Survey Says...Huh?

What's better than a fast, reliable internet connection? A free internet connection. When I first moved into my apartment a few years ago, I was living the good life. For months, I mooched free wireless internet from a tech-unsavvy neighbor who wouldn't know a security key from the back side of a horse. Sure, the connection was painfully slow--I couldn't view videos, even the smallest pictures took hours to load, and my connection seemed to react to the weather like an old man's hip on a cool, damp fall evening. But the price was unbeatable.

Unfortunately, that selfish neighbor either moved away, died, or moved the router out of my computer's range, and my dreams came crashing down to earth. I faced a tough question: could I really justify paying for internet? Finally, enticed by a 6-month introductory offer of $30 a month, I gave in and started paying for my own connection. And I loved it. Streaming videos, listening to music, viewing images, chatting on instant message, reading emails that took less than five minutes to load...it's like Al Gore waived his magic wand and instantly transported me from the AOL-hell of the early 90s to the 21st century.

When those glorious introductory six months came to an end, I didn't hesitate before deciding to continue my service, even at the full price. In six short months, I came to realize that I wasn't just paying for an internet connection--the web had become so much more. The internet was my TV, radio, newspaper, bank, weatherman, tax accountant, mall, library, phone book, and even the metaphorical binoculars that let me peer through my neighbors' windows at night. (Just kidding about that last one....or am I?)

And more importantly, I realized that with just a little effort, I could offset part of that monthly internet bill. Selling old junk on eBay is probably the most widely known source of internet income, but the web also offers a surprising number of less popular money-making opportunities. Plenty of websites offer rewards for filling out surveys, which you can cash in for gift cards or other free stuff. My two favorites are Mypoints.com and eRewards.com, which send emails with links to surveys--the longer the survey, the larger the reward you receive for completing it.



At first, you might be thinking that this sounds like a time-consuming, desperate, and pathetic way to make money. And you're probably right...but over the years, I've received hundreds of dollars worth of free stuff, enough to put a sizable dent in that internet bill. Still, most people just laugh, and even those who aren't immediately turned off by the idea usually take issue with one important aspect of these services: the privacy factor.

Understandably, people find it creepy that by filling out all these surveys, companies across the country will have all kinds of personal information about them--their nationality, where they live, how much money they make, how many kids they have, what kind of car they drive, what they watch on TV. I agree, these are all legitimate concerns. That's why I came up with a simple solution: lying.

And so, as far as the internet is concerned, I'm a 64 year-old African American woman from Woodville, Alabama, with an 8th grade education and a wooden leg. Thanks to my job as a greeter at the Woodville Wal-Mart, I'll pulling down just under $20,000 a year. And though my house may not be much to look at, it's a roof over my head for me and all 17 of my children. My car doesn't look much better than the house, but driving with a wooden leg was never easy anyway.


Yet somehow, despite my rich and colorful history, I manage to fall outside the researchers' target market. After filling out hundreds of these surveys over the years, I've come to realize that the surveys are, generally speaking, extremely predictable. Nearly every one of them asks for the same types of information: consumers' responses to advertisements or new product ideas, insights on shopping habits, or information about consumers' plans to make major purchases like houses or cars. But apparently companies are more interested in the opinions of wealthy white males between the ages of 18 and 49. Lucky for me, these websites still hand out small rewards even when I don't qualify for their surveys.

On the rare occasion that a company is actually interested in the opinion of an elderly woman with no disposable income, I have the opportunity to answer all the questions in the survey. Normally, I'd guess that the process of completing a full survey would take anywhere from 20 to 40 minutes, but that assumes that the respondent is reading the questions and putting actual thought into the answers. Instead, I earn my reward with a 30-second flurry of mindless clicking. None of the work, all of the rewards, and I get to flood the marketing departments of America's corporations with grossly inaccurate and misleading insights about their consumers. In case Ford ever re-launches the 1983 Escort with peg-leg-friendly pedals, let me just say in advance: you're welcome.

I'll admit, at first I was only in it for the free stuff. But along the way, I've stumbled across some real gems that make the whole experience worthwhile, with or without the rewards. As I mentioned before, most of the questions are boring and repetitive, asking about my favorite toaster design, my preferred hardware store, or my plans to switch car insurers. The intentions of the company behind the survey are obvious...usually. Every once and a while, I across a question that leaves me asking, "huh?" Take this one, for example:


I can't help but wonder...who are they targeting with this question, and what kind of product are they trying to sell? My favorite part is that the question doesn't bother offering a "None of the above" option. Because apparently everyone has conducted a business meeting while doing something obscene, illegal, or just downright creepy. I couldn't help but check every box and offer a few more ideas in the "other" section before proceeding.

I can't speak for everyone, but I know that all of my best business meetings took place while I was intoxicated, wearing only my underwear, and beating my children while visiting a close friend in prison. I get choked up with pride knowing that I'm providing companies with valuable insights like these. And best of all, I'm getting paid to do it. With entertainment like this, I can confidently say that I will never be able to live without my internet connection.

