SUNDAY WITH PHILOSOPHY JANE | Everybody Wants to Be Understood, but Nobody Wants to Explain Themselves Twice

By Philosophy Jane MINNEAPOLIS, MN (November 15, 2026). 

I have always considered myself an excellent communicator. I know what I mean when I speak, I generally choose my words with care, and I have never understood why a simple request should require the sort of questioning ordinarily reserved for a criminal investigation. If I ask someone to bring me something from the kitchen, I expect them to bring it. I do not expect to be interrogated about its dimensions, color, approximate weight, or relationship to other objects in the room.

Brenda says this is because I confuse knowing what I mean with telling other people what I mean. I find that distinction unnecessarily technical. We have been friends for years. She knows my habits, my preferences, my opinions about restaurants that charge extra for bread, and the precise circumstances under which I consider a visit to the grocery store an emergency. Surely that accumulated knowledge ought to count for something.

Apparently, it does not count for sourdough.

Last Wednesday, Brenda was going shopping, and I asked whether she could pick up a few things for me. I was expecting company that evening, and my refrigerator contained chicken, carrots, half a cucumber, and three containers of something I had once intended to eat but was no longer prepared to identify. I needed bread, milk, eggs, and something for dessert.

"What kind of bread?" Brenda asked.

"The good one."

"Which good one?"

"The one I usually buy."

"Jane, I've seen at least six different kinds of bread in your kitchen."

"Well, the fresh one. Not that bread that looks as though somebody sat on it."

She asked about the milk, and I told her to get the regular kind, unless they had the other one with the blue cap. She wanted to know whether I meant whole milk or two percent. I reminded her that I did not drink whole milk, a fact she should have remembered from the numerous occasions on which she had watched me not drink it.

The eggs were simpler. I wanted large ones, preferably brown, although medium would do if they were considerably cheaper. As for dessert, I told her to get something nice. Nothing too sweet, nothing too heavy, and certainly nothing covered in that thick artificial frosting that leaves a person feeling as though she has swallowed a scented candle.

"What would you prefer?" Brenda asked.

"Surprise me."

She looked at me for a moment. "Jane, I don't think a surprise is what you're looking for."

I assured her that I was perfectly capable of accepting a surprise. I simply expected it to be a good one.

Brenda took out her phone and began writing things down. I thought this was rather excessive for four grocery items, but I let it pass. Some people require written instructions. Others possess natural intelligence. I have always believed in allowing people to work with the resources available to them.

Forty-five minutes later, Brenda returned with two shopping bags and the expression of a woman who had completed a difficult assignment but suspected the examiner was waiting to find fault.

She had bought whole-wheat bread, two-percent milk, large white eggs, and a lemon cake.

I looked at the bread first. It was perfectly respectable bread, but it was not sourdough. The milk was technically correct, although it was not the brand I preferred. The eggs were large, which satisfied the basic requirement, but they were white. I had been hoping for brown. Then I examined the cake.

"Is something wrong?" Brenda asked.

"Not at all."

"Jane."

"It's just that I thought you knew I don't particularly care for lemon cake."

"You ate two slices at Carol's last month."

"Carol's was different. Hers tasted like lemons. This looks as though it might taste like furniture polish."

Brenda pointed out that I had not tasted it. I explained that a woman of my age had accumulated enough experience to recognize certain dangers without putting them in her mouth.

She folded her arms and asked what, precisely, she had done wrong. I explained my expectations as patiently as I could. I had wanted sourdough, the milk with the familiar blue cap, brown eggs, and a dessert that would appeal to everyone.

Brenda opened her phone.

"Would you like to hear your instructions?"

"I know what I said."

"Good bread. Regular milk, unless they have the other one. Large eggs, unless medium ones are on sale. Something nice for dessert. Surprise me."

I told her that this was a rather narrow interpretation of my remarks.

"It's exactly what you said, Jane."

"Yes, but it isn't what I meant."

Brenda looked at the lemon cake, then back at me.

"Well, that would have been useful information before I went shopping."

I thought that was unnecessarily sharp. After all, she had known me for years. Surely friendship involved a certain amount of understanding without requiring every preference to be stated aloud.

She asked why I expected her to know that I wanted sourdough when I had not mentioned sourdough once.

"Because you know me."

"Jane, I know you like sourdough. I also know you bought rye bread last Tuesday and complained about sourdough being too expensive the week before."

I had forgotten about that.

