Thursday, June 21, 2012
The World, According to LaRae: Exposed - Six Figure Program
Exposed - Six Figure Program
Now, I realize that I'm taking a risk exposing Six Figure Program as scammers . . . but . . . I am going to relate to you my experience with them. This is my opinion. This is my experience . . . and it's not a good one. :c
Around the first part of May . . . I innocently stumbled into a "Make a Ga-Zillion Bucks at Home in One Day."
"Hmmm," I thought . . . "That sounds like a no-brainer <---(which I am) to me." So, I immediately click on the link.
Bad Move.
I found myself having to listen to and watch a couple of guys brag about how much money they make and how they desperately want to help an innocent Doof like me make tons of money too.
"Oh, How nice!" I say to myself. "These two guys who don't even know me, want me to make a million bucks even more than I do!" I continue, "You just don't find those kinds of people anymore."
(I need to remind you, that this is my FIRST experience with these (ahem), caring, compassionate, unselfish, scammers . . . . um . . . er . . .a . . I mean "business" men.)
I continue the dialog with myself, "Awwww . . . (looking at their video), they're so cute too. Look at their innocent faces . . . they really DO want to help me . . . awwww."
I immediately sign up.
Bad move.
I try the things they are telling me, but things aren't working out so well. I blame myself, because, afterall, I'm new to the internet. These nice guys even gave me their e-mail to use if I had questions . . . that's how entirely innocent and trustworthy they are.
I send Ben an e-mail telling him of my problem.
I immediately receive an email rejection thingie (can't remember the name). "Hmmm . . . that's funny. They promised me that I could contact them at any time. I'll try the other guys e-mail addy. So I e-mail Dave telling him of my problems.
I immediately receive an "email rejection thingie" (can't remember the name) (no, this isn't a repeat of the prior paragraph). "Hmmm . . . wonder why I can't get through to Dave?" I innocently ask myself.
I try their support e-mail . . . I receive a ticket????? Remember, I'm new to this stuff. I have no idea what a ticket means. "Do I have to go to court? What is my crime? " I don't know what to do with the ticket---so I save it. (Duh)
I then find a number to call . . . a support number that these sweet guys gave me. I call the number.
One ringie dingie . . . Two ringie dingies . . . Three ringie dingies . . .
Finally someone answers. I tell him of my problem. He says, "Sorry, that's not my department."
I start crying. (I'm not kidding)
Startled, he says, "I'll connect you with someone who knows the technical stuff."
I meekly answer, "Okay, sniff, sniff."
I wait to be transfered.
Some lady asks how she can help. I tell her my problem. She says, "Oh, sorry . . . the person that helps with the technical stuff isn't here right now. Can you call back?"
I wipe my tears and nose and yell, "NO! I SIGNED UP FOR THIS THING BECAUSE THOSE NICE INNOCENT MEN PROMISED ME THEY WOULD HELP ME."
Dead silence.
I continue, "I'm just some doofus who has been recovering from . . . . Um . . . I don't know what the heck . . . . I've been away for several . . . . " I ramble. I'm sure this lady thinks she's talking to a loon---which she is.
I start crying really hard and say, "I trusted a doctor seven years ago and now I'm disabled . . . I should know better than to trust anyone." Sniff, sniff.
Lady on the phone is unmoved. With as much "unfeeling" as she could "unmuster" she says, "Call back in an hour when our technical guy comes back."
I hang up the phone. I never call back . . . . but just wait until I tell you what happens after this incident . . . it isn't pretty. You might want to put your kids in the other room.
Six Figure Program is just the top of the terrible abyss that I fell in.
For your protection . . . I'll keep you posted.
Until we meet again.
Be safe and stay happy.
Around the first part of May . . . I innocently stumbled into a "Make a Ga-Zillion Bucks at Home in One Day."
"Hmmm," I thought . . . "That sounds like a no-brainer <---(which I am) to me." So, I immediately click on the link.
Bad Move.
I found myself having to listen to and watch a couple of guys brag about how much money they make and how they desperately want to help an innocent Doof like me make tons of money too.
"Oh, How nice!" I say to myself. "These two guys who don't even know me, want me to make a million bucks even more than I do!" I continue, "You just don't find those kinds of people anymore."
(I need to remind you, that this is my FIRST experience with these (ahem), caring, compassionate, unselfish, scammers . . . . um . . . er . . .a . . I mean "business" men.)
I continue the dialog with myself, "Awwww . . . (looking at their video), they're so cute too. Look at their innocent faces . . . they really DO want to help me . . . awwww."
