Taking it to the bank

There's a new game in town. The banks around here are advertising some fairly attractive CD rates -- 4% or better for periods of 12 months and less. But to get one, you have to open a new checking account. That's mentioned in teeny tiny print at the bottom of the ad, the part you literally need a magnifying glass to read. Seeing as how I don't want three or four checking accounts, I'm out of luck.

Is it me, or are these guys going out of their way these days to be difficult and deceptive?

I recently moved all my uncommitted cash into a local savings account at 4%, which I figured was an introductory rate. Now, I should have packed up my checkbook and run when the bank rep didn't seem to know what an "introductory rate" was. She seemed confident, though, that the rate would remain the same for "a while" and, with rates rising, I figured I'd be OK for six months or so. Well, try six weeks. In this month's statement, the APY had dropped considerably, with the new rate taking effect last month. And to make things even more insulting, the statement gave only the "APY earned to date" which would, of course, average in the higher original earnings. No clue as to the current rate.

There seemed to be no way to get a phone call through to a live human at the bank, so I stopped by to find out what the new rate was on the account. The teller handed me a list of rates that didn't include the kind of account I had. When I insisted she look up the "Maximum Money Market Savings" she quoted me the APY. I wanted the rate. So I had to walk her through the difference before she could figure out what to tell me. It's 3.78 now. Still pretty good, but there are better choices elsewhere.

So what have they gained, these banks? Here I am, a ready and willing customer who prefers to keep her accounts at local institutions. And I'm pissed at all of them.

I will never do business again with the one above because I feel ripped-off and the customer service just sucks. I will not open checking accounts all over town, either, so those other banks won't be seeing me anytime soon.

Instead, I'll keep the same checking account I've had for 15 years and link it to Emigrant Direct : American Dream Savings Account. And for CDs, there's always  BankRate.com and my broker, TD Waterhouse.

So. Neener.

Grave matters

It's that time of year again. The dark and somber part, where we look Death in the face, dress him up in a spangled tutu and feed him candy. Gotta love it.

What do you want on your tombstone?

To try one on for size, click here: Tombstone Generator.

Son of Duck Joke

Wow. No flame mail over the original Duck Joke? Maybe I can get away with this one, too...

A duck goes into a bar. He hops up on a bar stool and says, "Got any duck food?"

The bartender says, "Of course not. This is a bar, not a feed store. Get lost." So the duck hops down and waddles out.

Next day, he's back: "Got any duck food?"
"No! Get out!"
Duck hops down and waddles out.

This goes on for a week. Finally, the bartender has had it.
"Got any duck food?"
"NO! And the next time you ask, I'm gonna nail your bill to the bar!"

Next day, incredibly, the duck is back: "Got any nails?"
"No."
"Great. Got any duck food?"

Good dog

The new neighbors have a dog that barks. Not all the time, but enough to remind you it's there. I like it; it sounds like Lassie:

"Roof! Roof!"
What's that you say, girl? Is something wrong?
"Roof! ::whine whine::"
What is it, girl? Rogue squirrels? Jehova's Witnesses? That creepy Dwayne kid playing with matches?
"Roof! Roof Roof Roof! ::whine::"
I think she wants us to follow her...

Sorry, girl, that's not in the cards. But it's nice to know you're out there keeping an eye on things.

Simply extraordinary

Music I'm Listening To: The washing machine.

Yes, the washing machine. With clean water in it, and my family's clothing, and sheets that will go on familiar beds in dry, bright rooms. Soon there will be soft, fragrant towels for bathing, and warm afghans for curling up in front of the TV or for settling in with perfect, beautiful books.

There is food in the fridge, and the tall oaks still stand in the yard. 

I will start a new job soon, too: a perfectly ordinary job, with average pay, good benefits and a short commute.

I look at the news, and I give thanks.

Nice guys really do finish last

This explains so much:

Functional Psychopaths Make the Best Investors
"Sept. 19 (Bloomberg) -- `Functional psychopaths' make the best investment decisions because they can't experience emotions such as fear, a study by researchers at Stanford Graduate School of Business showed.

"Fear stops people from taking even logical risks, meaning those who have suffered damage to areas of the brain affecting emotions, and can suppress feeling, make better decisions, the report showed. The ability to control emotion helps performance in business and the financial markets, the researchers found."


The study does note that psychos have social problems. (Duh.) But they end up richer than the rest of us, so what the hell. There's a lesson in there somewhere.

How to tell if you're speeding ...

