There's your sign

Last night some friends invited me over for pizza. They were all giddy about the impending holiday and chattered about their Halloween decorations and costumes. That would obviate any need to identify their gender. Noting my lack of participation in the conversation, they asked what I thought. I told them the whole thing was inane and I dreaded sitting around for hours one night a year just to pass out candy to kids I didn’t know and wouldn’t see for another year. They said that was a sign I’ve turned into an old curmudgeon. I beg to differ. I cannot remember generating any excitement since hanging up my mask and bag. This morning I awoke and trudged to the bathroom to take care of first things first. As I stood there performing the rite, my half-closed eyes wandered over to the sink and snapped open. The Blob? An amorphic figure perched there and appeared to grow before my eyes. Was this my punishment for besmirching the spirit of Halloween? Buttoning back up (I sometimes remember), I cautiously moved closer to determine the source of this emanation. It was the base of a can of shaving cream. I carefully picked it up and discovered a pinhole leak. Now that is a sign. Since retiring, I seldom shave unless an occasion absolutely demands it. When your shaving cream can rusts through before it’s empty, you just may be getting old.

Good enough

I should work for the government. Number one thing on the to-do list today was to use a couple outdoor store gift certificates that had started to gather dust. It did not require the superhuman effort it often does to compel myself to adhere to the job plan. So, I start the day with a $50 surplus. Transportation will eat into that for about five bucks, as there are two stores to visit. I cruised the first store. There was an item for $80 that was fairly cool and one for $40 that I could actually use. After no small amount of pondering, I opted for the latter. Oh what a good boy am I. Burn a $25 gift card and I’m out of there for only fifteen bucks. The cashier can’t leave well enough alone. She tells me about a special that would knock 25% off of an item priced over $50. So, the $80 becomes $60. That makes it like $20 of free money. I’m paraphrasing the diminutive devil on my left shoulder. Somehow, I resist. On to the next test. I have researched the product line in advance and have decided to apply this certificate to one of two items, each priced at $75. Seeing them up close should make that decision. It did. I want them both. To regain control, I walk around the store. Mistake. There, on a manikin built like no one I know (certainly not me), is the coolest jacket I have ever seen. The trouble is, I already own one (maybe two) within its functional range. But, you live only once. For the coolest jacket on earth, what’s a hundred bucks? Or, one-fifty, tops. I check the price tag. Okay, $300 may be a deal breaker. Or, maybe not. I groan loud enough for most people in the store to turn my way. Okay, if I forgo the item I came in here for, it really only costs $225, less the gift card. That’s starting to come into range. If I ditch both of the products in the original choice, it’s down to only $150. Heck, if I pass on a few more items I never intended to buy, it’s free. I’d be a fool to pass that up. Yes, I actually have thoughts like that. I notice that I’m breathing heavily. Time to walk. But, I owe it due consideration. I’ll try it on. This could be a fatal error. The coat looks absolutely fantastic in the mirror. But, I still look like an old fat guy. An old fat guy in a great jacket, but still not worth the money. This was a worthwhile exercise. I reluctantly return it to the rack and limp back to my original target items. I’m hurting and wind up salving my wounds by purchasing both. After all, I did factor that scenario into at least one of my calculations, so it must be a valid option. On the drive home, I’m stricken with guilt. That adds another five bucks of cost for the Graeter’s ice cream to salve the wounds. Let’s recap. I began the day with a $50 surplus. My ending balance is a $150 deficit. Still not good enough for government work. I get a call from a friend. She states her business but I know that’s not the purpose of the call. She rates men somewhere between baboons and paramecium and periodically catches up with me to justify her conclusions. And, she was aware of my impending shopping trip, which provided another opportunity to verify low brain function. That was the second and primary item on her call agenda. Quick calculation. While I did run a loss, I also declined a costly item in each of the stores. So, I really came out $210 to the good, which is how I reported it to her. That is good enough for government work.

Vote for me

Write me in on Election Day and I will inject billions of dollars into the economy, which will buy goods and create thousands of jobs. Unlike politicians, I have a concrete and viable plan. On my dresser, I have mugs of loose change and will continue to do so as long as my bank is of no help and the pirate machines at the grocery store take 10% off the top. I estimate the amount to be somewhere between thirty and a million dollars (never could guess the number of M&Ms in a jar). Let’s call it thirty-five bucks. Assuming that’s close to the average for Americans, that’s over a billion dollars in dormant purchasing power. Put a coin converting machine is every Post Office (that doesn’t exact the vig) that puts this money back into the game and it buys product and creates employment which, in turn, generates more purchases with the multiplier effect.