This conversation occured after I explained to Dave that One-A-Day vitamins are taken once a day. Uh…duh.
Me, reading a magazine: Did they just say his last name was “flying saucer?”
Dave: What? Are you kidding me?
Me: It sounded like flying saucer!
Dave: They said, “Kleinsasser.”
Me: Oh.
Dave: It’s okay, I thought they said flying saucer at first, too.
They say that sales people are “coin operated.” I prefer “driven” or “incentivized,” but I understand the jist of the meaning. It means that people like me need rewards in return for good work done well. Perhaps it is a little ridiculous for someone who makes a good base salary to require a bonus for extra efforts, but it takes a hell of a lot more than a normal job to perform in this realm – a whole lot more of je ne sais quoi. Hell, if I knew exactly what it took, I’d SELL it in a bottle.
I would sell it to all of those newly engaged girlfriends-come-fiances. The ones, like me, that want to lose all that weight they gained since high school or college due to poor choices, changes in lifestyles, and every other excuse under the sun.
Now, I want to sort of justify this post and say that I intended to purchase a membership to a local gym prior to Dave asking me to marry him. I was happily losing weight through the summer until we up and moved across the country, took new jobs, and then hit the holidays like a semi into a wall. That was a long three months of laziness. It made me miss doing something for myself that did not involve splurges at the mall. Something that didn’t hurt so much when reviewing bank accounts.
The point is: it takes a lot of incentive to get someone moving. My incentive to working out earlier this year was a vacation in the spring requiring bathing suits as part of the acceptable attire. Now, I am looking to wear a lovely white wedding gown in July 2010. I think that is plenty of time to make a good turnaround, but it is a hard change to make. It is hard to change the way one eats, the size of meals, and fitting the time to visit the gym. Excuses run rampant.
In order to combat the the excuses, my goal is to post the progress. Perhaps if I outline the plan online, I’ll feel more inclined to follow through. If anything, I’ll prove my inability or ability to accomplish something…incentivized or not.
Dave asked me to marry him on Sunday. I said, “yes!”
For the past week and a half, I have been training on several subjects relevant to my company and the industry in which I work as a whole. Today, as part of our training, we had a review of the subjects recently covered in the form of the popular game show: Jeopardy!
Seriously, I think I have been playing Jeopardy! since I was, oh, seven years old. It is the staple quiz game of history classes and law school seminars. The cheese factor never gets old for nerds, folks. Never EVER. There is nothing a true geek loves more than testing their brain’s basic fibers by responding to answers in the form of a question. How ’bout them reverse-pyschology apples?!
Returning to the subject: we were in the midst of a heated game when an opposing team won their Daily Double question which placed them 1000 points within our once commanding lead of 5000 points. In that moment, where the tables turned, so did my focus. The inner nerd surfaced so violently I could barely contain the oozing of knowledge from my eyeballs, ears, and nose. Knowledge does not ooze from other extremities, FYI, at least not in creatures of the female gender.
I could feel my knuckles whiten under the burden of being academically threatened by another team. It was GAME ON in the words of one of my classmates. There was no turning back, no more wrong answers, no more slowly reading questions. It was time to let out the savage academic beast seething beneath the cute, cream ruffle neck shirt. The Incredible Hulk with an IQ of 2000 (okay, maybe a little lower…by about 1,855 points) roared beneath the surface.
From that point out, I commanded the board and tore through my opponents like a lion and the juggular of the zebra. Okay, maybe not that graphic. A little less National Geographic and a little more Alex Trebek on steriods.
By the end of the game, I had that weird, visibly splotchy blush across my face and chest. It was almost like I was both excited and mortified by the entire experience, so much so that my body had an allergic reaction to my attempt to be so smart. Really, it was an odd feeling. I wanted to win SO. EFFING. BAD. that I turned into the knowledge monster.
Later, at lunch, observations about that pivotal moment were tossed around the table by my colleagues. My favorite commentor observed, “Just after we answered the question, I looked over at you and knew by the look on your face it was Game Over.”
Okay, so maybe Poker will never be my speciality, but I’ll be damned before I let someone beat me at Jeopardy!
Ever wonder whatever happened to those people who ruined your emotional stability for a certain period of time after they dropped you for someone else? Or, maybe it was visa-versa with you holding the better hand: you dropped their baggage at the curb. Well, I do. I wonder from time to time what happened to those exes, but with the internet, a LOT can be unearthed.
I found my first boyfriend’s wife’s blog. I found my last ex’s wedding page advertising their need for fancy cheese presses and gift cards to support their honeymood. I find out lots of things with the help of the little search engine that could: Google.
(So, yes, internet fans, this comes across rather stalkerish. But, admit it, you’ve Googled a few people from your past to see where they landed in life. In fact, you probably do it on Facebook and MySpace, too. And, if you’re anything like me and the REST OF THE WORLD, you know you’re comparing apples to oranges. You know you expressed a “holy shit, I can’t believe this person procreated!” It’s true – you know you wondered how some people even managed to figure out how to use those parts to make babies.)