The Costly Savings of Sam's Club

When I first joined Sam's Club years ago, I was awe-struck at the tremendous opportunities for savings. For someone who eats enormous quantities of a limited number of foods and has some extra space to store non-perishables, shopping at Sam's Club is the pinnacle of shopping efficiency. Shortly after joining, I picked up a box of fifteen dozen eggs labeled "Packaged for Restaurant Use," which only fit in my meager civilian-sized refrigerator after removing a shelf. As I sit here writing, I'm less than half way through an oversize box of trash bags that I purchased nearly three years ago, and Tide's barrels of laundry detergent easily carry me through a year's worth of laundry before running dry.

The highlight of my membership has to be the cart-filling, 45-roll crate of toilet paper that lasted me...we'll, it didn't last as long as I'd hoped, but then again, I suppose that explains the frequent plumbing-related issues that seem to plague me from time to time. And best of all, the annual membership fee does a reasonable job of weeding out the unsavory, bottom-tier clientele that pack the aisles at Wal-Mart.


Needless to say, I quickly embraced the bulk-buying lifestyle. But in recent months, I've found myself dreading my trips to Sam's Club, and until recently I struggled to pinpoint exactly why I dreaded those shopping trips more than any others. Over three years, I've come to realize that those deep, deep discounts come at a steep, steep price. What Sam's Club brings to the table in savings, its stores fall painfully short in the convenience department.

At the top of my list of grievances is the cornerstone of the club shopping experience: product sampling. Who would have thought that giving away food samples at the end of the aisles could lead to so much misery? The portly patrons of Sam's Club have developed a freakish ability to sense free junk food. When the old ladies fire up their portable microwaves and squeeze into their latex food-serving gloves, a flash-mob immediately swarms the demo stand. I feel like I'm watching a pack of starving, bi-pedal wolves feed on a rabbit carcass made out of pudding and Doritos. I've come to realize that most Sam's Club members view the stores as restaurants, not supermarkets, and they are intent on squeezing every penny out of the annual membership fee every time they set food in the store, one fried mozzarella stick at a time.


Those pear-shaped food fiends are so excited at the prospect of free Hot Pockets that they're incapable of noticing that some people are actually trying to buy groceries. And, sadly, the sample stations sit squarely at the at the ends of the most popular aisles, meaning even the widest lanes are quickly sealed shut by a wall of flab. I never expected to feel claustrophobic in a 20,000 square-foot warehouse.

As the feeding frenzy unfolds, half-empty shopping carts sit in disarray, leaving me with the nearly-impossible task of navigating my shopping cart through a maze of overweight shoppers and general chaos. The situation has gotten so bad that a friend of mine, a frequent victim of the same predicament, suggested carrying decoy snacks with me as I shop as a means of dispersing the crowds, not unlike those movie scenes where burglars throw raw steaks to distract the guard dogs and make their escape.

As if the product sampling wasn't frustrating enough, I nearly reached my breaking point around the holidays. An older man working at a demo stand decided it would be a good idea to sing a Sam's Club-themed song at passers-by. The lyrics sounded like they came straight out of a kindergarten special-ed class, highlighted by an off-key chorus that went something like this: "Thank you for shopping at Sam's Club." Genius. I'm all for taking pride in your work, but after about fifteen seconds I wanted nothing more than to see that guy choke on one of the artificial mini-cream puffs that he was hawking from his demo stand.

In the midst of all the madness I encounter every time I go to Sam's Club, I have to find a way to get my shopping done. Product quality was never an issue in the past, but I'm less than thrilled with Sam's Club's new trend of replacing name-brand products with its own "Member's Mark" products. When Member's Mark chicken first appeared on the shelves at a $0.20/pound discount, I was ecstatic--with the quantity of chicken that I eat, that difference could save me thousands of dollars over the course of a year.


But Member's Mark and I have very different definitions of a few important words, including "boneless" and "chicken." The six pounds of product in each bag contains much, much more than boneless chicken breast. I've found plenty of chicken bones, skin, tendons, cartilage, and a wide variety of parts that I'm not entirely convinced didn't come from raccoons, squirrels, or rats. I guess that will teach me to buy a product whose top ingredient on the back of the package reads "?????".

The label should probably mention something about "assorted animal parts" and put less emphasis on "boneless skinless chicken breast." When Member's Mark chicken mysteriously disappeared from the shelves last month, I was convinced. I have little doubt that someone finally found a whole, feathered chicken in one of those bags. On the positive side, meal time has never been so exciting for me.

For those of us lucky enough to survive the sampling war zone with all of our fingers intact, things hardly improve when it comes time to check out. In just about any store that isn't named after Sam Walton, selecting the optimal checkout lane involves looking for the shortest line. But choosing the best lane at Sam's Club requires significantly more thought and deliberation, since numerous variables come into play. First, check for old people--generally slow-moving, they waste plenty of time unloading commercial-size products from their carts. And worse, they're far more likely to pay with a check, and they're no faster with the pen and checkbook than they are in unloading their carts.

