elaine is just charming. Who else can tell you that your wallpaper is ugly and you laugh? She even gave me a punch list and it didn't make me want to punch her. She even brought over her own flowers and white bath towels, which we are sure closed the house. Seriously, when we were selling she was a rock star. The house was under contract in two days. Best yet, she got the buyer up on price even when I was yelling through the phone, "let's just take it, let's go with it, I'll sign the damn thing." And, thank God she did because I needed that money on the back end after inspections. Listen, I negotiate with people for a living, but Elaine had be wrapped around her finger the whole way; this as you may imagine is no easy feat. I know I'm just gushing about Elaine and she is kind of a shy person but, come on, she sold the house in two days and got me top dollar in this market- she deserves some sort of a shout out. So, I just wanted to make sure you ladies know how special she is and how much I adore her. More over, I want you all to know how much I appreciated the whole ease of this transaction. Tonight, as I sit back with a glass of wine (or three) I take a breath and realized just how fast and how amazingly well this whole process went. You have no idea the sense of relief I feel, and it's more than the merlot talking. I was prepared to wait out a tough market, maybe lose some money, or worst yet... rent my house out. Can you imagine me as your landlord? That couldn't end well. I can't thank Elaine enough. My family and friends can't thank her enough because they would have had a hard time if that place sat empty dealing with my emotions. I don't know if there's something special in way of recognition you can offer Elaine, maybe a corner office, a trip to the bahamas, nominate her for realtor of the year, or get her an assigned parking spot. Or maybe you can embarrass her by reading this inappropriate email at her sales meeting? It's really kind of a love letter, isn't it? My only regret is that I don't have another house to sell, but give me a little time.
Yours,
Brian Barry
the happy homeowner
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
easter is scary
As a child Easter always scared me. Granted, I always found solace in the candy. We'd go out to my great uncle's farm and hunt for eggs. There were tons of people there and lots of cousins whose names I never learned. I hated them. They were competition. There was one golden egg, a spay painted hosiery egg with a $20 bill in it and it was mine. I won it most years because my grandmother would take me right to it. I got it honest, what can I say? Get the damn money, you can buy your own candy... she always mentioned that between cigarettes.
Besides that, Easter made me nervous. We'd go to the church for sunrise service. My first memories were getting to the church while it is dark out waiting for the zombie Jesus to arise. I know that's not exactly how it is, but that is how I remember feeling. I even hated dying eggs, (1) what a mess and (2) eggs break, who needs that added stress.
Today my favorite part of the holiday is the Reese's peanut butter chocolate covered eggs. Actually, the best part of the holiday is when they go on sale. I'm stress eating a bag right now... much love.
Besides that, Easter made me nervous. We'd go to the church for sunrise service. My first memories were getting to the church while it is dark out waiting for the zombie Jesus to arise. I know that's not exactly how it is, but that is how I remember feeling. I even hated dying eggs, (1) what a mess and (2) eggs break, who needs that added stress.
Today my favorite part of the holiday is the Reese's peanut butter chocolate covered eggs. Actually, the best part of the holiday is when they go on sale. I'm stress eating a bag right now... much love.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
on moving... ( an essay)
For those of you that don't know, but do care, I recently moved. It has consumed nearly every moment of every day of my life for the last month. You would think that a single person, living alone, wouldn't have all that much to move. When I tell you that I only moved one half mile away, just a few streets away you might poo-poo my move. But, let me tell you sister friends, it has been a feat of misery and patience. The actual process was quick and almost painless, almost too quick. In two days I had an offer. In another week I had an inspection report and a demand for concessions on the offer. I was sure, and I think I still am, that it was the right thing to do.
Why did I move, you may ask? I have no earthly idea. I think the only reason is because I felt like it. My old home was perfectly lovely and it was me. I had redone almost everything in the damn thing but I wanted a change. Have you ever had on your favorite outfit and thought, I really wish I had on something else? People say, " you look good in that," so you wear it everywhere you go because it makes you look thin, or it distracts from your double chin, or it has a forgiving waistline... that was my house. That little cottage became a part of me and my identity.
