Eulogizing the Hamster

Death.

Like taxes and telemarketing calls during dinner, death is one of the few certainties we encounter; and yet no matter how often the Grim Reaper comes knocking we can never become quite used to it.

Some people incorrectly believe that there is no such thing as a soul, that death is nothing but a lack of life.  I have a hard time with this as the corollary would then suggest that life is nothing but a lack of death, and what a depressing thought that is.

In the grand scheme of the cosmos, one might question the significance of the passing of one small, frail, hamster, but in the passing of this life lies an inspiration we can look to in our own lives: things can end at any time.

And that brings us to Rhinee, beloved brother to Rhino, son to Brett and Mathilda, cousin to many and friend to all.

Who doesn’t remember Rhinee as the fun loving rodent he was?  Full of life, always running, never getting anywhere.

In talking with the family before this ceremony, they were reminded of the many times during which Rhinee would be placed in the sink while the cage was being cleaned.  The sink, with it’s polished surface and steep inclines, posed a challenge for Rhinee, one to which he always took head on, never letting failure present itself as an option.  Rhinee was stubborn, determined and a fighter.

It is not clear how long Rhinee was stuck there in the cage, trapped between the bars of the upper level and the side of the cage, but when he was found he was still kicking, despite any damage he had done to himself.  He appeared to be fine but in the days following the incident he ran every day, less and less.  As the cage was cleaned and as new food and water were added, he continued to eat and to drink, less and less.

Concern set in for the family when he seemingly lost the use of his back legs and just lay there; his brother Rhino showing his concern by stepping on him to get to the running wheel, as if to say, “You may not run anymore, but I will continue to run enough for both of us.”

In the end Rhinee’s breathing slowed and he just lay there, responsive to only a slight blowing between the bars.  A twitch of his eyelid and of his whiskers the only signs of life.  Soon, even these disappeared and he lay there, the light from his eyes had gone out.

And as the family prepared Rhinee’s body for the cat, they reflected on what a good pet he had been.  As they removed the feet so that the tiny claws would not scratch the cat’s throat, they remembered the hours of entertainment Rhinee had provided, like that one time where he pooped in their hands as they held him.  That was Rhinee right there - always the prankster.

As they set the dinner plate down, they took pause and thanked the maker for such a wonderful life, and as they watched the cat devour Rhinee they smiled, for even in death they saw how much Rhinee could still offer the living.

With the final lip-smacking chew, as Rhinee’s tail disappeared from sight, the family realized he was finally gone and they wept as they mopped up some of the bloody bits that had made their way to the kitchen tile.  These last bits of Rhinee they threw in the trash can so that they may be preserved forever in the city dump.

Rhinee, you will be missed by us all, and wherever you may be right now, may the water bottle never leak, may the tissues be three-ply and may the wheel keep on spinning forever.

God bless.

Bilingue Bilingue

I envy the bilingual.

I don’t just mean those who took French in University, or those who, like me, put down bilingualism as an asset during their monster.ca job search. Sure I could work as a translator, as long as all anyone ever told me was that they had to go to the bathroom or that this a red tomato.

I mean the fully, amazingly, stupidly bilingual people who aren’t only bilingual on the tongue, but in the brain as well. Their thoughts mesh from one language to the other and never is it more entertaining to eavesdrop than when you see two such people meet up in public.

To illustrate this in writing, I will replace all words in French with numeric sequences. Not only will this adequately convey a sense of confusion, but it saves me from showing my ignorance in the proper spelling of French words.

It is very difficult to misspell numeric sequences.

Ah, Jacques!

Ah, Pilo!

How are you?

I’m fine. And you? How is 65748 46577 6 38740?

8574902873 5647 28273 dog catcher 56 47291 mail-in rebate.

Really? 847563 938. I never knew. 746 292920 3746 2632 Charlie Brown 736 29293 486463 Steve McQueen.

Steve McQueen?! 65739209 437565 39485 375464 98 ha ha ha, Charlie Brown!

Ha ha ha!

Ha ha 75 84 75 ha!

You get the idea.

———-

Last weekend while in Ottawa, we took a wrong turn and ended up in Quebec.  I know, it can happen.

I was hungry and decided to stop off at a McDonald’s.  My wife - my French-speaking wife, was not hungry and so allowed me to go into the restaurant alone.