She continued. "Sometimes you don't even know what you want until somebody brings you the wrong thing."

I was about to object when I realized that the lemon cake had become the subject of a discussion far larger than its modest price could justify.

"Brenda," I said, "you are making an enormous issue out of a simple misunderstanding."

She stared at me.

"Jane, you have spent ten minutes cross-examining a cake."

I had no satisfactory answer to that, although I still thought the cake looked suspicious.

The Trouble With Knowing Someone

I have noticed that people are remarkably enthusiastic about being understood and considerably less enthusiastic about making themselves understandable. We want our friends to recognize when something is wrong without being told. We expect our families to know what we need before we ask. We become offended when someone fails to detect the meaning behind a remark we have deliberately made vague.

I have occasionally been guilty of this myself, although I would not go so far as to call it a habit.

For example, when I tell someone I am fine, there are occasions when I am genuinely fine. There are other occasions when I am fine only in the sense that I have temporarily suspended discussion of the matter until I decide how much of my displeasure the other person deserves to hear.

I consider the distinction obvious.

Brenda says it is obvious only to the person who has already decided what the word means.

The same applies when I tell someone not to worry about something. Sometimes I mean there is nothing to worry about. At other times, I mean that I am astonished by what has happened and would appreciate a sincere acknowledgment before I am prepared to stop worrying about it myself.

I do not see why this should be difficult to understand. Human beings are complicated. We have feelings, expectations, histories, and occasional headaches. Surely language should be flexible enough to accommodate these realities.

Brenda agrees that language is flexible. She simply objects to my expecting everyone else to know which direction I have bent it.

Our disagreement might have ended with the lemon cake if I had not invited several friends to my house that Friday evening. I had planned a small, informal gathering with Carol, Margaret, Evelyn, and Brenda. Nothing elaborate. A little food, pleasant conversation, perhaps a card game if everyone felt inclined. I wanted the house to look presentable without appearing as though I had spent three days preparing for an inspection.

On Thursday, I asked Brenda to come over the following afternoon and help me straighten up a little.

"What time?" she asked.

"Whenever you're free."

"Two o'clock?"

"That should be fine."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Just the usual things. Nothing major."

She agreed to come at two, and I congratulated myself on having made the arrangements without unnecessary complications.

Unfortunately, Brenda and I had very different ideas about what constituted the usual things.

Six Chairs and a Decorative Bowl

At two o'clock on Friday, Brenda arrived wearing comfortable shoes and carrying a small cleaning caddy. I was in the dining room examining a tablecloth that had developed a crease so pronounced it looked as though somebody had folded it during an argument.

Brenda asked where I wanted her to start, and I suggested the living room. I told her to make herself useful while I attended to the table.

Twenty minutes later, I discovered that she had rearranged the magazines, dusted the shelves, and moved a large decorative bowl from the coffee table to the sideboard.

"Why is that over there?" I asked.

"Why is what over there?"

"The bowl."

"I moved it so people would have somewhere to put their drinks."

"But that's where the bowl belongs."

"Then why did you ask me to straighten up?"

"I meant tidy, Brenda. Not redecorate."

She returned the bowl to the coffee table without further discussion, although the manner in which she set it down suggested she was developing an unfavorable opinion of decorative bowls generally.

A little later, I asked her to put the extra chairs somewhere out of the way. She moved them into the spare bedroom. When I discovered this, I asked why she had hidden the chairs when we would obviously need them once the guests arrived.

"You said to put them out of the way."

"Yes, but somewhere convenient."

"Where would that be?"

"Brenda, somewhere they won't be in the way but where we can get to them."

She looked around the room, then at the chairs, then at me.

"Jane, I'm beginning to think these chairs have more complicated travel arrangements than most people."

I told her she was being difficult. She said she was trying to determine whether the chairs were supposed to be available, invisible, or capable of moving themselves.

By half past three, the chairs had occupied three different locations, the decorative bowl had returned to its original position, and Brenda had begun asking permission before moving anything larger than a teaspoon.

When I complained that she was taking everything too literally, she asked whether I would prefer her to guess.

"Of course not," I said. "I expect you to use common sense."

"Whose common sense?"

"Ordinary common sense."

"Jane, your ordinary common sense just moved six chairs into three rooms."

I pointed out that some of those movements had been necessary because she had misunderstood my original instructions. Brenda said she would be happy to follow clearer instructions if I would provide them.

I found this a rather insulting suggestion. I had been speaking English all afternoon.