My identity needed to change. I wanted a more grown up house, and I got one. It was so exciting, well it was exciting until my furniture showed up and I realized I had to get all new stuff. To continue an already beaten to death analogy, that same good looking outfit- I out grew it. But, I tried to wear it with bigger pants and it didn't work. They don't make Spanx for your new house- they make TJ MAXX. So, I digress.
The thing I didn't account for was the move. I moved out and left the house staged. This is so that the house looks like someone lives there. Only not a normal someone, someone who is extremely neat and clean with very little belongings and perfect accessories. Well, mine was half assed but the damn thing sold in two days. So, I was beside my self happy. Still, I continued a few days to live in the new house with very little furniture. For a month I've been using empty boxes and side tables with lamps. I look like a refugee who fled his homeland with only lamps and flat screen televisions strapped to his raft. It was sad.
The first move wasn't bad, it's the second move. This time I have to pack all the things that weren't important enough to move the first time. Some of you might call this trash. It's the stuff in the closet you don't wear, or the things in the attic you don't really need or remember. But, to me, these things are memories. It feels really good to purge. I think that means to get rid of old clothes, but it may mean when you lie to a judge on the stand. Either way, it feels really good. But as I emptied the house, it felt sad. I felt so strange, like a part of me was going away.
A house is a structure, a building but it is part of you. Everything I see in the attic makes me wonder why I kept it and then I think of the memories. I fear getting rid of the item is like throwing away those old memories. An old desk chair reminds me of school and more innocent times. I have an old wreath my grandmother made and a lamp that was a hand-me-down that reminds me of my parent's first house. I am sentimental, but I don't want to end up on Goddamn Hoarders.
So, I toss most of the stuff, and save a few things to clutter up the new house. I've been going over almost every night and getting a few things. I have real A.D.D. about the move. I go from one room to the next taking one or two things, never finishing the task. I realized today, after having done this for a month that it is because I'm not ready, just yet, to let go of the house. It still feels like home, and I am worried I'll forget the memories. It's corny to say but it is true like that country song. There's something about your first house, it's just always your first house.
Your home is where your babies were raised. Hell, it's where your babies are made. Everywhere I look I remember something or someone in that house. I resent that someone else will be painting over my memories and if they decide to tear it down I might actually fall apart. Today, I was in the house for probably the next-to-last time and it all seemed different. The furniture's all gone, my hot tub and patio furniture are gone so the yard looks bare, it all seems different now. Then I looked at the walls where the pictures had hung, nail holes and scratches now proudly show how careless I hang art. It was then that I realized this isn't my house anymore, it's scratched walls and faded floors. And, I thought... that bitch better take care of my old house and she better not ask me to fill all these damn nail holes, it looks like somebody had shooting practice with a nail gun all up in here.
Why did I move, you may ask? I have no earthly idea. I think the only reason is because I felt like it. My old home was perfectly lovely and it was me. I had redone almost everything in the damn thing but I wanted a change. Have you ever had on your favorite outfit and thought, I really wish I had on something else? People say, " you look good in that," so you wear it everywhere you go because it makes you look thin, or it distracts from your double chin, or it has a forgiving waistline... that was my house. That little cottage became a part of me and my identity.
My identity needed to change. I wanted a more grown up house, and I got one. It was so exciting, well it was exciting until my furniture showed up and I realized I had to get all new stuff. To continue an already beaten to death analogy, that same good looking outfit- I out grew it. But, I tried to wear it with bigger pants and it didn't work. They don't make Spanx for your new house- they make TJ MAXX. So, I digress.
The thing I didn't account for was the move. I moved out and left the house staged. This is so that the house looks like someone lives there. Only not a normal someone, someone who is extremely neat and clean with very little belongings and perfect accessories. Well, mine was half assed but the damn thing sold in two days. So, I was beside my self happy. Still, I continued a few days to live in the new house with very little furniture. For a month I've been using empty boxes and side tables with lamps. I look like a refugee who fled his homeland with only lamps and flat screen televisions strapped to his raft. It was sad.
The first move wasn't bad, it's the second move. This time I have to pack all the things that weren't important enough to move the first time. Some of you might call this trash. It's the stuff in the closet you don't wear, or the things in the attic you don't really need or remember. But, to me, these things are memories. It feels really good to purge. I think that means to get rid of old clothes, but it may mean when you lie to a judge on the stand. Either way, it feels really good. But as I emptied the house, it felt sad. I felt so strange, like a part of me was going away.