Next, scan the checkout aisles for poor people. Having spent several years working as a cashier, I learned the hard way that something always goes wrong with those food stamp (EBT) debit cards, and the problem is never resolved quickly. I've witnessed my share of philosophical debates between cashiers and dirt-poor customers about why food stamps can't be used to purchase booze or cigarettes. The second potential hang-up comes from food stampers who fail to keep track of the remaining balance on their card. This leads to a painful scenario I like to call "reverse shopping."


The cashier rings up a cart full of groceries, then the customer tries to pay with an EBT card. If the balance is insufficient, the transaction doesn't go through, and the computer system doesn't bother telling the cashier how much money is left on the card. The only remaining option is for the cashier to start voiding items, pausing after each one to let the food stamper swipe the card again until the total falls below the balance on the card and the transaction finally goes through.

And then there are foreigners. I still haven't figured out why, but non-Americans seem to struggle when they get to the cash register. This has never made sense to me, because Americans are world leaders when it comes to laziness and ignorance. People from other countries are generally much smarter than their American counterparts, and even taking language barriers into account, paying for groceries is a fairly straightforward process. Is it dealing with a foreign currency that slows them down? I'm stumped on this one, but all I know is that I always march directly to the back of the line with filled with non-elderly, ignorant Americans who are ready to do what Americans do best: charge stuff on their credit cards.


When I finally find myself at the front of the line, I brace myself for the all-too-familiar sales pitch as the cashier scans the groceries. "Have you heard of our E-Values program?" Sam's Club has some fee-based coupon service that the cashiers have been trained to push on their customers. Since I only buy about five different items from Sam's Club on a regular basis, I have serious doubts that the program could possibly pay off for me. When I tell the cashier I'm not interested, they ask my favorite question: "Don't you like saving money?" I've learned the fastest way to end the sales pitch is to reply, "I'm just so &*$%*!@ rich, I couldn't care less."


With the groceries scanned, I'm almost ready to head for the exits...but not before another jab of inconvenience. Four-pound bucket of beef jerky? Ten dollars. Fifty-pound bag of rice? Nineteen dollars. The ability to pay with any major credit card? Priceless. But not an option at Sam's Club. I've never understood this one, either...Sam's Club doesn't accept Visa cards. Despite the slogan, apparently Visa is not everywhere I want to be--I had to apply for a new MasterCard just so I could use a credit card at Sam's Club. Yet not even a hundred yards away, on the opposite end of the parking lot, Sam's Club accepts Visa cards at the gas pumps.

And finally, even at the exit doors, Sam's Club manages to inconvenience its customers one last time with a laughable attempt at security. A non-English speaking Barney Fife waits at the exit, pretending to match the contents of customers' carts with their receipts. I would take the process much more seriously if the guard (1) could read English, and (2) actually turned the receipt right-side-up as he looked at it. I'm convinced I could walk up with a cart full of plasma TVs and a receipt showing that I purchased a loaf of bread, and the guard would still draw a line though the receipt and mumble something in a foreign language before letting me pass by.

At least shopping at Sam's Club has been a learning experience. When I signed up for my first membership, I never realized that savings could be so costly.

A Major Blip On The Gay-Dar

I have a brand new, spectacular blog post partially completed, but it appears that I'm running out of January without meeting my goal of at least one blog post per month. GMAT preparations have jeopardized my time and rekindled my love affair with hating learning, reading, studying, and education in general. Preparing for that God-forsaken test has shifted my focus from fun, creative, entertaining writing to memorizing the rules of grammar and deconstructing sentences like an ignorant sixth-grader.

And so, to meet my one-blog-post-a-month quota, I'll have to dip into the archives for a brief tale that I have yet to publish on this blog. The story is nearly five years old, but remember--a rerun than you haven't seen before is just as good as a new episode. With that, I must return to my propositional phrases, abstract nouns, and gerunds. I had forgotten just how painful writing can be...thanks for nothing, education!

Until I find the time to finish my new post, enjoy this tale of a trip to the Grand Canyon...where a stranger seemingly had his heart set on exploring my "Grand Canyon"...


Early in the summer of 2006, during a glorious six-week stretch between college graduation and the drudgery of full-time work, I joined my mother on a 10-day vacation to the Southwest. One of our many stops during the trip included several days camping in the Grand Canyon. Unfortunately, my fear of heights prevented us from actually going down into the canyon or anywhere near the edge, so we spent our days hiking along the rim, seeing what we could see from the top.

Between hikes one afternoon, we stopped in the lodge to use the restrooms. Mom asked me to hold onto her camera while she went to the restroom, so I sat down at an empty table to wait for her. As I sat there, I felt someone eyeing me from across the room. I glanced up, and out of the corner of my eye I could see someone staring at me. I tried to avoid eye contact and continued sitting there...but I noticed the person coming toward me.

"Hi." This guy came up to me and introduced himself. Why was this complete stranger talking to me? He was trying to make small talk, so I mumbled one-word answers and stared at the floor, trying my best to discourage any further conversation. "Are you hiking the canyon today?" he asked me. "Maybe..." I answered, knowing full well that I wasn't going anywhere near the edge. By this time, things were getting more awkward by the second.

