compile a list of 43 experiences that make me a unique person

I think this might be a good thing to do

... of entrepreneurial revenge!

43. As a child, I sold revenge scenarios to my classmates for 50-cents apiece.

I desparately wanted some money of my own, and even though I worked part-time in my father’s stores since before I could write my own name in cursive, I was not paid. I was told that this was the price for living in the family, and so forth. Once I got to be about seven or eight, I started craving some cash of my own—I was quite young to long for independent means at that age, nu?

Anyway, I don’t actually recall how I got the idea to start selling these revenge scenarios for fun and profit. Maybe it was from a teacher telling me over and over what a great imagination I had. Perhaps it was just a spark of divine evil inspiration, I have no recollection. Nevertheless, I quietly spread the word that if someone had a friend, enemy, sibling or troublesome 4-legged creature that needed their wagon fixed, I was their girl!

One day, one of my fourth-grade classmates named Tammy, procured my services. She had two shiny quarters for me and a problem that I was unfamiliar with solving: a step-mother. Previously, I had not known anyone from a “broken home”. I had always pictured a large white cottage with a big jagged mark cracking through the center of it, breaking it in two. My young mind didn’t realize then, that this involved people and their choices, not just the fracturing of mortar and wood.

Tammy explained to me, “A step-mother is the younger one that your Daddy marries and brings to live with you. She’s not your mother but tries to act like one. And he lets her!”

Tammy and this aforementioned step-mother did NOT get along. She regaled me with tales of woe, anguish, and mental cruelty that only a fourth-grade girl could fully comprehend. She had me convinced that not only did she need my services but was worthy of a miracle—a revenge miracle!

“Tammy,” I said, fingering the coins, “I’m going to have to give this some thought. I’m keeping these,” I said, pocketing the money. “But I won’t spend a cent until I deliver. This may take a little more time.”

Tammy nodded solemnly in response. The deal was forged.

Each day, we met, if only for me to show her the shiny, unspent quarters as proof of my devotion to her revenge project. Toward the end of the week, I had my plan, my simple, elegant, revenge fantasy come true for dear Tammy.

“It’s simple,” I explained, munching into a store-bought cookie. “Just dump this,” I said, handing her a small amber flask, “into her morning coffee. Not her juice, only her coffee.”

“What’s this?” Tammy asked. “Poison?” she said with a smile.

“Better,” I said. “Trust me.”

Days pass, and then during recess I see Tammy running towards me, hair flapping and eyes shining.

“Oh, oh, here!” she says, insisting I take another 50-cents. “This is for you!”

Puzzled, I ask, “Why? You’re paid up, unless you want another?”

“No, no, no! I’m grounded forever, but I don’t care! Let me tell you what happened….”

Tammy retells the story of how she dumped the vial of lime-green food coloring, undiluted, into her stepmother’s morning coffee. Her stepmother who never smiled, greedily drank down the coffee and ran out the door to start her day at “the bank” – the place that seemed more important than Tammy or any of her school functions.

After a full day at “the bank”, the stepmother was driving home in traffic and haphazardly looked at her reflection in the rear view mirror. She was so shocked to see fluorescent green teeth, that she rear-ended the car in the front of her with such force that this car rear-ended another, and another. The stepmother was charged with all their accidents.

“But the best part,” Tammy cried with glee, “was that the color wouldn’t come off! And she has something called caps on her teeth!”

I pictured something like ball caps or beanies, but I couldn’t wrap my head around what she meant, because I had all my natural teeth.

“You know, caps, like the inside of a fancy tea cup, but now it’s all stained. She’s going to have to sit in a dentist chair for days, days I tell you!”

Tammy hugged me and skipped away, leaving a 100% gratituty for services rendered in her wake. A princely tip for a devilish plan and flawless execution.

_curtesy!

And that, my readers, is the final entry for my 43 experiences that make me unique—unless I get sufficient begging and pleading for a bonus entry?!

Come on readers, any more votes for me to consider? I will probably write the winning choice in the next day or so ….

