Intermediate Goals

It's that time of the month again.

No, not that time.
That's gross.
Shame on you for thinking that.

The time of the month to which I am awkwardly referring is the end of the month where I look back at all the income and expenses for the previous 30 days. It's the time of the month where I get to be an accountant and not get paid for it.

What's different about this month, January 2016, is that it is the first month where I get to evaluate my data in light of my new year's resolution.

I just realized I probably did not share what my resolution for 2016 was.
Here 'tis:
Keep personal credit card statement less than $300 a month.

How inexplicably dull, I know, but achieving this goal has far reaching implications.

I have certain things charged to my credit card every month automatically such as:
1. Cell phone ($30)
2. Car Insurance ($78 or $84 or something, idk, it just went up last month)

So over a third of my allowance is gone right there for just having a car and a phone.
Thank goodness I don't have to pay for a car phone. Remember those? LOL.

Other expenses I usually charge are:
1. Gas, which usually runs about $45 a month or more, depending on the price of gas and if I go to my parents' house
2. Miscellaneous hobby items like sewing notions or patterns
3. Clothing
4. Gifts
5. Going out to eat for lunch

What was so cool about January 2016 is that my credit card statement was less than $120.
That is amazing.
A huge part of this was my USAA dividend got applied to my insurance payment, so that was like $50 in savings.
Another large part was that gas keeps going down and down, so I only spent about $35 in gas.
Additionally, I went out to eat for lunch twice in the past month (very rare for me) and only spent $16.

Not only did I meet my goal, I crushed it.

Even without the USAA payment, my statement still would have been under $200.

What kind of sucks is that I know I'm going to have to buy running shoes sometime in the near future which is one of the most expensive investments for a runner. I've kind of stopped being a runner for the time being and not just because I'm cheap but because I'm also lazy.

I know. I'm so bad.

Anyway, back to the "far-reaching implications" of my incredibly dull resolution.

Currently, I'm working with Mike on Operation Pay Off the House, Man. I try to make myself feel better by advertising that it's only 52 easy payments of $3,918.33!

So while that's going on, the less I spend on credit card stuff, the more I can invest.
And, man, do I miss investing.
Once the house is paid off, though, Operation Deploy Capital Like a Day Trader So You Can Live Like a Wealthy Hobo will be well underway.

My favorite games of pool to play is Nine-Ball. The game is that you take turns hitting the balls 1-8 in order with the end goal of being the person to pocket the 9-ball.

One of my favorite strategies with this game is to look for opportunities where I can line up the queue ball to hit the low-numbered ball that will hit the 9-ball in, which ends the game early as if the setup were some zany Rube Goldberg Mouse-Trap machine.

I call it "intermediate goals". Keeping the end goal in mind allows you to adjust how you play the game.

It's a good strategy for Nine-ball and also for life.

We should really clean out Daniel's garage so we can play Nine-ball sometime,
TWS

Discussion

Two things have come to my attention in the past 24 hours:

1. Letter-writing is apparently distracting me from updating this blog on a regular-random basis
2. My trip to Washington DC was cancelled due to like the city's third largest snowstorm ever or something happening at the end of this week.

---> TOUGH BREAK <---

I was really looking forward to that 10 hour bus ride. Bus rides make me all philosophical and nostalgic for band competitions and swim meets and field trips. It's a great time to think, or not think, and make some really important decisions about yourself.

I was really looking forward to this life-changing bus ride.

And now it's not happening, and I'm just going to have to sit at home and think like a normal non-travelling person does, I guess, which is not as fun.

But maybe I'll actually get some writing done.

Sometimes, I'll be a really good listener, and I'll be listening to someone talk and talk about their life and situations going on, and I won't say anything because I'm being a good listener. Then at the end of their soliloquy, they'll say something like, "Are you ok?" or "Are you mad at me?" or "Allie just wants to ignore me all night".

Truth is, though, I don't have a verbal response for every line like people expect. This is what makes me so bad at having conversations. Short of filling the room with um's, yeah's, and ok's, I really don't have anything to say.

I got in the bad habit of using the same excuse to not write.
Right Brain: "I just don't have anything to say."
Left Brain: "Great. Let's go pluck some eyebrows for 30 minutes and then go get distracted on YouTube."

The reason why it's such a lame excuse for writing is because while I don't always have something to say, I always have something to write. Unlike talking in a conversation, writing is something you don't have to put restraints on because you don't have to publish it. You don't even have to share it.

And if you stop convincing yourself that you have nothing to say, you'll realize there is plenty to write.

For instance:

Commute

I had a very boring drive home today. It was one of those commutes that seemed to take forever, even though it was normal. The stop lights were boring. The radio music was boring. The road signs were boring. The trees barely moving in the wind were boring. Everything was boring.

I was driving into a cold winter sunset, which illuminated the people in the cars behind me, experiencing this same boring commute.