A house is a structure, a building but it is part of you. Everything I see in the attic makes me wonder why I kept it and then I think of the memories. I fear getting rid of the item is like throwing away those old memories. An old desk chair reminds me of school and more innocent times. I have an old wreath my grandmother made and a lamp that was a hand-me-down that reminds me of my parent's first house. I am sentimental, but I don't want to end up on Goddamn Hoarders.
So, I toss most of the stuff, and save a few things to clutter up the new house. I've been going over almost every night and getting a few things. I have real A.D.D. about the move. I go from one room to the next taking one or two things, never finishing the task. I realized today, after having done this for a month that it is because I'm not ready, just yet, to let go of the house. It still feels like home, and I am worried I'll forget the memories. It's corny to say but it is true like that country song. There's something about your first house, it's just always your first house.
Your home is where your babies were raised. Hell, it's where your babies are made. Everywhere I look I remember something or someone in that house. I resent that someone else will be painting over my memories and if they decide to tear it down I might actually fall apart. Today, I was in the house for probably the next-to-last time and it all seemed different. The furniture's all gone, my hot tub and patio furniture are gone so the yard looks bare, it all seems different now. Then I looked at the walls where the pictures had hung, nail holes and scratches now proudly show how careless I hang art. It was then that I realized this isn't my house anymore, it's scratched walls and faded floors. And, I thought... that bitch better take care of my old house and she better not ask me to fill all these damn nail holes, it looks like somebody had shooting practice with a nail gun all up in here.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
the thing about dancing
The thing about dancing when you are over the age of 24, is that you just don't realize how you look. This is why it is best to dance when you've had a few drinks. However, it is dangerous that too much liquid courage leaves one feeling too brave.
If only you could see yourself - you may decide you are not, in fact, the dancing queen you think you are. I think I am smoov (with a v) when in fact I look like I may have systematically lost my balance. Let's not forget it is common place to judge one's bedroom talents against his or her dancing abilities. Apparently, I lay there and flop about now and then. This may be a very accurate rating system.
There really are only three kinds of people on the dance floor:
1) Good (generally young, because youth fades much like coordination)
2) Bad (look around)
3) People who stand around.
Note to the standers: it is always best to shift your weight from side-to-side to help with appearances. A good nod can be very accommodating. I find the occasional chest pat to be effective in making it appear you actually do "feel the beat."And, if you are brave put a hand up in the air, not two, two is a sign that you can no longer operate your motor vehicle. But one says, "I am having a good time and the music moves me."
I'm just making a helpful suggestion. You wouldn't leave the house with out checking your teeth and hair in the mirror... maybe check out those moves you think are so special in a full length first.
You go girl, no really go... you look like you're having an epileptic fit.
If only you could see yourself - you may decide you are not, in fact, the dancing queen you think you are. I think I am smoov (with a v) when in fact I look like I may have systematically lost my balance. Let's not forget it is common place to judge one's bedroom talents against his or her dancing abilities. Apparently, I lay there and flop about now and then. This may be a very accurate rating system.
There really are only three kinds of people on the dance floor:
1) Good (generally young, because youth fades much like coordination)
2) Bad (look around)
3) People who stand around.
Note to the standers: it is always best to shift your weight from side-to-side to help with appearances. A good nod can be very accommodating. I find the occasional chest pat to be effective in making it appear you actually do "feel the beat."And, if you are brave put a hand up in the air, not two, two is a sign that you can no longer operate your motor vehicle. But one says, "I am having a good time and the music moves me."
I'm just making a helpful suggestion. You wouldn't leave the house with out checking your teeth and hair in the mirror... maybe check out those moves you think are so special in a full length first.
You go girl, no really go... you look like you're having an epileptic fit.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
no doubt, exercise is dangerous for your health
The older I get, I realize I keep hurting myself when I am trying to get myself into "shape." Sadly, this shape is broken. What's the song in that commercial? "Hands, feet, ankle, knees and toes" ... all broken, aches, pains. What a mess. Then I spend a whole week recovering from the injury that had me motivated to get into shape.