:-)

Since this may be my last entry on this goal—I will allow my readers to choose my 43rd tale.

Will it be a) bitter buttercup or b) entrepreneurial revenge—choose wisely!

When I get enough (any? some?) votes, I will post the winner! :-)

I’m getting so close to completing this goal, so this entry may be a stretch. Gentle readers, you decide.

42. I cried when my purse and checkbook were confiscated at an upscale department store sales counter.

This story needs a little background, unforunately, the background required to set context lacks ambience. There was plenty of atmosphere, however, as the low pressure and high pressure systems converged over my past Florida life to create a set of hurricanes, the likes of which my generation had never experienced. When I left Florida in late 2005, the few possessions I had intact were precious to me, but only precious in my eyes. To others, they were damp, battered relics that needed to be retired. I wasn’t ready to let go.

One of the most egregious offenders, according to my new sweetie, was my purse. It was a modest black handbag, purchased at the very exclusive Wal-de-Mart. I kept that purse under my head as all the storms sailed by, clutching it in one hand and my dog’s paw in the other. Having proper identification was, well, life. It was crucial that the little paperwork and identifying items, like a checkbook, ID, etc. be kept close at all times. This purse was definitely showing its battle scars, however.

Looking at that purse makes me want to cry, the sweetie would say.

I would shrug silently, my ploy to try to change the subject.

A few weeks ago, he got the idea to get me a new purse when the strap on my black purse snapped, tearing the skin in my palm with it.

You need a new purse, a nice one. I want to do this for you.

I had no more shrugs left in me.

We visited a few stores, and the clock was ticking away on the superimposed retail deadline. With 15 minutes left till closing, the last department store we visited had a blur of overpriced and overdecorated handbags.

Nothing too flashy, and not too small—or too big, please! I pleaded with him.

You would have thought he was an aerospace quality engineer, the way he was testing zippers, straps, and measuring with his hands for “fit”, as he explained to me. With less than 10 minutes to go, he finds the purse for me—a luxury bag in bright red!

After some convincing, I see that this purse will meet my needs, despite its designer degree and non-frugal price. He finds a matching wallet/checkbook bag that coordinates with it perfectly. The clock is ticking, and my chest is getting tight, but I don’t understand why.

I stand at the sales counter as he fits all my necessary items from the old bag into its new home. He promises to personally organize all my money, cards and items into the new wallet carry-all himself. I still stand, frozen, with the department store saleswoman gaping at me for a response. Then, the tears come.

This is not for me, I’m thinking to myself. This is for manicured, well-heeled girls who … who, are not me.

This is for you, dear, my sweetie says softly. I see myself reflected in his eyes. I blink away tears, and he traces the wet salty line down my face with his fingertip, away from my nose.

I’ll take it, take them both. Thank you, I whisper to him, our eyes still connected. I can see the saleswoman ringing up our purchases in my peripheral vision. She starts to touch my worn-out black bag as if she is loathing to touch a rodent of that ilk, and she recoils. Should I put this in a, what, a bag, too?

My sweetie continues to gaze at me for a reaction. I am trying to make a decision, but I am falling deeper and deeper into his eyes, struggling to swim to the surface.

No, I can leave it behind here. I can, can’t I? I ask him.

Of course you can, love! he answers me with a wink.

The saleswoman utters an impatient grunt, and in my periphery I see her toss my torn checkbook and purse into a trash bin and cover it with more trash. Thank you, come again! she says robotically to no one in particular and thrusts the sales slip to my sweetie. The new purse is on my arm, the new wallet tucked safely inside. We become mobile, swinging arms, the garnet bag bouncing between us like a happy, energized pendulum.

A friend of mine insists that this next item makes me unique, but I’ll let my dear readers be the judge(s):

41. I will return anything to the store, whether it be 4 year old shoes or even most recently, an 8.5 pound fresh ham.

I grew up in retail environments, both as a shopper and as an employee. My family had their own business, and my father was proud to tell others that I learned how to operate the cash register before I could write my name in script.