I immediately sign up.
Bad move.
I try the things they are telling me, but things aren't working out so well. I blame myself, because, afterall, I'm new to the internet. These nice guys even gave me their e-mail to use if I had questions . . . that's how entirely innocent and trustworthy they are.
I send Ben an e-mail telling him of my problem.
I immediately receive an email rejection thingie (can't remember the name). "Hmmm . . . that's funny. They promised me that I could contact them at any time. I'll try the other guys e-mail addy. So I e-mail Dave telling him of my problems.
I immediately receive an "email rejection thingie" (can't remember the name) (no, this isn't a repeat of the prior paragraph). "Hmmm . . . wonder why I can't get through to Dave?" I innocently ask myself.
I try their support e-mail . . . I receive a ticket????? Remember, I'm new to this stuff. I have no idea what a ticket means. "Do I have to go to court? What is my crime? " I don't know what to do with the ticket---so I save it. (Duh)
I then find a number to call . . . a support number that these sweet guys gave me. I call the number.
One ringie dingie . . . Two ringie dingies . . . Three ringie dingies . . .
Finally someone answers. I tell him of my problem. He says, "Sorry, that's not my department."
I start crying. (I'm not kidding)
Startled, he says, "I'll connect you with someone who knows the technical stuff."
I meekly answer, "Okay, sniff, sniff."
I wait to be transfered.
Some lady asks how she can help. I tell her my problem. She says, "Oh, sorry . . . the person that helps with the technical stuff isn't here right now. Can you call back?"
I wipe my tears and nose and yell, "NO! I SIGNED UP FOR THIS THING BECAUSE THOSE NICE INNOCENT MEN PROMISED ME THEY WOULD HELP ME."
Dead silence.
I continue, "I'm just some doofus who has been recovering from . . . . Um . . . I don't know what the heck . . . . I've been away for several . . . . " I ramble. I'm sure this lady thinks she's talking to a loon---which she is.
I start crying really hard and say, "I trusted a doctor seven years ago and now I'm disabled . . . I should know better than to trust anyone." Sniff, sniff.
Lady on the phone is unmoved. With as much "unfeeling" as she could "unmuster" she says, "Call back in an hour when our technical guy comes back."
I hang up the phone. I never call back . . . . but just wait until I tell you what happens after this incident . . . it isn't pretty. You might want to put your kids in the other room.
For your protection . . . I'll keep you posted.
Until we meet again.
Be safe and stay happy.
Wednesday, June 20, 2012
Expose 'ing' "Grrrrr"
Let me just start out by saying, "Grrrrrrr" (I feel better now)
The next series of posts are going to be about me EXPOSING all the chumps that see an innocent doofus wandering around the huge world of the internet and pounces upon her . . . her---being me. "Grrrrr" (why does that make me feel better)?
First, I've gotta lay out the foundation of the poor, gullible, doof that I am. After several years of "being out of commission" because of a dumb medical mistake, the world of the internet passed me up. A few months ago, upon the encouragement of my Doofussy Son, I signed up for FACEBOOK.
Bad move.
My first week on fb, I got "hacked" (picture of a well-portioned nekked lady) who said that picture was me. Well . . . . um . . . er . . . a . . . I may have secretly desired for that beautifully figured nekked lady be me, but truth is . . . I've NEVER been that skinny . . . even as a newborn.
My son had to get that nekked picture off my sight and report whoever did that to me.
(If you speak dog, you can get this at: www.grungygirl.etsy.com . . . . if you don't speak dog, I'll tell you what he's saying)
So . . . My first experience on the internet . . . I was EXPOSED, but it really wasn't me, but secretly I wished that it could have been me, but then, if it had been me, I wouldn't have posed nekked! <---did that make any sense?
My second experience on fb, was I got banned from making friends! (They) tell me to make friends, and then ban me! What gives? I'm pushing all the "buttons" that come my way---isn't that what I'm supposed to do? I got thrown into fb jail where I learn that . . . I can't push the make friends button even if it tells me to.
What happened to the common sense of the world while I was recuperating from a horrible incident?
Did I awaken to a bizzar-o-world?
The answer to that is, "Yes." You, my friends, are living in a bizzar-o-world, and you don't even know it.
It is my mission to expose all the bizzaro's
Just wait until I expose the crooks who crooked me. Grrrrrr (That always helps me feel better)
I'm gonna name names, I tell ya. I don't want anyone else to go through what I have been through these last few weeks. Grrrrrr (ahhhh)
Until we meet again, just one bit of advice . . . DON'T CLICK ON ANY SURVEYS OR HOW TO MAKE MONEY BUTTONS. I'll explain later.
