12 years ago today, I got married.

12 years ago today, I was 28 years old.

12 years ago today, I wore a princess dress.

12 years ago today, I vowed to love and cherish.

12 years ago today, I exchanged rings with the kindest man I know.

12 years ago today, I danced to YMCA.

12 years ago today, I couldn’t believe how lucky I was.

12 years ago today, I had a huge zit on my chin.

12 years ago today, I had my bags packed for Maui.

12 years ago today, my face hurt from smiling. (And the zit.)

12 years ago today, I sat in a hotel room at 2AM, eating burgers and reading wedding cards with my new husband.

12 years ago today, I was not yet a mom.

12 years ago today, my dad was still alive.

12 years ago today, I shared the most important day of my life with many people I no longer speak to.

12 years ago today, I was just a kid.

So many things have changed in the last 12 years. But the constant is how much I love the man I said “I do” to. We have been through some rough patches, we have lost some people by choice and others by fate, we have gained new friends who bless us daily, we have become parents and that has changed us. Through it all, we have not only sustained… We have flourished. And we are lucky, and we are blessed. And we work at this thing every day.

12 years ago today, was the beginning of the best part of my life. I am grateful beyond words. I would fall to my knees and thank God and the Universe every day, if my knees weren’t 40 years old. Somehow I got to marry someone who not only made this world a better place for me to live in, but made ME better. (And, I wasn’t so bad to begin with!)

I wish I could re-live that day, 12 years ago, over and over. And I wouldn’t change a thing about what has transpired since. And now that I see my husband, my partner as a father… It makes me think I was a pretty brilliant 28-year-old, marrying a man with the qualities to not only be my rock, but to raise a son who will be the same kind of man his daddy is. And that is also changing this world for the better.

12 years ago today, I won.

Happy Anniversary, baby. 12 years ago today, we danced to “Fly Me to the Moon”. And these 12 years have flown by. Let’s do it all again. What do you say?

So, remember the last post where I told you my husband and I had a fight about my “issues”? Well, my “issues” are that I use quotation marks too frequently. HA! Kidding. That’s not the case at all. My “issues” are that I’m a control freak. I guess that’s just one “issue”. But since it permeates every second of every day and affects almost everything that goes on in my life… It’s plural.  ”Issues”.

I recognize that these issues are completely common among every woman that I know. As a gender, we enjoy knowing what’s going on at every moment and we enjoy even more when we know how whatever is going on is being handled. It’s what we do. It’s how we get through our days. It’s why we have purses filled with “just in case” supplies. It’s why we leave 30 minutes early to allow for traffic. It’s why our families don’t go hungry when the fridge is empty… We froze a few meals, just in case.

So, yes. I’m a control freak. And I feel it serves me well in most cases. It makes me look like a super mom or a super friend or a super daughter a lot of the time. But when it comes to my relationship with my husband, and probably my son, it doesn’t always serve us well.

Russ pointed out to me that I try to control everything. Everything. I second-guess things he does, I question stuff that doesn’t need to be questioned, I make suggestions to fix things that aren’t broken. I am not good at letting him, and probably my son, do things the way they do them. That’s not good for a marriage, and I’m pretty damn sure it’s not good as a parent.

I also think that my need to do everything exactly the way I need to do them is part of the reason I have such poor time-management skills. I take G to school and I hit the ground running. But by the time I’ve worked out, shopped, done laundry, and caught up on calls and emails, it’s time to pick him up again. I’ve done nothing creative, nothing to serve my career, and often nothing to feed myself in the way that allows me to feel whole. This is my fault. If I passed ANYthing off to my husband, and allowed him to do it the way he would do it, it would open up time and space for me that I am sorely lacking. That I’m sure we all, as a gender, are sorely lacking.

Holy shit, that is one humongous revelation. Not only am I making my husband feel like he doesn’t know what he’s doing half the time, I’m also robbing myself of precious time and energy. I’m honestly just realizing, as I write this, that my husband pointing this out to me might be the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. And, by the way, I knew he was right the second it came out of his mouth. It was just hard to hear, and to process. But I absolutely knew he was right.

So now what do I do with all of this new information? I put myself and my husband to work. I pass some things off to him and I embrace the way he does them. I stop micromanaging every freaking thing he does, from making lunch to buying birthday cards. I let my son throw things around a little more and I help him pick it up when there’s time. Holy shit, guys! This could change everything. This might make my marriage EPIC, and it might just make my son like me 20% more than he already would have when he’s an adult.

