A site meter is a nifty device, folks.
Though I have not written since Febuary of this last year, I know I am still being read.
Therefore, I feel like I have an obligation to come back and let you know what's going on, my latest adventures (drama) and so forth.
Thank you for the additional follows too. When I am not posting from
my iPhone I shall follow you back.
More to come very soon!
Most likely tomorrow...
Friday, October 28, 2011
Monday, January 3, 2011
I am appalled that I, like probably millions of other Americans, on this fine New Year's week, join the shameful ranks of repentant smokers.
It's like saying, "Hey, did you hear Entrepreneur Chick robbed a bank with two hostages she kidnapped from daycare while she was high on crystal meth?"
I would never do that!
Uh huh; and I would never smoke.
Hide the coke and the toddlers.
But let a life crisis hit you that's big enough to knock you right down to your knees, and then we'll just see if you light up or not.
Don't sit over there and be so judgmentally smug.
It's flat unattractive.
My crisis is over now. A thing of the past.
There is no good reason to continue smoking and I know it.
January first rolls around and I have to do the most logical thing at the most logical time.
I am smoke free, people!
Three days and counting.
Three days and counting.
Here's how I did it.
(I'd charge for this but it's just stupid easy.)
Maintain the very same habits you did while you smoked.
Did you step outside to smoke? Go outside.
I only smoked outside. Hopefully you do too.
Take a cigarette out there with you.
I know, right?
Aren't you supposed to be avoiding that, and yet I am asking you to grab one anyhow?
Light your cigarette with your pretend lighter and mimic all the same movements as when you smoked.
This is a powerful trick and it works!
Blow the smoke out.
Watch it disappear into the cold January air.
Here is the key reason why this method will work for you.
Smoking is a habit.
Use the same habit to STOP!
Friday, November 12, 2010
I don't know if ceiling cat exists- but I do know this does.
The two irrepressible and unshakable truths about business, any business are:
(1) There will always be a marketplace.
(2) There will always be a market trend.
So- no matter what crazy and silly and far fetched product or service you may have; I can guarantee you there's a market for it out there somewhere!
How about some of these ideas:
Notice how it even has air holes? Clever!
Totally have to have one of these.
Once a month believe me, neither you or I, will need a Mood Ring to let you know what sort of nasty disposition I have. But, if you don't like it, go fly one of these:
(Who would have thought to blow up a kite?)
And now for something I can and do really use:
When I am on the yacht, it's a very long walk from the marina to the shore so Eliot, my loyal and loving Yorkie who everyone in the entire universe loathes but me; can do his business.
Everyone was skeptical about how this was going to work out; she said,
"Yeah right. Eliot will pee near or close by but not actually on that stupid thing."
Well, ha. Eliot did pee where he was supposed to go- and for that nifty convenience, Potty Patch makers, I thank you.
I also purchased him some of these:
It's what you know about the market place and what you know about the trend that's going to be the ultimate determiner of your success.
More about knowing the market place and market trends next time...
Thursday, October 7, 2010
"Yeah, so the assistant principle called this morning."
"Well, he had a lock on his locker at school."
"Locks aren't allowed."
"So, you can't lock anything in your locker?"
But why did the child in my family feel it necessary to place a lock on his locker?
Because, the little visionary had two vitally important commodities in there!
Unlike most kids, when this nine year old came across several trinkets Entrepreneur Chick had left over from her company- bouncy balls, balloons, pencils- that sort of thing- rather than just think himself lucky for the score- this kid saw an opportunity.
He correctly surmised that these were some pretty valuable items out on the playground.
He then becomes an informal sales representative for whatever doo dad he can get his hands on!
Sure, he starts with my stash, but he quickly learns how to re-invest his earnings and buy more assets.
He also learns how to invest in assets and up charge, making the deferential, which in turn, gives you the profit; giving you the cash flow.
Cash flow is king and does he ever know it.
Apparently he's paying attention when I've been teaching him about business.
