How did that get in there? I wondered when I opened my wallet to see a rather up-to-date picture of my younger brother. Hey wait, that’s not my brother—that’s me. I was looking at my new driver’s license.
I hadn’t taken the time to examine my license when it came in the mail. In a hurry, I had simply signed and stuffed it into the window slot of my wallet.
Could a picture lie? I did remember standing in front of the camera at the license renewal office. At the time, the girl behind the desk at the camera station didn’t show me my picture. She simply nodded approval. I thought that meant I looked good.
Well, at least I wasn't looking at a picture of my older brother, the one with the beard—a possibility, the way the hairs have been sprouting on my chin lately.
I turned the license over and buried it deep in my wallet.
But drastic situations require desperate measures. This is why I signed for an hour with an image consultant as part of my writer’s conference package.
Continued tomorrow
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
A Blooming Book Launch
I've invited all 93 FaceBook friends to attend my upcoming book launch on Saturday...this Saturday, June 27th, 7:30 to 9:00 p.m. at Calvin Christian School (547 West 5th Street in Hamilton, Ontario) in the music room. So far I have one confirmed guest--myself. Thirty-three have other plans and the rest are still making up their minds.
I'm also inviting you...whoever you are. It promises to be an entertaining evening. I'm choosing several amusing bits from Blooming, This Pilgrim's Progress to read to you with dramatic flair and great expression. I'll even do requests for those who have already read the book.
And, you can thank my husband for this, I might have overlooked it: I'm also making squares, veggie trays, coffee, tea, punch....
So, feel free to drop by sometime between 7:30 and 9:00. There will be door prizes for the guest who comes from the farthest, the guest with the most creative reason for coming, and the guest who brings the most guests.
I'm also inviting you...whoever you are. It promises to be an entertaining evening. I'm choosing several amusing bits from Blooming, This Pilgrim's Progress to read to you with dramatic flair and great expression. I'll even do requests for those who have already read the book.
And, you can thank my husband for this, I might have overlooked it: I'm also making squares, veggie trays, coffee, tea, punch....
So, feel free to drop by sometime between 7:30 and 9:00. There will be door prizes for the guest who comes from the farthest, the guest with the most creative reason for coming, and the guest who brings the most guests.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Would you buy a car from this person?
From the time Marty bought Betsy, our second-hand LTD station wagon, from a not-so-reputable, car dealership to transport our family of six, we slavishly met all its needs. The brakes needed new shoes; the gas-line leaked; the transmission died; the carburetor, alternator, gaskets, all these things and more had to be replaced. The almost monthly bills from the garage looked like order sheets for a parts department.
At first we looked at the expenses as incidental to maintaining a family station wagon, then we rationalized the expenses as investments, i.e., the more you put into a thing, the more you’ll get out of it. Finally, faced with another $2,000 bill and $8.98 in the savings account, Marty, the accountant, took stock. He went through two years of cheque records and found, as we suspected, Betsy was definitely a bad habit.
The decision was made. We took out a loan and within a week had a compact 4-cylinder K-car wagon in the drive. Betsy was parked out on the street with a “For Sale” sign in one of her windows.
To keep her from seizing up, I would take Betsy out to the grocery store once a week. She idled so high I could drive her all the way there and all the way home, with my foot on the brake. Driven as little as once a week, she was using as much fuel as our zippy little K-car which took us everywhere, apparently running on air.
We listed Betsy in the Auto Trader at $1,800 which seemed to be the going price (in 1989) for 1979 station wagons. After a week and only one call from someone looking for a little Honda, we reduced the price to $1,500. By the third week the price was down to $1,300 or best offer. We started getting calls. Of course, since I happened to be home more than Marty, I, who don’t know much about cars, got most of these.
First caller: “Is it a good body?”
Me (innocently): “Yes, it looks pretty good.”
Caller: “Just looks pretty good, eh?”
Second caller: “Does it have air conditioning?”
Me: “No.” I knew that.
Third caller: “What size is the engine?”
Me (stupidly): “Quite big. It uses a lot of gas.”
Fourth caller: “Could I come look Friday morning?”
Me: “Certainly.”
Fourth caller, again: “Could I come Saturday morning instead?”
Fourth caller, again: “I’m not coming.”
Fifth caller: “Does it have air conditioning?”
Fifteenth caller: “Would you accept $1,000.”
Me (eagerly): “Yes! Do you want it?”
Caller: “I’ll think about it.”
Nobody actually came to look. We decided to put an ad in the local newspaper for a weekend, reducing the price once more to $950 or best offer. Right away a dealer phoned: “I’ll give you $500 for it.” The nerve.
Then on Saturday morning, we got a real customer. He came over. He looked under the hood. He kicked the tires (real customers always do that). He went for test drive. Then he left to look at another car. We knew we’d lost him.
