A Trip To Tampa, Part One

So I went to Tampa.  I didn’t get a tan.  This should not surprise you.

This also should not surprise you.  I met some strangers.  Woney flew out to meet me there, but other than her, I knew nary a one of these people I was to hang out with for three days.  I am an excellent judge of character when I get to know you over email and/or Facebook.  I totally know the difference between someone who says “I promise not to steal your big sexy hair products and to leave your virtue intact” and someone who says “I am in Nicaragua with my mum who is sick.  I am sad.  I love you, please wire money.”  What I’m saying is you do not have to worry about me meeting strangers and picking roommates from Craigslist.

There’s a lot to discuss about this trip so I’m going to have to do this in parts.  It’s a lot to process. Plus I had a tasty beverage or two  while there and so some things are fuzzy.  I’m such a lightweight.

The flight out was lovely.  Fairly uneventful.  Crowded.  The flight attendant in my section of the plane was a nice man, although a bit of an Eeyore.  I usually fly Southwest and if I’m lucky I’ll get a flight crew full of fun.  I like the ones who sing, tell stories, and generally put some pizazz in the safety messages.  This flight attendant was nothing like that.  Following is the conversation he had with me and my seatmates.

Flight attendant, clutching his drink order pad, to those of us in my aisle:  What would you like to drink?

Seatmate1: Ginger ale.

Flight attendant:  You said Diet Coke?

Seatmate 1:  No, ginger ale.

Seatmate 2:  I’ll have a Diet Coke, please.

Me:  Do you have diet ginger ale?

Flight attendant:  No, we have Diet Coke.

Me:  I’ll have water.

Time passed.  We ate peanuts.  We waited.

Flight attendant, clutching his drink tray, to Seatmate 1:  Here’s your Diet Coke. 

Seatmate 1:  I ordered ginger ale.

Flight attendant:  I wrote down Diet Coke.

Seatmate 1:  I’d prefer a ginger ale.

Flight attendant: <heavy sigh>

Flight attendant to seatmate 2:  Here’s your Diet Coke.

Flight attendant to me:  Here’s your Diet Coke.

I opened my mouth to say, “No, I ordered water” but I saw his face, his Eeyore countenance, and the sigh that was coming, so I took the Diet Coke and clutched it in my hand until the garbage bag came around.

Then I arrived in Tampa and met some strangers and had the time of my life.

And then I had a flight home.  Boy, it was a doozy.  The flight itself was fine, no worries there, I’m alive.  But Woney and I ran into something interesting as we arrived at the airport.  We saw loads of people wearing black and bright green clothing and on all that black and bright green clothing was a green sparkly logo.  Now I’m a big fan of all thing sparkly, of course, so I was instantly captivated until I realized that the logo didn’t really say anything.  Then I caught on.   Ohhhhhh.  Stare at the logo, ask a question about it and immediately get sucked into a sales pitch.  I hate that!  Even though my eyes were drawn to the shiny, I walked quickly and firmly away from all those people.   It was a chore, let me tell you.  They were EVERYWHERE. 

I handled the walking away marvelously until I walked the gangplank to get to my plane.  There, in the bouncy walking tube, I was accosted by a husband and wife team as I began the slow crawl to get to the plane.  She was decked out literally from head to toe in her bright green and he even had his sparkly logo on a baseball jersey.  Die hards.  They were all up in my personal space, yapping at me about their product*, handing me crap that I clutched in my sweaty paw until the flight attendant came by with the garbage bag.  They wanted my contact info, etc., etc. and I politely declined as I boarded the plane, grabbing the first seat I could find in relief to be away from the vultures. 

I sat down with a whoosh in aisle two and do you know I sat right next to another one of those varmints?  She tricked me.  She had on a regular old black jacket over her sparkly green logo and only unzipped it after I sat down.  I just sighed and took the information, clutching  it in my hand until the flight attendant came by for garbage pickup.  I hate that mess.  If you are going to sell something and turn into your product, losing all your former personality and charm, go away from me.  I do not want what you are selling.

Oh, and speaking of flight attendants and charm, on this flight I had a Ricky Martin-type guy who was adorable.  He rattled off his safety spiel and suddenly, right in the middle of it, said “If you have any questions, please find a flight attendant.  Unless they are naked.  Never trust the naked ones.”  And then he went right on about his business.