Are you WITH ME?? I think you’re with me. I even think you might be letting go a little bit, too. Am I right? (Seriously, I need to know. Am I right?) Whoops. As you were.

One of the things I find fascinating about marriage is how it can change from Bliss to B.S. in a matter of days, or moments. The reality is that living with someone day in and day out… FOREVER… Can be challenging.  I personally find the challenge to be pretty spectacular. But it is a challenge, nonetheless.

Last Friday night my husband and I had a date night.  It was pretty much perfect. We went out for sushi, had a great talk, laughed, flirted… All the things you do before you’re married with kids. It was lovely. After dinner, we stopped by Trader Joes to pick up a few items we needed, then arrived home to see G-Man still awake and in his pajamas. After sending my mom home and getting the little rascal to bed, Russ and I enjoyed some fantastic, uh… Adult time, then settled in to watch three glorious episodes of Breaking Bad.

Earlier in the day, we had looked on-line to find a movie and realized we were missing the perfect opportunity to watch our favorite show. It was one of those moments where you know you’re with the ideal mate, who finds it just as exciting to sit on the couch with you, as staying out late.

Much of Saturday was spent reveling in the fun we had the night before.

Sunday was far less fun. Sunday was spent arguing. Sunday was the day I found out I have things I need to work on. Sunday sucked. (Yes, I will share my “issues” with you later.)

Sunday night as I was getting ready for bed, we hashed it all out. It was a productive, yet painful conversation and it helped us both to understand what we were dealing with. It was one of those moments where you again realize you’re with the ideal mate because he’s willing to do whatever it takes to talk it over, work it out, and make it good again.  It wasn’t fun. It was marriage.

I read a quote from Heidi Klum about how her divorce to Seal was a curveball, and how she had pictured her life as a happy couple with tons of kids and “a beautiful garden and trampolines and swings and things.” I think this image of marriage and family is a killer of marriage and family. Yes, I want the swings and trampolines and fun vacations and a giant playroom and love and beauty and, and, and… But THIS is not what it’s about. You have to work at a marriage and at being a parent. So much of it is easy and fun and lovely, but so very much of it is not. And when you’re exhausted and impatient and nearly 15 years in… It’s work. All of those “things”, all of those “extras” are part of it, if you’re lucky. But you don’t get to keep any of it if you don’t do the work.  Not to imply that Heidi and Seal didn’t work at it. I don’t know their deal. I just know that the whole “Princess and Prince riding off on a white horse” fantasy is just a fantasy,  (no matter how many times you publicly renew your vows.)

Our 12-year anniversary is in 12 days. It’s been a marriage filled with a ton of B.S. But, because we are lucky and we work at it, there’s been two tons of bliss.

It has come to my attention that many of you who read this blog think I’m some sort of “great” mom. I realized I write a lot of stuff that makes me look like I’m super in-touch with my kid, and that I do and say all the right things all the time. You know that’s not true, right?

I mean, everything I write here is true. But I don’t tend to sit down and write right after I’ve made a huge mistake, or had a horrible day, or lost my patience.

I thought it was only fair to let you know that today I lost my patience. It was a good day, but I have a sore throat and I haven’t been getting enough sleep and I haven’t had a second to exercise since last week. So I’m bitchy and tired and a little bit sick. This morning we had a three-hour play date at the house of a friend from school. They had a blast and I loved talking to the mom, but after three hours of repeating myself, answering questions, putting costumes on G and taking them back off, walking up and down the stairs, and in and out the back door… I was tired.

Then we came home and I had about 10 minutes before my friend dropped off her two girls so she and her husband could get something done. These girls are delightful. They are well-mannered and lovely and awesome. But after four hours of the three of these kids, who after dinner stripped their clothes off and did some tribal chanting for 20 minutes… I was BEYOND tired. I had played cash-register and legos, taken them for a walk, made them dinner, got them numerous drinks and snacks, and played stomp rockets with them.

After they left, I was done for the day. Done. G had done absolutely nothing wrong, but I was finished with the day. I couldn’t talk anymore or listen anymore, or repeat myself or clean up one more thing. I yelled a little and so did he. We talked about how we both get frustrated with each other when we’re tired (okay, that was the in-touch part), but when the clock struck 7:23 and I wanted him to brush his teeth and get in bed… There was no discussion.