Take care and be happy.
The next series of posts are going to be about me EXPOSING all the chumps that see an innocent doofus wandering around the huge world of the internet and pounces upon her . . . her---being me. "Grrrrr" (why does that make me feel better)?
First, I've gotta lay out the foundation of the poor, gullible, doof that I am. After several years of "being out of commission" because of a dumb medical mistake, the world of the internet passed me up. A few months ago, upon the encouragement of my Doofussy Son, I signed up for FACEBOOK.
Bad move.
My first week on fb, I got "hacked" (picture of a well-portioned nekked lady) who said that picture was me. Well . . . . um . . . er . . . a . . . I may have secretly desired for that beautifully figured nekked lady be me, but truth is . . . I've NEVER been that skinny . . . even as a newborn.
My son had to get that nekked picture off my sight and report whoever did that to me.
So . . . My first experience on the internet . . . I was EXPOSED, but it really wasn't me, but secretly I wished that it could have been me, but then, if it had been me, I wouldn't have posed nekked! <---did that make any sense?
My second experience on fb, was I got banned from making friends! (They) tell me to make friends, and then ban me! What gives? I'm pushing all the "buttons" that come my way---isn't that what I'm supposed to do? I got thrown into fb jail where I learn that . . . I can't push the make friends button even if it tells me to.
What happened to the common sense of the world while I was recuperating from a horrible incident?
Did I awaken to a bizzar-o-world?
The answer to that is, "Yes." You, my friends, are living in a bizzar-o-world, and you don't even know it.
It is my mission to expose all the bizzaro's
Just wait until I expose the crooks who crooked me. Grrrrrr (That always helps me feel better)
I'm gonna name names, I tell ya. I don't want anyone else to go through what I have been through these last few weeks. Grrrrrr (ahhhh)
Until we meet again, just one bit of advice . . . DON'T CLICK ON ANY SURVEYS OR HOW TO MAKE MONEY BUTTONS. I'll explain later.
Take care and be happy.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
My Dad
It has been seven years since my dad unexpectedly passed away.
It has been seven years since I felt the awful pang of a broken heart. I wondered if I could survive his loss. The images of watching him die among other terrible images haunted me for a long time.
My dad was cute. His death was ugly. He died of a pulmonary embolism. I watched him gasping for breath .. . a horrible, horrible sight.
My dad was kind. The treatment he received in the hospital was cruel.
It was seven months AFTER my father died that I suffered a terrible medical error that landed me in the I.C.U. on life support---anethesia had gotten into my lungs and I went into respiratory failure.
As I gasped for breath, the horrible images of my father's death resurfaced as the doctors and nurses fervantly worked to save my life.
It was while I was strapped to the gurney, with a machine breathing for me that I "was with" my father again. I felt his warm presence in my sterile I.C.U. room. He was with me---not in body, but in spirit.
I have since felt his presence from time to time . . . I especially feel him when I am sick. That horrible medical error left me with permanently damaged lungs and I require supplemental oxygen to live. Who else can empathize with how it feels not to be able to breathe?
Even though my father is not physically with his family . . . he is still taking care of us. He is still cute. He is still kind.
Happy Father's Day, Daddy.
It has been seven years since I felt the awful pang of a broken heart. I wondered if I could survive his loss. The images of watching him die among other terrible images haunted me for a long time.
My dad was cute. His death was ugly. He died of a pulmonary embolism. I watched him gasping for breath .. . a horrible, horrible sight.
My dad was kind. The treatment he received in the hospital was cruel.
It was seven months AFTER my father died that I suffered a terrible medical error that landed me in the I.C.U. on life support---anethesia had gotten into my lungs and I went into respiratory failure.
As I gasped for breath, the horrible images of my father's death resurfaced as the doctors and nurses fervantly worked to save my life.
It was while I was strapped to the gurney, with a machine breathing for me that I "was with" my father again. I felt his warm presence in my sterile I.C.U. room. He was with me---not in body, but in spirit.
I have since felt his presence from time to time . . . I especially feel him when I am sick. That horrible medical error left me with permanently damaged lungs and I require supplemental oxygen to live. Who else can empathize with how it feels not to be able to breathe?
Even though my father is not physically with his family . . . he is still taking care of us. He is still cute. He is still kind.