Now, if a McChicken is a MacPoulet, then shouldn’t Chicken McNuggets be Poulet McCroquettes?  Nope.  MacPoulet Croquettes it was.  McChicken Nuggets.  What a crazy language.

That, and all of the “combo” menus read “trio”.  This made perfect sense to me - burger, fries, drink… a trio!  It almost makes more sense than combo!  However, when I tried to order a trio the French McYouth behind the counter said in butchered English, “Do you meen a combo?”

No, I mean a trio.  Like it says on the sign.  A MacPoulet Trio.

S’il. Vous. Plait.

———-

When I was a kid we sang the national anthem every morning before class; I don’t know if they still do that anymore. We also said the Lord’s prayer, and I know they don’t do that anymore, but we never said the Lord’s prayer in French, so that’s a topic for another time.

We sang the national anthem in English on some days, in French on others, and occasionally that weird hybrid version they sing at hockey games, where they never change up which paragraphs they sing in English and which ones they sing in French. It’s like there’s only one version of a fully bilingual anthem, and that’s the one.

Brian Mulroney in deep negotiations with French lobbyists, June, 1985:

“We want zee ‘gloween arts’ part and zee ‘God keep our land’ part.”

“I… uh… I don’t think that’s quite fair.”

“Gloween arts!!!”

“If you take the gloween art… the glowing hearts, can you do without the end bit?”

(the group whispers amongst themselves for several seconds)

“We will take eet. Zee end always she be drown out by ockey fans anyway.”

“Deal.”

“Deel.”

We could always tell—to get back to the story—which anthem it was going to be by the way the instrumental bit at the beginning started out, and if it happened to be the all-French version you could just feel the entire class sigh with frustration; twenty-eight eight-year olds unhunching their shoulders and steeling themselves up for an extra 90 seconds of French class.

———-

Part of me wants to start taking French classes. Oh, not so I can understand the people at the McDonald’s in Hull, but just to be able to think in more than one language and have the full lexicon of two languages at my disposal.

Then the other part, the lazy part, reminds me that it’s not all fun and jeu. I vaguely remember something about twelve different tenses and some crazy witch lady named Mrs. Vandertamp. Learning French at this stage would be too hard, especially when you consider the fact that I hate all the French muppets on Sesame Street. You guys couldn’t even make one of them cool?

And yes, in case you were wondering, I had to look up “game” in French for that last paragraph. Pathetic, n’est pas?

———-

To finish, check out the song “Grade Nine French” from my University folk-comedy days…

Creative Consciousness

It’s 4:30 a.m. and I’m in this kind of dazed half-awake, half-zombie state of being, the kind where your hand is hanging off the end of the bed and you know you should move it because of the monsters under the bed but it’s really, really heavy and so, instead of going to all the effort of moving it you start planning out the life you will have with only one hand.

For lack of a better term I’ll call it creative consciousness, because you’re not fully conscious but man can your brain come up with some weird shit.

This morning I have two thoughts concurrently and I investigate both at the same time, drowning myself in confusion and eventually lulling myself back to sleep.

- Is there really life on other planets and, if so, do they get the Internet?

- Why, out of all the characters on the show, was Mr. Roper the only one allowed to break the fourth wall?

I don’t know what answers I came up with, it’s all still a little fuzzy, but I remember both these paths of questioning weaving in and around each other for some time, confusing the hell out of me. The human brain is a messed up thing sometimes.

*****

It may have been during one of these bouts of creative consciousness that I came up with this retarded brain theory of mine (it’s the theory that’s retarded, not a theory on retarded brains).

Sometimes when I am so completely baffled, so in awe of what the human mind is capable of, I picture brains as being the dominant species on the planet, just hopping around like packages of hamburger meat, and that human beings were just sitting around the campsticks doing nothing. The brains attacked the humans and attached themselves to their heads and a new life form was created.

Brains are scary, powerful things, dude. My 4:30 a.m. self would totally believe in this theory.

So think how much it freaked me out when I saw a similar notion years ago on an episode of Futurama; floating brains attacking humanity. Crazy shit.

*****

But it stands to reason that if aliens could receive television and radio signals they might be able to tap into our email and Internet, right? ALIENS COULD BE READING MY WEBLOG RIGHT NOW…

Ha… I accidentally hit the caps lock key there but it seems to fit so I’ll leave it…

Or did my brain hit the caps lock key on purpose without telling me…?