I told him he had done nothing wrong but I couldn’t say one more word and was done. He didn’t question it. It was like he totally got it and was just as done as I was.

Then he asked me if I was getting up with him in the morning or if Daddy was. I told him I would and he gave me a big smile. Then I told him I was banning all fun in the morning and if he had any fun, he’d get a time out. This made him giggle. Then I told him no giggling and I tickled him until he almost passed out. Then I told him there was seriously no more talking and turned out the light. Then he told me he loved me and I told him I loved him and that we were really, really done talking now.

He was asleep in 30 seconds. I should go to sleep, too. And yes, I realize the above paragraph makes it sound again like I know what I’m doing. But I wanted you to know that a lot of those great moments come AFTER moments of failures, or simple mistakes, or total impatience, or or or…

None of us are perfect. We all fuck up daily. But maybe it’s in the small, quiet moments of redemption when we are at our best. That last-ditch effort at being perky or kind or loving.

It is G-Man who brings those moments out of me. He is the one who knows what he is doing. He gives me the chance to be great at something. Actually, he gives me many chances every day. With him, I have a reason to tickle someone at my most exhausted. Without him, I’m just exhausted.

It happened. Mark it down. At four years, six months and fourteen days… My son got bored.

B.O.R.E.D.

It’s truly the first time I’ve really seen it happen. He was so sick of everything it was palpable.

“Who can we call???”

“Where can we go???”

“Pleeaassee mom!! I want to GO somewhere!!”

I called a few people. But when I got a response it was already 6:30, which is dangerously close to bedtime and we’d have to turn around and come right home.

“Sorry, buddy. It’s not gonna happen tonight.”

This didn’t go over well. He cried. Then he threw a paper airplane at me.

“Go to your room”, I snapped. (I mean, it was a paper AIRPLANE. The fuselage could have caught on fire and maimed me for life.)

He cried harder but obediently walked to his bedroom, turning dramatically around half-way there to say, “I’m sorry, Mommy.”

This damn kid. He’s too much.

A few minutes later I went to him. He was on his rocking chair, legs crossed with a book sitting on his lap. He was flipping through the pages, looking at hippos and memorizing their behaviors.

We looked at each other, and I remembered something I had promised myself when I was seventeen and had just gotten my heart broken, only to have my parents tell me it would be alright and to come watch Jeopardy with them.

I promised myself I would always remember what it felt like to be a kid. I promised I would remember the pain and anguish and confusion and that I wouldn’t turn into an adult who forgot they were once young.

“Garrett, I remember how awful it feels to be bored.”

“When you were young or old?”

“When I was young. I remember getting so sick of my house and wanting to go anywhere…”

“Because you hated your house?”

“No! Because I was so bored.”

“Oh yeah. I’m really bored.”

“Well, I know. And I’m sorry. And I totally understand how bad it feels.”

“I’m really sad about it.”

“I know.”

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“This book has a lot of pages. Like a hundred.”

“I know! Let’s look at the last page and see how many.”

“Whoa! 32! That’s MORE than a hundred.”

“Well, it’s not more, but that’s okay. Do you want pancakes for dinner?”

“Can we go somewhere?”

“Not til tomorrow.”

“Okay. I have to pee.”

“Well, let’s go do that.”

The ironic part is, since G-Man came along I don’t think I’ve been bored for one hot second. Today we played with legos, watched TV, played video games,  did a craft project, grocery shopped, and went to the bird store to look at parrots. But I remember how that wasn’t enough sometimes. And I’m so grateful I remember. I hope he really, really knows that I do.

I had an eye appointment at 2:45 yesterday. My husband dropped me off because my eyes were being dilated and I wouldn’t be able to drive myself home. The plan was for him to take me to my appointment, pick G up from school, take him home for a snack and to change into his gi for karate, then bring him to pick me up at 4:00 so we could all get to his karate class by 4:30.

At 3:40, after a half hour with the doctor who did my prescription check and dilated my eyes, my appointment was not even close to being done. I called Russ and told him to just get me after karate class at 5:30. Although I was not excited about the prospect of sitting at the retirement home disguised as a doctor’s office for another two hours, I saw no other choice.

