A local strip mall developer e-mailed my dean, requesting a meeting to discuss my "integrity" over the issue of taxing carried interest.
The person who'd sent it explained (because my email requesting he remove my address from his files, because he clearly couldn't be trusted to use it sensibly, bounced as being "blacklisted" – a fabulous addition of insult to injury) that he must have got a couple of lists mixed up.
12 30 P.M. Trackyourhappiness.org pings me three times a day to fill out surveys to track my moods, requesting answers within ten minutes to gauge my exuberance quotient.
Update (10 10am ET): Gerard Adams has just responded to my email requesting confirmation of the $30k figure, saying that he actually invested somewhere around $50k rather than $30k, as Arabov had said.
Neither the Broad Street branch manager nor the Chinatown branch manager responded to my messages requesting comment for this piece.
Nearly four decades after that sudden tack, a young woman came to my office requesting a letter of recommendation and answered these questions better than I could have.
I know this truth firsthand as the frequent recipient of phone calls from my parents requesting a visit from their granddogs, Julie and Stephan.
A gentle tug at my heart requesting me to forgive, and my stubborn pride holding on with every once of strength trying to justify and defend my rage.
has gone as far as asking officers to sign a form, under the heading "Don't Insult My Sacrifice," requesting that the mayor stay away from their funeral if they are killed in the line of duty.
In fact, as a modern-day woman, I am acutely aware the correct response to my husband requesting such an outing is: "Whoo-hoo, have a great time," or, "Sounds fun.
