Every single day, except for Sundays, we can go out to our mailbox and receive just about any form of correspondence or package that anyone in the world has chosen to send us. All they need is our address. Let’s think about that for a second. Someone on the opposite side of the world can go to their local post office and, with just our address, have that postal agency send a letter or parcel to our country and that object arrives in our mailbox.
This very same system also provides the ability for anyone in America to send us a parcel or letter, directly to our mailbox, from anywhere in the United States for less than the cost of pretty much any private or third party shipper. In fact, when it comes to letters, it costs the same to send a letter across town as it does across the country. How amazing is that?!
This is called the flat rate U.S. Postal Service, and it lost $5,100,000,000 (that’s $5.1 billion) over the course of its last fiscal year. But the postal service’s losses are not the result of the discrepancy in the cost of service whether your letter travels 3,000 miles or 10 feet, nor are the losses the result of the lack of profitability of it’s service offerings. These huge losses are caused by a congressional mandate that forces the U.S. Postal Service to pre-fund 75 years' worth of retirement benefits for its employees.
Come again? Yes, there is only one entity in the entire country that is required by an act of congress to pre-fund 75 years worth of retirement benefits for its employees…our postal service. What effect has this had on the independent, U.S. government agency? Well, before the congressional mandate, it was profitable and in the black every year, but today, it has lost money the last nine years in a row and is $15 billion in debt.
Once again, government has taken a profitable business and regulated it into the red.
Want proof? Take away the retirement pre-funding requirement and the post office would have turned a $623 million profit last year instead of a $5.1 billion loss. While the good news is that this pre-funding requirement actually will end with this fiscal year, our U.S. Postal Service will start 2017 over $15 billion in debt as opposed to beginning the year debt free, as would have been the case for the past nine years without this restricting congressional mandate.
Government’s job should be to regulate trade, not force organizations to take on vast amounts of debt just to exist.
Photo by Xavier Massa via Pexels
Every few months or so for a little over a year now, the latest edition of some random magazine has shown up in my mailbox. These magazines show up unannounced, and at first I think someone else’s mail was accidentally delivered to me, but upon further inspection, I see that my name and address are on the label. These magazines vary in subject matter, and they usually arrive for about three to six months and then are followed up with an “if you enjoyed the magazine why not keep it coming for x amount of dollars” envelope. Needless to say, Old Man Savastano just tosses those and never subscribes.
And while I toss those subscription solicitations, in my endless quest to keep my mind occupied and pass the time while I am riding my stationary bike, I have started looking through these random free magazines while peddling away on the seat of my infernal chore.
I was once a pretty big sports guy, back when I actually played a multitude of sports which my parents felt would keep me occupied enough to keep me out of trouble, so the Sports Illustrated magazine, which has shown up weekly for about the past three months now, is usually an interesting skim. While I don’t follow sports like I used to, I do inherently catch enough sports news floating on the wind for the content of the magazine to be none too surprising. But other than S.I., magazine stalwart TIME, and a few other random titles, every single other magazine has been some type of fashion or fitness magazine.
And I noticed something interesting when going through these fashion and fitness magazines. Apparently, there are the beginnings of somewhat of a self-proclaimed revolution in the fashion industry these days – people are at least talking about the fact that while all of the depictions of women in these magazines are of rail thin teenage girls, most women in America are neither teenagers, rail thin, or fashion models. I, for one, applaud this dialog and am happy to see this change. While I do not have a daughter of my own, I completely agree with the notion that our media and advertising definitely have a very narrow minded view of what they believe women are ‘supposed’ to look like, and I would hate to see any young girl growing up with the notion that the women in these magazines are what she is ‘supposed’ to look like. Especially since we all know there is a lot of Photoshopping that goes on behind the scenes, right? Talk about creating something impossible to achieve in real life.
So, good job fashion industry...at least you are trying. But, in the end, to quote an umpire who you might find in S.I., I call ‘em like I see ‘em, and when going through these magazines, I really feel like not much has changed despite the industry buzz about this so-called size revolution. If you thumb through one of these magazines, you will definitely find a page in there with a highly cropped picture of Ashley Graham in a very covering one-piece bathing suit that shows her from her waist to the top of her head with a headline that reads “Great Style Has No Size”, but the entire rest of the 198-page magazine is nothing but size zeros, ones and maybe…maybe some twos.
