Can you clear me now?


My pharmacy robo-called my voicemail the other day to let me know that a prescription was ready. My voicemail has a voice-to-text feature that seems to work well, but like all technology (and human beings, for that matter), it has its limitations.

“Theresa Clarity, press 1 to continue,” it read.

Now, to be crystal clear, I am impressed as hell that the robot got the basic pronunciation correct, (except for that pesky first letter). You see, I find that many good folks west of the Mississippi—and quite a few to the east—cannot pronounce Irish names. (Common mangle: flagerty.)

I should interject here that I’ll likely get no sympathy from editor Liz Beaulieu. (Common mangle: beluga.)

People, please, if you are gonna pass around the Gs like candy, we’ll take it in crisp bills.

Clarity is the quality or condition of being clear, something I strive to do with every story I write. That’s easier said then done, some days. Take yesterday, when a legal story dropped into my lap. We always rely on attorneys to explain to us what we think we are reading, often with copius examples, and yesterday was no exception.

Also yesterday, in a moment of decided fog-headedness, I completely goofed on the time for a call I had set up with a provider. It’s in my book, and in my email correctly but I came to work with a different time in my head. Luckily, the provider took pity and carved out some time for me today.

If only achieving complete and utter clarity every day was as easy as pressing a button.