Invoice To Go Quotes

There are a number of things a woman can tell about a man who is roughly twenty-nine years old, sitting in the cab of a pickup truck at 3:37 in the afternoon on a weekday, facing the Pacific, writing furiously on the back of pink invoice slips. Such a man may or may not be employed, but regardless, there is mystery there. If this man is with a dog, then that's good, because it means he's capable of forming relationships. But if the dog is a male dog, that's probably a bad sign, because it means the guy is likely a dog, too. A girl dog is much better, but if the guy is over thirty, any kind of dog is a bad sign regardless, because it means he's stopped trusting humans altogether. In general, if nothing else, guys my age with dogs are going to be work. Then there's stubble: stubble indicates a possible drinker, but if he's driving a van or a pickup truck, he hasn't hit bottom yet, so watch out, honey. A guy writing something on a clipboard while facing the ocean at 3:37 P.M. may be writing poetry, or he may be writing a letter begging someone for forgiveness. But if he's writing real words, not just a job estimate or something business-y, then more likely than not this guy has something emotional going on, which could mean he has a soul.

Why you do such a thing?” Ito demanded. “Because I think Blue Ribbon could be great success,” Sumeragi said, “maybe $20 million account. I shake hands many times with Mr. Steve Prefontaine. I shake hands with Mr. Bill Bowerman. I go many times to Trail Blazer game with Mr. Phil Knight. I even pack orders at warehouse. Nike is my business child. Always it is nice to see one’s business child grow.” “So then,” Ito said, “you hide invoices because . . . you . . . like these men?” Deeply ashamed, Sumeragi bowed his head. “Hai,” he said. “Hai.

People who have problems with me . . . they’re the problems. It’s not me, it never was me. I move the most recent piece of paper that’s driving me crazy around a few more times, turning it clockwise over and over, even flipping it to the other side. It’s solid white, after all. There could be any number of places it’d go in this invoice puzzle. There! I get it slipped into place and pick up another one. I’m so close I can smell it! Victory, not trash. Still don’t smell that. Turn, turn, turn, flip, turn, turn. I pull on my magnifying glasses to look at the edge a little closer. On a few pieces, I’ve been able to tell which side is the front by the tear. Hmm, it looks like it goes this way. Here? No. Here? No. Grr. I’m making such good progress, but it’s not coming together. With the magnification glasses on, I lean down close to scan the pieces I have left to get into place and one catches my eye. I pick it up and examine it closely under the light, reading the text printed there. This

Before I had a chance to reply, I realized that my colleagues had assembled in a circle around my desk without my noticing. I looked up at them. Their expressions ranged from bored to benevolent. Janey looked mildly concerned. “We know you don’t like a fuss, Eleanor,” she said, having clearly been nominated as spokeswoman. “We just wanted to say that we’re glad you’re feeling better, and, y’know, welcome back!” There were nods, murmured assent. As speeches went, it was hardly Churchillian, but it was yet another very kind and thoughtful gesture. I wasn’t one for public oratory, but I sensed that they would not be satisfied without a few words. “Thank you very much indeed for the flowers and the card and the good wishes,” I said, eventually, eyes on my desk while I spoke. There was a bit of a silence that no one, and certainly not me, quite knew how to fill. I looked up at them. “Well,” I said, “I don’t suppose those overdue invoices are going to process themselves, are they?” “She’s back!” Billy said, and there was laughter, including my own. Yes. Eleanor Oliphant was back.

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Who?” “Bill Judd Jr.” “Oh, noooo.” Round, Swedish oooo’s. “Miz Sweet, when we were going through Judd Sr.’s office, we found some invoices on your computer, for chemicals that were apparently used in an ethanol plant out in South Dakota…” “I heard about it on TV. That was the same one? The one where they were making drugs?” “Yes, it was,” Virgil said. “Oh, nooo.” The sound was driving him crazy; she sounded like a bad comedian. “Who in town knew about the ethanol plant?” She turned her face to one side and put a hand to her lips. “Well, the Judds, of course.” “Both of them?” Virgil asked. “Well…Junior set it up, but Senior knew about it.” He pressed. “Are you sure about that?” “Well, yes. He signed the checks.” “Did you see him signing the checks?” Virgil asked. “No, but I saw the checks. It was his signature…” “Do you remember the bank?” She shook her head. “No, no, I don’t.” She frowned. “I’m not even sure that the bank name was on the checks.” “Did you ever talk to Junior about that?” “No. It wasn’t my business,” she said. “They wanted to keep it quiet, because, you know, when ethanol started, it sounded a little like the Jerusalem artichoke thing. The Judds were involved in that, of course.” “So how quiet did they keep it?” Virgil asked. “Who else knew? Did you tell anybody?” He saw it coming, the noooo. “Oh, noooo…Junior told me, don’t talk about this, because of my father. So, I didn’t.” “Not to anybody?” Her eyes drifted. She was thinking, which meant that she had. “It’s possible…my sister, I might have told. I think there might have been some word around town.” “It’s really important that you remember…” She put her hand to her temple, as though she were going to move a paper clip with telekinesis, and said, “I might have mentioned it at bridge. At our bridge club. That a plant was being built, and some local people were involved.” “All right,” Virgil said. “So who was at the bridge club?” “Well, let me see, there would have been nine or ten of us…” She listed them; he only recognized one of the names. WHEN HE WAS DONE with Sweet, he strolled up the hill to the newspaper office. He pushed in, and found Williamson behind the business counter, talking to a woman customer. Williamson looked past the woman and snapped, “What do you want?” “I have a question, when you’re free.” “Wait.” Williamson was wearing a T-shirt and had sweat stains under his arms, as though he’d been lifting rocks. “Take just a minute.” The customer was trying to dump her Beanie Baby collection locally—ten years too late, in Virgil’s opinion—and wanted the cheapest possible advertisement. She got twenty words for six dollars, looking back and forth between Virgil and Williamson, and after writing a check for the amount, said to Virgil, “I’d love to hear your question.” Virgil looked at her over his sunglasses and grinned: “I’d love to have you, but I’m afraid it’s gotta be private, for the moment.” “Shoot.” She looked at Williamson, who shrugged, and she said, “Oh, well.” WHEN SHE’D GONE out the door, Williamson said, “I’m working. You can ask me out back.” “You still pissed about the search?

