You should get your nose out of a book sometime and try interacting more with people. My ability to engage with other people. I am certain Natalie has Attention Deficit Disorder because she is incapable of summarization. To her mind, the chronology of events is absolute and no detail dare be spared.
In her liberal grammar, a sentence may only end when her breath does.
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The downside of this is each new story fact leads to a new association requiring further elaboration. Her mind works sort of like a cerebral pinball machine, with bumpers and flippers that keep her original point bouncing around inside her cranium while her eyes light up bonus points. Safe to say, talk fills all the time you are willing to allot her, and a mundane story can easily explode to epic proportions when Natalie tells it.
However, after thirty years together, after all our marriages, divorces, careers, and babies, our friendship has settled into comfortable role-playing. She is the headliner, and I am quite content to be the faithful continuity girl backstage who keeps her on cue—the Mertzes to her Ricardos, the Pips to her Gladys Knight, a mute dancing dervish just beyond the main spotlight echoing variations of her lyrics in impeccable harmony.
Often friends fall by, joining us for lattes and book talk and invariably turning our afternoon into an impromptu homecoming, with Natalie holding court. However, Natalie is on a roll and does not hear him. He sets his jaw again, and I notice his ruddy complexion, Hawaiian shirt, and thinning orange hair—he wears it longish with unruly tendrils curling at his neck—give him the look of a retired career military officer gone, regrettably, mod in his dotage.
He finally erupts at us. Natalie stops in mid-sentence, her jaw dropping like the trapdoor of a gallows. I wait for the man to smile, wink, and then lay some good-natured punch line on us, but instead he throws both hands in the air with the vigor of a borderline berserker. He finger-combs a frond of orange hair behind his ear and then shakes his head.
Or else a loud group of you go on endlessly about nothing and destroy my concentration. His face turns cochineal. Well, let me tell you something, sir. Her sharp inflection robs the politic word of all its civility. We have every right to sit here and visit. She rises slightly from her seat, incandescent rage bearing her aloft like a hot-air balloon filled to the lift-off point.
- Say Anything.
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He smirks at Natalie and gives her a patronizing laugh. Then his eyes narrow to slits as though peering directly into the noonday sun. And if our conversation disturbs you, Natalie sputters, then I suggest you stop eavesdropping on us! Not bad honey. I rub her back like a trusty squire handing my liege a fresh lance with which to rejoin the joust.
You can take your old saggy butt and sit somewhere else! Momentarily stunned, she turns to me, her mouth agape. Time for a little comic relief from the Peanut Gallery, I decide. Poor baby, I purr, rising from my seat, arms extended. He just needs a hug! Yeah, right. His hands paw his newspaper like el Toro pawing the dirt before charging. His grimace suggests that, in addition to being bereft of tact, he lacks a sense of humor as well. He turns and stares out the window, his teeth grinding as though they are the anvil on which he is forging his next steely retort.
Just keep reading your romances, girls. I watch him sink back in his chair, cackling at us like a noisy magpie. He attempts to organize his Financial Times , fumbling with it like a sprung accordion, as though a flimsy wall of newsprint could shield him from our burning eyes. Abhorring a vacuum in all things conversational, Natalie jumps back into the fray. No one is more surprised than I, however, when she takes the high road. I feel sorry for you, sir, she deadpans. I really do. Tight-lipped, she sighs and cuts her red-rimmed eyes toward me, a signal she is battle-fatigued and needs me to spell her at the front lines.
I feel paralyzed, a doe in his headlights. I immediately cast my eyes downward. My head pounds as I try to think of what to do next, but all I can focus on is the Barnes and Noble logo on my coffee cup. Perhaps this confrontation has set off a fight-or-flight adrenaline surge inside me, or maybe the caffeine already in my system from several double-expresso lattes has sharpened my wits to the sticking point.
Whatever the reason, an absolute zinger of a put-down bursts into the chaotic blizzard of my mind like an achingly perfect snowflake.
Which one are you actually? Barnes or Mr. He stares hard at me, his eyes as scornful as those of a street corner three-card monte artist caught red-handed by a plain-clothes detective. No, wait! I cry. I press on, no lioness on the African savannah more intent on the kill than I. Tell me, is the Viagra wearing off? I see his eyes vacillate, and he seems now to notice the stares of the irate bibliophiles roused from their J.
Robb or James Patterson. I feel the wind at my back.
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A slight, bookish girl in her early twenties, she clasps her hands together as though in prayer. Could you please stop? Then ask your boss to stop insulting the clientele, sweetheart, I say, cocking my head toward the man. I glance at her nameplate and seek to establish a personal bond. Please meet the famous Mr. A ripple of laughter and a stray You go, girl filter through my adrenaline buzz and lodge in the pleasure centers of my brain. I turn and blow them a kiss. Now, wait just a damn minute here, the man says, his voice cracking as he attempts to raise it to the level apropos indignation.
You-you —. Just then, I feel two large, strong hands grab me by my shoulders from behind. A frisson of fear shoots through me, and I know my face must be blanching kabuki-white. However, Mr. No need, darling, I say, gazing up at my husband, an ex-college football player.
Barnes was just leaving. When I turn back around, the man has beaten a hasty retreat out of the bookstore.
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Even though I still prefer the role of the sidekick in social matters, who knows? Maybe it is my turn to be the headliner? I must admit that my show-stopper scene at center stage in the bookstore gave me a thrill that still excites me. I feel like I am standing inside the nave of a beautiful, sun-lit cathedral, which all my life I had been afraid to enter. And the next time I lie in bed, frozen in fear by yet another of my habitual anxiety dreams, I must try to remember that precise magic instant when my reticence evaporated and I, pitiless and relentless as Vishnu, laid waste to a demon who, surprisingly, turned out to be just a grumpy, orange-haired little man with a weak chin.
Dorian Gatwick? Randy says as we stride to the taxi stand at La Guardia.
aviloxitej.tk Even before CFPB published its message, the Wells consent order represented a road map banks need to follow to make sure their sales and incentive practices are acceptable, observes Annette Tripp, partner at Bracewell LLP. The role of independent audit and the role of customer complaints are two messages to take from the order, according to Tripp.
Informa Research Services has been working with banks for decades, providing mystery shopping and other consumer research. Informa executives have heard a good deal of feedback from bank clients. Chad Watkins, director, market intelligence, says there has been a blending of two traditional types of mystery shopping assignments: sales-oriented tests versus compliance-oriented ones. Reaction to the Wells settlements has been broad, according to Watkins. While Wells Fargo will be fine in the long run, if you are a smaller bank, you may not survive.
More than ever, at least since the Great Recession, banks face being lumped into one group. Besides its client-focused research, Informa surveys 16, consumers annually. Watkins says recent research indicates consumers are well aware of what happened at Wells Fargo. On the one hand, she believes sales in a community bank, by its nature, will be cleaner, because the person on the other side of the desk may very well be a friend or neighbor, not an anonymous member of an endless stream of customers.
They are clearly aware that everything they do is scrutinized closely. And there are only so many people in your community.
By his own rough research using LinkedIn, says Kerstein, there are at least 15, former Wells employees in positions at other banks. Veteran consultant, former regulator, and reg tech entrepreneur Jo Ann Barefoot has watched banks go through the long arc of their involvement in sales. Considered this way, sales is seen not as exploitative, but as customer service. Overall, we offer customers clarity, simplicity, and transparency. We offer products and services that fulfill fundamental needs.