My husband and I work together. And when I say work together, I don’t mean in that new-age way where we strive toward mutual goals using assertive, positive language. We work together for a living, for our moolah, our coin, our dineros. For the most part, this is an excellent arrangement. But sometimes, it can be interesting. We tend to cut to the chase, for one. In a recent phone conference with a client, I indicated that the floor would now be turned over to Craig for his assessment of where to go with a rather painful project. I had seen him scrawling furiously, and was eagerly anticipating some wise words to help move us forward. “Craig,” I entreated, looking over to where he was sitting at his desk, “how would you sum up—” Craig popped his FUCK sign. “Um, Craig, is there anything you wanted to say about—” He held the sign higher, in case I hadn’t quite got it. FUCK. This, the result of all that scrawling. We were by now both stifling laughter, and moving our mouthpieces away from our jagged intakes of breath. Thankfully, Craig put his artwork away, and managed a decent response to the question.
We are normally quite professional.
Sometimes we use instant messages to each other during a conference call. I try to crack Susie up. She tries to make me be quiet.
TTFN
Travis
Posted by: Travis | August 01, 2007 at 05:49 AM