But two hours later he called, “I’ll give you $750.”
Marty: “$800.”
Real customer: “$750, cash.”
Marty: “It’s yours.”
For three days Marty and I held conversations interspersed with: “We sold Betsy.”
“Amazing!”
“We sold the car.”
Poor buyer; Betsy would eat up his savings; keep him poor; suck up his funds, poor man. How could we have done that? It doesn’t seem Christian.
At first we looked at the expenses as incidental to maintaining a family station wagon, then we rationalized the expenses as investments, i.e., the more you put into a thing, the more you’ll get out of it. Finally, faced with another $2,000 bill and $8.98 in the savings account, Marty, the accountant, took stock. He went through two years of cheque records and found, as we suspected, Betsy was definitely a bad habit.
The decision was made. We took out a loan and within a week had a compact 4-cylinder K-car wagon in the drive. Betsy was parked out on the street with a “For Sale” sign in one of her windows.
To keep her from seizing up, I would take Betsy out to the grocery store once a week. She idled so high I could drive her all the way there and all the way home, with my foot on the brake. Driven as little as once a week, she was using as much fuel as our zippy little K-car which took us everywhere, apparently running on air.
We listed Betsy in the Auto Trader at $1,800 which seemed to be the going price (in 1989) for 1979 station wagons. After a week and only one call from someone looking for a little Honda, we reduced the price to $1,500. By the third week the price was down to $1,300 or best offer. We started getting calls. Of course, since I happened to be home more than Marty, I, who don’t know much about cars, got most of these.
First caller: “Is it a good body?”
Me (innocently): “Yes, it looks pretty good.”
Caller: “Just looks pretty good, eh?”
Second caller: “Does it have air conditioning?”
Me: “No.” I knew that.
Third caller: “What size is the engine?”
Me (stupidly): “Quite big. It uses a lot of gas.”
Fourth caller: “Could I come look Friday morning?”
Me: “Certainly.”
Fourth caller, again: “Could I come Saturday morning instead?”
Fourth caller, again: “I’m not coming.”
Fifth caller: “Does it have air conditioning?”
Fifteenth caller: “Would you accept $1,000.”
Me (eagerly): “Yes! Do you want it?”
Caller: “I’ll think about it.”
Nobody actually came to look. We decided to put an ad in the local newspaper for a weekend, reducing the price once more to $950 or best offer. Right away a dealer phoned: “I’ll give you $500 for it.” The nerve.
Then on Saturday morning, we got a real customer. He came over. He looked under the hood. He kicked the tires (real customers always do that). He went for test drive. Then he left to look at another car. We knew we’d lost him.
But two hours later he called, “I’ll give you $750.”
Marty: “$800.”
Real customer: “$750, cash.”
Marty: “It’s yours.”
For three days Marty and I held conversations interspersed with: “We sold Betsy.”
“Amazing!”
“We sold the car.”
Poor buyer; Betsy would eat up his savings; keep him poor; suck up his funds, poor man. How could we have done that? It doesn’t seem Christian.
Monday, June 15, 2009
The Cranberry Village Conquest: Part 2
continued from previous post
"What do you think, Marian?" Suddenly, Marty, my husband, appeared to be in the Cranberry camp.
Now, I respect Marty, not only because he's my husband, but he is also my accountant. He is better at recognizing a good deal than I am. "Okay then," I quietly conceded.
Suddenly we were signing forms and initialing clauses. We shook hands. The battle was over. We were outmaneuvered, yet triumphant. Tony presented us with a leather cases full of holiday suggestions. The sales team said we would be hearing from them again very soon: there must be upgrade enticements in the works.
"What do you think, Marian?" Suddenly, Marty, my husband, appeared to be in the Cranberry camp.
Now, I respect Marty, not only because he's my husband, but he is also my accountant. He is better at recognizing a good deal than I am. "Okay then," I quietly conceded.
Suddenly we were signing forms and initialing clauses. We shook hands. The battle was over. We were outmaneuvered, yet triumphant. Tony presented us with a leather cases full of holiday suggestions. The sales team said we would be hearing from them again very soon: there must be upgrade enticements in the works.
Three days later Tony and his fellow warriors sent us flowers welcoming us to the family of vacation ownership. The flowers were perfectly timed for our 33rd Wedding anniversary. Marty didn't waste the opportunity. "Happy Anniversary my dear," he proclaimed as he presented me with the most expensive bouquet he has ever given me.
"In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps." Proverbs 16:9.
Here's my question: was the Lord directing our steps? We had very deliberately prayed for wisdom (several times) before and during our adventure. We had even prayed that we wouldn't get talked into anything we might regret.
And, another question: are there any couples out there who want to join us for a one-week holiday in a six-star facility? We'll only charge you $100 a night and you can have the bedroom. I'll ask Marty to set up our tent in the living area. We can share the cooking and maybe even eat out once or twice.
