The Lost Sock

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Sometimes you find something unexpected. Today was one of those days.

It seemed like the regular ordinary day. Wake up early, check the computer for a half an hour then back to sleep for weird dreams. While listening to the house moan slip on the sweats and check the big screen again as if there was something important to find. Shave, well trim with an electric razor then shower soaking the dust away. Getting dressed in somewhat freshly washed clothing then check something behind the door in the bathroom.

“What was this?”

There are two gray towels slightly damp now hanging behind the bathroom door. They always hang there. They never move.

But on the floor was a white bundle of something. It wasn’t there when I got into my birthday suit to take a shower and it wasn’t there when I went into the bedroom to get dressed… Or was it?

Being a house alone every little noise and dust bunny is noticed and become the familiar landscape so anything unusual attracts attention. The rustle in the bamboo with the small birds settling in for the night, the UPS truck slowing down in the street, the conversation of the neighbors walking up and down the street, the sirens in the distance and hoping they stay far away, misplaced spoon or plate, the coat hung on the wrong chair or the sound of the neighbor walking on her deck letting out her dogs are all sounds and visuals that get your attention for the variety of difference. The cobwebs in the corner or the standard position of the sofa in the middle of the room awaiting to be moved back into position is familiar and does not take a notion.

So I looked on the bathroom floor and there was a white bundle of material and I wondered, “What was this and where did it come from?” I stared at this little white bundled and tried to rationalize what it was and where it came from.

Perhaps it is a washrag I’d forgotten about? But why wasn’t it there earlier in the morning? Perhaps it was something I picked up from the Laundromat? But I didn’t take the towels to the Laundromat. Perhaps it was… and then I was lost.

Reaching down and picking up the item I saw it was a sock. A small white sock, actually grey with dust and dirt with a little blue band around the top was what held in my hand. It looked worn and used and did not match any sock I presently have.

And inside the sock was a red cat toy.

I did not examine the sock any further but threw it into the trashcan. This is too spooky for me to try and rationalize.

Maybe a small animal found it upstairs or under the house and brought it in the bathroom without me seeing it? I walked through the rooms to see if there were any other treasures left for me to find. Maybe the last shift of workmen left it behind the door and I just didn’t notice it? What would they do with one dirty little sock filled with a cat toy?

There was a time when I would find all sorts of strange objects around the house and not give it a second thought because I knew there was so much confusion going on that it was the normal behavior of the world.

This was different. No one else could have placed this sock behind the door and I certainly didn’t put it there so where did it come from?

The day as progressed and the familiar seemed the same but that sock in the trashcan still ponders my mind.

What should I do if I walk back into the bathroom and find another sock? What if the sock is not in the trashcan?

Little mysteries of living alone.

Is it the question not the answer?

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All the time we search for the answers but don’t know how to ask the questions.

It is a dull gray rainy cold day here. Not like those days to come in the winter when the smart ones hibernate. The sandwich was cold and the beer colder but questions still remain. The yard is fed and the television shows visions of growing up. The mail is probably ready to receive and then be thrown away. The bed is not made nor will it be. The computer clicks messages to those far away even in town or down the block.

Tomorrow the sun will come back out and will brighten the day in many ways. With dry streets the next “To-Do” list will be addressed and ordered. The ponies will stand side-by-side after a their given chores basking in the warmth of the heater that used to heat the entire house.

The thought of boxes put on the walls and floor to be filled with stuffed packed away for three years is exciting. Perhaps that is the Christmas present to myself.

Is that the answer?

Is that the question?

I’ve got a crush on you

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We never say these words.

We think it. We know it but we can’t say it.

Some call it “puppy love” or maybe a short-lived but overwhelming desire for another person.  

A crush usually happens in middle school when boys and girls are finding out who they are and what they want and all those hormones flowing but are not sure enough of ourselves to be able to decide what to do about it.

A crush may turn into something special or just fade away.

I think my first crush as on Gina Lollobridgida or Natalie Wood or my fifth grade teacher (wonder 50’s tight sweater) or Barbara and Jane from school but they went to a different high school or something or probably Cookie, but we know where that went.

A crush gives that uncomfortable feeling when in close proximity of the person desired and can create some strange reactions like coveting articles, photos, or even stalking.

The crush makes us uncontrollably crazy with the thoughts of this person, but we won’t say the words.