Math

Do not worry about your difficulties in Mathematics. I can assure you that mine are still greater. - Albert Einstein

* * * * *

There are three kinds of people in this world: those who can do math and those who can’t.

Guess which group I belong to.

I’m pretty sure I hated mathematics from a very young age; I seem to remember hurriedly changing the channel as soon as I found out which letter had brought me the episode of Sesame Street I had been watching, not caring enough to learn the identity of the sponsoring number.

That’s a pretty clear sign, if you ask me.

Throughout school it always just seemed to me that we were learning things that we would never need to apply in daily life. I mean, why would I ever need to know anything about integers in my dream job as a lion tamer? It’s not like I was ever going to need to worry about having a negative number of lions to worry about. Now, a number of negative lions was a different matter entirely, but that hardly related to the math at hand.

Same thing with fractions, the only daily application of which I could possibly forsee was in the division and allocation of slices of pie. For this I had a simple rule: I always got the biggest piece. Thus, however you wanted to divide the rest of the pie, or fractionalate it, to use the mathematically correct term, was completely up to you.

Now of course, years later, these ideas became all too real. I simply had to add my monthly budget to my student loan payments and I’d get some interesting integers, resulting in me eating a fraction of the amount of food I might otherwise have enjoyed. Stupid math.

But still, many other mathematical concepts have remained a mystery to me to this very day. For example, I vaguely remember it being very important to do something called completing the square. I have no idea what this means now, and I have actually met very few squares in my time that needed completing in the first place. I suppose if I saw one drawn on a piece of paper, all open at the top or on one side, I could simply take my pencil and draw in the fourth side, but my memory is nagging at me and telling me that it was once much harder than that.

Geometry was also often confusing for me. Again, later in life, at University, I could see some practical use in having learned about triangles, squares and rectangles: how big is that couch sitting on the curb? will it fit through the door? what if we tilt it? and that sort of thinking, but I’m telling you now, most geometry is absolutely useless stuff.

What on this planet, in its natural or man-made form, is shaped like a rhombus?

Case closed.

* * * * *

I think what bothers me most about math is that two and two, no matter how hard you try to dress them up or disguise them, or tell them that, yes, they look like twos, but really they are sixes trapped in a two body, no matter how hard you try to convince them otherwise, two and two always make four.

There can only ever be one right answer.

And what bothers me about that is that I could get that answer wrong.

And I don’t like to be wrong.

* * * * *

In first year University my friends and I flooded a psychology study. They paid us $30 to write two, one hour multiple choice questionnaires a week apart. Yes, that’s right, $15 an hour to answer a bunch of serious questions meant to give them an idea of our general personality. These questions were intermingled with control questions to make sure we were actually paying attention to the content, so that right after a question about our leadership abilities we had questions like:

17. Sometimes I see snakes near where I live:

Strongly Disagree

Disagree

Neutral

Agree

Strongly Agree

The psychology students then took Polaroids of our faces and the main goal was for other psychology students to look at the pictures and try to discern whose picture went with which profile.

I have no idea how that was all supposed to work, exactly, but that is neither here nor there.

As we’re answering these questions it’s quite clear that we’re all checking them off at roughly the same pace, as every time we reached a snake-type question a suppressed giggle went through the whole room. I’m pretty sure we all found it impossible to read those questions and not hear Ralph Wiggum saying them aloud in our heads.

When they started to hand out the math section we were all a little hesitant. There we were, all English, History and Film students, and they wanted us to do math. I think a few of us were seriously doubting whether the $15 an hour, that’s 25 cents a minute by the way, was worth it.

We opened up the booklet and started laughing. I believe the first question actually was 2+2.

We flew in tandem through the next dozen or so questions and then, like the brick wall at the end of the crash test road, we hit question 14 all at the same time and the sound of pencils dropping on desk tops echoed throughout the classroom. I don’t remember exactly what the question was, but it may as well have been asking us to extrapolate the circumference of Mars, given that our pencils were twelve centimeters long.

While I had talked about it with friends before, and had heard others complain about their own lack of mathematical abilities, it is that moment more than any other that told me what I needed to hear.

I was not alone.

* * * * *

I think there are others out there like me who also share this problem: when it came to measurements, I was largely taught by a generation of Canadian teachers who had never fully embraced the metric system. Some of them knew it, some of them didn’t, and so I grew up knowing my distances in kilometers, my weight in pounds, my milk in litres and my height in feet and inches.