If you are the size of the girls in the magazine, then hey, more power to you, I am definitely not trying to knock you, but I feel that if fashion is going to conduct what it is calling a ‘revolution’ and then pat itself on the back for including women of all ages, shapes and sizes, these fashion magazines that have been forced into my mailbox definitely did not get the message. I think this so-called ‘revolution’ is comprised of that typical American fabrication that if we do something 0.005% of the time, we are creating real change.
So, sorry, fashion industry, I’m not ready to pat you on the back yet…You still have some work to do.
Picture by Alexandra Maria via Pexels
To commemorate the 15th anniversary of 9/11, I wanted to share with you something I wrote on the morning of September 12, 2001, after having been up for about 24 hours, watching the news. It is so hard to believe that it has been 15 years since the morning we were awaken early by my grandmother who called us to make sure my dad was not flying out of New York the morning she saw reports of an airplane accidentally flying into one of the Twin Towers. Luckily my dad had actually flown out of New York for Mexico City and then on to Honduras the morning before.
To give you a little background, at the time, I was still living at home with my parents, saving up to purchase a home and had just started a new business. My mom was working part-time at a local restaurant supply company and my brother was in high school. My dad was making his living working for a hanger company and spent almost 50% of his time away from home, a good portion of it in New York and New Jersey, but also in places all over the globe.
My mother and my brother traveled to New York and New Jersey quite frequently with my dad, tagging along on business trips so they could spend time with him. Being in my mid-20’s, I preferred to stay home. Over the course of his years of working in and around “The City”, my dad was fortunate enough to meet a lot of great people. In early September, my father, brother, and mother made a trip to New York together. They came back with the usual stories of good times and travel nightmares, telling me of their friends and friends of friends that they would love for me to someday meet. On this particular trip, my family had dinner with Joe Allen, a close family friend of my dad’s good friend Joey who was also engaged to one of Joey’s cousins. Upon their return my parents commented on how much Joe, Joey and I had in common, Joe and I because he worked in finance and Joey and I because he loved cars, and in particular, a certain German flavor.
What follows is a good chunk of something I wrote the morning after 9/11. Today, I believe I wrote this as a release of the strong emotions I was feeling at the time, though when I wrote it, I figured it was more to document the event as a moment in time. I share it with you in the hopes that we will remember that morning and continue to share everything that was wrong, but also what as very right and admirable about the actions of some of America’s bravest souls on the morning of September 11, 2001.
Please be forgiving of how little we knew of what actually transpired that day in the short 24 hours after the attack occurred. It’s almost a little embarrassing now, but I also feel it is important to remember the chaos, the lack of understanding, as well as the danger so many of us felt that morning. I truly hope we will never experience anything like this again:
My grandmother has always been an early riser. For as long as I can remember, she woke early, got my grandfather on his way to work, then turned on the news or an exercise program until it was time for her to start her day. I hadn’t been asleep for more than a few hours, when the knock on the door woke me. I opened it to find no one there, but then heard my mother calling from the kitchen. I wonder how long I’ll remember it this vividly. When I walked towards the kitchen, she said, “Grandma just called. A plane hit one of the towers.” Though we don’t live in New York, there’s enough time spent over there that it could have only meant the World Trade Center.
My grandmother’s reaction was the same as mine and that was why she had called. My first thought was of my dad and where he was in the world that morning. My grandmother called to make sure he wasn’t in New York, but luckily, he had flown out of New York City for Mexico City, then on to Honduras the morning of the 10th...When my mom first told me, I figured it was a small private plane or something of the sorts that had been in an accident, but once I saw the damage that strike had made, I knew there was no way that was a small plane. That in itself gave me some relief since all of my friends who are pilots still fly nothing larger than a private corporate jet.
Once I knew my dad and my friends were safe, it began to really sink in what had happened. A plane had hit one of the towers...I moved to our living room, turned on the big TV and watched, waiting to hear how an accident like this could have happened. As I sat there in the first few minutes, my mom came in and asked me if I remembered them talking about Joe Allen. I told her that I did and she then told me that he works in one of the towers, but she wasn’t sure which one. I commented that it looked like the plane had hit pretty high and I was sure that people were able to get down out of the building, despite the strike. Maybe Joe didn’t work in that tower. Maybe he hadn’t gotten to work yet this morning.