Then she proposed an experiment.

I dislike experiments conducted in my own home, particularly when they involve proving that I am wrong, but Brenda insisted it would take only five minutes. She handed me a pen and asked me to write down exactly what I wanted done before our guests arrived.

I wrote that the chairs should be arranged properly, the drinks should be placed somewhere sensible, and the living room should look welcoming.

Brenda read the instructions and asked what I meant by properly.

"The way chairs are supposed to be arranged," I said.

She asked what somewhere sensible meant. I explained that it meant somewhere people could reach the drinks without difficulty. Then she wanted to know what made a room welcoming.

"Brenda, are you seriously asking me to define welcoming?"

"Yes."

"It's when people feel welcome."

"How do I make them feel welcome?"

"By making the room inviting."

"What does inviting look like?"

I put down the pen.

"Are you trying to drive me insane?"

"No, Jane. I'm trying to arrange six chairs."

She explained that my instructions depended on information that existed in my head but had not been communicated to anyone else. She could make reasonable guesses, and sometimes those guesses would be correct, but she could not reproduce a picture she had never seen.

I reminded her that we had been friends for years.

"I know," she said. "That's why I also know you'll probably change your mind when I finish."

I was deeply offended, particularly because I had already begun reconsidering the location of the decorative bowl.

Brenda then suggested that we reverse roles. She would give me a simple instruction, and I would follow it.

I agreed immediately. This would finally demonstrate the difference between someone who listened carefully and someone who required an instruction manual to move furniture.

She asked me to fetch the blue folder from her handbag.

I opened the bag and found two blue folders.

"Which one?"

"The blue one."

"They're both blue."

"The one with the papers."

"They both have papers."

"The important one."

I looked at her.

"Brenda, you're going to have to be more specific."

She smiled.

It was the sort of smile that makes a person regret participating in an experiment.

"Now you understand," she said.

I told her the demonstration was unfair because she had deliberately selected two identical folders. She explained that both folders had been in her bag all afternoon and that the only thing she had changed was the way she described them.

I returned the handbag and informed her that the experiment had proved nothing.

She said it had proved quite a lot.

I did not pursue the matter. There was a tablecloth to iron, and I had begun to suspect that Brenda was enjoying herself.

The Dinner That Required a Translator

Our guests arrived shortly after six. Carol brought flowers, Margaret brought sparkling cider, and Evelyn arrived with a container of homemade dip that she described as a little spicy.

I should have asked what she meant by a little.

The dip was so hot that after one bite I briefly considered opening a window and standing outside with my mouth facing the wind. Margaret began coughing, Carol reached for her water, and Brenda asked Evelyn whether she had used fresh peppers.

"Just a few," Evelyn said.

"How many?" I asked.

"Six."

"Six peppers?"

"Small ones."

I looked at the dip.

"Those peppers may have been small, Evelyn, but they appear to have been raised in a very difficult neighborhood."

Evelyn laughed and explained that her family enjoyed spicy food. To her, the dip was mild. To the rest of us, it was a substance that might have required a warning label and the telephone number of the nearest fire department.

Brenda gave me a meaningful look.

I knew what she was thinking. People could use the same word and mean entirely different things. I was prepared to concede the point, but I did not appreciate being reminded of it while my tongue was recovering from an assault.

The evening continued pleasantly until Margaret suggested playing cards. Carol favored rummy, Evelyn proposed a game involving two decks and several rules nobody else recognized, and Brenda asked what I preferred.

"Anything simple," I said.

We settled on Evelyn's game after she assured us that the rules were easy to learn. Twenty minutes later, Margaret was arguing about the scoring, Carol had accused Evelyn of inventing a rule halfway through the round, and I was trying to determine whether the queen of hearts was worth ten points, fifteen points, or nothing at all.

Evelyn insisted that she had explained everything at the beginning.

"Not the part about the queens," Margaret said.

"I thought everybody knew that."

"How would we know?"

"Because that's how we've always played."

Brenda looked at me, and I looked back at her.

For once, I was delighted to discover that someone else had made the mistake I had been accused of making all week.

"Evelyn," I said, "you cannot expect people to know rules you haven't explained."

Brenda nearly dropped her cards.

I ignored her.

Evelyn admitted that she had assumed everyone played the game the same way. We abandoned it and returned to rummy, which at least had the advantage of being familiar to most of us.

For the next hour, the evening was peaceful. Then Carol offered me another cup of coffee.