With a little more life experiences having “a crush” can still happen and when it does it should be appreciated and enjoyed.  

Thanx

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There is a lot to be thankful for on this Thursday. There are some things not to be thankful for but we’ll talk about that later.

So what are YOU thankful for?

Probably family and friends and the feast of the day and maybe even some adults drinks and hopefully a good football game are the things we will celebrate on this day of over consumption and little pain, if we are lucky.

Me?

I am thankful not to be driving on the highway

I am thankful not to be living in a hotel

I am thankful for the abundance provided by people who immigrate to our country

I am thankful for having the health to pump air in my tires

I am thankful for having a second bike when I get a flat

I am thankful not to be robbed recently

I am thankful for the little critters that entertain me in the yard

I am thankful to not have family crisis

I am thankful not to be going to work

I am thankful to be warm and dry

I am thankful that I have not died yet

I am thankful to know who I am

I am thankful to be manageable crazy

I am thankful it is not raining and gray

I am thankful for a working microwave

I am thankful for not living in a wheelchair

I am thankful for not being run over

I am thankful for lots of paper to draw on

I am thankful to not be shot at

I am thankful I’m not Rusty

I am thankful that Black Friday has no enticement for me

I am thankful I don’t have to do homework

I am thankful that I have enough clean underwear to last through the New Year (well, maybe)

I am thankful not to have a cold

I am thankful to be able to sleep at night

I am thankful not to commute to work

I am thankful that my neighbors leave me alone

I am thankful to be smart enough to know better but dumb enough not to care

I am thankful not to like video games

I am thankful to enjoy riding in the rain

I am thankful to have money in the bank

I am thankful I don’t have to say “Thanx”

Everyday is a new day and the adventure continues.

Gracias!

An hour at the Laundromat

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11:23 – Finally ran out of clean cloths so it was time to go to the Laundromat. Filling my old camp laundry bag, tie it down with bungees on my bike rack and then it was off to my mystery destination.

The one I found still open in the neighborhood seemed clean enough and not too buggy so this is where I was headed. I came by yesterday to find out it cost $2.00 to wash and a couple of quarters to dry. There were two cute girls here yesterday as I made my inspection of each machine. One girl was lost on a phone conversation but the other smiled probably thinking out this old guy is checking out for loose change.

Since I seem to only handle one project a day, I hooked my bike to a “no parking” sign, unpacked my load, read the instructions, filled the tank with old stinky underwear and t-shirts and my bullet hole hoodie and jeans I’ve been wearing for months. After filling it with quarters the washer tells me it will take 27 minutes.

27 minutes – Doesn’t seem too long to wait so I sit down and start writing this while listening to the Chinese conversation at the other end of the building.

The Laundromat is much like I remember from college. There are soap dispensers, huge venting pipes for the dryers and a change machine. No winos or roaches as I can see. A big fan dons the wall, as I’m sure it is hot in here during the summer, but today it is just right. A row of fourteen washers, and twelve dryers and four industrial washers all seem clean and functional. The awning window is clean as are the seats and the floors. That is not what I remembered from college.

Woooo! I just remembered, where is the box of dryer sheets I brought? I dumped them in the laundry bag on top of the stinkies but forgot when I dumped all that stuff in and turned the machine on.

9 minutes left - So I guess I will have very fluffy underwear as the box rolls around with everything else. Lesson learned.

5 minutes left – Another guy walks in, picks up his laundry and throws it in a dryer, puts in 5 quarters and leaves. Another guys come in and dumps a load of laundry then stares out the window at the old school playground. The old school has now been transformed into a loft apartment building and I wonder if they left the blackboards.

2 minutes left – I keep looking for the cute girls but all if quiet except for all the oriental people coming and going. A small woman pulls a comforter from a washer and dumps it into a dryer then walks out the door.

20 minutes left – I dump my wet materials into a dryer, dump some quarters in, choose the heat level and shut the door to watch them tumble. The Chinese guy is now whistling and the other guy at the window is playing with his cell phone.

Four dryers are going now. There is a certain sound to this place. These huge machines are buzzing around with industrial power, but not banging, just the rattle of buttons and zippers hitting the walls.