So I’ve given you the bookend information on my trip.  There’s more to come.  I just have to get over my lazy haze that I got when I was down there so that I can write it all up for you. 

*I’m not going to tell you what the product was because they annoyed me.  It isn’t a product you want anyway unless you like people eyeing you critically and giving you low self-esteem with their suggestions about how they can fix you.  I like you guys too much to subject you to that.


I Don’t Know Why Everyone Gets So Worried

I think I forgot to tell you that Daddy-O and JiJi got me a new pink pocketknife for my birthday.  It was a happy moment.  Ain’t it purty?


I’ve toted it around in my purse proudly for a few months but have only had a couple of chances to use it so when Christmas rolled around, I was pretty stoked.  See, we are a family that likes ourselves the ribbon.  We enjoy twisting that curling ribbon all around the package and tying it as tight as we can. It makes the packages look more festive.  We are also a family that enjoys ourselves some tape.  We like taping the gift boxes shut and also all the seams of the wrapping paper so that finding a finger hold to rip the paper off is nearly impossible.  But the packages look pretty and that is what is important.


When Coach was opening his first package and having some difficulty, I ran to my purse to get my pocketknife.  “Here,” I offered, “you can use my pocketknife.”

Coach looked at me with horror.   “No,” he hollered.  “You put that away!  You’ll hurt yourself!”

And then Martie said when I offered it to her, “No, I’m good!  I’ve got this, see?”  And she sawed away at the tape with her nail.

Daddy-O said, “Lord, go get some Kleenex before you bleed all over the couch!”

Poppa whipped out his own pocketknife and sneered at my tiny little pink one as he expertly flicked his open and sliced through the ribbon.

Madre let me open my knife and use it on one of her gifts but when I had a brain cramp for a minute and couldn’t remember how to close it, Coach took it away from me and stuffed it down between the couch cushions. 

I got my knife back and will have you know that all my fingers remain intact.  I don’t even know why you worry. I am excellent with sharp things.  Except for this one time.  Geez, bunch of worry warts. 


I Suggest That No One Mess With Me Any Time Soon

For real.  No one needs to tick me off in the near future.  I don’t know what exactly God has me going through lately but I can tell you what it’s doing for me.  It’s making me so damn strong right now.  And slightly pissed off, frankly, which is why I suggest that you all be kind to me.  I will come out of this a total badass but the ride is bumpy and not that pleasant.  Watch out. 

This picture is the view of my car from the back window of the tow truck.  This time it’s my starter.  Is anyone counting with me?  This makes four high dollar car fixes in less than three months.  For the record, I am not made of money so in addition to you being nice to me, you need to not need to borrow any money from me. 

A guy at the car place asked me, “What’s wrong with your car?  Why are you here?”  Bless his heart.  So I told him. He just kind of sat there with his mouth agape at the word vomit that poured from my mouth, and finally, he snapped his mouth shut and then said, “Good luck.  I mean it.”  And then he left.  Quickly.

There are some positives in this, at least one.  Believe you me, I’m looking for them.  Six years ago I decided that it would be a good idea for me to have a roadside assistance plan.  Being a single female in Nashville makes that a smart idea, right?  Today I didn’t have to pay for my tow.  I mean, I’ve paid Verizon $3.00 a month for that plan for the last six years but TODAY I didn’t have to pay for that tow truck.  That’s some savings right there.  When I come up with another positive, I’ll let you know. 

In truly happy news, Poppa came home on Saturday.  He sounded tired, just plumb worn out, but he’s doing alright.  Martie went to visit him right away and when she got there, Poppa was laid out on the couch with their cat, Sonic, in his lap.  Poppa isn’t what I call a gruff man necessarily, and he’s always been very kind to all of us, but seeing a virtual Viking of a man with his arms wrapped around a furry gray cat and snoozing was enough to make us all realize that life is a fragile thing. Sonic, often affectionate anyway, was so kind to Poppa, like he knew that he was needed, so he sat stoically in Poppa’s lap, completely upright while Poppa napped. 

In other happy news, I realized that I never showed you a picture of Miss Kitty.  I took this today. This is how she sleeps although I caught her in mid-yawn.  It must be exhausting to be a house cat.