"Just a little," I said.

She began pouring.

"That's plenty. Actually, a touch more. Not too much. Could you leave some room for milk?"

Carol stopped and studied the cup.

"Jane, would you like to pour it yourself?"

I looked at her in surprise.

"I was only trying to help."

Brenda began laughing so hard that she had to put down her cards. She said she had never seen anyone turn a cup of coffee into a negotiation requiring six separate approvals.

I reminded her that I had not requested six approvals. I had merely expressed my preferences as they became relevant.

"That's exactly what makes it so exciting," she said. "Nobody knows what the next preference will be."

Even Carol laughed.

I decided not to pursue the matter. There are moments when dignity requires a person to accept an unfair accusation rather than provide additional entertainment.

The Things We Expect People to Know

Later that evening, Margaret told us about a disagreement she had recently had with her husband. Before leaving home one morning, she had asked him to take care of a few things around the house. When she returned, he had washed the dishes, taken out the trash, and swept the kitchen floor.

"That sounds helpful," Carol said.

"It was," Margaret replied. "But he didn't clean the bathroom."

Brenda asked whether Margaret had specifically mentioned the bathroom.

"I asked him to take care of things."

"Which things?"

"The things that needed doing."

Brenda looked at me.

I looked at Margaret with sudden sympathy.

Margaret explained that her husband had lived in the same house for thirty-eight years and ought to recognize a dirty bathroom without receiving detailed instructions. Evelyn agreed that people should notice things for themselves. Carol said she understood the frustration, although she admitted that her husband sometimes noticed household problems she would have preferred to ignore.

Within minutes, everyone was discussing the peculiar expectations we place on people who know us well. We expect familiarity to produce understanding, and understanding to produce anticipation. If someone loves us, we think they should recognize our needs without requiring a formal request.

Margaret said that after nearly four decades of marriage, her husband should not need to be told where the cleaning supplies were kept.

Brenda agreed that he ought to know that. She also pointed out that knowing where the supplies were kept was not the same as knowing Margaret wanted the bathroom cleaned that particular morning.

Margaret considered this distinction.

"I suppose I could have mentioned it," she admitted.

Evelyn said there were limits to how much explaining a person should have to do. She did not want to spend her life issuing instructions to adults who were perfectly capable of thinking for themselves.

I agreed wholeheartedly. Then Brenda asked whether we were discussing ordinary thoughtfulness or expecting other people to know our private priorities.

There was a brief silence.

Carol, who had been listening thoughtfully, said she sometimes felt that asking for something spoiled the pleasure of receiving it. If she had to remind her husband that she enjoyed flowers, the flowers no longer seemed quite as meaningful.

Margaret nodded. Evelyn agreed.

For the first time that evening, Brenda did not immediately offer a correction.

"I understand that," she said. "It's lovely when somebody notices what matters to you without being asked. But there's a difference between wishing somebody would notice and deciding they don't care because they guessed wrong."

I thought about that.

I also thought about the lemon cake.

It had not occurred to me that Brenda might have chosen it because she remembered seeing me enjoy lemon cake at Carol's house. She had paid attention. She had simply drawn a conclusion I did not happen to like.

There was something rather inconvenient about discovering that a person's apparent failure to understand you might actually be the result of an entirely reasonable attempt.

Then Margaret asked what had happened with the lemon cake.

Brenda gave a concise account of the grocery incident, including my instructions and subsequent objections. I attempted to explain that the difficulty had not been the cake itself but the fact that my preferences had not been properly considered.

Carol asked whether I had told Brenda I wanted sourdough. Margaret wanted to know whether I had specified the milk brand. Evelyn asked whether I had actually said anything about brown eggs.

I answered each question as carefully as possible.

"No, not specifically."

By the time they reached the cake, I realized I was no longer attending a pleasant social gathering. I was being examined by a committee.

"I told her to get something nice," I said.

Evelyn nodded thoughtfully.

"That's not very specific."

I stared at her.

This was a woman who had described six extremely hot peppers as a little spicy, and she was now offering advice about precision.

I was preparing a response when Carol reminded us that she had once asked Evelyn to bring a small salad to a neighborhood lunch. Evelyn had arrived with enough pasta salad to feed thirty people.

"I thought small meant something different," Evelyn said.

Margaret laughed and confessed that she had once asked her husband to buy a few potatoes. He had returned with three.

"Well," Brenda said, "three is a few."