Time for a break, so I get up and check my bike since this is a transient neighborhood and check out the small grocery store next door. The oriental woman who brought in the comforter is the same woman who is behind the counter. There is a wall of alcohol. Not only a wall of alcohol but another row of alcohol. I guess a neighborhood of apartments dwellers require massive amounts of alcohol. I did not check the prices but from what I remember they were high. The rest of the thin store was a few cans of noodles, cleaning stuff and junk food. Even so I see the security camera I think how easy it would be to knock over this place, but with the lack of traffic the till must be bare.

Back at the dryer, I pack up my still damp clothing into the laundry bag and throw away the rest of the wet dryer sheets. Loading the bike in a familiar yet distant neighborhood I bid adieu until next time. Perhaps I will have a washer/dryer before the next load is due but I was pleased with the comfort of this place.

Being a Stray

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The generator sounds louder when it is in your kitchen. Yep, they are back. Those contractors. Those guys in there sweat hoodies and baggy jeans trampling all over your space. Those guys whose foreman speaks to you then turns and instructs them in another language. Those guys who maybe…maybe have a high school education. Those guys who haul around power tools like they were weapons. Those guys who you don’t ask to see their green card. Those guys who could set your house on fire and then walk away. Those guys who last week were cutting grass or nailing on a roof or picking yesterdays crops and now they are here. Those are the guys who you would not let your daughter date but will trust them to manipulate your most expensive purchase.

Oh you know the guys. Sure you do. You call the number in the phone book (if you remember what that is) or search the web or download the app for a contractor to come by and give an estimate on a project you cannot do or are not willing to do or do not have the tools to do or are unsure of the help-yourself book instructions or have tried it before and it failed.

So a time and date is set and as any good salesman, the door is knocked on at the appropriate time. A clean-cut guy in a jacket with the contractors name on it introduces himself. He looks like he could have been just graduated from college or released from jail, but he is clean-cut and acceptable and perhaps competent to view the job request and make a reasonable estimate. His phone always rings while he is checking the measurements and writing down on a pre-designed form. The good ones will make an estimate on the spot while others have to go back to the office. Maybe the calculator is back in the office or maybe he has to check with his boss on what the cost would be. Either way he leaves with a confident handshake that he and his company will be the best to accomplish your needs.

Unfortunately I’ve had a lot of encounters with contractors and have seen some remarkable variations. Some will sketch down a bunch of numbers and get uncomfortable when you suggest there are other bids for the job. Some think they can “buffalo” the contract and want to sign on the spot. Some overprice when compared to others and some just don’t call back.

Having worked with sales people most of my life, I understand what a difficult job that is to ask for money, but there is a certain skill set to accomplishing the goal.

So after a month of no call backs, or “I’m too busy” or overpriced bids, I decide to go with Mike. I call him and get his message machine and he calls me back and gets my message machine and I call him back and finally he answers. We discuss a plan of attack and an estimated time for the work to be done. Mike suggests he comes by with the foreman to examine the job site and choose the final materials to be used.

The definition of a stray is to wander off, become separated from group, move casually, digress from subject, depart from accepted standards, meander, wander about aimlessly, etc.

The definition sounds most foreboding yet it is not that bad. This is what life is all about, if you choose to live it.

There are always rules and traditional means that are required to be followed to fit in with the masses, but then there are those who stray.

Now wandering aimlessly sounds rather disappointing, but so few have a goal set out to seek so many just stray and accepts what occurs.

There are not as many stray animals in my neighborhood now but I used to take them in. They didn’t have a name or a history but stumbled onto my doorstep and were well received and taken care of.

Actuality most of my relationships were with strays. Those special souls who are searching for something they cannot find.

There is another definition of stray where a one who has made a promise to abide to another in emotional and physical bonds decides to break that promise and seek another. I personally don’t know how that works.

Let’s call him Bob

The generator sounds louder when it is in your kitchen. Yep, they are back. Those contractors. Those guys in there sweat hoodies and baggy jeans trampling all over your space. Those guys whose foreman speaks to you then turns and instructs them in another language. Those guys who maybe…maybe have a high school education. Those guys who haul around power tools like they were weapons. Those guys who you don’t ask to see their green card. Those guys who could set your house on fire and then walk away. Those guys who last week were cutting grass or nailing on a roof or picking yesterdays crops and now they are here. Those are the guys who you would not let your daughter date but will trust them to manipulate your most expensive purchase.

