Accomplishments of the Week

1.)     Last night, after coming home from work and strewing about my belongings all over the place like a child throwing a fit, I picked up after myself before I went to bed.  This, my friends, is monumental.  Normally, I would keep the strewings as they were, add another layer of strewings the following day, so on, so forth, living in filth, then hyperventilate on Friday night after a whole week of this behavior because I live in a pig-sty.  This whole “pick up after yourself daily” thing is pretty rad.

2.)     I sold something on Ebay and made twenty bucks. SCHWING!!

3.)     I signed up for Extra-Curricular Activities.  AKA, Hobby Hunting.  I am optimistic.

 

The Customer is Always Right?

I don’t know if it’s because I work in Purchasing (where I subconsciously live by the motto “the customer is always right” thus making ME always right, ahhh I love it) or if it’s because young Americans are just used to instant gratifiction, but man, let me tell you, I am a hard-to-please customer.

 

This car salesman I’ve been talking to, he has a low say-do ratio.  “What, pray tell, are you talking about?!”  I can hear it in your head right now.  Say-Do Ratio.  A beautiful thing.  Let’s say you tell your wife “Honey I will mow the lawn and clean out the gutters” and you only end up doing one of those chores. First of all, you are a chump. Get off your ass and go clean out the gutters, the football game will go on regardless if you watch it or not. You can look up the score later.  Second of all, let’s say you still only do one of the chores. Well, you’ve SAID you’ll do two things and you’ve DONE one thing.  Say-Do Ratio is low. (For mathematical purposes, it’s actually Do-Say ratio in that Husband’s ratio is 50% right now).  If he were to complete both tasks, his Say-Do Ratio would be 100%.

 

Right, so where was I?

 

Car salesguy.  He SAYS he’s gonna go “x” in “y” time.  Such as, “I’ll fax you the quote within 30 minutes.”   Well, I’m standing at the fax machine 29 minutes later and pissed-off by 31 minutes.  Don’t say something you’re not going to do.

 

I’m allllll over Say-Do Ratio like white on rice. It’s my favorite thing to judge people on.  Well, that, and their choice of MySpace song, but I digress…

 

Why must car shopping be so dreadful and why can I not trust a car salesman to save my life.  Oh, because they’re employees of Satan, that’s it! I forgot…

 

 

 

The Day in Which My Mom Got All Ball-Buster with Airport Security

We were traveling to New York for a wedding last fall right after they implemented the whole “put your 3 oz. toiletries in a quart-size ziplock bag or else” initiative.  Literally, like the next day. So, I followed the 3 oz. rule but was like “they’re not going to actually DO ANYTHING about this law, I mean, it’s Detroit. Bigger fish to fry…”

 

Hoo boy, was I wrong. They quickly confiscated my Oil of Olay face serum, which cost me about $20 a pop from the drug store. In other words, I feel as though I’m slathering diamonds on my face when I use it, the cheap bastard I am. Since I’m known to be, errr, somewhat sensitive when ‘people of power’ (aka airport security hahahahaha) yell at me or look down upon me for ‘breaking the law’ I get all meek-like and obedient and repentant. TRUE STORY.

 

So I’m stammering like “oh I’m so sorry, yes it’s not in a quart-size bag, please, take my diamond-expensive face cream and throw it in your trash bin even though I know you guys go looting through it at the end of your shift” and I give it up without a fight. Up ahead, as we were putting our shoes on, my mom could see I was upset and down in the dumps, and asked what was wrong. I boohoo’ed to her that they confiscated my face cream, and she marched her pretty little butt up to the airport security and demanded they hand it back.   This, if you’ve ever met my mom, is slightly out of character.  My mom obeys laws.  She makes us face the consequences for our actions.  I admire this about her.   Except that day, when she got all ball-buster with Airport Security.

 

“I’m sorry, ma’am” the woman said, pointing to the newly-placed sign “it’s not an a plastic bag.”    

 

“Well what difference does it make if it’s in a bag or not, it’s still 3 oz?”

 

And so on, and so forth. 

 

I got the face cream back, I cried tears of joy, did a little back-flip and break-dance in my head, and saw my mother in a different light.

 

Waiting is HARD! (waah!)

Dang is that whole “waiting” thing intense… I’m “waiting” to hear back on something (not to be all vague-like, peeps, it’s just an inquiry about a new vehicle I’m hoping to purchase) I am now getting a glimpse of that excruciating feeling one must get when one waits for something important.

 

Such as:  an answer to a first-date request by a nervous college freshman (especially those few seconds you have to wait to see her response on IM), or waiting for a pregnancy test to come back either positive or negative or “what does THAT mean?”, or waiting for a MCAT score to see if you got into med school, or waiting to see if the revival efforts worked on your loved one in the E.R.

 

Or waiting to see if a car is sold yet or not.   You know, same thing.