Happy Father's Day, Daddy.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
The Cheeseburger
My daughter and I had just finished a big day of back-to-school shopping. We needed food. Too tired to walk into a restaurant, we decide to go through a fast food chain drive-thru.
Angie likes Cheeseburgers---I don't. She tells me she wants a cheeseburger and an order of fries. I decide to I want a hamburger and fries.
The long line of cars finally shortens and I drive up to the speaker lady thingie <---(official technical term).
She asks: "Can I take your order?"
Well, . . . to be politically and grammically correct, she should really say, "MAY I take your order." It bugs me when order takerers <---- (official name) say that.
www.grungygirl.etsy.com
I want to correct her. Angie won't let me. So, I say, "Yes, you MAY take my order."
Speaker lady: "Um . . . then . . . what is it?"
I boldly order, "I'll have two cheeseburgers and two orders of fries."
She says, "Do you want everything on those cheeseburgers?"
I answser, "We'll have everything on one of the cheeseburgers, on the other one, please hold the cheese."
SPEAKER LADY: ________________ (nuttin')
Me: "Hello? Did you hear my order?"
SPEAKER LADY: (Long pause) . . . "Um . . . you ordered two cheeseburgers."
Me: "Yah, so what?"
SPEAKER LADY: "But you asked me to hold the cheese on one of 'em."
Me: "Yah, so what?"
SPEAKER LADY: "You ordered two cheeseburgers."
Me: "Right."
SPEAKER LADY: "You don't want cheese on one of your cheeseburgers?"
I'm thinking, man, this speaker lady is DENSE! I say, "Right . . . two cheeseburgers---hold the cheese on one of 'em."
SPEAKER LADY: But . . . but . . .
I interrupt. "How hard is it to hold the cheese on one of the cheeseburgers?" Jeez. I wipe a drop of sweat off the end of my nose. This lady is really frustrating me.
SPEAKER LADY: "Um . . . okay, then . . . you'll have two cheeseburgers, one without cheese---is that correct?
Me: "Don't forget the fries." "Numbnutz" I say under my breath. For some strange reason, my teenage daughter is lying on the floor of the car when we get to the window. Teenagers are so weird.
As I pay for the order, Angie is on the floor the whole time. She doesn't get up until we are well out of the sight of the fast food joint. Teenagers can be so weird.
LESSON LEARNED: Next time I order two cheeseburgers, hold the cheese, DON'T have a teenager in the car with me.
Angie likes Cheeseburgers---I don't. She tells me she wants a cheeseburger and an order of fries. I decide to I want a hamburger and fries.
The long line of cars finally shortens and I drive up to the speaker lady thingie <---(official technical term).
She asks: "Can I take your order?"
Well, . . . to be politically and grammically correct, she should really say, "MAY I take your order." It bugs me when order takerers <---- (official name) say that.
I want to correct her. Angie won't let me. So, I say, "Yes, you MAY take my order."
Speaker lady: "Um . . . then . . . what is it?"
I boldly order, "I'll have two cheeseburgers and two orders of fries."
She says, "Do you want everything on those cheeseburgers?"
I answser, "We'll have everything on one of the cheeseburgers, on the other one, please hold the cheese."
SPEAKER LADY: ________________ (nuttin')
Me: "Hello? Did you hear my order?"
SPEAKER LADY: (Long pause) . . . "Um . . . you ordered two cheeseburgers."
Me: "Yah, so what?"
SPEAKER LADY: "But you asked me to hold the cheese on one of 'em."
Me: "Yah, so what?"
SPEAKER LADY: "You ordered two cheeseburgers."
Me: "Right."
SPEAKER LADY: "You don't want cheese on one of your cheeseburgers?"
I'm thinking, man, this speaker lady is DENSE! I say, "Right . . . two cheeseburgers---hold the cheese on one of 'em."
SPEAKER LADY: But . . . but . . .
I interrupt. "How hard is it to hold the cheese on one of the cheeseburgers?" Jeez. I wipe a drop of sweat off the end of my nose. This lady is really frustrating me.
SPEAKER LADY: "Um . . . okay, then . . . you'll have two cheeseburgers, one without cheese---is that correct?
Me: "Don't forget the fries." "Numbnutz" I say under my breath. For some strange reason, my teenage daughter is lying on the floor of the car when we get to the window. Teenagers are so weird.
As I pay for the order, Angie is on the floor the whole time. She doesn't get up until we are well out of the sight of the fast food joint. Teenagers can be so weird.