I’m not blaming the system entirely here, but it certainly didn’t help me foster an affinity for the subject.

* * * * *

Okay, fine. I’ll let you in on a little secret. Last story though, I promise.

There’s one math thing that I can do really well, it’s freaky really. Rainman freaky.

I’m really, really good at doing the whole time-distance thing. If we’re driving in a car and I know how far away our destination is and how fast we’re likely to be traveling, I can tell you in less than two seconds exactly what time we’ll arrive. I don’t even really do math in my head, I just know the answer.

It’s scary sometimes, isn’t it, to just know something?

The first few times I realized I had this ability I was all like, “Okay, who the hell put that there? Who’s in my brain? Jerry, is that you? Redrum… redrum…”

After a while it stopped freaking me out, especially after I discovered that I was almost always dead on.

Like I said, I don’t like to be wrong.

* * * * *

Linque Du Jour:

It’s Ask Dr. Math! Finally, after all these years, I can find out why six is afraid of seven! I just hope he knows the answer…

Work as a hobby.

Strange, but that’s how I’ve been feeling lately.  Have not written anything in weeks, have not picked up the guitar, the PVR is full of shows I have yet to watch and the Wii sits there, forgotten, sad, lonely…

Instead I’ve been attending work functions, playing on work sports teams (go Dodgeballers - second place finish!) and taking advantage of my new remote access to catch up on the work I just don’t have time to do when I’m at, you know, work.

November and December have been just insane, and it doesn’t look to lighten up any in the new year either.

I feel like I need a day where the world forgets I exist; a cold, stormy day, perfect for staying in, watching movies, reestablishing that dent on the couch.  That’s all I really want for Christmas this year.

And if we could somehow make that day stretch on for, like, 84 hours, that would be good too.

The Book

“All of the books in the world contain no more information than is broadcast as video in a single large American city in a single year. Not all bits have equal value.” - Carl Sagan

The pages are yellow and I can’t help wondering if they had ever even been white. It cost £2.50 in the U.K., in 1985, and $4.95 in Canada. It was “recommended” to sell for $7.95 in Australia. An American price is not listed.

It is the same size and shape as the book with the same title I read in grade ten. The cover art is the same as well.

The corner on page 122 has a line where it has been folded, which is strange to me; page 122 is on the left-hand side and whenever I fold a page corner down to mark it I always do so on the right.

“SELF-RELIANT LEARNING PROGRAM” is stamped in blank ink across the top of the book, across the breadth of its pages. I know nothing more about this program.

It smells like old-book which, while you wouldn’t make millions bottling and selling it, is not altogether unpleasant.

I got it from a book swap, picked it up out of curiosity, out of a sudden half-remembrance of high school essays. I don’t know who put it on the table, who read it before me, or who read it before them. As I curled up with it last night I had the briefest thought that I was about to sleep with every person this book has ever slept with, and I found that thought strangely comforting.

A banana had gone bad in my school bag. I was nine, I was in grade four and I was only several months into my term at a new school. Everything in my bag smelled like banana. Everything. I had to get a new bag.

Charlotte’s Web smelled like banana mixed with old-book, which was not as offensive an odour as one might first assume. I imagined it’s what monkey libraries must smell like. If anyone in West End Toronto has read a copy of Charlotte’s Web that smelled vaguely like bananas, that was me.

The first real book I wrote was in Grade 3. It had a laminated cover and was spiral bound and when I changed schools I brought it to Mrs. Dodds, the school librarian. She was so impressed she made it a part of the school library. There was a pocket on the back cover and an honest-to-goodness card in the pocket for students to sign the book out. I loved going to the library after school every other week or so, holding my book in my hands, looking to see if anyone had signed it out. Few people ever did, but every name on that list widened my smile just that much more. Actually, given this correlation, I’m glad more people hadn’t signed it out as the resulting grin might have caused permanent damage to my cheeks.

And it’ll happen one day, we’ll blink our eyes or twitch an index finger and the latest Stephen King novel will find its way onto the tablet we’re holding in our hands. It’s the tablet we bought at Radio Hut for $49.95 and accidentally dropped on our uncle’s back porch that time last summer, remember that? That’s where that scratch on the corner came from.