Oh you know the guys. Sure you do. You call the number in the phone book (if you remember what that is) or search the web or download the app for a contractor to come by and give an estimate on a project you cannot do or are not willing to do or do not have the tools to do or are unsure of the help-yourself book instructions or have tried it before and it failed.

So a time and date is set and as any good salesman, the door is knocked on at the appropriate time. A clean-cut guy in a jacket with the contractors name on it introduces himself. He looks like he could have been just graduated from college or released from jail, but he is clean-cut and acceptable and perhaps competent to view the job request and make a reasonable estimate. His phone always rings while he is checking the measurements and writing down on a pre-designed form. The good ones will make an estimate on the spot while others have to go back to the office. Maybe the calculator is back in the office or maybe he has to check with his boss on what the cost would be. Either way he leaves with a confident handshake that he and his company will be the best to accomplish your needs.

Unfortunately I’ve had a lot of encounters with contractors and have seen some remarkable variations. Some will sketch down a bunch of numbers and get uncomfortable when you suggest there are other bids for the job. Some think they can “buffalo” the contract and want to sign on the spot. Some overprice when compared to others and some just don’t call back.

Having worked with sales people most of my life, I understand what a difficult job that is to ask for money, but there is a certain skill set to accomplishing the goal.

So after a month of no call backs, or “I’m too busy” or overpriced bids, I decide to go with Mike. I call him and get his message machine and he calls me back and gets my message machine and I call him back and finally he answers. We discuss a plan of attack and an estimated time for the work to be done. Mike suggests he comes by with the foreman to examine the job site and choose the final materials to be used.

The next day at the assigned time, Mike shows up. “This is Bob” he introduces a small mustached Latino man in a baseball cap and a big smile. Shaking his hand seems awkward to Bob.

Bob test the area while Mike and I select the materials and agreement on the contract. Mike turns to Bob to make sure the process is clear on what must be done and they both leave.

As with any contractor work, confidence is not confirmed until completion of the work.

So today, Bob (or Manuel or Raphael or whatever his real name is) shows up with an army of guys who do not understand what I am saying and I do not understand what they are saying. It is different when there are roofers or lawn maintenance people but these guys are wandering around in your interior space.

Not a bigot statement for anyone who is welcomed into your space must have some sense of trust or must be observed, but I for one, can not sit in my house with all the racket and noise and dust of construction so I retreat to my Mansland. To me it is like being awake during an operation.

Can’t resist the sunshine so I trim some branches while I see one after another blocks of floor walk out the door. I have to assume these guys know what they are doing but cannot watch so I withdraw and listen to the saws and the pounding. Will they cut an electric line or plumbing? Will they start a fire? Will they do a good job or a haphazard project and leave me poorer and disappointed? Since I have never used these guys I got to trust that whatever they are telling each other is going to turn out OK.

After awhile the sound stops and I go inside. The old floor has been removed and a new subfloor is in place. The truck is gone and the loan construction worker is sitting on the steps talking on the phone. He indicates in broken English that more material is being delivered by pointing to the dusty wood on the porch then goes back to his phone conversation.

A short while later the generator is cooking again and I must assume the materials have arrived. The schedule was for two days so I also assumed the first day would be the demolition of the old floor and particle placement of the subfloor then the second day final installation.

The noise stops but I am unaware due to the other construction in the neighborhood and the CD playing in my ear. As dusk arrives, I venture out to collect the daily junk mail and become aware that the truck is gone and so are the workers. I wander back into my space wondering if they are all inside drinking beer, going through my sock drawer, or worst-case scenario having vamoosed after causing destruction of the project.

Instead I see the floor I’ve chosen down and it looks finished. I lightly walk across as if it may collapse under me, but it holds up. The pattern is very bold and I’m not sure it will really be good for a kitchen, but there it was. Done.

So thanks Bob. You did pretty much what I requested and with a few chinks in the armor, another project is scratched off the “To-Do” list.

The Season of the Witch

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“Tis’ the season” as they say. It is now the “holiday” time of life.

It starts with Labor Day, Halloween, Veterans’ Day, Thanksgiving and Christmas. To finish it off there is the celebration for a New Year.

Now to most, this is the time to gather with family and friends and enjoy the company with exchanging gifts and cards and devouring masses amounts of food.

It is a time to dress up in silly outfits, salute those who have passed before and recreate ancient traditions.

It is a time for celebration unless you are alone.