LESSON LEARNED: Next time I order two cheeseburgers, hold the cheese, DON'T have a teenager in the car with me.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
Nice People
Awww . . . there are SO many nice people in the internet world---it just touches my heart---makes me wanna cry.
Why do so many scammers . . . . um . . . er . . . a . . . I mean "Nice People" care so much about me (who they don't know) wanna let me in on their "Make Millions" secret? I can't believe how many scammers . . . . um . . . er . . . a . . . I mean "Nice People" want to "pay it forward" so often, and so much? Awwww . . . I'm so touched! I have no words.
All this time I was thinking there was nuttin' but thugs trying to help me make millions. Turns out that they are all so sincere and care so much about me! What nice people!
What a wonderful world of the internet is!
Why do so many scammers . . . . um . . . er . . . a . . . I mean "Nice People" care so much about me (who they don't know) wanna let me in on their "Make Millions" secret? I can't believe how many scammers . . . . um . . . er . . . a . . . I mean "Nice People" want to "pay it forward" so often, and so much? Awwww . . . I'm so touched! I have no words.
All this time I was thinking there was nuttin' but thugs trying to help me make millions. Turns out that they are all so sincere and care so much about me! What nice people!
What a wonderful world of the internet is!
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Why Doesn't My Shake Weight Work?
For Mother's Day, Brad, my son, asked what I would like.
I tell him, "I saw a "Shake Weight Thingie" <----(Official Technical Term) ad on t.v. that looks really interesting."
"Oh yah?" Brad presses.
"Yah, the only thing you have to do is hold this "Shake Weight Thingie" <----(I'm sure this is the correct term) and it does the exercising for you."
"Um . . . are you sure?" Brad questions.
"Well, it certainly looks like it on t.v. The models who are demonstrating how the "Shake Weight Thingie" <----(I think that's the technical term) works, just hold it. You should see their arms and shoulders---so buff."
I continue, "When I saw that ad, I knew that that was something that I could do! When I saw that ad, I shouted, 'Where do I sign up?'"
Brad agrees to look it up on the internet to see if he can find one. He does and orders me one! Woo Hoo!
I can't "weight!" "Just think of it," I tell myself, "All I have to do is hold the weight thingie and it will shake for me!" What could be easier than that?
I "weight" some more---this time with baited breath . . . or . . . unbaited breath (if you know my situation). I exclaim, "I can't "weight" for my "Shake Weight Thingie" <----(must be correct term or how could Brad have ordered it)?
After "weighting" what seems like an eternity, it finally arrives. Woo Hoo!
I grab the package and try to rip it open with my arthritic hands.
Doesn't work.
So . . . Brad grabs it from me and opens it with his strong man hands. Before he could even get the packing undone, I grab it from him with my arthritic hands and hold the "Shake Weight Thingie" tight.
Nuttin'.
I scour the top for an on/off switch, then I scour the bottom.
Nuttin'.
I search the center holding part for some kind of a switch.
Nuttin'.
I hold it really tight again---still nuttin'.
Brad is watching me this whole time wondering what the heck I'm doing.
Finally I blurt out, "Hey, this "Shake Weight Thingie" is defective! It's not shaking!" I'm so disappointed.
Brad can't take it anymore and grabs the "Shake Weight Thingie" out of my feeble hands. Then he grabs the box that it came in and reads the instructions. He says, "The insructions state that YOU are supposed to shake the weight."
"Me? But, . . . but . . . the t.v. models---they didn't have to shake theirs." I argue.
He reads the instructions out loud. Basically it says that there are no batteries. The person holding the "Shake Weight Thingie" needs to shake it for it to work.
I respond, "If I had known that I had to shake the weight myself, I woulda just grabbed my free weights and shook those! What a rip off."
Lesson Learned: When you see a t.v. model who has "ripped" shoulders, biceps & triceps . . . it's NOT because of a "Shake Weight Thingie" <---(Official Rip-Off Name)
I tell him, "I saw a "Shake Weight Thingie" <----(Official Technical Term) ad on t.v. that looks really interesting."
"Oh yah?" Brad presses.
"Yah, the only thing you have to do is hold this "Shake Weight Thingie" <----(I'm sure this is the correct term) and it does the exercising for you."
"Um . . . are you sure?" Brad questions.
"Well, it certainly looks like it on t.v. The models who are demonstrating how the "Shake Weight Thingie" <----(I think that's the technical term) works, just hold it. You should see their arms and shoulders---so buff."
I continue, "When I saw that ad, I knew that that was something that I could do! When I saw that ad, I shouted, 'Where do I sign up?'"