At 3:45 a nurse came to the waiting room to tell me my doctor was running 40 minutes behind, but I could see another doctor immediately. I opted for choice 2 and was out of there in 15 minutes. I’m not sure this doctor knew what he was doing, but that’s beside the point. I wanted to see Garrett in his gi. With my ever-blurring eyes (from the dilation), I mapped the bus route from the doctor to karate on my iphone. I had to find shade to see the screen. I would have to walk nearly a mile to the bus stop and take the bus 2 miles to karate.  The bus would be there at 4:14. It was 4:05.

For some reason, I was now DETERMINED to make it to karate before it started. As far as G-Man knew, I wasn’t going to be there at all… But I was. Oh, I was.

I started walking at a fast clip, then did my famous Olympic-Speed-Walk, then began jogging. By the time I got to the bus stop I was sweaty and probably did not look too hot in my glasses with the dark, plastic inserts to protect my insane, headache-inducing, dilated eyes from the glaring, painful, headache-inducing sun. As I came upon the bus bench I saw a huge trench between me and the street. There was construction going on here, and there were the orange cones to prove it. I looked to my left and saw my bus pulling away from the curb across the street. I raised my arm as if to say, “BUT I JUST RAN HERE!” And the bus stopped. In the middle of the street.

As I hopped inside, the driver looked at me in disgust. Was it my sweaty hair? My pathetic excuse for sun glasses? “Do you really think a bus would be stopping here with all this construction going on?” He didn’t say it. He seethed it. I said, “I’m really sorry. I didn’t know where the other stop was.” No response. “How much is it?” “A dollar fifty”, he said with pity in his voice.

With that, I put my two dollars in the slot, (I had no change), and sat down. I was surprised at how clean the bus was. It’s been a while since I’ve been on one in the middle of the day. I took one recently to get on the train downtown, but that bus was crowded and dark and every seat was taken, so I really have no idea how clean it was.

I looked around and tried to act like I take the bus all the time. I put my hair back in a ponytail to try to stop sweating. I pushed my glasses up onto the bridge of my nose so the inserts would stop sliding out. I felt super cool.

About 12 minutes later, I hit the STOP button on the pole next to my seat. (I learned from watching others). At the next stop, the doors opened directly in front of G’s karate class. I walked in just in time to take him to pee before he would bow to his sensei. And I felt proud. I had braved the tough streets of the San Fernando Valley half-blinded by eye drops and sunshine, I had weathered the anger of a weathered bus driver, and I had made it to see my son punch things in his new class.  His smile when he saw me was enough for me to forget how horrible I must have looked.

Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks? If I have somewhere to be for my son, BY GOD I’ll get there!!

You can start your applause now. Oh, don’t stand! That’s too much.
Thank you.

I want to always remember the phase my son is in right now.

He is Mama’s Boy. Period. He wants me around all the time. He holds my hand, he KISSES my hand, he tells me I’m beautiful and the best and that he loves me more than the world. He talks endlessly about everything. Yesterday he told me he wanted to build jetpacks for all of us so we could get places easier. He wants them to shoot out fire and to have wings that help us turn. And he wants to be able to land easily.

He was hoping the jetpacks could take us up to Heaven, too. Then he told me he was always going to keep a little treasure in his pocket so that when he’s 100 years old and goes to Heaven, he can share it with our cat, Sonny.

I can’t believe how fast he’s growing and how any minute now he’ll be too big for me to pick up and hold. I want to turn my office into a play room as quickly as possible so he has time to use it before he outgrows it.

I’ve been up nights thinking about next year and Transitional Kindergarten. We had finally made a decision about where he was going to go, then changed our minds. I think we’re actually keeping him where he is, along with several other parents in the same predicament. The school is planning on coming up with a special curriculum for the kids who are returning and a few new five-year-olds who will be joining the class.

Yesterday I walked into Russ’ office in a panic that we had made the wrong choice and that G wouldn’t be getting the Kindergarten prep he needs. “Kindergarten PREP? Lisa, I was home every day before I went to Kindergarten. No preschool, no TK… Just Kindergarten. Our nieces and nephew in Oregon went from day care to Kinder. No “prep”. Garrett is smart and we teach him everything he needs to know right here at home. Let him have one last year of FUN! And I promise he’ll be prepared for Kindergarten. He’s already starting to READ! He’s FINE!” I left his office feeling much better. Thank God I married this man.