And in unhappy news, Murphy is being relocated.  He peed on Kasi Starr’s stuff again.  This was after he peed in her gym bag, in my gym bag, in her second gym bag, in Roommate’s gym bag that he left behind, and after he attacked Seamus two nights ago.  He cornered him in the bedroom and grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and just bit him.  Kasi Starr found them and separated them. Murphy acts all innocent when I’m around him, meowing and wanting attention, but lately to get attention he’s been doing more than just tapping me with his claws. He nips at my arm with his teeth, and it seems like any amount of attention is never enough.  I probably don’t want to talk about this again, so you’ll understand if I never mention it further. 

In conclusion, I’d like to tell you that the hours spent at the car fixing place were spent typing all this up and watching my first ever Clint Eastwood Western.  I’ve got say, I didn’t love it.  It was awful.  I see his appeal, though, so that’s something and I do feel like all of that testosterone oozing out of that movie should make me smarter about my car and perhaps this time I won’t get cheated.  That would be awesome. 

UPDATE:  The guy at the car place knocked $50 off my bill because I questioned some things.  Thank you, Clint.  I owe you one.

The Box Of Chocolates Post

I got an email from Dammit Todd about my latest post. It needs to be shared.

Dear Jimmie –

1) I’m never hunting squirrels in your home town, especially if they really can be considered to be a big animal, such as a deer.

2) Your makeover pic is definitely being termed “Eye of the Tigger” in my book…

My makeover, courtesy of Tigger

Love, Dammit Todd

When Woney and I were in the Mexico port on our cruise, we got on this bus tour thing. Time has passed and I’m slightly fuzzy on the details now that I’ve slept. Anyway, the tour guide spoke fantastic English although slightly accented, and this is the thing he said that I remember most, mostly because he was calm and dead serious.

“Jyoo can go to the open air flea market and buy lots of silber, leather, wool. Lots of stuff. Jyoo can get handbags, belts, hats, whips. <shrug> Jyoo on bacation.”

An open letter to Tony, Woney’s trainer.

Dear Tony, oh ye of the chiclet teeth, giant arms, positive attitude and Navy Uniform which you refused to wear for me no matter how much I really, really wanted you to or how much I wheezed when I ran to show you that I was serious about the workout –

I heard that you made Woney flip over a bunch of tractor tires as part of her training for her Sheryl Crow arms. I hate to tell you, Tony, but you live in CALIFORNIA. Tractors just don’t really seem indigenous to CALIFORNIA and I’ll bet people snickered behind your back.

However, they do seem to be indigenous to TENNESSEE, where I live. I do believe that here in Nashville we even lay claim to a country music singer who writes songs about how tractors are sexy (Yes, it is a great source of embarrassment for many TENNESSEE natives, one of which is me. Was that Kenny Chesney? Cause if so, he should be strung up by his toenails and tortured mercilessly. Anway . . . .) Tractors and their tires belong here and honestly, I could use some Sheryl Crow arms myself.

I propose an idea. Tony, you come here (and bring Woney) with your tractor tires (and your uniform), and we can flip tractor tires all day long and no one will think it is weird at all. Maybe you can meet Kenny Chesney. And later we can check you for ticks. Deal? Deal.



A Guest Post, by Murphy

People. Tell The Smushy One that the garage is not outside! Frick.

It appears that Christmas is upon us. One of my neighbors put up the whole Clark Griswold-themed light show in their yard Halloween weekend and since then has been blazing the trail nightly in their quest for the Christmas Spirit.

I put my tree up this past weekend and wondered what the cats would do to it. The first year the kitties were with me, I had the tree up but Seamus hid under the bed all the time and Murphy was too busy digging in my cabinets and in the bathroom to notice it. Last year the tree didn’t make it off of the garage shelf.  This year I fully expected Murphy to tear it to shreds or at the very least, pee on it.

Instead, every day when I come home I see this:

Seamus is in love with that tree. He makes a running leap, slides onto the tree skirt and skids across it like he’s sliding into home base. Then he’ll lump himself up underneath the tree skirt and “hide”, except his butt is so big it sticks out. I find new ornaments on the floor every day and I’ve noticed that more and more of my lights on my pre-lit tree are going out. I’m going to have a non-lit tree before it’s over with.

Murphy with the tree:

Meh. It'll do.

Seamus with the tree:

You touch this and I will kill you.

That’s it. Chocolate gone. The end. 