But, yesterday was just the worst, THE worst (well almost as bad as the treadmill episode). Here I was at the YMCA trying to do my work out. I got myself hauled up onto rowing machine. Have you seen this thing? It's a death trap that you sit on, pull a bar toward you that is tethered to a damn bike wheel. It's a disaster in and of it's self.
So, I get comfy and begin to pull the bard. Eureka! I enjoy this thing. I can feel my back working and my shoulders and I have an immense feeling of satisfaction. Keep in mind it is like minute 1:04 at this time. By minute three I think I am Olivia Newton John. Am picturing new wardrobe will have to buy and how people will ask, "what are you doing? you look great." I'll smile and reply, "Oh nothing, I'm just a rower."
When, SUDDENLY, I feel my body hurling backward and I see my leg rise up. This can only end badly for your humble narrator. I feel seat fly backwards as it has before but this time with more intensity. I realize at this fateful moment that... being lazy... I had put my feet into the foot harness but neglected to tighten the fasten. Well, I mean why would you? In my defense I didn't intend on any astronaut training today.
So, the leg goes up which throws off my balance and my ass flies off the back of the seat that abruptly stops at the end of the track. And, it was one of those moments where things happen in slow motion like right before you crash your car and you see it happen and you know you're going to collide and you realize it was because you didn't hit the brake or use your damn blinker.
In that moment, as I fall off the back of the machine sideways, I have no explanation for this but I thought it best to utter the word "fuck" loudly. Not in a loud tone, or even a scream. It was more of a disappointing but authoritative tone. But, honey, it was loud. You forget these things when you have ear phones on , and others do not.
It is at this time I realize there are children near by. And, there are parents near-er by. Adults give me the stink eye. I could be injured. No pain, only injury is my pride. It is inappropriate to say four letter word so loudly at YMCA (the C stands for Can't cuss). Of course, it's not so easy to get up and run away from my scene, because my left leg is still positioned safely in the foot harness.
But, yesterday was just the worst, THE worst (well almost as bad as the treadmill episode). Here I was at the YMCA trying to do my work out. I got myself hauled up onto rowing machine. Have you seen this thing? It's a death trap that you sit on, pull a bar toward you that is tethered to a damn bike wheel. It's a disaster in and of it's self.
So, I get comfy and begin to pull the bard. Eureka! I enjoy this thing. I can feel my back working and my shoulders and I have an immense feeling of satisfaction. Keep in mind it is like minute 1:04 at this time. By minute three I think I am Olivia Newton John. Am picturing new wardrobe will have to buy and how people will ask, "what are you doing? you look great." I'll smile and reply, "Oh nothing, I'm just a rower."
When, SUDDENLY, I feel my body hurling backward and I see my leg rise up. This can only end badly for your humble narrator. I feel seat fly backwards as it has before but this time with more intensity. I realize at this fateful moment that... being lazy... I had put my feet into the foot harness but neglected to tighten the fasten. Well, I mean why would you? In my defense I didn't intend on any astronaut training today.
So, the leg goes up which throws off my balance and my ass flies off the back of the seat that abruptly stops at the end of the track. And, it was one of those moments where things happen in slow motion like right before you crash your car and you see it happen and you know you're going to collide and you realize it was because you didn't hit the brake or use your damn blinker.
In that moment, as I fall off the back of the machine sideways, I have no explanation for this but I thought it best to utter the word "fuck" loudly. Not in a loud tone, or even a scream. It was more of a disappointing but authoritative tone. But, honey, it was loud. You forget these things when you have ear phones on , and others do not.
It is at this time I realize there are children near by. And, there are parents near-er by. Adults give me the stink eye. I could be injured. No pain, only injury is my pride. It is inappropriate to say four letter word so loudly at YMCA (the C stands for Can't cuss). Of course, it's not so easy to get up and run away from my scene, because my left leg is still positioned safely in the foot harness.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
my life, chapter one
the first half of my life, chapter one
in 450 words or less....