G’s taking karate now. It’s the first thing that he has chosen for himself, is pursuing, and has great passion for. Russ and I watch him in awe. He’s only taken three classes but you can already see his love for it. And he’s GOOD.  He’s respectful and coordinated and strong. I can see how it’s going to give him increased confidence and focus. I’m so excited.

I’m still Queen of the Play Date. I think I’m daily trying to make up for the fact that G doesn’t have any siblings. I hope he makes lifelong friends that become his brothers and sisters. I hope when they’re older, they come to dinner a lot and sleep over and call me “Mrs. A” or “Mom”.

I just finished shooting a new pilot for Style. Matt Iseman and I pitched it to the network a year and a half ago, they “bought” it a month later, we negotiated for six months, it got changed a lot, we gained and lost an executive producer, we got another executive producer, it got changed some more, and we finally shot it last week.

That’s what this business is all about: Hurry up and wait. And now after all that time, we have to wait another six months to see if it’s something the network wants to put on the air.

I was very worried leading up to the week of shooting. Of course I was. Worrying is what I do best. I was afraid I wouldn’t be good on camera, thin enough for my wardrobe, or able to sustain the long days. I was terrified I wouldn’t see G-Man before he went to sleep, and that he’d be upset I was gone. But it all worked out alright. I only got home late one of the nights, and Russ and he came to see me on that day. I managed to do well on camera, fit into my clothes, and pretty much stay awake while shooting. And I do enjoy being around a crew, talking like a sailor, and laughing my ass off.

I always forget how much I love to work. I love the job, the people I meet, and getting out of my normal routine for a bit. I’d be lying if I didn’t say I love my routine though. I love taking G to school and picking him up. I love cooking dinner for my family. I love all of that. But I’m truly glad to know I still really enjoy the other side of me, too. I think that’s important to know.

Now, if I could just come up with a show about me and my family, so I could work and still spend all my time at home. The only downside is, I’d have to stop having such a filthy mouth on set. Maybe I’m better off keeping the two worlds separate. Yeah, I’ll keep it that way for now.

I don’t have a post today (or so far this month), but please enjoy this American Idol review by this girl I know, Susan Whitfield.

She’s pretty sad and lonely, but she loves that damn show.

You may or may not know that I used to be a gym rat. As a matter of fact, I’ve been through several phases of rodent-like gym behavior in my 40 years on this planet. I have always enjoyed exercise (once I get my ass off the couch), and I do feel better about myself when at least one part of my body is “ripped” or “cut” or “toned”.

Over the last several years, however, it has gotten more difficult to find the time, and more importantly the motivation, to work out.  (I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the adorable blond boy who lives in my house.) Consequently, everything has gotten a little softer, a little less defined, and a lot less flexible. Not to mention, I feel bad that I’m not using my healthy body to it’s full extent. I’m not conditioning my heart, keeping my core strong, or lifting weights to stave off bone loss and osteoporosis.

Not feeling fit has been a blow to my self-esteem of late, and it’s also left me with a lot of pent-up energy and a general tiredness, that I know comes from a lack of moving my body.

Well, this weekend it all came to a head. I found myself with knee pain when getting up from the couch, along with zombie-like behavior throughout the day. Sleep was the only thing that sounded reasonable to me, and my jeans were making deep impressions in my stomach. I immediately got on line to look for a boxing class in my area. Boxing has always been attractive to me, as a sport. I like the thought of punching things, I like when my arms get toned, and I need to work off some stress.

I found a place that was very highly-rated on Yelp and I called. I was all set for a free beginner’s class Monday night at 6PM. Good to go.

When I got to the gym last night, in a very industrial part of town, five miles from my home… I was scared. From the street I could see an open warehouse/gym filled with people lifting heavy weights and grunting. I parked my car and walked toward the grunts, finding myself inside and talking to a lovely female trainer. She told me to fill out some paperwork and coach Bill (that’s what I’ll call him) would be with me shortly.

As I wrote my name, address, and general aches and pains down on this yellow piece of paper, I looked around at the people working out and started feeling a little yellow myself. What am I doing here? Why are those people walking on their hands? What is this place? Why is no one boxing? How did I get to be 40? Am I too old to work out like this?