When all else fails, tell the truth

Oh for Pete's sake. With a videotape record of his stupifyingly inappropriate comments circulating around the entire globe, Pat Robertson actually tried to weasel his way out of  trouble by claiming we didn't actually hear what we heard? I heard this:


"You know, I don't know about this doctrine of assassination, but if he thinks we're trying to assassinate him, I think that we really ought to go ahead and do it. It's a whole lot cheaper than starting a war, and I don't think any oil shipments will stop. ...

"We have the ability to take him out, and I think the time has come that we exercise that ability. We don't need another $200 billion war to get rid of one, you know, strong-arm dictator. It's a whole lot easier to have some of the covert operatives do the job and then get it over with." -- AOL News - Robertson Apologizes for Chavez Comments

And the best argument he can come up with is that "take him out" could mean "a number of things, including kidnapping." Riiiiight.

Yeah, yeah, he did eventually apologize. And I'm sure he's sincerely sorry he said it out loud, since it caused so much bad PR for his vast and lucrative empire. But I'm also willing to bet he still means every word.

I know it's incredibly naive, but somehow I still expect better of "holy men."

"What would Jesus do?"

Well, if he were on Pat Robertson's team he'd slip into a ninja suit, strap on an assault rifle, and go whack the president of Venezuela. 

It's been quite a while since I did time in Sunday School, but I seem to recall one of the Ten Big Rules used to be "Thou shalt not kill." And I believe there was something about loving your enemies.

Did I miss a memo?

Packrat papers: Backsliding bigtime

Hopeless. I am hopeless.

There I was, minding my own business, strolling into the library to return the latest load o' books and WHAM. I'm face to face with the Bag Day finale of the Friends of the Library book sale. The counter lady locked eyes with me and smiled a beguiling smile. She slowly slid me a lovely, big, clean paper bag. She purred: "Fill it up for just a dollar. Anything you can fit in there, the whole bagful is a dollar. You can have as many bags as you want."

I felt my pupils dilate and my brain disengage, and I watched my quivering hands reach for the bag. A small line of drool dribbled from the corner of my mouth. That's the last thing I remember before coming to at home with my arms aching from the weight.

So. Now I have more books. I don't even remember what I bought. Want to watch over my shoulder as I unload the loot? OK, then, here we go ...

The one on the top is Mundome, by A.G. Mojtabai. "A story of schizophrenia, at once haunting and horrifying ... a stunning short novel." Well, that looks good.

The Turtle Warrior, by Mary Relindes Ellis. I've heard that's a good one, too.

Late Bloomer, Melissa Pritchard. OK, this looks whacky enough to be a fun beach read.

Spotted in France, Gregory Edmont. This thing is about a guy traveling around France on a Vespa with a dog. What was I thinking?

Whad'ya Know, by Michael Feldman. I like the show. Could be amusing.

Everyone Is Entitled to My Opinion, David Brinkley. Promising. He's one of my faves.

God's Banker, Rupert Cornwell. This is a nonfiction account of a particularly colorful banking scandal that involved the Vatican's finances, mentioned in The DaVinci Code. I'll need to be in nerd mode to read this one, but it could happen.

The Pigeon Project, Irving Wallace. I like Irving Wallace. "What would happen if every human being presently on earth could live to the age of 150 -- or more?" Good question.

In the Words of Great Business Leaders, Julie M. Fenster. Good addition to my reference shelf. You never know when you'll need a good business quote.

Protect and Defend, Richard North Patterson. Amy Tan says it's "an important novel on passion and politics." What's not to love about passion and politics?

Points of Light, Linda Gray Sexton. Oops. Chick lit? We'll see.

Making Picture Books, A Method of Learning Graphic Sequence, Stephen F. Gordon. Because I harbor a secret desire to write children's picture books. And I wish I could draw. This was a dumb one.

The bag is now, mercifully, empty. Wish I could say the same for the floor space around my bookshelves.

Hmmm.

Have you seen the TV ads for a new version of Jim Cramer's cable show, Mad Money? They haul him out of a padded cell in a straight jacket and promise he'll be appearing soon on NBC to help you pick stocks.

The guy is smart and popular, and may be OK as a stock picker, but is this really the image of a guy you want to trust with your money?

I'm just sayin'.

Game over

I suppose everyone's heard by now that the game Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas has been re-rated for Adults Only and has been pulled from some major distributors' shelves. It strikes me as ironic that murder, mayhem, gangs and drugs are OK in a game, but S-E-X knocks it into "Adult" territory. At any rate, good riddance.