(In case you now need a chocolate fix, all those images came from Godiva.  Just remember me when you go buy some.)

A List Of Things That Irritate Me

  1. People who talk to me like I’m stupid.  My life is not one giant happy accident resulting in my success.  I did not get here by being dumb.
  2. The word moist.  Also, morsel.  Stupidest, grossest words ever.
  3. While we are on the subject of words, I’d like to add using the words fork and spoon as verbs instead of nouns.
  4. People who do not use turn signals.  Yes, I realize that the lawful use of them would potentially devalue your car by dozens of pennies, especially when you consider that the bulb might go out one day resulting in you having to hand over $1.89 for a new one.  But really, are those dozens of pennies that important when I’m barreling down the interstate at 80 miles an hour towards you  and you suddenly decide you want to be in my lane?  I don’t think so. 
  5. Jazz.
  6. The phrase “on tomorrow” as in “I will send that email on tomorrow.”  Is that even proper grammar?
  7. My hair, when it won’t do right.
  8. This website right here:  White Castle Recipes.  I cannot think of anyone who wants to use 10 White Castle burgers as the main ingredient for stuffing for the holiday meals.  Just no. This is wrong on so many levels.
  9. Spam comments on my post that consists only of pictures:  Youre (sic) so right. Im (sic) there with you. Your blog is surely worth a read if anyone comes throughout (sic) it. Im(sic) lucky I did because now Ive (sic) acquired a whole new view of this. I didnt (sic) realise (sic) that this issue was so important and so universal. You absolutely put it in perspective for me. Well, of course I did, because my picture of a cat showing his man parts is universal and important.
  10. Me.  When I am less than honest with people I care about. It is a terrible habit of mine and it only serves to hurt the other person, even if I’m doing it with the best of intentions.  I’m practicing on not doing that. 

And now, a conversation that did not irritate me.   Jimmie and her co-worker, Always Keith, text in the early a.m. about the umbrella he left in her car: 

Jimmie:  I have your umbrella.  Bring one million dollars is small bills to the office for its safe return. 

Always Keith:  I’ll cut you . . .

Jimmie:  You forgot the “dawg” part.  It’s “I’ll cut you, dawg.”   C’mon man.  Still, one million dollars.  I will not negotiate. 

Always Keith:  I will cut you female dawg . . .

Jimmie:  Damn.  That was impressive.   


Customer Service: The Good, The Bad, Buy A Kindle

We all have customer service experiences, right?  We live in a society where we can have almost anything we want, instantly.  Everyone wants our dollar, and hundreds of different companies are willing to sell us hundreds of different products that are just like everyone else’s product.  The difference in this day and age is service.  Some customer service people are great.  Some are awful. And some of them should count themselves lucky that they are, indeed, a phone call away and not anywhere near our (my) vicinity otherwise they would lose an eyeball when we (I) stick our (my) ink pen in it.  (I’m sorry, I’ve had no sugar today.)

I have had some experiences, yes, and some of them are below: 

Regions Bank:  A++.  I love these guys.  I would consider baking them cookies.  Always helpful, all the time. 

Budget Rental Car:  C.  This one has a story (naturally) and an ending in three parts.    

A few weeks ago, my Monday started like this:

Boss:  Here’s my Budget receipt.  They charged me an extra $127 because I returned the car an hour late.  It’s possible I called the guy f@cknuts.  Fix it. 

Jimmie:  <faintly> oh . . . .

Oh, this took HOURS.  I called Budget Nashville where I did speak to f@cknuts himself who blame-shifted me over to Budget Memphis.  There I spoke with a woman who answered every. single. question. and. request. I had with “Yes ma’am, it says right here that we charged you $127 for the extra hour on top of the $170 for the day,” like I was stupid and she was a benevolent information giver.  She blame-shifted me over to Budget Corporate who fixed the problem immediately, most likely while they were perusing the million plus miles Boss drives in their cars every year. 

Budget Nashville – You are walking a fine line.

Budget Corporate – A OK in my book

Budget Memphis – You people can suck eggs.     

Barnes & Noble:  Oh holy moly, I hate them.  F++

Obviously there is a story here as well. Surprise. 

Just over a year ago, I received as a birthday gift a Nook.  I’m a reader.  I love books.  I can blow through two or three of them in a week, so this was a perfect gift.  I didn’t even know I wanted it until I got it but I was in love from that moment forward. 