"You look like a fit guy, I bet you could do it." Red flag!!! The awkwardness increased tenfold. "Yeah," I mumbled back. He finally gave up on his quest to meet his dream man in Arizona and said good-bye and walked off. Up to that point, I was hoping Mom would get back from the restroom so I could either (1) make an excuse that we had to leave and sprint out of there, or (2) pretend she was my much, much, much older wife so that he would get the message that I just don't swing from that side of the plate. Unfortunately, I had to fend off his advances on my own.

I certainly can't blame him, but I still have no idea what inspired the guy to come up and start talking to me. Was I flattered? Absolutely. Curious or interested? Not a bit. But I admire his taste and effort--I can't say that I wouldn't do the same thing if I was gay and spotted myself across the room.

Dreaming of a White Green Christmas...

It was mid-winter 2009, and I faced a potentially disastrous holiday situation. Just hours away from Christmas Eve and lacking even a single roll of wrapping paper, I found myself staring at a mountain of unwrapped gifts. I asked myself what MacGyver would do in such a situation, and I quickly decided I'd have to improvise. While most people would proceed timidly in the face of the unknown, I forged ahead with a confidence that could only come from a strong track record of improvisational success.

My solution, much like myself, was simple and brilliant: newspaper. Whenever I used wrapping paper in the past, the wastefulness of the whole situation made me sick. Paper companies raze miles and miles of forest, and for what? To cover Christmas gifts for a few days, only to watch the paper get torn up and thrown away by December 26th. The wrapping paper industry must have John Denver and dead environmentalist hippies across the world spinning in their graves. I felt quite proud of my creativity and environmental sensitivity as I admired my pile of newspaper-covered gifts.

When Christmas 2010 rolled around, my choice of wrapping paper was a no-brainer: I would once again turn to the newspaper. No additional cost, no additional waste--clearly a win-win situation. Aside from helping out my old friend Mother Nature, I realized that wrapping my gifts with newspaper had a few other benefits that I hadn't considered in 2009.

First of all, wrapping with newspaper allows the gift-giver to custom-match the paper to the recipient. With standard Christmas-themed paper, your choices are pretty much limited to wintry landscapes, images of Santa or reindeer, or the basic red and green-colored paper. But with newspaper, the options are limitless. Giving a gift to an overweight food fiend? Wrap it with a Krispy Kreme or Old Country Buffet ad. An avid follower of business and politics? Wrap that present with a few pages from the Wall Street Journal. When you're selecting a paper for the convicted felon in your life, pull a page or two from the police report section of your local paper.

And it's not just newspaper's versatility that makes it my preferred method of wrapping--it's so much more informative. What can a person really learn from looking at stack of gifts that were wrapped with traditional Christmas paper? Absolutely nothing. I, on the other hand, learned a great deal during my brief gift-wrapping session. In less than thirty minutes that I spent wrapping with newspapers ranging in age from several weeks to several years old, I picked up countless invaluable nuggets of information, including, but not limited to the following: that Hy-Vee ran a sale on prime rib in late December 2009, that the Dow Jones Industrial Average increased by 19 points on May 24, 2005, and that Harold Barnes of Marshalltown, Iowa died at age 78 on June 25, 2008. Not once in all of my previous years wrapping gifts with "normal" paper did I pick up even a fraction of that kind of useful information.

When I finished wrapping, I decided 2010 was the year I'd attack another lingering gift-giving nuisance: the labels. Those sticky little "To/From" rascals seem every bit as wasteful as wrapping paper. And though I've never purchased any myself, I can only assume they're at least as expensive as wrapping paper. Luckily, I'd stumbled across an equally MacGyver-worthy solution a few months before while paging though the December, 2005 issue of BusinessWeek:

My favorite automobile manufacturer, General Motors, printed a full-page "Red Tag Event" ad, complete with actual To/From tags. The only potential snag in this plan was that each tag included a picture of one of GM's various automobile models. My first thought was that my gift recipients might jump to the conclusion that I'd bought them each a new car, but I realized these labels actually worked in my favor. Since they were General Motors cars on the labels, I felt confident that anyone opening one of my gifts would feel an overwhelming sense of relief when they realized that I hadn't burdened them with a lifetime of expensive and frustrating auto repairs. It didn't matter what newspaper-wrapped crap people pulled out of the box; relief and thankfulness were sure to follow.

With the labels in place, my task was complete. I was particularly proud of my wrapping job on one odd-shaped gift. With this cylindrical package, I immediately gave up on aesthetics and went straight for efficiency and practicality. What could have taken days to wrap ended up taking less than 15 seconds:

I avoided tape entirely and opted for three rubber bands and two full-page sheets of newspaper. My heart swelled with holiday spirit as I pictured Santa and Jesus high-fiving each other at the North Pole. I stood back and admired the final result of my tree-saving handiwork:

Sure, my gifts weren't as colorful as some of the others under the tree, but when they're all mixed together, newspaper doesn't look too bad (dim lighting and a slightly blurry photo don't hurt in this case, either):

For those of you who decide to adopt my wrapping strategy next Christmas, be warned that you will inevitably run into people who accuse you of "ruining the holiday spirit" or something similar. The logical rebuttal, obviously, is to accuse those of destroying the earth, and pile on the guilt as you point out their wasteful use of paper, labels, and bows, ribbons, and all that needless holiday decoration. And if they took the time to decorate their house with holiday lights, accuse them of wasting electricity, too.