I also teach him, "You don't start anything with anyone. BUT if someone starts something with you- you make sure you finish it. Got me, kid?"
But now, he finds himself in hot water with the school.
No locks on the locker- that I can understand.
But to tell the kid he can't sell at school?
I have a little time on my hands before I start to rock and roll again.
(Gotta get the d-i-v-o-r-c-e.)
So, you know, a little skirmish with the school sounds like something I might be interested.
Also sounds like something the American Civil Liberties Union would be interested.
Let's get this straight:
A nine year old can not sell anything on the playground BUT it is perfectly okay for the same kid and the entire student body population, to dutifully take catalogs home to parents, parent's co-workers, cousins, aunts, uncles, ex wives, etc. and any one who can generally fog a mirror- to the end that the school may be subsidised- because we know for sure that property taxes, federal funding, bonds, and even the lottery
ain't cuttin' it!
Oh, thou wonderful child! Sell for thy state.
Oh, thou evil child! Sell not for thy self.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
So she says, "I need to tell you about last week when I had both a butterfly and a dragonfly on my finger in the same day. They were both trapped in my house at different points, and I freed them.
I need to tell you about dreaming of a sugarlaced lemon tree so glorious that gazing up into it was like eating the sun."
Yes, yes, yes- tell me about these things. I need to know. I can't stand the ordinary anymore. I can't stand my life anymore. Write. You write. Come back. Sensual, delightful Susan. I'm listening. Go on...
"I need to tell you about the lessons bats have been trying to teach me about surrender and rebirth, about echolocation, in which bats navigate in the dark by using their voices to create sounds that reverberate off objects - the ability to see with the ears, to hear with the voice. Because by telling you, I have a greater chance of really learning the lessons, internalizing and integrating them. I too hear with my voice. I learn by teaching."
Susan concludes- "And now, just by writing all this, I feel lighter, happier, inspired, free. It occurs to me that this post follows a similar structure to some of the biblical psalms that start out with a lament and end with praise because by writing the lament the psalmist has seen the joy again.
Now I see that the writing I haven't been doing had hardened around me like ice, that scraps of light left unshared leave me cold, and once that happens, I have to write into the cold to break through it.
The fire must be tended or it dies out. The fire must be fed, and for me that means writing it."
She's very brave. Braver than me. I write about those things practical in nature- or I had, mostly. Business. As usual.
Now that he's gone, I see there's so much I'd stuff. Push down. Not say. Inappropriate. Scandalous. So what? What have I got to lose anymore, exactly? Nothing. That's what.
This is where I live.
The house is old. How old I do not know. Perhaps from the late '40s. Early '50s.
How many Christmases? How many excited parents, brothers, sisters, cousins, lovers have rung the bell here on that day; arms loaded with gifts- and turkey and pumpkin and cinnamon floating sweetly from the kitchen on chill December air? I can not tell.
Deaths. Disappointments. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Love. It all happened right here- sometimes at night I feel their ghosts, and sometimes when I'm standing on the porch in mid afternoon. I think of them. They don't know me, but I know them.
The old woman has lived sixty years here- across the street and two doors down, a tidy red brick home- a pristine grey Crown Victoria- warns me after I say, "Well, I'm not afraid."
"Now honey, you need to be afraid. Don't talk to them. Crack houses you know. Mmm. Yes."
So tells me of her son's orphanage in west Texas, or was it east? "I don't tithe to my church. No. I give my money to the children because I know that that money is going into starving little mouths. Mmmm."
The white picket fence that wraps forlornly around the drive is missing two boards.
I'll fix that. Yeah. Someday I'm going to pick up those two boards and fix that.
The trees form a melancholy arch over the same rock drive when it rains- and when it snows, as it sometimes snows in Texas, looks just like a picture from my book as a child- "The Snow Queen".
Pigeons congregate on the high telephone wires in the backyard- looking down on our affairs here in a rather judgemental fashion if you ask me.
Yeah? Well guess what? I hear in New York City they call you "rats with wings" so what do you think of that?
