Posted on Craig’s List:

What am I doing wrong?

Okay, I’m tired of beating around the bush. I’m a beautiful 25 year old girl. I’m articulate and classy. I’m not from New York. I’m looking to get married to a guy who makes at least half a million a year. I know how that sounds, but keep in mind that a million a year is middle class in New York City, so I don’t think I’m overreaching at all.

Are there any guys who make 500K or more on this board? Any wives? Could you send me some tips? I dated a business man who makes average around 200 – 250. But that’s where I seem to hit a roadblock. $250,000 won’t get me to Central Park West. I know a woman in my yoga class who was married to an investment banker and lives in Tribeca, and she’s not as pretty as I am, nor is she a great genius. So what is she doing right? How do I get to her level?

Here are my questions specifically:

• Where do you single rich men hang out? Give me specifics — bars, restaurants, gyms
• What are you looking for in a mate? Be honest guys, you won’t hurt my feelings
• Is there an age range I should be targeting (I’m 25)?
• Why are some of the women living lavish lifestyles on the upper east side so plain? I’ve seen really ‘plain jane’ boring types who have nothing to offer married to incredibly wealthy guys. I’ve seen drop dead gorgeous girls in singles bars in the east village. What’s the story there?
• Jobs I should look out for? Everyone knows – lawyer, investment banker, doctor. How much do those guys really make? And where do they hang out? Where do the hedge fund guys hang out?
• How you decide marriage vs. just a girlfriend? I am looking for MARRIAGE ONLY

Please hold your insults — I’m putting myself out there in an honest way. Most beautiful women are superficial; at least I’m being up front about it. I wouldn’t be searching for these kind of guys if I wasn’t able to match them — in looks, culture, sophistication, and keeping a nice home and hearth.

THE ANSWER

Dear Ms. Pretty,

I have read your post with great interest. Guess there are lots of girls out there who have similar questions like yours. Please allow me to analyze your situation as a professional investor. My annual income is more than $500k, which meets your requirement, so I hope everyone believes that I’m not wasting time here.

From the standpoint of a business person, it is a bad decision to marry you. The answer is very simple, so let me explain. Put the details aside, what you’re trying to do is an exchange of “beauty” and “money”: Person A provides beauty, and Person B pays for it, fair and square. However, there’s a deadly problem here, your beauty will fade, but my money will not be gone without any good reason. The fact is, my income might increase from year to year, but you won’t be prettier year after year. Hence from the viewpoint of economics, I am an appreciation asset, and you are a depreciation asset. It’s not just normal depreciation, but exponential depreciation. If beauty is your only asset, your value will be much worse ten years later.

By the terms we use in Wall Street, every trading has a position, dating with you is also a “trading position”. If the trade value dropped we will sell it and it is not a good idea to keep it for long term – same goes with the marriage that you wanted. It might be cruel to say this, but in order to make a wiser decision any assets with great depreciation value will be sold or “leased”. Anyone with over $500k annual income is not a fool; we would only date you, but will not marry you. I would advise that you forget looking for any clues to marry a rich guy. And by the way, you could make yourself to become a rich person with $500k annual income. This has better chance of success than finding a rich fool.

Hope this reply helps. If you are interested in “leasing” services, do contact me…

Motivation = Zero

I have somewhere in the neighborhood of six or six and a half million things that ABSOLUTELY positively NEED to be done RIGHT NOW! And all I want to do is overeat and take a nap, preferably at the same time. (It can be done. Trust me.)

George

I love indoor plants. I absolutely love seeing how people can transform a room into an indoor garden, bringing the feeling of summer indoors year-round. Feeling the tranquility and calmness of a summer’s day in a person’s living room in the middle of winter is a wondrous thing.

Us? We have one plant. His name is George.