So as the dark skies and cold winds start filling the days, feel safe and comfortable next to your fires with your warm grogs and libations and pull around the family for the tradition will continue for another year. Take the photos and sings the songs and feel the warmth of togetherness.

Then as the light fades, comes the real winter of the New Year. For two or three months the frozen rain will cover the ground and the sun will only peek through on rare occasions and your friends will shuffle back to their caves. You are alone.

With the glorious wonder of winter and it’s sparkling snow and promise of a renewed Spring, there will be days of lost and days of darkness, yet the real trial is to make it through until the sun shines again and the warmth baths your face and your friends come out of hibernation to sing your wake up call.

Now is time to bundle up and hunker down and be prepared for the season of the witch.

Who’s Paying For That?

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As I watch the news every night and ponder the good things that are being done at the massive expenses and wonder…. “Who is paying for that?”

Major disasters, campaigns, wars, protest, travel expense, police protection, signs and posters all cost money. And somebody had to pay for it.

When the cost turned from hundreds to thousands to millions to billons to trillions the mind just boggles at who pays for this?

And the political campaigns just reinforced the idea that WE have too much money and we are wasting it away.

When you put in a hard days work for a hard earned dollar and the expense of food and shelter became affordable one accomplishes their basic needs. Then as time passes and inflation and wants increase the basic needs become extravagant.

Whiles some spend to accommodate their greed or spend to balance their tax burden or spend to for unnecessary wants or spend from physiological distraction, but the point is the money goes out.

Then you look at a disaster with all the can goods and all the water and all the t-shirts, and all the signs, and all the media coverage, and all the first responders and you have to wonder… “Who pays for all of this?”

I guess we all do.

Middle School

I may have written about this already, but again, this Sunday I was listening to the repeat on “This American Life” and thought about all the changes during those three years.

The day started out as normal. Get up at daybreak, check social media then go back to sleep until ten. Drink a bottle of water, stare at the computer screen, shake the cobwebs and enjoy the radio program. Then like every day, squeeze the Crest tube to get the last drop (my mother’s son), rinse out last night’s drool, strap on the jeans that should be washed but it is not time yet, pull on the old orange hoodie with the bullet hole in the arm and the mustard stains and step outside. There are plenty of things I could do today, but I’m not going to kid myself. I’m not going to do them.

It is warm and sunny, especially for this time of year. Probably the last warm day until spring arrives. The leaves are falling and getting crunchy so I can hear the critters scurry around, even if I cannot see them. The sound of a generator on the corner tells me that the construction guys never rest, even on the Lord’s Day. The ride to the store under a shower of orange, red and yellow is uneventful as it is every day. A few leftover cups from yesterday’s runners, folks in shorts walking their dogs or babies and a lone bicyclist are the only ones on the streets. The hawk flies over leaving his shadow. Even the store is uneventful. No seems to recognize I’m a year older. The big decision for today of “what’s for lunch?” will be less extreme than that ice cream cake I ate yesterday.

And all the time I was thinking about “middle school”. It was called Junior High School back in the day. I was growing up during Middle School and did not realize how much happened during those years.

And a lot of stuff happened during those three years.

Before Middle School most of time was spent at school or church. During Middle School a flood of new experiences entered my life.

Since my brother had already gone to college I got my own room that included my own 8” black and white television to watch old monster movies and westerns, a president get assassinated, and the civil rights movement and a stereo record player to listen to folk music and the first Beatles album. I’d still have to go on vacation with mom and dad to their old hometown and still had to go downtown and get fitted for clothing, but I had my own room. A sense of independence was coming.

After a friend of mine drowned, I made sure I knew how to swim, and swim properly. I joined the country club swim team and even worked as a lifeguard.

Also learned how to play golf and was pretty good at it, between caddying for our parents to earn some cash. I gave up the game when a friend of mine didn’t like his play and threw his clubs into a lake. Even learned how to play tennis.

I was sent to overnight camp in Carolina for a few weeks each summer. Maybe it was the proper thing to do for young men to be sent off to network with the rich kids or possibility just to get me out of the house, I did learn how to sail, shoot a 22 caliber bolt action rifle, become proficient with a bow and arrow, and learn the art of short sheeting. It was the first time of being away from home…. Alone.

During the second year of living out of a trunk, I realized I had to be a counselor to get away from the “childish” behavior I had seen the year before. Besides the counselors cabin was where the ice-cold beer was stored.