I always thought of myself as a shy child. However, in the 5th grade Bunny Osteen was my English teacher and I was completely in love with her. She had big 1980’s hair and wore silk blazers with big should pads and lots of gold bangle jewelry. She was what I thought money looked like, and she drove a Mercedes 450 SL convertible with red leather. Yes, to me she was high society in Nashville. One day we read a play in class and she asked me to read the lead. Oddly, I can’t remember the play but she told me I was good and that was enough for me… I was an actor destined for greatness.
By the 7th grade I was drunk with power. Mrs. Osteen asked me to write for the school newspaper, all 2 pages of it. I did a piece on whatever I was assigned but I also got my own column titled “Horor-scopes.” I advised Leo students to stay in bed or risk being chased down by an angry gym instructor only to meet your maker by a runaway piano. I am famous.
The 8th grade took me down lower than Robert Downey, Jr or La’ Lohan. We moved and I left the somewhat inner-city school (well inner city to Nashville) and we high tailed it out to set up house in the country. I was not popular. I was fat. Then I had the single worst medical woe you can imagine as a preteen: hemorrhoids. I became the boy on the doughnut. Of course eating my feelings became my new past time, which only made the hemorrhoids worse. It was me, my doughnut pillow and Snicker’s bars for a long year.
High School was a welcome relief. I tested in the Academic Magnet school. This is the smart school for nerds if you aren’t familiar with the terms. Of course, testing from that back-ass-wards country school was no major accomplishment. At the nerd school no one was cool and I was thriving. I ran for office with candy. I dressed as a middle-aged woman for pep rally and wore pasties on the outside of my oxford shirts. I learn the most valuable lesson: it’s far better to be laughed at… if it’s your laugh.
College came entirely too fast at the height of my reign in nerd Ville. I was working and I knew the job had promise. And I was in love. Then I was rejected. So, I fell in love with money because if you drove the right car everyone was interested.
I hated college and made it routine to rotate the sign-in sheet with a friend. She and I were both working in ad sales and thought this degree thing nothing more than a formality. Ah the salad days… or as it shall be called - chapter 1.
--stay tuned for chapter2---
in 450 words or less....
I always thought of myself as a shy child. However, in the 5th grade Bunny Osteen was my English teacher and I was completely in love with her. She had big 1980’s hair and wore silk blazers with big should pads and lots of gold bangle jewelry. She was what I thought money looked like, and she drove a Mercedes 450 SL convertible with red leather. Yes, to me she was high society in Nashville. One day we read a play in class and she asked me to read the lead. Oddly, I can’t remember the play but she told me I was good and that was enough for me… I was an actor destined for greatness.
By the 7th grade I was drunk with power. Mrs. Osteen asked me to write for the school newspaper, all 2 pages of it. I did a piece on whatever I was assigned but I also got my own column titled “Horor-scopes.” I advised Leo students to stay in bed or risk being chased down by an angry gym instructor only to meet your maker by a runaway piano. I am famous.
The 8th grade took me down lower than Robert Downey, Jr or La’ Lohan. We moved and I left the somewhat inner-city school (well inner city to Nashville) and we high tailed it out to set up house in the country. I was not popular. I was fat. Then I had the single worst medical woe you can imagine as a preteen: hemorrhoids. I became the boy on the doughnut. Of course eating my feelings became my new past time, which only made the hemorrhoids worse. It was me, my doughnut pillow and Snicker’s bars for a long year.
High School was a welcome relief. I tested in the Academic Magnet school. This is the smart school for nerds if you aren’t familiar with the terms. Of course, testing from that back-ass-wards country school was no major accomplishment. At the nerd school no one was cool and I was thriving. I ran for office with candy. I dressed as a middle-aged woman for pep rally and wore pasties on the outside of my oxford shirts. I learn the most valuable lesson: it’s far better to be laughed at… if it’s your laugh.
College came entirely too fast at the height of my reign in nerd Ville. I was working and I knew the job had promise. And I was in love. Then I was rejected. So, I fell in love with money because if you drove the right car everyone was interested.
I hated college and made it routine to rotate the sign-in sheet with a friend. She and I were both working in ad sales and thought this degree thing nothing more than a formality. Ah the salad days… or as it shall be called - chapter 1.
--stay tuned for chapter2---
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