Having flirted with perfection during the 2010 holiday season, you might find yourself wondering how I can possibly raise the bar again next year. The answer is simple: a Christmas-themed, gift-concealing curtain. This innovative idea is based on my vision of a world in which gift wrapping disappears entirely, suffering the same fate as the telegraph or childhood fitness and academic achievement in America. The exciting part is that I think we can abolish gift wrapping without losing that tremendous sense of anticipation and surprise that comes from unwrapping presents.

For the sake of environmental friendliness, the gift-concealing curtain will, of course, be fashioned out of durable, reusable organic cotton. Each holiday season, families across the country will set up their gift-concealing curtain and simply deposit their unwrapped gifts behind it, saving countless forests and thousands of hours of unnecessary wrapping. To keep the element of surprise intact, you'll have to find a neutral third-party to keep pets, curious children, and potential thieves from sneaking behind the curtain before Christmas. And, of course, this person can help distribute gifts on Christmas morning. I recommend an easily-bribed homeless person, who will jump at the chance to spend part of the winter indoors.

In the past, smiling parents watched their excited children tear the wrapping paper of their gifts on Christmas morning. In the Christmas of the future, parents can sit back and listen to screams of delight as the homeless man in the corner pulls the kids' Christmas gifts from behind the curtain, one at a time. It's my gift to the world--a sustainable Christmas tradition that saves time, money, the environment, and more than a few homeless people. The only sad part is that Christmas 2011 is so far way...

The Malibu Chronicles: Part II

Less than twenty-four hours after clicking the "Publish" button on my previous blog post, I found myself in another blog-worthy situation, courtesy of the Malibu's shoddy window quality. As I mentioned before, when I took the the Malibu to the shop last weekend, I told the mechanics to manually close the window and not to do any other work. I'd try to make it through the winter without a functioning driver's side window and delay the $200+ repair until springtime. For a mere $20, the window was finally closed. But the situation took an unfortunate twist, and so I now present a follow-up to my previous blog post, a tale of my incredible foresight...and unbridled stupidity.

Before I picked up the car, an important thought crossed my mind: aside from voicing my intense distaste for children and cold weather, rolling down my driver's side window is one of the few things that I've done nearly every single day for the past four years. Every time I return home from work, I pull into the parking lot, roll down window, and wave my key fob in front of the reader to open the garage door. Habits like that don't go away overnight...I was feeling pretty smart when I walked in to pick up my car.

I knew there was a good chance that I'd forget the window didn't work, habit would take over, and I'd press the switch without even thinking. I asked the mechanic if there was any chance that even with the switch supposedly not working, that I'd press it and end up with my window stuck in the "down" position again--at $20 a pop, it could get very expensive to have my window manually closed a few times a week for the rest of the winter.

The mechanic told me the switch shouldn't move the window at all--up or down--but if for some reason the window went down and got stuck again, I could remove the switch panel and jiggle the wires while I pressed "up," and I should be able to get it closed. I was feeling pretty pleased with my brilliant foresight as I drove home. And I even remembered not to use my window when I opened the garage door.

And then Saturday arrived. I pulled into the drive-up window at the bank that morning and sat there with my door open like an idiot, but I was beaming with pride for remembering to keep my hands off the window button again. As I drove home after a few more errands, my driver's side window started fogging over. Without thinking, I pressed the "down" button. The window was open about two inches before I realized my mistake. I pressed the "up" bottom, and my unlucky Malibu streak remained intact--the window didn't move.

When I returned home, I immediately went to work on Plan B. I removed the switch panel, jiggled the wires, and incessantly hit the "up" button. Still, the window remained as motionless as an awe-struck fat person watching a cupcake parade. During my fury of wire jiggling and button pressing, I managed to bump the "down" switch again, which is apparently one of the only remaining parts on the Malibu that still functions flawlessly. By the time I abandoned my efforts to get the window up, the opening had widened to four inches, more than enough for someone to easily reach in and unlock the door.

I gave up and unloaded my valuables from the car--I didn't want anyone stealing my collection of vintage CDs that I burned during the late 90s. Driving around on Saturday afternoon was every bit as cold as I expected. To make matters worse, the cars in front of me were caking my windshield with salty road-spray, and using the wipers while the car was in motion would only douse myself and the interior of the car with windshield washer fluid. And so I navigated my way home, peering through the quarter-sized spot on my windshield that was still clean enough to see though. It was around that time that I decided I should probably go ahead and get the window fixed--when I got home, I reluctantly scheduled an appointment for the Malibu the next day.

When I parked the car in the garage that night, I left the ignition key on the seat inside, hoping someone would reach in, unlock the door, and just drive off with my problem. But with the Malibu's track record and my luck, a potential thief would probably climb in, turn the key, and a red "Theft System" light would start flashing while the engine refused to turn over. Sure enough, the car was still there Sunday morning.