The Cranberry Village Conquest, Part 1
continued from previous post
When Tony returned, we told him our final decision not to buy into the Cranberry Village time-share plan. “We are not doing this. It’s been great meeting you, but, no this does not suit our lifestyle.”
“Okay,” sighed Tony as he looked at his watch. I looked at my watch as well. It was 5:30. We had been there four and a half hours. Where was everyone? We were the only couple left.
Tony introduced us to Zelda. Zelda appeared to be quality control. She presented a questionnaire. “I just have a few questions,” she smiled. “Were you treated right?” “Yes.”
There were about eight questions along those lines. We answered, “Yes, of course,” to every question. We felt very agreeable. They were letting us get away and being surprisingly pleasant about it.
Suddenly Zelda whipped out one last offer: a one-bedroom for 30 years, occupation for one week every third year. The money upfront was minimal. My head was tired. Marty was smiling.
We'll finish this tomorrow.
When Tony returned, we told him our final decision not to buy into the Cranberry Village time-share plan. “We are not doing this. It’s been great meeting you, but, no this does not suit our lifestyle.”
“Okay,” sighed Tony as he looked at his watch. I looked at my watch as well. It was 5:30. We had been there four and a half hours. Where was everyone? We were the only couple left.
Tony introduced us to Zelda. Zelda appeared to be quality control. She presented a questionnaire. “I just have a few questions,” she smiled. “Were you treated right?” “Yes.”
There were about eight questions along those lines. We answered, “Yes, of course,” to every question. We felt very agreeable. They were letting us get away and being surprisingly pleasant about it.
Suddenly Zelda whipped out one last offer: a one-bedroom for 30 years, occupation for one week every third year. The money upfront was minimal. My head was tired. Marty was smiling.
We'll finish this tomorrow.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
The Cranberry Village Campaign
(continued from previous post)
We were led back to our presentation table decorated with three balloons. Tony pulled out some papers and began showing us deals. There was the 50-year, two-bedroom, with a studio apartment on the side, plan. We said, “Absolutely not.”
There was the 50-year, one-bedroom deal. We said, “No, thank-you.”
There was the studio deal. “No, no, no.”
There were several variations on these deals. Then, I gasped as I heard my husband Marty say, “I don’t think we’ll be camping after I retire.” I glanced at him with shock. Was this my husband who wasn't going to sign up? Didn't he remember our strategy: we are campers, out-in-the-woods, next to the bears and coons, in a tent, campers? Was this the beginning of the end?
Marty looked at me and then asked if we could be left alone to discuss matters. Tony readily agreed. “What do you think?” asked Marty when we were alone. “No,” I said, “No, no, no.”
Part 5 – The Cranberry Village Conquest - Monday
We were led back to our presentation table decorated with three balloons. Tony pulled out some papers and began showing us deals. There was the 50-year, two-bedroom, with a studio apartment on the side, plan. We said, “Absolutely not.”
There was the 50-year, one-bedroom deal. We said, “No, thank-you.”
There was the studio deal. “No, no, no.”
There were several variations on these deals. Then, I gasped as I heard my husband Marty say, “I don’t think we’ll be camping after I retire.” I glanced at him with shock. Was this my husband who wasn't going to sign up? Didn't he remember our strategy: we are campers, out-in-the-woods, next to the bears and coons, in a tent, campers? Was this the beginning of the end?
Marty looked at me and then asked if we could be left alone to discuss matters. Tony readily agreed. “What do you think?” asked Marty when we were alone. “No,” I said, “No, no, no.”
Part 5 – The Cranberry Village Conquest - Monday
Friday, June 12, 2009
The Cranberry Village Trap
Marty and Tony: practically brothers.We assembled with a guide and other potential members in the “Family of Vacation Ownership” at the Cranberry Waterfront Suites which was a half-kilometer hike from the hotel where we were staying. I had left my very necessary photo I.D. in my purse in the car at the hotel. I dawdled on my way to retrieve my identity, and 15 minutes later when I got back to the meeting point (where Marty and the guide were patiently waiting), everyone else was well on their way into the trap. Marty and I were matched up with Tony, the new guy.
Tony was a fun guy (he called himself a mushroom). He allowed us to change the subject as much as we wanted. He listened cheerfully as we talked about our delightful grandchildren and the joys of camping. Our guard inched down: this guy didn’t want to sell us anything.
Halfway through the session, we were herded into another room to view a short video full of happy smiling families in shiny spotless environments.
Then we were given a tour of what could potentially be our own spotless environment with marble countertops and never-been-used, top-of-the-line fixtures and appliances. The table was perfectly set right down to the designer napkins. Tony nonchalantly presented the immaculate beauty of this “six star resort” as though it already belonged to us.
Part 4 - The Cranberry Village Campaign - tomorrow
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