First, there was a man in a hot red mustang. I stopped at a stop sign, and I remember looking at him in my side view mirror and seeing him swear because he almost ran into me. He looked just like Sal from Mad Men. I could’ve stared at him a bit longer to get a better idea of what he looked like, but I figured letting his appearance be a delusion would make my commute less boring.

I wonder if Sal would be short for “Salvador” or “Salvatore” like in Lana Del Rey’s hauntingly romantic song. Catch me if you can, working on my tan, Salvatore.

Second, there was a woman wearing sunglasses. She was black and was dancing with her torso to music only she could hear. It would have been amusing to someone who thinks that dancing in a car is ridiculous. I, however, do not think it is ridiculous. Dancing in a car to music is a highly acceptable thing to do. Unfortunately, I was not amused, so this did not make my commute less boring.

Third, there was a man with incredibly large ears. I’m sure they looked normal if you looked at him from the side. From a rear-view front-facing view, though, they appeared to stick out significantly away from his head as if his ears were literally reaching out to find more sounds. He was an older gentlemen. He was wearing sunglasses, so I couldn’t tell if he was middle aged or a grandfather. I guess he could have been both at the same time. I wonder if his grandchildren whisper to him in those big ears. I wonder if they are afraid of them.

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"Tell Your Mama" that I'll be more diligent in writing.

A song from a band so hipster that their lyrics aren't even online,
TWS

Snow White

Here is how to save 88% on cheesecake:

1. Buy a block of cream cheese ($1 on sale)
2. Buy a box of graham crackers ($2)
3. Spread cream cheese on graham crackers and enjoy.

"Allie, that's not really saving money on cheesecake. That's just a really ghetto way to eat some of the ingredients that are in an actual cheesecake."

But my method saves:
- calories, by eliminating the egg, butter and added sugar
- indirect mindless consumption, by eliminating having a cake hanging around in your fridge
- time, by not having to bake a freaking cake and then, of all things, having to wait for it to cool. IS THERE ANYTHING MORE TORTUROUS!??!?!
- money, if you don't feel like baking and you just can't force yourself to buy a whole cheesecake for $12.

Plus, a brick of cream cheese and a box of graham crackers will make more than 16 servings. So I'm really saving you from having to buy two cheesecakes.

Hence the 88% in savings.

(Ok, so it was 87.5%. I rounded up.)

(I felt like I deserved that .5%, though.)

Betty Mocker,
TWS

Vignette

I have a room in my house specifically devoted to storing memories. It's a larger room, and contains a large desk, a fair number of filing cabinets, and many, many bookshelves. The whole room smells like cedar, the way a cedar cigar box smells to a person who has never smoked a cigar.

The cedar tree was the tree of my childhood. It was the most conducive tree to store the nostalgia and reconnaissance of childhood, where memories begin. The pines and magnolias got jealous, but the pines had too many branches, which made it difficult to climb and spend any time in, and the magnolias dropped all these frustrating cones every spring which I had to go and pick up before my dad could mow the front lawn. I never forgave that tree for that.

Memories come from roots, so it makes sense that the room smells like a tree. The chair at the desk is as soft and comfortable as cedar bark. On the desk, there is a little lamp and a stack of folders, and ink and white-out and candles. I don't really write with the ink. It's just kind of there because I thought it was cool.

The desk, the cabinets, and the bookshelves hold thousands and thousands of memories. Some are good, some are bad, some are wonderful, some are terrifying, and some don't make any sense. I really can't explain why I keep those, or really any at all. I guess it's just expected that everyone has a room for these sorts of things.

I also have this intern named Robby. He's awful. I've wanted to fire him so many times for reasons I will explain to you shortly, but he's an unpaid intern. He still lives with his parents and says he's working on a novel. I can't tell if he's actually writing a novel or just making fun of me. He knows I've been wanting to write a novel for years. He never tells me about his novel.

Every week or so, I'll take a box of memories up to my room. Most of them are trash and not worth keeping, like notes about what I had for dinner, or wearisome conversations I overheard at work about someone's dog. The useful things in these weekly boxes are life-changing news about nieces being born, or accomplishments at work. Nice words spoken in love. God's promises in treasured verses. Or even how rice plus cumin and paprika and garlic salt and thousand island dressing makes a good lunch. I totally made up that recipe this week and now it's one of my favorites.

So, then, what makes Robby so insufferable is the way he seems to sabotage my memory room. His job is to organize these memories in a logical way, file them neatly, and clean out any unwanted material. I will give him this, though: he did a nice job with destroying my sixth grade memories. I think all that's left in the folder are some faces and names and the feeling of a cold, dark bus ride. Everything else is gone.

However, he will always take the authorized destruction way too far, and will proceed to take out memories at random, erase people's names or cross out entire anecdotes. He'll make scribbles and spill ink on stuff. Sometimes, he'll even throw out whole binders without consulting me at all. Then, when I'm trying to remember something, I draw a blank because it's no longer there. And who knows what Robby did with it. He probably takes home some of my memories to write about in his novel.