Therefore, to me it seems natural to expect excellent customer service, since I was required to be its outgoing supplier. Working in a family business can go one of two ways: a free ride or a pseudo-hellish level of expected perfection. I had the latter and longed for the former. Nothing but excellence was accepted from me, by me, and on behalf of ‘the family’.

I digress … I saw from first-hand experience the oddest menagerie of items being returned from faithful customers, and my father and staff going above and beyond to accommodate. Whether it was a white shirt from another store or a half-used bottle of cologne, everything was negotiable despite the published return policy. This made me motivated in my own private shopping pursuits to expect and accept excellent treatment as a customer.

My two most “amazing” feats by other people’s standards were over 20 years apart. The earlier one was when I was 17, and I returned a pair of 4-year old sandals to a department store. I only wore the sandals once and briefly, because they pinched my feet. I still had my receipt, tucked in the original shoe box that was gathering dust in my clothes closet. When I was cleaning out my closet in preparation to run away from home to escape an arranged marriage. I was desparate to find anything of value I could use to buy gasoline and food for my upcoming trip. When I found the shoes, that I had spent over $40 on, I knew I had found my safety net.

I went back to the department store with my wizened grandmother, all 90 pounds of her, as we both had our unwavering gazes on the customer service associate, then her supervisor, then his manager. Lots of paperwork was produced and filled out, and phone calls were made. Follow up calls were offered to inform me of the progress on this request, since the shoes had been discontinued and the actual brand line had been liquidated. It took over a month, but I got my $40 back in full, plus tax, and a modest amount of interest calculated in added in for the four years. It came to a bit over $50, which was plenty of gas money and enough for a beverage and a loaf of bread for nourishment on the trip.

The ham story was a much more recent escapade from this week. If anyone would like to hear about it, please reply and I will offer that story for your eyes and minds. Otherwise, I think I will wrap it up here for now.

I have long neglected this goal, because I sincerely think as I potter through my life, my little stories and ditties are of little interest to anyone but myself. However, I committed to finishing this goal, and so complete it I will.

40. I regularly avail myself of payday advance loans even though I don’t need the money.

In a previous completed goal, I explained that I have been a mystery shopper for a long time. Last year, I started picking up a new kind of shop that was easy to complete and paid well: shopping a particular chain of payday advance loan stores.

I’m in a quandry, because getting these loans two or three times a month nets me a tidy fee for each visit (plus loan fees) for maybe 15 minutes of work. However, it is the larger picture that makes me sad.

There is never a shortage of other customers in these stores, getting their loans or arguing about needing more time to pay them back. People from all walks of life, some in uniform like police officers or EMS, regularly avail themselves of these loans. The last loan I took out was for $100, and I paid $17.50 in loan fees for use of the money for up to two weeks. That is over 450% interest APR!

I know that it is a service I am performing, to evaluate the professionalism and customer service skills of these tellers who process these loans. I am doing my job, posing as a typical customer, to conduct these transactions. Still, it makes me vaguely sad, as it is so expensive and obviously difficult for those who really need these loans.

Health problems have interfered with a lot of my desire and stamina with which to add new entries to this goal. However, I am so close, I know I need to dig deep and perservere:

39. I once fed the dog’s dinner to my then-boyfriend.

My dog Jake is a dear to me, and he was my boyfriend of sorts, long before J. came into the picture. However, despite my devotion to J., I had my priorities straight.

On Sundays, I usually made Jake the dog a nice dinner, sliced roast beef from the deli, on sliced French bread rounds and covered in beef gravy. I would then warm it all in the oven until the gravy was bubbly and the bread was crisp. Add some mashed potatoes and a vegetable medley, and the dog was ready to dine!

On this particular Sunday, J. followed me home from church. Automatically, I started plating Jake’s meal as we discussed what we could do for lunch plans. J. looked at me quizzically and said, Wow, that looks good, what a lunch!

I then realized, that J. thought the meal was for him and had not even conceived that Jake was expecting his usual Sunday fare.

