“General Flynn does enjoy the full confidence of the president,” Kellyanne Conway said on MSNBC.
Senior White House sources told Newsmax that President Trump has full confidence in Chief of Staff Reince Priebus and the job he is doing.
Trump “has full confidence in his Supreme Court nominee,” according to Fox News.
The life of a modern father / husband / writing partner is a busy and sometimes confusing one. There’s a lot going on at any given moment, and, especially in the Finish Making Dinner Then Eating Then Bathing Then Toothbrushing Then Inexplicable But Somehow Consistent MMA-Style Grappling Then Reading Then Lights Out Hour, there are just so many people talking, all at the same time. Likewise, throughout the day, there are only so many things you can actually give your complete attention to.
This is where, I have found, it’s extremely important to know in whom to have full confidence.
My wife and kids, of course, have my full confidence, as does my writing partner, except when he insists on using a single space after a period instead of two.
Rudy, the sample-hander-outer at my local Trader Joes—he’s got my full confidence as well. He is always coming up with innovative ways to take two or more underperforming products and make them into something new altogether. His spicy-sweet-savory grape jelly corn salsa harissa is tasty and unusual!
On the other hand, I just found out that Jessica, the 5am-10am barista at the Starbucks I frequent, apparently has been misleading me for the past several weeks. Every day when I order my new favorite Venti Smoked Butterscotch Latte, she says, “Bold!” and I say, “Fat-free, right?” and she says, “Oh, you know it.” Well, as it turns out, Venti Smoked Butterscotch Lattes are NOT fat-free, and according to what I’ve been subsequently informed, have the same amount of sugar as 57 sugar cubes. Clearly, I have lost full confidence in Jessica, and have asked for her resignation.
Likewise, the receptionist at the urgent care around the corner, the guy who said,“I’m sorry, but we can’t diagnose your non-specific sore throat issue over the phone, but come on in there’s only one person ahead of you”—cut to two-and-a-half hours later, a bill for seventy bucks and a piece of paper signed by a physician’s assistant that reads, “Diagnosis: Non-Specific Sore Throat.” Zero confidence.
Tyrone, my mailman—now he usually does a great job. Really great job. He’s always had my full support. But ever since the big storm that blew down our baby-era sign about being sure to use the box on the stoop for mail, he’s been jamming it through the rusty slot in the door again, which leaves an unruly pile in the hallway and can be quite jarring. I’d say he’s at like two-thirds confidence, but who knows for how long. It’s a fluid situation.