One of my favorite parts of my memory room is the closet of songs. I'm impressed out how much is in there, and how much it's still in tact. Robby must hate music because he never messes with that part. The only thing that destroys this room is the gradual aging of the pages rubbing against each other, or the little mice that nibble small holes in the paper.  The closet holds a wide variety of music: country songs from childhood, pop songs from the time I thought I liked pop, and so many hymns, but usually only the first verse or so. There are also annoying commercial jingles in there, but what can you do? One day, I think I'm going to run out of space, so I'll just have to get a bigger room.

When Robby actually does get around to organizing things, the way he does it is somewhat interesting and unconventional, but also catastrophic. This is not your library card catalog or Dewey decimal system. I don't even have a central computer logging everything I'm supposed to have. Most files are traditionally labeled in a box, folder, or binder. Often, a whole shelf is labeled and dedicated for a general topic, such as German, where I'm still trying to add memories. Sometimes, though, Robby just puts a picture on a folder of memories. It's cool that he's trying to associate certain memories under a common theme or illustration, but it's detrimental because the only way I can access those memories are through that one association. Unless I remember what picture they're filed under, they might as well be forgotten.

An example of this is whenever I walk through a segment of housing construction, I'll see the wood, and the bricks, and the porta-potties and feel absolutely nothing. What really jogs my memory is when I see the stray aluminum can tossed by the wayside. I remember the night years ago we went walking in the housing construction across the street to gather as many aluminum cans as we could. I'm pretty sure we were doing this for a project for one of my sisters, but I found great joy in not only gathering up the cans, but looking forward to recycling them as well. I remember thinking that when the workers return to the job site the next morning, they would be blown away by how much cleaner the site was. I suppose it was trespassing, but it felt fun to be a rebel without a cause, except with a cause. That was the kind of teenager I was. I would not vandalize. I would only recycle.

Every so often, I just like to go up to my memory room, sit at the chair at the desk, and look at some old memories. I'll try to fill in the details if I can remember any, and try to conjure up the exact experience of being in that moment of time. Like the memory of being a teenager, writing on my bed some Saturday afternoon. The window would be open, and I can hear dad's table saw coming from his workshop. I see my mom cross the yard with a basket full of laundry which I just know she's going to come ask me to help fold. I see the wind gently blow the branches of the oak trees in the back yard and I hear the soft, rushing sound of the leaves. This memory is not specific to any day in particular because I'm sure it was repeated several times. "I have to go fold laundry now" is how I would end my journal entry. Ah, the mundane life of an adolescent.

 After I've spent a while in my room reminiscing, I'll stand up and stretch, and take a look around the room. Some drawers will be open with memories spilling out. There will be scattered sheets on the floor, waiting to be filed or destroyed by Robby. The door to the closet of songs won't close anymore since it's getting so full in there.

I love that I have so many of my memories, even though some are unsavory and are kept around for humility's sake and also to keep me from repeating stupid, stupid things I once did. I still have the good and funny ones that I can read and remember and reread like some beautiful story that never gets old.

"That's life," I say as I walk out of the room. Then, I turn off the light and close the door behind me.

TWS

Momentarily

I don't get organic food.
I mean, I like the idea of it, but I don't like the way it's become a "holier than thou" culture shift.

I went to this little get together, and I felt like a complete tool because they had me make the guacamole from two organic avocados and a package of organic guacamole mix.

How can guacamole mix be organic?
I don't know, but it found a way.

So there I stood, mixing this organic guacamole, and I just felt like a waste of a human.

Some thoughts I had:
Organic guacamole mix.
That's new. 
It's like guacamole except fancier, somehow.
I eat guacamole all the time, and I never buy my avocados organic.
They're literally twice the price and don't look any better than the non-organic ones.
I guess there's a fine line to walk between investing in your health and being marketing prey.
It's a line too fine for me to care about walking.
But someone cared enough about the well-being about the people at this party to bring an organic appetizer.
I don't even care about myself that much to buy organic food on a regular basis, much less bring it to a party.
Maybe what I'm putting into my body is garbage.
Maybe I am becoming garbage.
Maybe I'm already garbage.

"I think I'm paranoid."
-Garbage

If there was one bandwagon I did not jump on, it was the organic food one.
Pilates, yes.
Green smoothies, ok.
Yoga mats, maybe.
Vitamins, meh.
Organic food, no.

I mean, has organic food always been a thing?
I mean, duh of course it has. But has it always been marketed as such?
I feel like it's just this semi-recent insurgence against big corporations, genetically modified food, and big time agriculture.
And I'm just over here like food = food = food = food = I'm hungry now.

I don't know why the idea of me putting wholesome pesticide-free substances into my body doesn't outweigh my reluctance to pay for it other than the fact that, in my limited 24 years of experience, it hasn't lived up to the hype.

Don't get me wrong- I'd take one of my parents' homegrown tomatoes over store bought any day.
But I'm not going to spend a dollar an egg just because the chickens don't live in cages.

The hype.
It's getting to me.

TWS