As soon as we finished our conversation, I remembered that when I got home from high school on the day the Gulf War began, I recorded the news footage so that I could one day show my little brother who was five at the time, the coverage of the Gulf War. This time, I didn’t think about the VCR, but instead hurried down the hall to wake my brother up so he could see such a newsworthy event as an accident of this magnitude. Vinny was slow waking up, but finally made his way to the living room where we watched the news coverage for what seemed some time. We took in the speculation from the newscasters, making a few speculations ourselves. It was then, for the first time that we began to wonder. An inexperienced pilot in a small plane ending up in a once-in-a-lifetime accident of this magnitude was one thing, but a commercial pilot, even a small commercial plane pilot, hitting that building on accident on a clear morning began to seem nearly impossible.
Speculation ran wild from the newscasters and they tried to report every little detail that they could get their hands on. I don’t remember what a lot of it was, looking back, but I do remember one thing. There were two reports. One from someone watching radar via the internet, and another from a person on the ground that there was a plane heading north almost literally up the Hudson River, right that second, as we were watching. I remember the thought crossing my mind how odd that seemed, but of course, it had to be regular traffic and people were just noticing it today because of the accident.
The next thing I remember was when my mom called out from the kitchen, “Oh my God, did you see that?!” At first we thought it was an explosion, maybe the fuel in the crashed plane igniting finally from the heat, but as the newscast instant replay would show, that was the second plane hitting the other tower. Though we had speculated it, this was when it hit home. We were under attack. It wasn’t an army marching up the beach, or paratroopers launched from off-shore. They weren’t blazing across the border like we were used to. My Lord, they were actually flying planes into buildings. I thought of the old plane lots in the desert out here, and even the used jumbo jet dealership in Las Vegas at the airport. Though it truly did not matter to the people who I knew had just lost their lives in that tower, I hoped that those were stolen planes and not hijacked ones. Vinny and I talked on it as we watched the replay over and over. Together we hoped that the buildings were mostly empty. That people had slept in because it was Tuesday and not Monday, that they didn’t need to get an early start on their work. Sadly, though, we knew, it was the finance district, the World Trade Center, and it was more than likely that so many people were already working when those planes hit the towers. I thought of my old job that I started each morning at 7:30. I would have been sitting at my desk. We didn’t want to believe it, but they were sitting at their desks. It was then that I called my girlfriend, Teresa. She had been at the gym early in the morning and had seen the newscast, but without sound, was unsure of what was going on. I found myself in disbelief in telling her that we were under attack. I told her to make sure she stayed out of populated areas and to stay close to home in case I needed to come get her. It was then that I began to call all of people I could think of that I knew that would probably not have put a TV or a radio on this early in the morning to tell them the same.
By now, my mom had spoken to my dad. He was on a plane from Honduras, heading back to Mexico City when the first plane hit, but we breathed another sigh of relief as he was now safe on the ground, and being in Mexico, we figured, even safer than us. My dad was calling New York to check on everyone and my mom was calling him to learn of the news. While this was going on, Vinny and I had slowed our conversation a bit. There wasn’t really much else to say at this point. The images of the towers in flame were intense, and we hoped that the worst was over. It was then that we learned that there were planes unaccounted for and that all traffic was being told to land. I remember the sheer fright of learning that though most of them were confirmed as OK, the FAA was reporting nearly a thousand planes in the air. How many of them were there? What’s around us? Is there anything here in Huntington Beach that would be worth hitting? We immediately came up with contingency plans. Where we would go and what we would do. We figured if the nuclear plant at San Onofre were hit, we’d have enough time to get in the car and drive north before the radiation reached us. Though we griped and moaned when they closed the Air Base at El Toro and the Navy Yard in Long Beach, I think at that moment, I was secretly glad that they were not operating anymore because they were two less targets. I was reminded at that time of the fear I had as a little kid, of course, only when I thought of it, that my grandmother’s house where I spent so much time was only a couple miles from the Naval Weapons Station in Huntington Harbor that of course buzz had labeled as a primary target during the cold war that was on at the time.