Oh, and look there, on the back at the bottom. See those tiny little pieces of paper stuck there? We never were very good at removing price tags, were we?

The tablet will have stories all its own to be sure, perhaps as many as any book, but they’ll only ever be our own stories.

Books connect us in a way that is physical and real and, perhaps most importantly, in a way we have no real degree of control over; the connections are chaotic.

I’m sleeping with every person my book has ever slept with.

Books touch random people at random moments in their random lives, but there’s always a constant, isn’t there?

Forget about the story inside for a moment and think how we—often enough for me to generalize, I believe—treat our books with respect. With the exception of the odd banana accident, we treat our books well, don’t we? Even if the content within has disappointed us, or angered us, or fueled whatever emotion of ours we secretly loathe, the book survives and is given to the library for a book drive or to a young niece or nephew who don’t know enough about tripe yet to recognize it in literary form. Our respect for the form usually outweighs any lack of it for the content, doesn’t it? Or am I wrong?

And it’ll happen one day, we all know it. The tablets are coming. Cutting down trees is hard work. If our ancestors could have relied on a picture of a log cabin to keep them safe from the elements they would have.

But we will lose something in that transformation, something very valuable. Sure we’re coming up with new ways every day to connect with people around the globe, but for me, and I hope for whomever currently has that copy of Charlotte’s Web, nothing will ever beat a book.

Please do not sell me your wares.

The National Do-Not call list starts here in Canada September 30th.  Details here.

I worked several jobs throughout high school and University on the other end of these phone calls; selling everything from newspaper subscriptions to symphony tickets, asking if people wanted painting estimates on their homes or if they wanted to donate to their alma mater.

I actually said those words, “alma-mater”, it was in the script.

If we get everyone on this Do-Not-Call list it will severly hamper the job market for students, new immigrants, second and third job-holders… and let’s not forget the failed biz school graduates with nothing left to manage in their lives except the offices where this above-listed bunch of shrubbery work.

This is not a bad thing.

While I can understand what is happening on the other end of the phone, I do not like to be called.  I do not like to buy things over the telephone almost as much as I do not like to buy things at my front door.

Today I said no to the cutest little girl guide you could ever meet.

Doorbell rings.

“Hi sir, would you like to buy some girl guide cookies?”

Internal dialogue: “Are they made out of real girl guides?”

I glance at the mom waiting at the end of my walk, eagerly supporting her daughter’s weekend habit of peddling wares to strangers.

Internal dialogue:  “How can I get out of this?”

External dialogue:  “How much are they?”

“Four dollars.”

Internal dialogue:  “Four bucks!  For cookies?  What’s your cut, you little thief?  Half?  All?  You’re not even a girl guide are you?  Can I see a badge?

External dialogue:  “Four bucks, eh?  Hmmm… what flavours do you have?”

“Mint chocolate.”

Internal dialogue:  “Yes, I have an out!  That better be all you have.”

External dialogue:  “Is that all you have?”

Mother (stepping forward):  “Yes, the new flavours come out in the spring.”

Internal dialogue:  “Yes!”

External dialogue:  “Oh, I’m so sorry.  I don’t like the mint chocolate.  I’d buy to support you but the cookies would just go uneaten.  I’m sorry, good luck.”

I close the door on the defeated and am relishing in my success when I look up to see Trish looking at me.

Internal dialogue:  “Oh shit.”

Trish:  “I have four dollars.  I like mint chocolate cookies.”

External dialogue:  “Highway robbery, at our own front door.  No way - that kid has to earn her “ripping off strangers” badge somewhere else.”

———-

Now, some of you, and Trish, may think I’m cold hearted, but the Girl Guide cookies are the gateway product sold at your door.  Next thing you know I’ll start buying other things from salespeople.  Books, magazines, vacuums, meat.  Soon I won’t go out to the store because I’ll have deluded myself into believing that anything worth having will eventually come to me.  I’ll stay indoors, never go out, waiting for that next hit, that next ring of the doorbell, that next phone call from a telemarketer.  That is the real danger, that right there.

This has to stop somewhere.

Might as well be at the start.

This hasn’t happened in a LONG time.

I just need a moment to let this soak in.

Now, I’m not getting crazy excited just yet, but dare we even start thinking, at the very least, playoffs?