"Not when you're feeding eight people," Margaret replied.

The conversation dissolved into laughter, and I found myself laughing too. It was reassuring to discover that the problem was not confined to me, although I would have preferred to establish that fact before everyone began discussing my groceries.

What We Mean and What We Hear

After the guests left, Brenda stayed to help me clear the table. The evening had been enjoyable, despite the card-game confusion and the regrettable interrogation about my shopping preferences. We stacked plates, put away leftovers, and returned the extra chairs to their usual places, which Brenda insisted on having me identify individually.

I was thinking about how easily an ordinary conversation could become complicated by assumptions neither person realized they were making.

I had spent much of my life believing that being understood meant finding people who knew me well enough to recognize what I intended. I had not given much thought to the work required on my side of the conversation. I wanted others to interpret my words generously, remember my preferences, anticipate my objections, and somehow distinguish between what I said and what I meant.

When they failed, I assumed they had not listened.

Yet Brenda had listened. She had bought the groceries I described, moved the furniture according to my instructions, and tried to help me prepare for an evening I wanted to be pleasant. She had done all this while I continued changing the requirements.

I remembered how irritated I had become when she asked me to identify the blue folder in her handbag. For those few seconds, I had been the person expected to understand an instruction that could mean two different things. I had demanded clarification immediately.

It had seemed entirely reasonable when I was the one asking.

I also thought about Margaret and her husband. I understood why she wanted him to notice what needed doing without being told. There is a particular comfort in being known so well that someone recognizes your needs before you have to explain them. But there is also a danger in turning that comfort into a test another person does not know they are taking.

We can be disappointed without making every misunderstanding evidence of indifference. We can ask for what we need without treating the request as a defeat. And perhaps we can occasionally admit that the picture in our own heads is not nearly as visible to everyone else as we imagine.

"Brenda," I said, "I think I owe you an apology."

She stopped wiping the counter.

"For what?"

"For making everything so difficult. You were trying to help, and I kept criticizing you because you didn't understand things I hadn't explained."

She looked at me for a moment.

"Thank you, Jane."

"I suppose I could have been clearer."

"A little."

"Perhaps considerably clearer."

"That would be nice."

I smiled. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"More than you know."

We laughed, and I felt relieved. There was something satisfying about acknowledging a mistake without spending another twenty minutes defending it.

Brenda finished wiping the counter and asked whether I needed anything else before she left.

"Actually, would you mind putting the leftover cake in the refrigerator?"

She opened the refrigerator, moved a container of chicken salad aside, and placed the cake on the middle shelf.

"Not there," I said.

She turned slowly.

"Where?"

"On the bottom shelf."

She moved it.

I looked at the refrigerator. The bottom shelf was rather crowded, and the cake might have been safer on top.

"Actually, Brenda, perhaps the top shelf would be better."

She stood holding the cake.

I could see that I was approaching the limits of our newly restored understanding.

"Jane," she said, "which shelf?"

"The top."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely."

She placed the cake on the top shelf, closed the refrigerator, collected her coat, and left before I could reconsider.

I thought that was sensible of her.

The New Communication Policy

The following morning, I decided to make a genuine effort to communicate more clearly. I would stop expecting people to interpret vague instructions and would say what I wanted. I would no longer assume that friendship, familiarity, or ordinary common sense could supply information I had neglected to provide.

I began by writing a grocery list. Instead of bread, I wrote one loaf of fresh sourdough. Instead of milk, I specified the brand, size, and fat content. I listed large brown eggs and included the number required. For dessert, I wrote chocolate cake, preferably without thick frosting.

I examined the list with satisfaction. It was precise, practical, and unlikely to produce misunderstandings.

Then I remembered that I needed to ask my neighbor, Mr. Peterson, to collect a package expected on Monday while I was away from home.

In the past, I might simply have asked him to keep an eye out for a delivery. This time, I decided to provide proper instructions.

I wrote a message explaining that the package was expected between noon and four, that the delivery driver would probably leave it near the front door, and that Mr. Peterson could collect it if he happened to be home. I added that he should place it inside his house rather than leaving it on the porch, unless the package was too large, in which case he could put it in his garage. If the garage was locked, the covered area beside his back door would be acceptable, provided the weather was dry.

Then I remembered that Mr. Peterson sometimes went out on Monday afternoons, so I added that he should not feel obligated to stay home. I also explained that the package was not particularly valuable, although I would prefer that it not be left unattended. Finally, I mentioned that if the delivery arrived earlier than expected, he could disregard the original time window.