Brad agrees to look it up on the internet to see if he can find one. He does and orders me one! Woo Hoo!
I can't "weight!" "Just think of it," I tell myself, "All I have to do is hold the weight thingie and it will shake for me!" What could be easier than that?
I "weight" some more---this time with baited breath . . . or . . . unbaited breath (if you know my situation). I exclaim, "I can't "weight" for my "Shake Weight Thingie" <----(must be correct term or how could Brad have ordered it)?
After "weighting" what seems like an eternity, it finally arrives. Woo Hoo!
I grab the package and try to rip it open with my arthritic hands.
Doesn't work.
So . . . Brad grabs it from me and opens it with his strong man hands. Before he could even get the packing undone, I grab it from him with my arthritic hands and hold the "Shake Weight Thingie" tight.
Nuttin'.
I scour the top for an on/off switch, then I scour the bottom.
Nuttin'.
I search the center holding part for some kind of a switch.
Nuttin'.
I hold it really tight again---still nuttin'.
Brad is watching me this whole time wondering what the heck I'm doing.
Finally I blurt out, "Hey, this "Shake Weight Thingie" is defective! It's not shaking!" I'm so disappointed.
Brad can't take it anymore and grabs the "Shake Weight Thingie" out of my feeble hands. Then he grabs the box that it came in and reads the instructions. He says, "The insructions state that YOU are supposed to shake the weight."
"Me? But, . . . but . . . the t.v. models---they didn't have to shake theirs." I argue.
He reads the instructions out loud. Basically it says that there are no batteries. The person holding the "Shake Weight Thingie" needs to shake it for it to work.
I respond, "If I had known that I had to shake the weight myself, I woulda just grabbed my free weights and shook those! What a rip off."
Lesson Learned: When you see a t.v. model who has "ripped" shoulders, biceps & triceps . . . it's NOT because of a "Shake Weight Thingie" <---(Official Rip-Off Name)
Monday, June 4, 2012
Shelby
It has been requested that I share, once again, my Shelby experience:
I needed a haircut. The one that I had just given myself didn't turn out too well. I went from having hair below my shoulders, to chopped hair that had a few stragglers at chin level and a bunch of whacked hair above my ears and some about an inch from my scalp. It wasn't pretty. The more hair I cut, the uglier it got. I had to admit defeat and step away from the scissors. I knew I needed a professional to clean up the mess I had made.
I remember hearing of a beautician that was really good, so I call and make an appointment. Sadly, on the day of the appointment, I have to work late. I call and reschedule---no biggie.
On the day of my rescheduled appointment, again, I couldn't make it, so I call and reschedule---a little biggie.
Well, on the day of my rescheduled, rescheduled appointment, I couldn't go---kind of a biggie. I don't want to call and reschedule a third time, so . . . I do what any "abnormal" human does. I stand her up---that's right---I stand her up. That's a huge biggie.
The problem is that I still need a haircut---BADLY. I think to myself, "Dare I call this hair stylist one more time?" My answer is, "Are you crazy?"
What to do? I still really need a haircut and believe this gal is the one to do it. Because I had called and rescheduled, and resheduled, and stand her up, I'm afraid she won't take an appointment from me---LaRae. All of a sudden, I get a brilliant idea! Call and make an appointment under a pseudo name!
I call the salon and make an appointment for "Shelby." I've always liked the name, "Shelby." Shelby's appointment is the one I keep.
When I get to the salon on time, I meet the nicest beautician. "Good thing she doesn't know I'm the one who kept canceling on her." I say to myself. "She'll never know that my real name is LaRae," I smuggly comfort my deception.
She sits me down, washes my hair and asks how I want my hair.
"Normal." I reply.
So, she starts cutting my hair and guess what she wants to talk about? My name . . . er . . .um . . . a . . . my pseudo name---SHELBY! She seems really intrigued by such a rare name. She states, "You have the cutest name."
"Thank you," I play along.
Still intrigued, she asks, "How did your mother come up with that name?"
Without missing a beat I answer, "I don't know."
"That's such an unusual name!" She continues. "Have you had lots of compliments on it?"
Still showing how very gracious I am, I reply, "Oh yes, yes. Everyone loves my name. I love having Shelby as my name."
"Would you mind if I name my next girl Shelby?" She's preggers, so she means, like in a couple of months.
"Not at all! I would be honored," I proudly declare. I actually start believing that my name IS Shelby as we continue to talk, then it hits me---I ONLY HAVE MY CHECKBOOK (gasp) I DON'T HAVE ANY CASH (gasp) I'M GONNA HAVE TO A WRITE CHECK AND SIGN IT WITH MY REAL NAME---LARAE! (gasp, choke, sputter).