An excellent argument can be made that if adults consider playing Grand Theft Auto to be a worthwhile use of their time, well, so be it. To each his own. (However, I do wish these adults came with prominent warning stickers, so the rest of us could steer clear.)

The problem is, we have to depend on these same people to keep the game away from children. From conversations I hear among my kids' friends, children as young as seven are playing this thing, often alongside their parents.

It is too much to expect restraint from any branch of the entertainment industry; after all, they make wads of money selling sex, shock and violence. But maybe they'd think of something better if we adults would just quit buying it.

Would you like to play a game?

I found this on the Web today and I'm already addicted: Chaos Theory. You just choose a contact spot, start things in motion and wait to see what happens. Kind of like bowling, but without the yucky shoes. (To begin, just move the cursor over the Asian writing until you hit a hot spot and click. It probably says something like "Start.")

When you've mastered that one, move on up to Planarity.

What can I say. I'm easily amused.

Something new to worry about

You know how it is when you get a song stuck in your head, how helpless and frustrated you feel? How you'd just about drive a nail into your own brain if it meant you never, ever again had to hear, say, the OompaLoompa song rattling around in there? Well, this just in from the Could Be Worse Department, courtesy of the New York Times: Neuron Network Goes Awry, and Brain Becomes an IPod. 

Wow. Sucks to be them.

Duck joke

Want to know a dirty little secret? I love duck jokes. I know, I know. But I can't help it. Here's my favorite:

 

Three golfers are killed in a car crash and, having mostly behaved themselves in life, they go straight to heaven.

When they arrive, St. Peter greets them at the gate and says, "We only have one rule here in heaven: Don't hit the ducks."

So they enter heaven, and, to their great joy, discover that it is one enormous golf course -- but there are ducks all over the place. It is almost impossible to play without hitting one. Sure enough, though they do their best to avoid it, one of the men eventually hits a duck. Poof! St. Peter, who doesn't miss a thing, appears with the ugliest woman the men have ever seen. St. Peter handcuffs this woman to the unfortunate golfer and says, "Your punishment is to spend eternity chained to this ugly woman."

The very next day, the second man accidentally hits a duck. Poof! St. Peter arrives, and with him is another unbelievably ugly woman. He handcuffs the two together and sentences the man to remain chained to her for all eternity.

The third man is determined not to end up like his buddies, so he is extremely careful. He manages to golf for months without mishap. And one day, Poof! St. Peter appears with an absolutely gorgeous woman. He chains the two together without a word and vanishes. The man stares at this goddess, this vision of perfection with whom he will now spend eternity, and says, "Whatever did I do to deserve you?" The woman says, "I don't know about you, but I hit a duck."

Losing it

I've been watching a lot of TV since I got laid off. I mean, A LOT. Mostly C-SPAN and PBS. And I'm here to tell you: This is not a big plus for one's mental health.

For example, I could have sworn I heard very strange things come out of the mouths of some highly rated Wall Street Journal commentators Sunday. Granted, it's the Journal. But still. I actually hallucinated a whole exchange applauding China's proposed purchase of U.S. oil company Unocal via its state-owned company CNOOC.

Stephen Moore may (or may not?) have said: "One other quick point about this is, a lot of people were against the sale, the same people who have been saying for the last 10 years, oh my God, what's going to happen when China sells American assets? Well, here they're buying American assets, so you know, you can't have it both ways. You can't say it's going to be terrible when they start selling off the assets that they own a lot of American, U.S. securities, and then at the same time say it's a tragedy if they buy American assets. To me, better that they're buying our assets than that they're selling them."

Surely, he did not equate China's buying U.S. Treasury securities -- that is, loaning us money -- with China buying up U.S.-controlled oil reserves. That didn't happen, did it?

And I KNOW he did not say "I don't think oil is the strategic resource that everyone thinks it is. I would be much more concerned if the Chinese were talking about taking over, let's say, a high technology company or an aerospace company. But oil is just guck in the ground ... " Yyyyyeah. And blood is just guck in your veins.

Now, Paul Gigot DID say, "Let's take this out of economics to the geopolitical argument, because some people make the case that if you allow CNOOC to buy, take control over these Southeast Asian oil and gas reserves, you're hastening the day when their sphere of influence in Southeast Asia will only increase. Their ability to influence, not just economics, but security events in Southeast Asia, in Thailand, Indonesia, that sort of thing. Is that anything we should be concerned about, Dan?" I'm positive I heard that.