I dutifully plated up Jake’s meal for J., amid whiny canine protestations. J. dug in heartily, complimenting me on my cooking skills. I then started to frantically think about what else I could serve to dear Jake as an entree’, because I still had plenty of potatoes and vegetables left for additional portions. I remembered I had some bacon-wrapped filet mignons in the freezer and withdrew two portions. I crushed garlic into olive oil and started to heat a saute’ pan before gently placing the filets into the sizzling savor.

Honey, this is more than enough, I couldn’t eat any more meat, J. protested as he patted his happy tummy.

Oh, this isn’t for you, dear, I called out to him from the kitchen as I tended the filets.

J. got up from the table and strode into the kitchen to ask, Who are they for then?

I realized I may have revealed too much, and I started to stammer. Jake uttered one resounding appreciative bark!

J. said, Wow, filets. For the dog, really? Is this a habit?

No, no, just on Sundays, I tried to explain. And I’ve never given him filet mignon before.

Before …? J. said, reality beginning to dawn in his sky-blue eyes. Oh, I get it – I ate the dog’s lunch, didn’t I? Right?

I blushed furiously and turned my attention to the filets, which needed turning.

J. looked enviously at the sizzling meat. Wow, I didn’t know you had filet mignon, you know, in there, he said, motioning to the freezer.

You didn’t really ask, I said in a small voice, rearranging the filets in the pan for maximum searing.

Man, I could have had a filet! J. exclaimed.

Jake barked energetically and turned in a circle before sitting at my feet. J. and I both laughed as he slipped an arm around me and watched me finish preparing Jake’s repast.

I apologize for not having anything interesting to add to this goal lately. However, t’Knight thinks that something I did tonight qualifies to be added to this goal, so here is a new entry for my readers:

38. Tonight, I acquired and gave away a free pizza to some firefighters.

Well, the pizza wasn’t really free, I did have to pay for it. But I did deliver it free of charge to my local fire stataion. Here’s what happened….

I have a miserable head cold, as I have no doubt mentioned ad infinitum and yet, I had recently signed up with a new mystery shopping company. I had an assignment to pick up a ready-to-go pizza and 2-liter of soda from a nearby pizza restaurant. When I am ill, I have no appetite, and right now I also have no energy. However, I am serious about doing a good job, even if it is for a reimburseable pizza and a small $5 fee. It is still a commitment, and I did not want to make a bad impression on this shopping company by calling in sick for my first assignment. Despite pleas from t’Knight to rest and decline the work, I felt compelled to complete it. I now know why. :-)

I get to the store, and the shop goes quickly and smoothly. It’s a simple scenario, and everything is hot and ready to go as expected. I am in and out of the store in less than three minutes, and back on my way home. As I am leaving the parking lot, I see a police cruiser parked, alone. The sun is going down, and it’s way past dinner time. Even though I can’t smell anything, I’m starting to get hungry. However, pizza is the last thing I want, and I start to feel fatigued and pitiful. Then, I get a flash of inspiration.

I do a quick reality check with t’Knight and he eggs me on to proceed. I pass the Okolona fire house right on my way home from the pizza restaurant, it’s no trouble to pull in their parking lot. There is one space available for civilian parking, and I pull snugly inside. I’m shaking, but I feel moved to do this, so I throw back my shoulders and toss my ponytailed hair around a little as I stroll up to the engine bay. I’m holding the hot pizza box and the cold 2-liter bottle of soda in a bag, with paper cups.

Are you all busy? Would you all like some pizza? I say, trying not to sniffle.

Uh HUH, is the greeting. What’s the occasion? one of the firefighters asks me.

No reason, I just felt moved to do so. It’s hot, I just picked it up, I say, handing him the box.

Another pair of firefighters approach, looking dumbfounded. Even though I am tired, I stay to pleasantly chat for a moment. Then the fatigue is really settling in.

Well, I’m going to head home. Thanks and enjoy. God bless you! I say as brightly as I can manage.

God bless you too! they call back to me, starting to dish out the food.

I finally got the picture I requested—can’t believe it has been 2 weeks since I worked on this goal! I will do better, readers, really!

Anyway, this is HERB THE COW!