A few hours and $225 later, I was once again the proud owner of a fully functional driver's side power window. I was initially upset with myself for having made such a stupid mistake...I could have delayed this expensive mess for a few months if only I hadn't pressed that button. But on the bright side, I realized that my automotive blunders presented a unique and potentially entertaining money-making opportunity.

Those of you who loyally follow this blog (you both know who you are) will recall that one of my main objectives in writing this is to compete with James's Africa blog. He's in the process of raising $8,000 for a new school in his village. I hereby present an additional twist in our dueling-blog challenge: can James raise $8,000 for a school before I reach $10,000 in Malibu repairs?

I know what you're thinking, and it crossed my mind, too. This can't possibly be a fair challenge--doesn't James have a lot more ground to cover in his fund raising journey than I have in my race to $10,000? After all, I started making repairs on the Malibu long before James could even locate Africa on a globe (which occurred sometime around late 2005, if I remember correctly). But let's face it--he has a whole army of friends and family helping him raise funds, and my side consists only of me and a rapidly aging car.

If you've checked James's blog recently, you'll notice that he has a fund raising thermometer on the right side to track his progress. Lucky for me, the fund raising thermometer can also be re-purposed to track auto repair expenses. With this, I declare the official beginning of the challenge:

To make things more interesting, I'll even present an alternative donation option for those who would prefer to support a more..."local" cause. Generous donors who support my noble effort will allow me to accomplish one of two things: (1) help the Malibu chug past the 100,000 barrier, or (2) help fund the purchase of a Nissan 370Z.

If you're like me, you expect to get something in return when you donate to charity. What do you get if you fork over some money for James's school in Africa? Best case scenario, you'll have some short-lived, warm fuzzy feelings, knowing that you helped some impoverished children who you'll never meet learn how to count to ten. Those who help my cause, on the other hand, will receive much, much more.

If the Malibu hangs on long enough, I'm offering my supporters a chance to ride shotgun as the Malibu goes where no Malibu has gone before--that's right, you can sit right there beside me, watching as the odometer rolls past 99,999 and the Malibu joins the elusive 100,000 mile club. If, on the other hand, the more likely scenario plays out and the Malibu dies before reaching that prestigious milestone, my supporters can ride around the block with me in a new 370Z. Either way, donors are welcome to take all the pictures they want of me and the car.

And so, before you reach for your pocketbook to make a donation this holiday season, I encourage you to do what any responsible person would do and ask yourself, "What's in it for me?" Take a look at these pictures--which seems like a better option?

A ride in this...

or donating money to support this, which you'll never actually see in person anyway.

If for some reason you're still on the fence, a simple look at the facts makes the answer that much more obvious: those children in Africa can learn just fine outdoors--the average low temperature in Burkina Faso is something like 70°. Back here in America, if I find myself without a car and try walking to work, I'll freeze to death before I make it out of the parking lot. This weekend's forecast calls for sixteen inches of snow and a high temperature of 4° on Sunday. Seriously! The button's right here...you know what you should do:

Malibu: Spectacular City, Terrible Car

Here's a question for drivers everywhere: what is the value of a functioning driver's side window? That's a question I now find myself debating as the great Chevy Malibu has left me in yet another predicament.

On Thursday afternoon, I noticed the power window switch was sticking a little, but the window was still functioning, so I didn't worry about it much. That night when I rolled the window down to open the garage door, the window initially wouldn't budge when I tried to roll it back up. I eventually got it closed, but I pulled the car into the garage and immediately made a very poor decision: I decided I'd roll the window down just a crack to see if it was still working. Sure enough, it wasn't.

The Malibu sat overnight with the window open about two inches. I was a little concerned about how Friday was going to play out--the forecast called for a snowstorm, and the car would be sitting outside all day. I pictured myself shoveling a snowdrift out of the front seats at the end of the day. Not to mention that driving down the highway with the window open--even a little--would certainly make for a very uncomfortable drive with temperatures below freezing.

Luckily, when I got into the car yesterday morning, the window budged a little more. It was still open, but the crack had narrowed significantly. I still left a towel on the driver's seat all day just in case, but the automobile gods apparently did me a favor after having mocked me for so many years, and the snow didn't start until after I returned home.

I dropped the Malibu off to have the window checked last night, and it didn't take long for them figure out that the power window switch had gone bad. A mere $20 covered the cost of having the mechanics check it out and return the window to it's full upright and locked position, but fixing the problem would cost over $200.

I decided to hold off on the repair, at least for now--after all, I probably won't be driving with the windows down for another six months when it finally warms up again. But the window has rendered the Malibu virtually useless for numerous situations--driving up at the bank, going through restaurant drive-thrus, sleeping in the car on winter road trips, and even opening the garage door at my apartment. So if you see someone standing outside, shivering near a tan Chevy Malibu at a fast food window or a bank, take a second look, because chances are it'll be me.

I'd like to say that the recent window debacle was one of only a few problems with the Malibu, but that's hardly the case. My stack of invoices from auto repair shops continues to grow, and I recently added up the total--in the past four years, the repair and service bills are pushing $6,300, not including oil changes. Granted, some of those repairs--new tires, realignment, etc.--are to be expected with an aging car, but $6,300 is an awfully high number for a car with less than 95,000 miles on in. Plus, that staggering total doesn't even take into account all of the unfixed problems plaguing the mighty Malibu.