I was in love until, of course, the reading screen went into a blackout and never came back on.  Not one for being good at fixing or even understanding technical devices, I dutifully searched for the troubleshooting guidelines, performed them, and was not at all surprised when they did not work.  I called B&N, hoping for an answer and after explaining my problem, they offered to send me a replacement Nook. What a shock that was!  Usually the warranty on your car expires exactly 15 minutes before something major happens to the engine.  Or your washing machine will crap out two days after the parts and service guarantee shuts off.  You can see why I was thrilled that B&N didn’t give me any grief about sending me a new product.  I bragged about them to anyone who would listen, glossing over the fact that my Nook had broken just a month or so after receiving it.

Six months after the replacement arrived, my screen saver got stuck on the screen saver, never to reboot again.   Repeat all of the above paragraph.  I was promised a replacement, a new Nook.  Sure enough it came, except they sent me a used one.  It was called a “Certified Pre-Owned Nook” and while the box was packed up like Fort Knox, the back was off of the device and I smushed my finger trying to get it back together.  Also, I broke a nail trying to get the box open so suffice it to say that I wasn’t nearly as thrilled about my second replacement Nook.   

Also, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that I didn’t like getting a used product when I had started off with a new one and was promised another new one.  Plus I wanted to know why my used one had been returned in the first place.  Plus I wanted to tell them to be more careful when sending out the used ones that were not properly put back together because my finger still hurt.  So I called. 

Oh my holy mercy, what a process that was.  Everyone was initially very nice.  No one spoke English as a first language.  Everyone put me off on another person.  No one gave me their real name (I was informed that they give fake names for their protection, and later I could see why.)  Everyone spent their hour on the phone with me saying “I’m sorry for the wait.  <pause> I apologize for the delay. <pause> I insist on being mournful for the time this is taking. <pause> I’m sorry for the wait.”  I finally exploded and requested that we sit in silence for the hour it was going to take for them to read the notes on my file, please for the love of all we hold sacred, just silence was all I needed.  “I’m sorry about that ma’am, but yes, I apologize for the silence.”  Aargh! 

Six phone calls later, two disconnections from B&N later, 270 “I’m sorry’s” later (six phone calls at an average of 45 “I’m sorry’s” per call, and yes, I counted), two weeks later, four supervisors later, two trainees sent back to training camp later, and still a used Nook with no ready information as to why it was returned in the first place, they gave in and offered to send me a new Nook which took two full months for me to receive because they neglected to make the note in my file to send it.   Incidentally, the final customer service rep I talked with had the whole discussion over and done with in less than fifteen minutes and said, “I’m sorry ma’am but it should have been this easy for you all along.  I have no idea what happened before.” 

Barnes & Noble:  Bite me.    

The Reading World:  Buy a Kindle. 

Anyone else want to chime in?  What is your customer service experience? 

Again With The Testosterone

Hello all!  Have you missed me?  I’ve been very busy and absent and thought you might like an explanation as to why. 

Two months ago I started planning an appreciation dinner for our clients at work.  We do this every year with great success.  To begin, I put in the request for creation of the invitation with our media group and gave them a very specific deadline.  I scoped out a couple of restaurants and got preliminary pricing and menu selections.  Two days before the invitation deadline and a week and a half before the dinner itself, the powers that be (namely, my boss) changed the entire game plan and suggested a cookout.

I was fine with it.  I like spontaneity.  I can go with the flow.  So I called the media group and all the potential restaurants and threw a monkey wrench in all their plans as well as mine, changing the entire dance which made everyone very happy and certainly made me some new friends.  Big fun. 

I was given a budget and told to “make it happen.”  Again, I’m good with that.  I like the challenge.  I did allow that the last time I had to grill something I lost most of my eyebrows so if the group wanted to actually serve meat, they could either grill it themselves or explain to the clients that “cookout” really means “crock-pot chicken”.  No less than five of the men in the group said to me, “Well, you know, I am the Grill Master.” 

“Great,” says I.  “Now who’s gonna help me cook the rest of it?”

You know who is the Potato Salad Master?  Me.

You know who is the Baked Bean Master?  Me.

You know who is the Salsa Master? Me.