"How the heck am I gonna get out of this one?" I panic silently. Beads of sweat gather at my forehead. All I want to do now, is get the heck out of there.
The stylist continues to happily cut my hair while raving on about my pseudo name. I'm thinking, "Just give it a rest lady and finish my hair!"
She finally whacks her last cut---it's cute---I don't care---I have to write a check. (gulp)
She walks me up to the check-out counter. On our way up to the counter, I look for an escape door. There isn't one. Crud.
We get to the counter and she tells me how much I owe her. With my shaking hand, I somehow find my checkbook and hold a pen. I hurry and scribble my name, hoping she won't notice my signature.
She does.
She says, "I thought your name was Shelby."
(Gulp) With great beads of sweat now dripping off the end of my nose, I stutter, "It it is. It it is is."
"Then why does your check say your name is LaRae?"
(Gulp) I answer, (now, I'm not kidding about this answer), I say, "LaRae is my nickname. Shelby is my real name."
"Why do you put your nickname on your checks?"
Man, this lady is nosey. With my face the color of scarlet to the third power, I grab my stuff and mumble, "I don't know." Then I got the heck out of there.
LESSON LEARNED: Always Carry Cash
I needed a haircut. The one that I had just given myself didn't turn out too well. I went from having hair below my shoulders, to chopped hair that had a few stragglers at chin level and a bunch of whacked hair above my ears and some about an inch from my scalp. It wasn't pretty. The more hair I cut, the uglier it got. I had to admit defeat and step away from the scissors. I knew I needed a professional to clean up the mess I had made.
I remember hearing of a beautician that was really good, so I call and make an appointment. Sadly, on the day of the appointment, I have to work late. I call and reschedule---no biggie.
On the day of my rescheduled appointment, again, I couldn't make it, so I call and reschedule---a little biggie.
Well, on the day of my rescheduled, rescheduled appointment, I couldn't go---kind of a biggie. I don't want to call and reschedule a third time, so . . . I do what any "abnormal" human does. I stand her up---that's right---I stand her up. That's a huge biggie.
The problem is that I still need a haircut---BADLY. I think to myself, "Dare I call this hair stylist one more time?" My answer is, "Are you crazy?"
What to do? I still really need a haircut and believe this gal is the one to do it. Because I had called and rescheduled, and resheduled, and stand her up, I'm afraid she won't take an appointment from me---LaRae. All of a sudden, I get a brilliant idea! Call and make an appointment under a pseudo name!
I call the salon and make an appointment for "Shelby." I've always liked the name, "Shelby." Shelby's appointment is the one I keep.
When I get to the salon on time, I meet the nicest beautician. "Good thing she doesn't know I'm the one who kept canceling on her." I say to myself. "She'll never know that my real name is LaRae," I smuggly comfort my deception.
She sits me down, washes my hair and asks how I want my hair.
"Normal." I reply.
So, she starts cutting my hair and guess what she wants to talk about? My name . . . er . . .um . . . a . . . my pseudo name---SHELBY! She seems really intrigued by such a rare name. She states, "You have the cutest name."
"Thank you," I play along.
Still intrigued, she asks, "How did your mother come up with that name?"
Without missing a beat I answer, "I don't know."
"That's such an unusual name!" She continues. "Have you had lots of compliments on it?"
Still showing how very gracious I am, I reply, "Oh yes, yes. Everyone loves my name. I love having Shelby as my name."
"Would you mind if I name my next girl Shelby?" She's preggers, so she means, like in a couple of months.
"Not at all! I would be honored," I proudly declare. I actually start believing that my name IS Shelby as we continue to talk, then it hits me---I ONLY HAVE MY CHECKBOOK (gasp) I DON'T HAVE ANY CASH (gasp) I'M GONNA HAVE TO A WRITE CHECK AND SIGN IT WITH MY REAL NAME---LARAE! (gasp, choke, sputter).
"How the heck am I gonna get out of this one?" I panic silently. Beads of sweat gather at my forehead. All I want to do now, is get the heck out of there.
The stylist continues to happily cut my hair while raving on about my pseudo name. I'm thinking, "Just give it a rest lady and finish my hair!"
She finally whacks her last cut---it's cute---I don't care---I have to write a check. (gulp)
She walks me up to the check-out counter. On our way up to the counter, I look for an escape door. There isn't one. Crud.