“Are you Lisa”, Coach Bill asked. I told him I was. Bill looks like Bob Harper, in that he’s compact, completely shredded, handsome, and terrifying. “Why are you here”, he asked. I told him I was just wondering the same thing. I told him I was sick of being out of shape, that I used to be very in shape, and that I was hoping to get back to that. Then I told him this place didn’t look like the place for me and I should probably find somewhere that made more sense. He told me this was a Crossfit gym, and that people do things here they don’t do anywhere else. He told me it was the best workout possible and that I’d probably get nauseated my first couple workouts, but no to push myself too hard the first time out. I told him I was probably going to leave. Then he started the class and I was still there.

We began with leg lifts intertwined with crab walks, bear walks, duck walks, and dolly walks. All things foreign to me. Then we scaled walls. Something I’ve never done in my life, as I’ve never had to run from anything, nor have I needed to make a quick getaway after stealing anything. Then we did 200 meter runs followed by squat lifts and push-ups. That’s when I got nauseous.

I did every leg lift asked of me, and every type of walk except for the dolly walk, (as this requires arm strength that had all but left me at this point). I scaled the wall four times. This was an incredible achievement for me. I ran 800 meters, (actually, I walked a lot of it), did 30 or so squat lifts (of a pvc pipe, as I felt anything else would be too heavy), and 40 push ups. 40!

The support was incredible. Everyone knew I was new, so they cheered me on, patted me on the back, and showed me the right way to lift. At the end of it, I felt amazing. Proud. Like myself. Now I have to decide if I want to go back and continue, or find something a bit closer and more convenient where I’d probably have to push myself to get the same kind of workout. A workout, by the way, completely reminiscent of Bob’s on The Biggest Loser!! I think this must be his main type of training. And I found some things on line last night to back that up.

Long story short, I think I’m back. I don’t know how I’ll find the time to workout several days a week, but last night confirmed that I have to. I HAVE TO. I’m excited to feel strong again. It might take a while, but that’s okay. It took me a while to get to where I am now, and it can only get better.

Side note: I was not sore when I woke up this morning. Now, at noon… EVERYTHING HURTS. Ouch.

I did something today I haven’t done in a very long time. I gave money to a man walking down the street at a red light, holding a sign that said “Hungry”. It was only 50 cents. That was all I had in my change holder. But when I rolled down my window and gave it to him saying “This is all I have”, he said “Thank you. God Bless You.”

Now let me take you back about 15 years. I was a young woman in my twenties, on the way to my friend’s house. We were going out somewhere so I was dressed up, made up, and revved up… Probably excited about the prospect of having men buy me drinks and staying out until 2AM. Looking down at my gas tank, I realized I was low on fuel. I pulled into a gas station, filled up my tank, and got back in my car, doing a final look at myself in the rearview mirror and no doubt being elated at my reflection. Oh wait, I mean deflated.

As I was about to pull away, a man tapped on my window. Literally dressed in tatters, and looking hungry and helpless, he motioned for me to roll my window down. I did and he asked me for money. I reached into my purse and handed him two dollars. He smiled broadly and reached out to grab my hand. Not wanting to insult him, I put my hand out the window to shake his. But shaking is not what he had in mind.

The man took my hand and, in one swift motion, lifted it to his face and LICKED it. He licked my hand. Not a little lick. Not the kind of lick where one darts ones tongue out to touch the tip of it to something. It was a full-on lick from the base of my fingers to my wrist. I pulled my hand away as swiftly as he had pulled it to himself and looked at him in horror as he still smiled broadly.

Rolling up my window and pulling out of the gas station, I started to pound my steering wheel in fear, disgust and anger. “WHAT THE FUCK JUST HAPPENED??” I was crying. I was a good decade away from having a kid, so I had no antibacterial wipes or hand sanitizer handy. I had about five miles to go to get to my destination, and a hand covered in saliva.

I’m not saying I didn’t feel sympathy for this man. But at that moment, I was so angry at myself for giving him money and for trusting him. I was mad that I wasn’t able to say no to people because I was always afraid of hurting people’s feelings. I was mad that it wasn’t enough to give this man money, and that I also allowed him to mess with me. Which, by the way, I don’t think he was doing at all. I think he was thanking me the best way he knew how.

Long story short, my faith was renewed today. I enjoy helping people. I just prefer a “Bless You” over a lick.