you; the most important thing is to be disciplined in completing each cycle. ▪ Start your work session with a ritual you enjoy and end it with a reward. ▪ Train your mind to return to the present when you find yourself getting distracted. Practice mindfulness or another form of meditation, go for a walk or a swim—whatever will help you get centered again. ▪ Work in a space where you will not be distracted. If you can’t do this at home, go to a library, a café, or, if your task involves playing the saxophone, a music studio. If you find that your surroundings continue to distract you, keep looking until you find the right place. ▪ Divide each activity into groups of related tasks, and assign each group its own place and time. For example, if you’re writing a magazine article, you could do research and take notes at home in the morning, write in the library in the afternoon, and edit on the couch at night. ▪ Bundle routine tasks—such as sending out invoices, making phone calls, and so on—and do them all at once.

My first one is All Money Ain’t Good Money,” Ms. Greene said to the group, nodding her head. “This is so true. Our community is notorious for wanting a hook up and not paying their outstanding invoices. Like you said, discounts are great, if offered,” she paused. “But they shouldn’t be expected because I’m black and you’re black. It’s very frustrating when our customers say that our prices are too high, then go to non-black businesses and pay the same, if not more…

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The triangle of fraud . . .” “What’s that?” He started, as if I’d woken him. “Oh—incentive, opportunity, and rationalization.” He stuck out three fingers and began counting them off. “The first leg, incentive, is pressure to commit the crime. A person is looking for a way to solve their financial issues due to an inability to pay their bills, drug and/or alcohol addiction, or simply status, wanting to have a bigger house or drive a fancier car.” He counted off another finger. “The second leg is perceived opportunity, where the individual identifies ways to commit fraud with the lowest amount of risk, like lying about the number of hours worked, inflated sales or productivity to garner higher pay, creating false invoices for products never purchased and pocketing the money, or selling proprietary company information to competitors.” He counted off the last finger. “The third leg of the triangle, and this is an important one, is where individuals persuade themselves into believing that they’re doing the right thing. They convince themselves that they’re just borrowing the money or feel entitled to it through perceived low pay, uncompensated hours, lack of respect, or trying to provide for their family.” “Okay, but what pushes two men whom we assume are relatively upright individuals into going so far as to kill someone?” “A lot of money.” I laughed.

Ik probeerde me te herinneren wanneer ik voor het laatst woedend was geweest. Vorige week had ik hardop gevloekt toen het hengsel van mijn papieren boodschappentas kapotging en alle boodschappen eruit vielen en op de stoep terechtkwamen. Ik moest alles in mijn armen houden en was behoorlijk geïrriteerd toen ik in mijn flat kwam. Maar op de een of andere manier ging dat over en raakte ik alweer in een goed humeur toen ik bedacht dat ik nog drie Metro's had liggen met onopgeloste kruiswoordpuzzels.

friends had started hanging around. Franny could feel her stomach hardening and twisting into knots when they arrived, pushing and shoving one another and tripping over their huge basketball shoes. It was a wonder they didn’t knock over a display rack or topple one of the neatly stacked pyramids of paint cans. They seemed to be everywhere at once, and she couldn’t possibly keep an eye on all of them. Actually, she was a little afraid of them. While they dressed like kids, she knew they were actually young men. They were bigger than she was and full of rough male energy. From what she observed it seemed Ben was their leader and they were reporting to him. She was sure they were up to no good. Their whispered conversation was full of winks and nudges, and they constantly checked over their shoulders to see if they were being overheard. She tried to keep her distance, but if she had to approach them to help a customer, she noticed they would move away or fall silent. Whenever Mr. Slack appeared, they disappeared. Returning to the invoices, Franny went through them one more time. She couldn’t understand it. According to the paperwork, the store had received enough batteries to last through the summer, based on her best estimate using last year’s figures. They’d gotten twenty boxes each of AA and D batteries, the most popular sellers, and ten boxes each of the other sizes. Last week she’d noticed the display rack was nearly empty, and she’d asked Ben to fill it. “Can’t,” he’d said, avoiding her eyes. “They’re all gone.” “There should be plenty in the storeroom,” she’d insisted, looking curiously at his two buddies, who were lounging by the paint display. They seemed to find the conversation extremely amusing. “Go check again.” “There’s no point. I’m telling you, they’re all gone. Look, I’m taking a break now,” he’d said, signaling his friends to follow him outside. Sure enough, she couldn’t find any batteries in the storeroom, either. She was sure they hadn’t been sold; she would have noticed the unusual number of sales and ordered more. Where had they gone? It was very disturbing, especially since she’d been having such a hard time lately making up the bank deposit. That was always the first task of the day. She would take the previous day’s take out of the safe and add up the checks and cash, square them with the total sales figure, and fill out the deposit slip. Then Mr. Slack would put the whole business in a blue vinyl zippered pouch and take it to the red-brick bank across the street. For the past few weeks, however, she hadn’t been able to get the figures to match, even though