As we were contemplating this all, I’ll never forget how unbelievable it was to hear the street-cleaner going by outside. It was Tuesday morning as always, but I could not fathom that here we sat watching God-knows how many people die, watching in my lifetime, this nation come under attack on its own soil, all the while thinking, when was the last time…1812?...Did the battles of the civil war count?...Hawaii wasn’t a state in 1941, so they don’t count that, do they?...What in the hell does this count as? For some reason, while all of this is going through my head, I come to realize that my mom’s car is still in front of the house. Looking back, it seems so very weird that while watching this horror unfold, thinking of all of the possibilities of what could be next, that my instinct at the time was to run outside and move the car before we got a measly parking ticket.
So, my mom beats me out the door. While I pondered how amazing it was that we both still prioritized moving the car before getting a ticket above all else at the time, my mom ran to the car and started it. It was then that I noticed a good deal of our neighbors were also standing outside, literally in disbelief as well at what was going on. Between the guy in the street cleaner and the three parking control officers that followed him in their trucks, had they gotten to work so early that morning that they did not know? Had they not had a radio station tuned in, or even been told by dispatch what was going on? I do not know if they gave out tickets that morning because it appeared that everyone on my block had gotten out there the same time that we did and moved their cars. Either way, I made it a point before going back in to the house to yell at each passing parking control officer, “Don’t you know that the country is under attack?! And you are out here writing people tickets for not moving their cars?!” By the dumfounded look I got, I truly believe they had no clue what was going on.
Once back in the house, I settled on the floor in front of the TV, my nerves still shuddering from all that was going on this morning. As my mom walked down the hall to her room, calling my dad, Vinny and I took a close look at the towers. Vinny then told me that he remembered Joe saying that he worked on the 107th floor. As we studied the scene before us, it became apparent. No matter which tower Joe had worked in, if he had been in the office when either of the planes hit either of the buildings, he would be above the collision point. We still hoped, though we knew, watching helplessly, there were so many people in those buildings that were not going to find a way down through the fires. We threw out scenarios…Maybe the fire crews could eventually get up there with water and put the fires out. There had to have been places in the buildings that were not engulfed in flames. Places where people could have crouched, maybe near a broken window so they could breathe. Maybe they could bring in water-dropping planes and helicopters. Maybe if they got the fires under control, they could land helicopters on the roof and start pulling people off.
That was when it happened. We were talking out scenarios, studying as detailed as we could the image of the burning buildings on the screen. The camera angle that was being shown just showed the top portion of the buildings. It literally looked as if the top of one of the buildings had vanished. I said to Vinny, “Is it gone?” Vinny and I both looked at the screen as closely as we could. There was a lot of smoke there, but it really looked like it had vanished. After we had spent about thirty seconds going back and forth, the newscaster noticed the same thing. He asked that they run the tape back because it looked like something else had happened. Sure enough, when they showed the playback in slow motion from the same angle, you could see the top of the building fall down and off the bottom of the screen. As soon as we made the realization, Vinny went running to the back of the house to tell my mom to come and see. By now, they had a few different angles that were confirming that it looked like the entire building, not just the top portion, had fallen.
I honestly do not remember when I first saw the Pentagon. I do not recall if it was before or after the first tower collapsed...To the best of recollection, it was after the first tower fell that the newscasters broke into their own commentary of the towers to report that they were receiving word of a large, billowing smoke cloud in Washington, D.C. Again, we hoped for the best. We hoped that it was a brush fire, or maybe an accidental building fire, or something, but as you know, we were proven wrong again. A few minutes later, the newscasters were reporting that it was the Pentagon. There wasn’t a close enough image to show the damage to the Pentagon yet, just a long-shot from somewhere in the city of the smoke cloud. We then figured the worst…that like the tower, the entire building was gone.
So, this was it. At this point, we figured it was an all-out attack. The FAA was reporting that there were still some one hundred planes in the air, some of which were still not confirmed as in the hands of their pilots. The FAA was grounding everything they could land and not letting anything else take off, but there were still one-hundred flying bombs in the air, each loaded with passengers. Then, there were the international flights. If they had gotten passenger planes here in the U.S., which still hadn’t been confirmed yet, then why wouldn’t it be conceivable that there were planes from Canada, Mexico, Europe, Japan?
If I recall correctly, it was about the same time the newscasters were reporting a small plane crash in Pennsylvania that they announced they were getting word that American Airlines had confirmed that two of their flights were missing. It wasn’t set in stone, but we knew it. As soon as that report came in, it was enough for us to know that there were at least four planes…the two in New York, the one in Washington and the one in Pennsylvania. If they had gotten two passenger jets, then they had gotten four, and if they had gotten four, Lord knows how many of them they had.