Yellow jackets built a lively, threatening nest above the door of the detached garage, permanently swung open- glass broken- I didn't do it, it was HIS fault! Why are you always blaming me? God! So defends the indignant nine year old. What are we going to do about the bees? I don't know what to do about the bees. I have enough to worry about without worrying about these damn bees. Wait. Let me worry about the bees.
El Mariachi Terry's Super Macado is the grocery store. What does "macado" mean? Does it mean "stinky"? Because it certainly is. Oddly, I don't mind. The salsa music blasting from invisible stereos strategically placed all over the store make me happy and lift my downcast spirits- I dance in the isles when no one's looking. Sometimes I dance when they are. Afterall, I know how to salsa.
We fight about racial issues.
"Put those ugly ass light up jelly shoes BACK!" she yells at me.
"Why? We are hispanics now, we like this sort of thing."
"Can you go back to your school and tell them that we do not speak spanish in this house, that you are only half hispanic and you don't know a word of it, and not to send letters home written in only Spanish?"
But the school compromises. One side of the marquee is in Spanish, and the other, English. Yet on Friday I only counted three white kids in the cafeteria as I ate with Tito. I don't believe they need to bother, do you?
"So Eliot", she sarcastically says to my Yorkie, "Welcome to the barrio. Your little "prince" dish doesn't fit in here quite so much now, does it?"
The physics mathematician lives catty corner to us in a white frame house, sturdy on it's high concrete foundation. He will give the kids a dollar if they can correctly solve a math problem.
Word is he had a big fight with his girlfriend. Doors lock. She's screaming in her bra and panties. Father comes to collect her in the middle of the night.
He tells me, "I was putting so much time into that relationship, I couldn't get anything else done."
"A broken relationship is better than a broken marriage," I say. He doesn't know I know about the bra and panties.
"Yes! Yes, that's so true! Would you like to get together for a drink?"
I would. But I don't want to be outside in my bra and panties so I'm going to watch myself.
The recycle guy comes by every other week, Mondays, in his big green truck.
Oh no! I've forgotten to put out our container! We have to recycle. Otherwise the regular trash is going to fill up far too fast and breed maggots. Charming.
I rush outside in my genuine diamond tiara.
"As you can clearly see- I am the queen. Could you please back up and collect my bin?"
"Oh, I can see that! Is it your birthday?"
He freezes. He smiles. He doesn't know what to say back.
She's crazy. That's what she is, she's crazy.
Well of course I'm fucking crazy. You would be too if you just had the week I had.
I throw myself down on the kitchen floor, crying inconsolably. I think of Amy Winehouse- i cry for you on the kitchen floor- i told ya i was trouble- you know i'm no good.
Can't eat. Can't sleep. Can't function. Gripping fear. It's gone. It's back.
Take a walk. That's what you need to do.
But damn it!
I run and scream.
The boys down the street in the Mexican gang; colors and tatoos, walk past me.
Obviously I'm trying out maneuver that stupid ass bee, that lives in that stupid ass bush.
"BEE!" I exclaim to them.
(See, the recycle guy thinks I'm crazy but I'd rather you guys not think so.)
"Shit." they say.
"No shit." I say back.
What? I can hang. I've got some swagger of my own, you know. I can out salsa and out merengue and out cha-cha and out samba all of you, so don't try me. I knew who Daddy Yankee was before you did, I'd bet. I might look white but I ain't. Gasolina!
I'm mad at everybody. Them. The bee. At myself for always chosing badly.
The police visit their house with a high degree of frequency because they sniff, I hear, some sort of inhalants that can freeze their lungs. Now I feel sorry for them that I was angry. I feel sorry for them that they are probably going to die because they don't know better. Maybe I should have a talk with them.
I didn't know he was over. I stepped out of the bath into the hallway in my towel. He's there. I'm there. Awkard. The neighbor next door. They let him in. I didn't.
Let me tell you. Sexy. Darling. Buff. We talk about camping and the best sleeping bags- yes I like Coleman- do you? And what can we do about those bees in the backyard?