You know who is the Shopping For Food, Shopping For Alcohol, Pasta Salad, Brownie, Cobbler Master?  Me. 

Now that you understand the Established Boundaries, a timeline for you:

One week prior to Cookout

Jimmie goes to Sam’s to check prices on every possible grilling item available. She communicates with Boss who is on vacation in Belize (lucky dog).

Six days prior to Cookout

Jimmie goes to Kroger to check prices on beer and other assorted groceries.

Five days prior to Cookout

Jimmie does comparison price checks on beer and other assorted groceries at Wal-Mart at 8:30 am.  Thank the Lord her skirt was not tucked up into her underwear as she was cruising the beer aisles before 9:00 am or she is certain she would have ended up in your email chain under the title: “People of Wal-Mart”.

Four days prior to Cookout

Jimmie begins purchasing supplies, namely meat that must brine for 24 hours before being smoked for 12 hours (thank you helpful co-worker who took care of this portion of the show).

Three days prior to Cookout

Jimmie starts the salsa recipe, with much mixing and chopping and opening of cans.

Two days prior to cookout

Jimmie picks up Boss at airport after his vacation (lucky dog) and does the big shopping trip to purchase all supplies including beer, wine and salt shakers.  It was the first time in Jimmie’s life she needed a grocery cart to hold all of the alcohol she purchased.  Classy.  Jimmie also makes brownies, macerates the peaches, and cooks the blackberries into a syrup. 

One day prior to cookout

Jimmies freaks out a little and then begins cooking in earnest.  Potatoes are boiled and marinated.  Bacon is cooked. Onions are chopped. (This ought to tell you how much she cares about this company and how they appear to the client.  Jimmie HATES onions.)  Brownies are iced then iced again.  (Sounds odd but you want to do this.  So Good!)  Boss asks if he can invite extra people. Jimmie has mini stroke and adds another pound of potatoes to her recipe.  Jimmie cooks and prepares until 11:30 pm.  Her hands are raw and dried out from washing them so many times and her dishwasher is most likely running on its last legs.  Jimmie sleeps well for a few hours.


Jimmie awakes at the crack of 6:30 and leaps out of bed to immediately begin preparations for the evening cookout. She finishes the potato salad, the cobblers, the baked beans and the salsa.  She enlists help to set up the bar and the tables and chairs (thank you Felix!), buys 120 pounds of ice for the tasty beverages, and makes lists of stuff she forgot.  Meanwhile, Boss again asks if he can invite extra people.  Jimmie has stroke of greater magnitude and immediately rushes to the store to buy fixings for a pasta salad as no way does she have enough food.  At 3:00 she jumps in the shower and at 4:00 realizes she has time for a much needed pedicure.  She rushes off to get that done, her first break of the day, and on her way back, Boss calls.

Boss:  Did you seriously go get a pedicure?

Jimmie: <Silence>

Boss:  You are kidding me, right?  You know there are half a dozen people waiting for you over here. (Editor’s Note:  The half a dozen people were two hours early.)

Jimmie loses her mind for three and one half minutes, screeching things like “Do you want me to quit!  Because I will!”  And also things like, “I have a knife in this car you know!  Plus all the food is in this vehicle and if you don’t want me to turn this mother around and give it all to the homeless you had better change your tune, boy!  I cannot BELIEVE you have the absolute GALL to tell me I cannot take a one hour break!  I have worked my ASS off for you people <breath> and I will not take this crap from you!” And then possibly things like this, “You can just serve your clients a bunch of charred hunks of meat for all I care!  Scum sucking leeches! <ragged breath> I hate you all!”  Also, possibly there were some epithets and foul language, unbecoming to a lady. 

Boss:  <Silence>

Jimmie: Huff.

Boss:  Um, I was just kidding.

Jimmie:  Oh.

One hour prior to the cookout

Jimmie arrives with a truckload of food and begins to unload.  The men, all five Grill Masters, stand outside next to the massive man grill (picture below) which holds about 100 pounds of charcoal, crowing about their grilling prowess, swilling beer and generally grunting and peeing on stuff to establish dominance.  They grilled precisely 36 hamburgers, 48 sausages and three packets of onions.  Jimmie choked a little on the testosterone overload and her ovaries shrunk two sizes that day. 


A resounding success.

So that’s what I’ve been up to lately.  What about you guys? Anything new? 



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