It seemed that about every few minutes, the newscasters were reporting how many planes were still left in the air. They had concluded the same. We knew of four, but how many of them were there? It was then that I noticed that my mom had walked back to her room and had been in there for some time. Vinny and I had been trying to keep her informed while she was getting ready for work, but had not seen her for a while. When I called back to her, she emerged from her room, on the phone, holding her hand up to quiet me. I don’t think I’ll ever forget how she told me, and I definitely know that I will never forget the incident itself. My mom just said, “Oh my God,” over and over again into the phone as she started to tear up. We knew at that minute that it was news about Joe.
My mom got off the phone and walked down the hall to tell us. She said that Joey had just gotten a call from the place where Joe Allens’s fiancée worked, asking him to come and be with her because she was, as they said, hysterical with grief. Joe had, in fact, been at work when the plane hit his building. He had tried to get out, but when he realized that he was not going to be able to get down, he took out his cell phone and called his fiancée to tell her good-bye. He told her that he loved her, asked her to please tell his family that he loved them, that he didn’t think he was going to make it, and then, the phone went dead. As far as we know, that was the last that anyone heard from Joe. I don’t recall exactly at what point I called my girlfriend Teresa to tell her what I learned of Joe and his fiancée, but I do definitely recall that I was so choked up that I could barely tell her. Just the thought of what it was like for Joe, the thought of what it would have been like to get that last phone call from him.
With Joe’s fate still fresh in our minds, we watched in inevitable disbelief, yet at the same time, with frightening expectation, as the second tower came down. There were still planes in the air, but for New York, it was done. They were “marching” on Washington, D.C.. We figured that the plane that crashed was on its way there as well. It was a westward movement that appeared to be timed very precisely. With planes in the air, our thoughts were turned to a fear that one-by-one, the planes in their control were going to make their way westward to the major cities. Were there planes in their control that were going to circle and wait for the time they were supposed to hit? Were there planes over the Pacific that were heading for our populous areas in California? Were they done with Washington, D.C.? Was the attack sophisticated enough to divert another plane to Washington in place of the one that had crashed?
As it grew time for Vinny to go to school, I reasoned that we did not even know if it was over. It had appeared it was over after the two planes, but then Washington was hit, so who was to say that it was done, especially with planes still in the air. How many of the planes already on the ground had hijackers on them still? My business for the morning was an appointment at South Coast Plaza, our local mall which was in fact quite a tourist attraction. I wondered if such a high-profile civilian target was on this list and called to cancel my appointment. I figured it would be best for us to stay close to home today.
As the morning wore on, it became apparent that there were no other planes in the air. There were reports already of suspicious-acting people on some of the flights that were on the ground. Reports of fighter jets over New York and Washington were coming in. The newscasts began to show the footage obtained from near the World Trade Center. New footage of the first plane hitting, new footage of the second plane hitting, footage from right near the towers when the first tower came down. It was like watching a scene out of a movie. It was so far away, yet so close to home. News reports throughout the day would show more and more footage - different angles, different views, different areas of what they were starting to call “Ground Zero.” Reports of the buildings around the towers beginning to collapse. Estimates of over 6,000 dead were flashing across the screens by the end of the night.
It is now the early morning hours of September 12th, and as I write this, we have no further word about Joe Allen. My dad is planning on flying as close as he can to the US/Mexico border, but with all flights grounded, we are going to have to go pick him up by car wherever he can get through. The planes have stopped, the attack is apparently over, and the news reports are now starting to speculate the why. The death toll is complete speculation and the news coverage is mostly of the tattered metal remains of the Twin Towers and some fires that are still persisting in the area as fire crews are looking for survivors. It is not actually completely confirmed, but it is highly speculated that it was most likely four commercial airliners that were hijacked. It is hard to grasp what has happened – four separate planes hijacked, three flown into buildings and one flown into the ground.
It is difficult to put into words what we were all feeling as we went to bed last night. I have not been able to sleep at all and I am still up, watching the news. There is an aura of disbelief. I keep reading what I wrote this morning over and over again and I’m not really sure how to end it. I’m honestly at a loss for words. I can only frame it in the context of history and say that it feels like this is going to by my generation’s Pearl Harbor and just as then, only time will tell where this leads us.