Sadly, I tend to over-love plants and kill them. I love them so much I want to pinch their little cheeks and water them six times a day and move them constantly so they’re always in a patch of light…

So far George has avoided this fate. I’ve forced myself to be very hands-off with George, letting him find his own way in the world. (I assume Beloved Wifey is watering him. I hope.) We got George in Sioux Falls last summer after one of Wifey’s myriad doctor’s appointments. He looked so happy sitting there in the entryway of a health food store (I bought some organic popcorn) that we just had to have him. He rode merrily home in the back seat of the car, looking out the window at the passing scenery.

I hope he’s happy.

Le Sigh

I’ve only gotten three small projects finished so far this morning. None of them are for paying customers. No wonder we’re broke.

I just don’t feel well today.

It makes me sad. I’ll think of something funny and will write a quick Facebook post about it, then I’ll delete it before pushing the button. Invariably I can think of how someone could turn it into a conflict of some kind, or misunderstand my words and take something personally. I hate conflict. I truly do.

I’d be more apt to go to a gym if their commercials showed fat, middle-aged, sweaty folks like myself struggling through an exercise rather than peppy, 120-pound teenagers bouncing off the walls, grinning the whole time.

Also, if they’d move the gym closer to my house, that would help. Like, in my living room. I get winded if I have to walk much farther than that.

Oh, and none of this matters as I’ll never go to a gym anyway, ever.

If you’re selling puppies for two hundred dollars each on facebook for the fourth time in less than a year because “it was an accident the mom got pregnant again before i could get her spaded,” expect to get some flack from people who, you know, love dogs. And can spell “spayed.”

You can’t keep that poor mother pregnant forever, you’re killing her. You know how this happens. Give your dog a break!

They say you dream so your brain can revisit and process the day’s events. What do my dogs dream about? Their last nap? All they do is sleep…

We don’t sleep ALL the time, sometimes we just nap.

I haven’t been able to fit my hand in a Pringle’s can in 35 years, but that doesn’t stop me from trying. Every. Single. Time.

The world needs fewer songs about sex, violence, and cars, and more songs about dogs. Doggies are nice.

Often I’m more intrigued by an object’s shadow than I am with the object itself. The shadow changes, minute by minute, season by season, while the object stays the same.

There is a certain amount of shame that comes with eating an entire can of Pringles in one day. But after you’ve done it a few times you get over it.

We’ve been getting a nasty, blasty south wind pretty consistently the past few years, which is no fun as we have no windbreak to the south other than the neighbor’s hog confinement (did you know that turkey bacon tastes just as good as “normal” bacon?) – the wind just whips through here. I’ve planted some trees to the south, and will plant more trees when the opportunity presents itself, but I’ve been wondering lately if I shouldn’t just build a big wall around my acreage. But then I’d have to start referring to it as “The Compound” and I’d probably end up on some government watch list for kooks. Kooks in Kompounds.

If I ever see that gecko…

…I’m gonna strangle him. I often fall asleep with one hand in the popcorn bowl, the TV flickering merrily away in the corner. But invariably, at some time during the night, that stupid dumb rotten miserable Geico gecko will start hollering about his stupid dumb rotten miserable flat tire, and it’ll startle me and I’ll jerk and spill popcorn all over the place. The rest of the night I have merry dreams of feasting on roasted gecko for breakfast.

http://youtu.be/4njS23NvzPU?t=15s

Honestly, since the CALM Law went into effect last year, I don’t know how Geico gets away with it. (The CALM Law is an example of what good Congress can do if they can cooperate for twelve seconds. Advertisers can’t have their commercials blaringly loud any more. That’s a good thing!) But if I ever catch that damned gecko, I’m going to holler at him. Loudly. And I shan’t buy their stupid dumb rotten lousy insurance, either.

Math Is Important

Fourteen Pringles chips = Joy

Fifteen Pringles chips = Upset Tummy

Harumph

Dear Disapproving Neighbor,

If you don’t want to see me wandering around in my undershorts, you shouldn’t drive by when I’m gardening.

Sincerely,
Me

Credibility Lost

I don’t often get time to watch the local news, but I’ll peek at our local stations’ web sites every now and then to try to keep up. I’m consistently appalled at the atrocious spelling and grammar mistakes. The last article I read consistently called the Taylor family “the tailors.”