Mr. Fancy Pants

We went out for a work dinner last night - a celebration of our award we won this past summer as well as a bash to celebrate a colleague of mine’s impending nuptuals this weekend.

(Impending Nuptuals would make a great name for a really bad wedding band. I’ve got the tambourine - who’s with me?!)

We went to a steak house where the steaks were $52 and worth every dollar. The $52 only got you the steak, by the way. Sides were extra. As was the champagne, wine and after dinner drinks.

When all was said and done the 9 of us had spent about $1200 on the meal.

I would like to re-enact, right now, what my grandmother’s reaction to the cost of that meal would have been if she were still living and in her good years, you know, before the Alzies kicked in (my pet name for Alzheimer’s - makes it sound cute, don’t you think?)

Ahem.

“$1200! Holy jumpin’!”

Thank you. That was so her voice. If you could hear it right now you’d be like, “Oh, Lee man, that was a pretty good impression.”

And the place was fancy. More forks than I knew what to do with, a side plate for bread that was replaced midway through the meal with a new sideplate that I used for my sides, and a wait staff that was impeccable in every way.

Then it was pitchers down at Jack Astor’s afterwards to close down the night.

Today was one of them… oh, what do you call ‘em… oh yeah, “rough” days.

———-

In talking to one of my Australian colleagues last night it was discovered that in Australia they do something called the 40 hour famine to help raise money for hungry kids in Africa. In Canada we do the 30 hour famine for the same reason and it struck me as funny, that 10 hour difference.

Any ideas why Australians put themselves through the extra 10 hours for, really, the same outcome as our 30 hour famine?

Post your thoughts in the comments.

Letters To Last Night

Dear Hotel Security,

I would like to apologize on behalf of my friend who thought it was a good idea to steal 8 towels from the pool.  I also apologize if he creeped any pool-goers out when he walked into the pool area, drink in hand, surveying the scene.

I’m not sure where the towels ended up but, if things went as planned and they were tossed over the balcony, I apologize on behalf of my friend for that, too.

You have a very nice hotel.

Lee

——————————-

Dear cleaning ladies,

As you might notice, unless the guys took them down before checking out this morning, that there are six fake moustaches stuck to the window. I’m not sure you’ll be able to share in this humour, maybe it was a “you had to be there” kind of thing, but believe me when I say that fake moustaches are hilarious and that you should go out on the balcony and stand behind the moustache of your choice and have a friend take a picture.  You will have a good time doing this.

If you prefer, it was decided last night that the one “Rogue” moustache could easily be cut in half, thus providing you with two “Hitlers”.

As well, thank you in advance for doing the work you have ahead of you today.

Regards,

Lee

——————————-

Dear Ouzo,

My friend!  It has been far too long.  It was good to see you last night!  Glad to see you are keeping well.  I hope you didn’t take some of my friends’ disparaging remarks to heart - I think everyone enjoyed your company last night, no matter how much they complained.

I hope you weren’t looking forward to being set on fire, and sorry to disappoint if you were, we just didn’t think that was a good idea.  You know, what with the fake moustaches and all.

Thanks for coming out and hope to see you again soon, although not too soon.  You’ll understand if I need a few days for some personal space.  It’s not you, its me, don’t worry.

Cheers,

Lee

——————————-

Dear Stripper at Zanzibar,

I just wanted to let you know that we all discussed it afterwards and none of us could come up with any reasonable definition of what our friend meant when he asked you: “Are you Diesel or are you Unleaded?”

The best thing we could come up with a loose tie-in to the price of gas, and so he was likely wondering how expensive you were, but we agree that that is a very strange way to ask that information.

Also, when he introduced two of our friends as being from out of town, one having flown in from Denver, the other from Colorado… um, yeah.  Neither are from out of town and, as was pointed out just afterwards, Denver is in Colorado.  Thank you for playing along and humouring him.

I hope you had an enjoyable rest of your evening.

Lee

——————————-

Dear Jager,

Dude, what the fuck?  I thought we were friends.  I thought you had my back.  We’ve had some good times together but what the hell was wrong with you last night?

Were you upset that Ouzo came out?  Didn’t like me hanging around him?  Well, I’m sorry, but at least Ouzo didn’t blindside me last night. At least I know where I stand with Ouzo.

I’m honestly shocked at how you treated me and I think it would be a good idea for us to take a little break. Don’t call me, I’ll call you.

Lee