I tend to feel that yesterday’s events will be one of the things that we will all remember for the rest of our lives. I know that gets said quite a bit about quite a lot, but yesterday is definitely going to stand out in our memories.
I guess this will serve as a record of the minutes of early morning on September 11, 2001, and will be the bitter-sweet property of myself and my family for the rest of our lives. These are the minutes that I am honored and feel compelled to share to serve as a record for those who will come after us, for those who will wonder what it was like for most of us on that morning that for us, right now, was just yesterday.
Photo by Oliver Kepka via Pixabay
I walk for an hour early in the morning before work everyday in a big, sprawling parking structure. It gives me a chance to counteract all of the snacks I am going to eat that night, provides me with an hour of quiet reading and reflection, and inadvertently, also gives me the chance to witness something very few people who work in a business complex see...an actual person picking up all of the trash that gets left on the concrete floor of the parking structure.
I've been walking in that parking structure every weekday morning for about a year now, and I have seen everything from a rotting banana to a single Cheez-It, to more than a few used Band-Aids, and items that have ranged in size from a paperclip to a stack of empty boxes and packaging material six feet high. One morning, there was even a discarded and obviously used condom. And what amazes me, yet fails to surprise me each time I walk past discarded items like these, is that a member of the human collective - someone who most likely is educated, has enough of a work ethic to hold down a job, and perhaps, like me, began their career in a service job - made the very deliberate and at least somewhat conscious effort to leave that item on the concrete floor of the parking structure and then drive or walk away.
I’m often also amazed at how close some of these items are left to one of the two trashcans that are on every level of the parking structure. While I don’t accept the excuse, I do at least slightly understand the frustration one might have at walking a couple hundred feet to a trashcan, but you’d be surprised at how many of these discarded items are literally within a toss-length of those trashcans.
Seeing these discarded items oft reminds me of that venerable episode of The Simpsons where the haphazard and lovingly ever-clueless embodiment of the stereotypical American, Homer Simpson, runs for Springfield Trash Service Commissioner under the slogan, "Can't someone else do it?" Homer runs on a whim, driven by completely controllable circumstances that spiraled out of control due to his own laziness, driving him to seek revenge by dethroning the sitting Trash Service Commissioner instead of holding himself accountable for his own actions. Homer’s slogan and promise that everyone in the town will no longer be responsible for picking up their own trash thanks to his garbage men naturally get him elected in a landslide victory.
In fact, just about every time I have walked past one of those discarded items on the parking structure floor, I have laughed a bit to myself and asked in my best Homer voice in my head, “Can’t someone else do it?”
I sometimes find myself wondering if the people that leave these items lying there on the floor, whether dropped out of their car while sitting, or dropped before or after getting out of the car, realize that at some point, another person is going to have to come along and pick up their garbage for them. I wonder if they think, perhaps, that the garbage is not picked up by a person at all – that maybe there is one of those magic parking-lot-cleaning vacuum trucks that does all the work. And then, of course, I wonder if perhaps they don’t even think about it at all. It’s just trash, and trash goes on the ground, and they don’t care one bit what happens to it or who it might effect.
Maybe it’s the fact that I spent my formative teenage years working thankless service jobs that ranged from bagging groceries to making cookie dough, to selling children’s clothes, to loading delivery trucks by hand, or the fact that at some point in each of those jobs, I was the one picking up the trash, but I can’t say that I have ever simply tossed trash on the ground and just walked away. I definitely have never thought there wasn’t someone that was going to have to come along and pick up that trash at some point. I’ll spare you the environmentalist lecture on the side effects all that trash has on our environment, but will still lightly touch on the fact that the people that discard these items have to at least realize all the trash lining our roads and highways most likely came from folks like them.
The bottom line is that I have always been aware that whether being picked up by hand or picked up by a vacuum truck or other machine operated by a person, there was in fact, a person out there that would be the one who had to pick up my trash if I just left it lying there on the ground. And I simply cannot figure out why it seems there are so many people out there that do not share this understanding.
I really wish each and every one of the people who toss their garbage on the floor of that parking structure could be there early in the morning when I watch a living, breathing human being have to bend down, take other people’s trash into his own hand and repeat this over and over again. I wish they could see this person who still somehow manages to greet me with a smile each morning being the “someone else” in “Can’t someone else do it?”