But Dan Henninger could not possibly have replied, "Well, you do have the little matter of the U.S. Navy floating around out in those waters," as if we would cheerfully go to war with China if they got to throwing their weight around. Couldn't have happened. Right? Right? Right...

Packrat papers, part 1

Considering that clearing out my clutter will be a project of epic proportions, I expect this will be an ongoing theme around here. I'm happy to say I have made some progress.

I figured out where to start: old shoes. Specifically, high heels. I have a lot of them, left over from the days of the aforementioned size-six business suits. While there may be some shred of hope that the suits could fit again one day, and maybe even come back in style, there is no way I can physically wear these shoes again. Ever. I wrecked my feet doing aerobics in bad athletic shoes, and heels higher than an inch or so are just not an option any more. So out they go -- along with the bad athletic shoes which, yes, are also still here.

Right behind them in the outta-here pile are five of the six identical pairs of comfy-but-worn-out sneakers I use for gardening and all the shoes my kids have outgrown. And some really dorky ones my husband bought himself. (He got loose alone in the mall once.)

I'm really getting into this. I can see carpet in the closets already.

Next up: magazines. I don't think year-old Business Weeks are really gonna do me any good, do you?

Confessions of a packrat

Day three of unemployment, and already the thrill is gone. Yesterday was a big zero -- a negative, actually, if you count the poonchkie pigout -- so today I was determined to be productive. I thought I'd spend the morning doing some serious cleaning, since I haven't done that in oh, say, years. Problem is, I can't figure out where to start.

Here's the thing: I am a world-class packrat. If collecting was an Olympic event, I'd take home the gold -- and I'd store that gold forever. I love my stuff, I really do. Old stuff, new stuff, junk, heirlooms, you name it. I mean, why have a basement, garage and attic at all, if you aren't going to fill them up? Why throw away perfectly good things, just because you don't need them right this moment? Why would God even PUT space under our beds if we weren't meant to use it? The clutter has been an issue for my husband along the way, but never for me. Until now.

Today, suddenly, really looking at it, it's all too much. WAY too much. And the weird thing is, the deeper I poke into closets and corners, the more I feel as if I'm in somebody else's house. The place is packed with relics of my former lives, buried remains of identities lost or forsaken, all covered in dust. This is not like cleaning house, this is like excavating Pompeii -- and all the frozen, mummified bodies are younger versions of me.

Omigod ...  I just realized something: That's why I'm holding on to everything. The detritus and castoffs from my childhood home, class notes from college, the potter's wheel and kiln, the 22-year-old size-six business suits, the kids' baby clothes, all of it ... they represent parts of me, phases of my life that I loved and lost. Throwing it out would be to call it all garbage. To throw away my life.

But that's nuts, isn't it? I am not this stuff, after all. Hanging on to these things didn't make time stop. It all moved on anyway, and will keep right on doing so, and that is as it should be. These things don't belong here anymore. 

I think I can start letting go now. But I still don't know where to start.

Fat, Fat Tuesday

It's Mardis Gras! This is one of the Things I Want to Do Before I Die. I want it all -- the chaos, the costumes, masks, beads, wretched excess... gimme gimme gimme!

I may be missing out on the parades again, but I am gettin' me some of  that wretched excess: Poonchkies. The idea behind the poonchkie was to use up all the fat and sugar in the house before Lent. The result is like a Krispy Kreme on steroids, a Polish pastry from hell, and you can buy them only on Fat Tuesday... Today.

Like, NOW, before they're all gone.

Kickin' down the cobblestones

"I got no deeds to do, no promises to keep
I'm dappled and drowsy and ready to sleep
Let the morningtime drop all its petals on me
Life, I love you
All is groovy!"

Well, I am finally, officially unemployed. It's been two solid months of shock, depression and anguish, but I've put things in order, said the good-byes and handed in the keys. Today is the proverbial first day of the rest of my life, and so far I am loving it. 

This morning I had breakfast with my kid, poured a second cuppa, got comfy on the sofa and listened to C-Span2 Book TV  -- a whole, fascinating program, all the way through (Sam Harris, 'The End of Faith: Religion, Terror, and the Future of Reason'). Laundry is running, I've handled the Superbowl aftermath, and I'm in here playing with my Journal. Life is so good.

I want to apologize to those who posted comments here on my entries about getting laid off. I decided to remove those entries for professional reasons, and I do hope you'll forgive me and come back in to play. I'll certainly be spending more time here and stopping by to read all your wonderful entries.

And with that, I'm off to the gym. Toodles!