Anyway, what I find to be rather ironic (hopefully this is being used correctly) is that in each of my previous relationships, the women my exboyfriends married were both women they said THEY WERE NOT ATTRACTED TO. This should have been a sign from the moment I met these women. Right then, in my pajamas with one and a formal dress with the other, I should have stood up, shook their hands, congratulated them on their wins, and stepped aside.
After all, it was a testament to my taste and my good luck. My taste because I got them first. My good luck because they took the tired, used parts off my hands for free!
I don’t get stock, bonds, funds, and money markets like Dave gets them. This is partly due to his MBA in Finance and mine in…oh wait, I don’t have one. To be determined, I suppose.
This lack of knowledge released itself in its full fury today as I attempted to re-enroll into a different 401K program. You see, even though I work for the same big-box shipping company, I moved around the operating companies (OpCo). Moving from one OpCo to another, one would think, would be very easy. Well, you are wrong. Dead wrong.
Just kidding…Maybe.
It is complicated. At OpCo Multi-Color, I was under OpCo Green’s plans for retirement and benefits. Now at OpCo Silver, I am under OpCo Orange’s plans for retirements and benefits. This requires all new enrollments. No rollovers. No ease of transfer. In fact, it is so complicated that it makes my head ache. Do you think anyone would have an answer on any question? No, of course not. I’m the one in the revenue generating portion of the business now, so it is my job to have all the answers. My response: they have 800 numbers for that.
This all leads to a single point: it is hard to feel good about a retirement (even one that is 40+ years away) when all the funds from which one could choose to invest are FAILING MISERABLY.
Pathetic, little economy, where for art thou better days to come?
The Editor must make a correction to the Open Letter from last week.
Today, while fetching the mail with the dog (I hold it in my mouth while she sniffs for the latest urine spot), I noticed a neighbor pulling into the lot next to our building. I wonder who that is, I thought. And then the stalker in me reared its ugly head, I wonder where he lives! So, as I climbed the stairs and the mysterious neighbor followed me, I decided I would be clever and fumble with my keys at the door while I spied on the neighbor. One, how ridiculous am I? I know I was conspicuous as I stare around the the hall trying to look inconspicuous. Two, I never close the door when I get mail. Thus, I looked doubly idiotic as I put my keys in the door and it opens from the pressure. Uh duh.
Anyway, at this point in my glorious state of general stupidity, the neighbor has climbed to the third floor. I listen to his heavy footsteps approach our side of the building and realize he is the WOMAN I THOUGHT LIVED ABOVE US.
This leads me to wonder: why is he wearing high heels so often?
To the woman that lives above us:
Ma’am, I must plead my case with you. You walk with lead feet. Your steps are so small and fast that it sounds like bullets hitting tin when you wear heels. You shuffle like the party just won’t stop. You never, ever leave your apartment, so this noise you rain on our eardrums, we are never free from it. In an effort to alleviate our senses and nerves, I write to you out of desperation.
The quote is “walk softly and carry a big stick.” Okay, so I took some literary license with that one (as the quote, once utter by Theodore Roosevelt is, “speak softly and carry a big stick”), but the point remains: your heavy saunter is destroying my sanity. Sometimes, your footsteps’ reverb is so loud through our apartment that I can no longer hear my television. Seriously. How does someone as thin and little as you make so much damn noise!
Right now, it sounded like you rolled a bowling ball into your kitchen. Did you recently install an alley up there? I know we live in a quiet, boring part of Oklahoma City that is both “too east” and “too north” because of “those people”, but I assure you, we’re not too far from entertainment that it required you to install such a large project in your apartment. And, actually, I’m fairly certain there is a “no bowling alley” clause in your rental agreement. I think it conflicts with the subleasing terms. I think.
So, please, if there is anything kindness in your leadened feet (or heart), please consider socks. Or perhaps lifting your feet. Or maybe tiptoes. Anything that does not sound like you are jackhammering into our ceiling?
With sincerity and the hope you are not the poop-tattlers,
The neighbor below you with the ringing eardrums
If you do ONE important thing tomorrow, please VOTE in the election. Vote for your candidate and what best represents what you want for the future of the United States. Exercise your right as an American citizen to be a part of the electorate, to have an opinion about who will lead this country, and to express what values mean the most to you.
And if you elect (oh, that pun was SO intended) not to vote, then please do not bother bitching to anyone about the state of this country. You had the privilege and right to do have a voice, but opted out for whatever lame reason. If you cannot take a few minutes to vote, please do not waste your breath or anyone’s time with your future complaints.
Today I was bored, and since I have nothing better to do with my time until Monday, I made this:
It was my first wreath, so I am pleased with the results.
reavolution 
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