The Plague, the Bitch, PIFs, and the Sex Party

The Plague
I got sick last week. Head stuffed up, fever, chills. I took two days off from work and felt sorry for myself. As it happens, I’m using this as an excuse for why I haven’t written for a while.

Fortunately for me, I’m all better now (well, I’m at about 95%, with some lingering head-stuffiness that appears determined to stay). Unfortunately, this doesn’t excuse me from not writing anymore.

The Bitch
During the peak of my battle with the plague, my wife and her parents held a garage sale at our house. We’d accumulated a garagefull of junk, including our old couch. It’s a three-seater made of brown blended leather. We used to watch TV and eat dinner on it when we were apartment dwellers.

We’ve since replaced it with sectional black leather couches, which Meg doesn’t like. Actually, she’s got a point. I don’t much like the new couches either, because when I watch TV on it, I inevitably slink down farther and farther until my head is propped up and my body is slumped awkwardly.

Anyway, our old couch stayed in our garage for about a year and we sold it to a Latino woman who talked us down to $50. Fine, whatever. I’d just as soon get it out of the garage than recoup any kind of money on the thing. The woman offered us a “down-payment” of $30 and promised to return the next day with a truck to pick it up. Meg and I hesitated and finally accepted the deal.

The next day came and she didn’t show up at the promised hour. Meg called her.

Meg: “Are you coming to pick up the couch?”

Woman: “Uh, my friend with the truck hasn’t come yet. I’ll call him and call you back.”

Minutes later, the woman called us back and said that her friend with the truck wasn’t available. She asked if Thursday afternoon would be acceptable instead.

When I came home from work on Thursday afternoon, I noticed the couch still in the garage. “The woman didn’t pick up the couch, I take it?” I asked.

“Oh yeah,” Meg said. “I forgot.”

“Apparently she did, too,” I grumbled.

Meg called her on Friday: “Are you coming to pick up the couch?”

Woman: “Uh, how about 8 AM on Saturday?”

So naturally, the woman didn’t arrive at 8 AM this morning. I called her at 9 AM.

Me: “Are you coming to pick up the couch?”

The woman responded in Spanish, and then switched to English: “How about this afternoon?”

Me: “You said you were going to come at 8 AM. We can’t keep changing the time for you. If you can’t pick it up, we’ll just give it to Goodwill and send you your $30 back.”

Woman: “Uh, my friend with the truck hasn’t come yet. I’ll call him and call you back.”

The woman called back a few minutes and asked if 10 AM would work. “It’s a long way to get the truck from my friend….”

I agreed to 10 AM. She finally arrived at 10:20 AM and picked up the damned couch.

The moral of the story? Don’t sell things for a later pickup at garage sales. If they can’t haul it off right now, then the deal’s off. If the woman doesn’t show up soon, Meg and I are driving the damn couch down to Goodwill and donating it.

PIFs
My boss and I watched a webinar from the Credit Union National Association (CUNA) about training effectively. The speaker proclaimed that he had 10 secrets to training that would “knock your socks off.” My boss and I exchanged skeptical looks. Unsurprisingly, my socks stayed firmly on my feet during his presentation.

One of his points was that you shouldn’t call yourself a “trainer.” You should call yourself a “Performance Improvement Facilitator.”

My boss said to me, “I’m going to have change your job title—Performance Improvement Facilitator Administrator?”

“A rose is a rose…” I sighed.

I don’t understand why it’s helpful to rename common terms. It’s clear what a trainer is. A Performance Improvement Facilitator? Really?

The rest of the webinar was equally supercilious nonsense and we bailed halfway through.

Sex Party
Meg has her next OB-GYN appointment on February 14. This one’s the big one—ultrasound, checking for birth defects, and finding out the sex of the baby.

When Meg told this to her parents, she invited them to dinner that evening. “Nobody wants to go out to eat on Valentine’s Day anyway,” she said.

“Yeah, and we can have a sex party!” I added, and immediately regretted my phrasing. “Err, know the baby’s sex party. Know the sex.”