Another thing camp taught me was how to dance. The camp director gathered all us boys into the indoor feeding facility, moved all the tables and brought in this woman in tights. All us lads hung close to the wall as she gyrated around the floor to the beat of a portable record player. After she took each of us and showed us the box step and some cha-cha steps, the girls’ camp from across the sound was delivered on school buses. The girls lined up on one wall and the guys on the opposite wall. The counselors started dancing first then they started pairing us up. Between the heat and the music and the softness of the young ladies it was the first experience of holding someone close who wasn’t family… and I LIKED it.

During the Middle School years I transferred my dancing experience into cotillions where I could dress to the nines and escort young ladies at their “coming out” parties while our parents sat in the country club bar and drank.  It was very formal but not much fun.

Summer was also a time when the parents would dump me with relatives at the beach. While I wasn’t close to these people, I was exposed to activities I would have never experienced at home. My cousin was a bit of a wild spirit when left alone so I hung out with him. He taught me how to surf in a relaxed group of townies. We’d sweep out bars or put away boxes or whatever was needed during the day to earn some cash to buy some food for the night’s bonfire. It was a time for my first sexual experience.

He also showed me how to scuba dive and parachute but not under the best circumstances.

Middle school also taught me shop or woodworking or whatever they call it with a lesbian as a teacher. I enjoyed it but didn’t have the backup knowledge at home to further my curiosity. Also took art classes. Art classes in school and art classes at the museum. So when they did a survey to figure out your classes in High School or “what do you want to be when you grow up?”, I said “artist”.

Between learning I didn’t like basketball with that entire running thing, a president being assassinated, combat and monster movies every Sunday, scouts, and a turtle who turned green and died and a hamster who had babies then ate them and died; I heard music for the first time.

Perhaps the dancing got me listening or my brother’s “Kingston Trio” records, but I wanted to be apart of the music scene. I didn’t want to “study” music because it would be too much like school and since I could not see the blackboard until I got glasses, I didn’t like school.

One Christmas I got a set of paper skin drums which I pounded on without any instructions but they had no real sound. I opted for the guitar but didn’t have much money so I purchased a banjo ukulele, then a baritone ukulele, then a tenor guitar and then I found electric rock & roll.

The summer between Middle School and High School I purchased an electric guitar and joined a band. Life would never be the same.

So while “Middle School” may seem like a transition from being a kid to being a teen, a lot of things can happen between 1962 and 1964.

Family

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You can choose your friends but you can’t choose your family.

To declare before I begin, I was part of a family (of course) but never had a family.

Born after WWII probably as a “uh oh” child, I had a set of parents who provided for my education, clothing, substances, value structure, and enough entertainment provisions to keep me out of trouble.

I have no complaints with my growing up in that family, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to have my own.

There is that legacy thing where you pass on to your sires the history of the family name or the accumulation of wisdom and experiences through the generations.

There is also that responsibility thing of providing for your offspring. Perhaps I’m just too selfish so I was always a couple.

Then again, family is what causes the most discussions and problems. The family and the extended families are your first friends and teachers. They teach you manners and the fine points of etiquette, get you out of diapers, take off your training wheels, come to your birthday parties, teach you how to surf before throwing you out of a plane, dress up to go to family socials and religious gatherings, become topics of flattery as trophy awards, and then slowly fade away.

Families also present the crazies and the sweetness of human personality. Though I didn’t learn financial structure through family, money problems can bring families together. Emotional roller coasters can be absorbed by families or ignored.

But with all their swings and sways, families are a large part of what makes you “YOU”.

Lets talk about “ME”

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It is what we do.

And why not because what do we know more about than ourselves?

Sure conversations can be about “what the kids are doing” or “the new car” or “the crummy coffee at work” or “the latest best seller” or “if we caught that show on television last night” which will give basic information or confirm shared experiences.

But what the true meaning of a good conversation comes down to is “YOU”.

We talk to other people to get their opinions or ideas on a given topic.

This is what creates friendships.

Sometimes it just reinforces a thought or reaffirms your own personality.

And when someone talks to you what do they expect in return? They want to hear from “you”. They want to know about you. They are willing to listen to your problems and your joys and are grateful for your comments. They even watch your face for expressions and attitude.

For in the long run, that is all “YOU” can bring to the table.