By the time I finished, the message was longer than some of the letters I had written to relatives overseas.

I sent it.

Ten minutes later, Mr. Peterson replied.

"Jane, do you want me to pick up the package or not?"

I stared at the message. After all my effort to communicate clearly, the man had somehow failed to understand a perfectly straightforward request.

I began typing a detailed explanation, then stopped.

I deleted everything and wrote, "Yes, please pick it up if you're home."

His reply arrived almost immediately.

"Sure."

One word. No confusion, no request for clarification, no discussion of alternative storage locations.

I was astonished.

Perhaps Brenda had been right. Sometimes the problem was not that we had said too little. Sometimes we had buried the one useful instruction beneath everything we were afraid might be misunderstood.

Later that afternoon, Brenda called to ask whether I had made any progress with my new communication habits. I told her about the grocery list and Mr. Peterson's package. She was particularly pleased when I admitted that my original message had been unnecessarily complicated.

"See?" she said. "Sometimes less really is more."

"I suppose so."

"And sometimes you just need to say exactly what you want."

"Yes, Brenda. I understand."

She suggested meeting for coffee on Tuesday, and I agreed. When she asked where, I almost said the usual place, but I remembered my resolution.

"The coffee shop on Main Street, beside the pharmacy," I said. "Two o'clock, Tuesday afternoon."

"Perfect."

I was delighted. We had arranged an appointment without confusion, unnecessary questioning, or the relocation of a single piece of furniture.

Then Brenda asked whether I wanted her to bring anything.

"Nothing," I said. "Just yourself."

"All right."

"And perhaps that book you mentioned last week."

"Which book?"

"The interesting one."

"Jane, I mentioned three books last week."

"The one with the woman who goes somewhere and discovers something."

Brenda was silent.

I tried again.

"There's a man involved too, I think."

She began laughing.

I was becoming irritated. I had made a considerable effort to improve my communication, and here she was behaving as though I had learned nothing.

"Never mind," I said. "I'll explain when I see you."

"That might be best."

We said goodbye.

A few minutes later, I remembered the title of the book. I sent Brenda a message containing the exact title and author's name, and she replied with a thumbs-up.

I felt rather proud of myself.

Then another message arrived.

"Jane, just checking. When you say beside the pharmacy, do you mean the coffee shop attached to the pharmacy building or the one across the parking lot?"

I stared at the screen.

For a moment, I considered sending a detailed explanation of the building, the parking lot, the entrance, and the location of the outdoor tables. I could even have sent a photograph.

Instead, I called her and explained which shop I meant. She thanked me, and we confirmed the appointment.

I entered it in my calendar.

Tuesday, 2:00 p.m. Coffee with Brenda. Main Street. Coffee shop attached to pharmacy building.

Underneath, I added a reminder.

Do not assume Brenda knows what I mean.

I considered that for a moment, then added another.

Explain things properly the first time.

I was about to close the calendar when I decided one further instruction might be useful.

If Brenda asks unnecessary questions, remain calm.

I thought that was perfectly reasonable.

After all, I had learned something important. People cannot read our minds, and even the closest friendships require patience. I had discovered that clear communication involved more than saying whatever came into my head and expecting somebody else to arrange it into the correct meaning.

I was feeling rather philosophical about the whole experience when Brenda sent one final message.

"Jane, are we meeting inside or outside?"

I looked at the phone.

I had already told her the name of the coffee shop, the street, the location, the day, and the time. I had even clarified which side of the parking lot it was on. Surely a grown woman could determine whether to sit inside or outside without further instruction.

I began typing, "Brenda, for heaven's sake, use your common sense."

Then I remembered my new policy.

I deleted the message.

After careful consideration, I wrote, "Whichever makes the most sense."

I put down the phone, satisfied that I had finally explained myself clearly.

Brenda replied a minute later.

"Jane, I'm bringing a notebook."

I thought that was unnecessary.

But I wasn't going to explain why.

❤️ SUPPORT MINNEAPOLIMEDIA

---

STAY CONNECTED TO MINNEAPOLIMEDIA

Local stories matter. Subscribe free to MinneapoliMedia and receive independent news, community reporting and important updates from Minneapolis, the North Metro and communities across Minnesota.

SUBSCRIBE FREE: https://minneapolimedia.town.news/subscribe

MinneapoliMedia | Community. Culture. Civic Life