He lingers. I linger.
Okay. Let me get this straight. So now you want to sleep with neighbor? Can you be anymore cliche?
Besides, I started smoking three weeks ago and that's probably enough damage to close the month out with. Yeah. I know. But he's really cute. He admirably beat a crystal meth addiction- and when I run out of cigarettes I can not go next door to ask, because they guy doesn't smoke! See what a rat you are? He doesn't even smoke and you do.
I tell Alex at the Quick Pak Wine and Beer store that I fully intend to quit on October first.
"Oh? How long you've been smoking?", he inquires in his cute accent.
"Why you start?"
"Stress? I lost mother, father, five family members in an accident. I no smoke."
"Oh my goodness. I'm so sorry to hear that. You're makin' me look bad, Alex."
This remains my favorite. The morning. Black coffee. Back porch. Deep blue autumn sky- light up. Aaaah. That's better. Man. This is great. I love to smoke. It's so enjoyable, I see now why people do it. Leave the president alone. He's running the country for crap sake. If he needs to smoke to think more clearly, than by god let him do it!
I'm in an official minority. I will defend my rights. I will vote against your stupid smoking ban. Well, have you tried it? What do you know?
But I must quit in October like I said I would, or otherwise I will only be a liar. What am I going to tell Alex? He lost his family, you wretch, and he doesn't smoke.
Maybe I'll sleep with the neighbor.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
His name was Frank Perdue, an unassuming man at best. Pretty average.
If he bought me a drink in a bar, I probably would not go out with him.
Oh, I'd drink his drink- maybe dance just one or two slow songs at the most, but then excuse myself from discovering the greatest marketer and visionary that America has ever seen.
Let's be honest. Can you cuddle up to this guy after a few shots of Patron and "Sexual Healing"? I think not.
But as an entrepreneur what you can cuddle up to is the way in which this man, and even his father before him, looked around them to find the every day, ho-hum, humble chicken as something of an extraordinary money making opportunity.
For most of us, that's akin to gazing upon dirt and seeing dollar signs.
Who can make money out of dirt? It's everywhere! Hello, Hoover.
Who can make money out of chickens? They're everywhere! At least, back then they were.
This father and son duo set their minds upon knowing everything there was to know about chickens.
Would you think of feeding them marigold blossoms to the end that your chickens would be a nice color of yellow?
"It takes a tough man to make a tender chicken."
What does this mean to Entrepreneur Chick?
Well, I do like a tough man and I do enjoy tender chicken; yet in the same way that the Perdues willingly and tirelessly educated themselves regarding chickens, I become dead set in my mission to learn everything I can about the companies I own (one in particular) and become so knowledgeable that not only do I blow my competitors out of the water, I make my clients so successful, why, they'll turn green from all those wads of cash they'll have to cart around!
Now this is the cool part.
My strategy is actually working.
When I meet back with my clients after I have sold them on our services, and after they have reviewed their bottom line numbers and see, sure enough, that those numbers are UP, just like I told them they would be- I feel like I'm floating out of those meetings on a cloud. A big, fat, white, fluffy cloud of ridiculous self assurance (in our company).
Though I wouldn't have brought Frank Baby home to meet Momma, and though I've no chickens, I know exactly how he feels.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
The Power of the Dog
There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.
Buy a pup and your money will buy
Love unflinching that cannot lie--
Perfect passsion and worship fed
By a kick in the ribs or a pat on the head.
Nevertheless it is hardly fair
To risk your heart to a dog to tear.
When the fourteen years which Nature permits
Are closing in asthma, or tumour, or fits,
And the vet's unspoken prescription runs
To lethal chambers or loaded guns,
Then you will find--it's your own affair--
But ... you've given your heart to a dog to tear.
When the body that lived at your single will,
With its whimper of welcome, is stilled (how still!)
When the spirit that answered your every mood
Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,
You will discover how much you care,
And will give your heart to a dog to tear.
We've sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we've kept 'em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-term loan is as bad as a long--
So why in--Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?