The check engine light spends most of it's time glowing brighter than an expectant mother, the unfortunate side effect of a faulty catalytic converter, which would cost around $900 to repair. The Malibu apparently leaks oil like a defunct BP offshore rig, another problem with a $900 solution. And, of course, there's the recent $200 window issue. All that for a car with a Kelley Blue Book value under $2,000...and that assumes the Malibu is in excellent condition...which it very obviously is not.

Perhaps more frustrating of any of these other problems is the infamous "Theft System" issue, which first reared its ugly head in 2007. When the "Theft System" issue occurs, the engine won't turn over and a red "Theft System" light flashes for exactly ten minutes. The car won't start as long as the light is flashing, and when it stops, I get to try the key again. At that point the car will either start or the "Theft System" light will start blinking for another ten minutes, during which the engine once again will not start. So far, I've experienced several back-to-back Theft System delays, but never back-to-back-to-back delays.

After this happened to me a few times, I took the Malibu in for service, and several hundred dollars later, the mechanics claimed that they had "fixed" the problem. For over a year, I started the car without any Theft System delays, though I always wondered in the back of my mind whether the problem would return. Having Googled "Chevy Malibu Theft System problem," I knew that legions of unhappy Malibu owners had experienced the same symptoms with their cars, and not once had I read a complaint where the owner was able to find a mechanic who could permanently solve the problem.

As I feared, the "Theft System" delay returned in late 2008, then mysteriously went away again for over a year. About ten months ago, Mr. Theft System came back once again, leaving me sitting in my car, stranded for 10 to 20 minutes at a time, at least five or six times a week. I quickly learned two important lessons: (1) If I had something important scheduled and I couldn't afford to show up late, I needed to leave at least 20 minutes earlier than I otherwise would, and (2) time grinds to a virtual stand-still when you're sitting in a car, waiting for that *&#$% blinking light to go off. I always made sure to have some magazines laying around the car to help pass the time. Lucky for me, the Theft System problem returned to its dormant state before winter set in, but it's anyone's guess when it will strike again.

And finally, I reach the point of this pathetic tale: how on earth did the Chevy team who designed this monstrosity finally decide to name it "Malibu?" I've been driving this car for more than seven years and have yet to find a single similarity between one of the most beautiful, wealthy, and exclusive areas in the country and Chevy's sorry excuse for an automobile.


Ironically, if you drive through Malibu, California, there's a good chance that you won't find a single Chevy Malibu within ten miles of the city limits. General Motors should be liable for false advertising. If the design team felt obligated to name the car after an L.A. suburb, it would be far more appropriate if I was driving a Chevy Compton, or at best, a Chevy Van Nuys. Honestly, I really think they should have broadened their geography, because I can't think of a more deserving name than the Chevy East St. Louis.


If only it was possible to dig up an old transcript from the meeting where the geniuses at Chevy got together to brainstorm a name for this monster...I wouldn't be surprised to find a conversation that went something like this:

High school intern: "What do you guys think of this new model?"
Engineer 1: "This is the worst summer intern project ever--we'll be lucky if a single one of these cars makes it to 100,000 miles."
High school intern: "So you're not going to launch it?"
Engineer 1: "I didn't say that. Lucky for you, we don't have any quality standards."
Engineer 2: "What should we call this new model?"
Engineer 1: "Let's call it...the Malibu!"
Engineer 2: "Doesn't that seem a little misleading, what with the poor quality and all the design flaws?"
Engineer 1: "Who cares...with a name like Malibu, we could build this thing out of craft sticks, macaroni, and superglue and people would still buy it."

I find it odd that General Motors decided on such a grossly inaccurate name for this particular model, especially when their previous "Like a Rock" ad campaign for the Chevy brand was remarkably spot-on. When I think about large, awkward, immobile objects that remind me of rocks, the first image that comes to mind is my 1998 Chevy Malibu.


P.S.: You'll never find anything this entertaining on James's Africa blog. The closest thing you'll get to a transportation problem there is a story about an underfed pack mule or a flat tire on his Peace Corps-issued Huffy.

'Accidental' Furniture Theives and the Break Room Bandits

Last weekend when I went downstairs to check the mail, a flyer on the bulletin board above the mailboxes caught my eye, with "Missing" written in large, bold letters across the top. My initial hope was that one of the children in the building had been kidnapped--specifically, the crying baby whose crib apparently sits directly on the opposite side of the wall where I try to sleep.


Unfortunately for me, that wasn't the case. But what the flyer lacked in good news, it made up for with hilarity. Apparently a dresser went missing during a recent move-in. The theft itself wasn't the funny part, though. The best part? The building owner's reluctance to accuse someone of what was obviously an intentional act of theft: "If you have seen a small brown dresser or taken it by mistake..."