Yes, you’re in a hurry to fine your story, but take the minute and a half necessary to glance over it. You’re losing credibility. *shakes fist feebly in the air*

Well, Shoot

I was going to watch football this afternoon, but it looks like I’ll have to watch a Vikings game instead. Ah well.

I found my dog’s diary on the computer this afternoon. Kinda interesting.

Jantober 93, 1527

Hallo! My name is Zoey and I’m 927 years old. Or three. It’s hard to tell – I’m a dog. Time is a monkey invention. I just guess. I have two monkeys and a pet Goldy Treever puppy and there are two Feline Overlords in charge of the place. We used to live in a stinky town, but now we live in the stinky country. There are piggies just over the hill in a big building. I can smell 4,287 of them. I used to go there to visit and eat nummies every once in a while before Papa Monkey thought it would be a good idea to “put a stop to all that nonsense.” Now I don’t go very far any more. It’s okay, I like my yard.

My yard is a nice yard. It’s sixty-three miles long and fourteen inches wide, I’d guess. (What do I know about distances, I’m a doggie.) When I barks at the squirrel by the deck he has six trees to hide in before he gets to the woods. That’s how big my yard is! I can poop in a different spot every day!

Mama Monkey is nice to us, but we can’t nap in her kennel. Papa lets us sleep in his kennel, though. I sleep at the bottom of the bed where I can watch the funny TV better. My Goldy Treever puppy, she sleeps up by Papa Monkey. I laughs because sometimes she sticks her front paws in Papa Monkey’s face when he’s sleeping and he says a bad word.

Marvember 192, 3527 (or whatever)

Today was a good day! My pet Goldy Treever, Buttercup, woke me and Papa Monkey up. We all went outside to do pees except Papa Monkey and Mama Monkey and the Feline Overlords, so I guess it was just just Buttercup and me, but we peed. Then Papa Monkey gived us food and we ate it all. Then we took a nap in our little kennels because Papa Monkey said our feet were wet and we couldn’t go and nap in his big kennel with the TV.

When we woke up we went outside and peed, then Papa gave us more food and we ate it all, then we took a nap. When Mama Monkey came home from “work,” wherever that is, we woke up and gived her hugs, then we went to bed. What a good day!

Stardate 2972.5 (or whatever)

Today Papa Monkey told me and Stinky Buttercup to go outside and play, and he kicked us outside. I peed, then I got bored and so I barked at a tree for ten minutes and Papa let us back in again. I think he was upset – when he opened the door he said very sternly, “Goddam it, unless there’s a Bigfoot on fire running down the lane waving a rocket launcher I want you to shush up, you silly idiot!” Then he patted me on the head and I took a nap.

Quintilis XXVI, MMXIII (or whatever)

I fell asleep in the flower garden today and a flutterbye landed on my nose. It made me crosseyed to look at it, but it had beautiful wings. Then I sneezed and it went away.

Mama quit going to work a long time ago, but she doesn’t play with me or Stinky Buttercup. She just lays in her kennel. She doesn’t even watch her TV or anything. Papa sometimes stands by her door and watches her sleep.

Junuary 37, 1075 (or whatever)

Me and Stinky Buttercup napped for a bit today, then we pretend-fighted for a while, then we napped for a bit, then we barked at a squirrel (he gived us a dirty look). Papa played frisbee with Stinky Buttercup for a while. That’s so stupid – he throws the frisbee then Stinky Buttercup has to run and get it. She keeps bringing it back to Papa, but he just goes off and throws it again, silly monkey. I just watches.

Last Tuesday (or whatever)

Oh happy day! I got to nap with Mama for a bit, then I got to nap with Papa for a bit, and Stinky Buttercup had to stay in her own little kennel. HAHAHAHA! But I missed her and so Mama let her out and then we all hugged on the couch all together and that was nice!

I loves my family! Even the Feline Overlords.