It's happened to all of us, right? You're sitting in your living room watching TV when something catches your attention out of the corner of your eye. You turn your head to investigate, and seconds later you find yourself wondering, "Where the *%@# did that coffee table come from?" You don't remember hauling the table into your house, so the only logical explanation is that you "accidentally" saw an unattended piece of furniture, "accidentally" asked a friend to help you move it, and it "accidentally" ended up in your living room.

I wasn't too concerned that I was living among thieves, but I shuddered at the realization that my work life and home life were unexpectedly colliding. I have no idea who stole the dresser, but I'm sure that person must work in an office, and they perfected their "accidental" thievery in the break room. How do I know this? I've witnessed an outbreak of similar crimes at work in recent months.

This past summer, as part of a week-long funding raising event, the organizing committee placed a small, car-shaped bank near the vending machines where people could donate spare change. By 9:30AM on Monday (the first day of the fund raiser!), a mass-email came out that read something like this: "It appears that someone has mistaken the red car bank in the south break room as a give-away. However, the bank was placed there to collect donations for the Diverity Week Fund Raiser. We understand how this accident might have occurred, but we ask that the person who took the bank please return it to the break room as soon as possible." The bank was returned later that day.

Less than two weeks later, the sales department held another event (referred to as T.O.S.S., an acronym for "Throw Out Superfluous Stuff"), encouraging employees to organize their desks, throw out old files, etc. In the middle of the afternoon, the organizers set large baskets of complimentary snacks in the break rooms as a reward for the day's clean-up efforts. Around 3PM, an eerily familiar mass email showed up in my inbox: "Would the person who took the basket from the north break room please return it. The basket was part of the T.O.S.S. event and was not intended to be a give-away." No word on whether the basket ever showed up again.

As strange as these events might seem, I really wasn't surprised--after a few years of work, I've noticed that my co-workers have turned the break rooms into earth-bound black holes. Anything--and I mean anything--that gets set in the break room is gone within seconds. Interestingly, it's the same group of culprits every time...a group relatively small in number but large in both body mass and circumference. Despite sitting nowhere near either of the break rooms on our floor, this group has somehow developed a sixth sense for detecting free food.

It would seem that these people have devised a thoroughly-planned strategy in which they "steak" out all of the conference rooms around lunchtime, hunting for meetings that feature a catered meal. The instant a meeting lets out and the leftovers are set out for the taking, it looks like a stampede of water buffalo. Once inside the break room, the scene that unfolds vaguely resembles an overweight SWAT team storming a crime scene. I'm waiting for the day when National Geographic photographers show up to capture this unique urban phenomenon.


The sad truth: it doesn't matter what gets set on those counters. All that matters is that it's free, and more often than not, it's food. Food safety concerns? Not for these portly scavengers. Mayonnaise sitting out at room temperature for nine hours? Not a problem. And I get the impression that the actual taste of the food is equally unimportant. I'd be willing to bet good money that a bowl of expired dog food sitting in the break room would get eaten, and it probably wouldn't take more than about fifteen minutes.

Normally this odd ritual doesn't concern me--I just try to stay out of the way as I admire nature's savage, twisted beauty from a distance, a scene reminiscent of a pack of hungry wolves tearing apart a carcass at mealtime. But the increasing aggressiveness of these break room bandits has become downright alarming. They've evolved from hoarding leftovers: they're now starting to dabble in blatant intra-refrigerator theft. If anything in the refrigerator appears as if it might be unclaimed leftovers, it's as good as gone. I've fallen victim to one of these attacks myself.

This past summer, I received a boxed lunch at at meeting. I had already eaten, so I set it in the refrigerator to take home that night. I even tried to stay one step ahead of my enemies and strategically placed the box inside a bag in the refrigerator. When I returned at the end of the day to retrieve the lunch, I found an empty bag. My brilliant plan had been foiled, and based on conversations with a few other co-workers, I wasn't the first victim of such a devious scheme.

These outlaws are surprisingly stealthy, which is particularly impressive considering their ample carriage--to my knowledge, not a single member of the gang has been caught in the act. If a witness ever catches one of the culprits red-handed and full-mouthed, I imagine the first excuse will be something like, "I thought it was free to take! I didn't see anyone's name on it!" Keeping that in mind, I now clearly label everything I place in the refrigerator with my name...though given the trend toward more aggressive break room antics, I'm not sure how long that tactic will protect me.

So what should we, the normal-sized, non-frenzied food fans do about this issue? I regret to admit that I don't have the perfect solution to this expanding problem. My only idea thus far is to take advantage of this opportunity for a potentially groundbreaking sociological experiment that will test the moral and gastrointestinal limits of the break room bandits. So far, I've tried unloading way-past-expiration Hamburger Helper samples that had gone ignored and forgotten in my desk drawer at work for more than a year. Once placed in the break room, they were gone within minutes.

In the coming months, I plan to expand this experiment, test my dog food theory, and answer a few other burning questions. Just how far past expiration is too far? Does "too far" even exist for the break room bandits? Would a sign marked "Not Fit For Human Consumption" sitting next to a plate of cupcakes even slow them down? It seems like a fair trade-off: they pillage the refrigerator, and society makes some important discoveries in human psychology.