We get to the counter and she tells me how much I owe her. With my shaking hand, I somehow find my checkbook and hold a pen. I hurry and scribble my name, hoping she won't notice my signature.
She does.
She says, "I thought your name was Shelby."
(Gulp) With great beads of sweat now dripping off the end of my nose, I stutter, "It it is. It it is is."
"Then why does your check say your name is LaRae?"
(Gulp) I answer, (now, I'm not kidding about this answer), I say, "LaRae is my nickname. Shelby is my real name."
"Why do you put your nickname on your checks?"
Man, this lady is nosey. With my face the color of scarlet to the third power, I grab my stuff and mumble, "I don't know." Then I got the heck out of there.
LESSON LEARNED: Always Carry Cash
Saturday, June 2, 2012
DON'T EVER DO THAT
I am fairly new to all this "internet" stuff. But, since I started my little Wooden Writes Custom Gifts on Facebook and on www.grungygirl.etsy.com I figure I need to learn more about the internet. DON'T EVER DO THAT!
I know more about the internet world than I care to know.
Recently, I have learned about "buttons" (which I thought was on shirts), "tabs" (which is something I run up on my credit card), "thumbnails" (which I believed were things one pushes into a wall with one's thumb), "hacking" (which I thought was a cough---but found out that it is very rude), "phishing" (something you do in a pond or river---and I got accused of), "tagging" (which I still don't understand---I only know about freeze-tag) . . . there's so much more that I can't talk about. (Still too upset)
My first week on Facebook, I get banned for a week from making friends! If fb doesn't want me to make friends, why do they keep telling me to do it?
After my 7 days in fb prison, I was allowed to make friends again. WOO HOO. The very next day, I find out that I'm banned from making friends for 14 days? What the heck? Why is fb telling me to do something, then putting me in prison for doing it?
Since I couldn't make friends on fb, I decide to try to make friends on the internet elsewhere. DON'T EVER DO THAT!
I start exploring around . . . DON'T EVER DO THAT!
I see ads where I can make money by filling out surveys . . . DON'T EVER DO THAT!
I fill out so many surveys, that my poor puter jammed up. I feel bad for it. I even pat my puter while trying to comfort it and saying, "Don't worry, puter . . . I'll get us out of this mess."
I learn that puters don't listen. I get in lots more trouble---more trouble than one person should get into in a whole life time. DON'T EVER DO THAT
I'm busy filling out one survey that makes me fill out another one, that makes me feel out another one . . . next thing is know, my phone is ringing off the hook and I find out that I have signed up for a year's worth of baby food, an ultra-sound for my baby (um . . . I'm 59 years old). I even get a phone call from some company wanting to know when my baby is due.
Because of all the surveys I filled out, I am now being offered lessons on foreign languages, no charge baby pain relief kit (um . . . I'm 59 years old).
Yesterday, after hours of working my fingers to the bone filling out surveys, some guy calls me and asks when my baby is due. I swear I marked my age and that I was not expecting on every one of those dumb surveys.
Here's the phone call:
One ringie dingie. Two ringie dingies. I look at the caller id . . . it's from an area code I don't recognize. I answer the phone anyway (<---one dingie--me)
"Hello?"
"Can I speek wif Laarrrie Paaarree?" He has an accent.
I answer, "You var speeking wif Laarrii Paaaree." I have an accent too.
"Yes, I vas ust vonderin vhen your babe ith dooo or vhen you var planning on getting pragneet." (I am not kidding---he asked me that . . . or . . . . that's what I think he asked.)
I lose my accent and literally yell into the phone, "I'M NOT PREGNANT, NOR DO I PLAN ON BECOMING PREGNANT (um . . . I'm 59 years old) SO DON'T EVER CALL ME AGAIN!
I slam my cell phone's little flappy thingie <----(official name)
It took me all of last night and this morning to get myself out of half the trouble I got into. Explore the world of the internet is not safe. DON'T EVER DO THAT!
Lesson Learned: Stay in Facebook prison---it's much safer
Recently, I have learned about "buttons" (which I thought was on shirts), "tabs" (which is something I run up on my credit card), "thumbnails" (which I believed were things one pushes into a wall with one's thumb), "hacking" (which I thought was a cough---but found out that it is very rude), "phishing" (something you do in a pond or river---and I got accused of), "tagging" (which I still don't understand---I only know about freeze-tag) . . . there's so much more that I can't talk about. (Still too upset)
My first week on Facebook, I get banned for a week from making friends! If fb doesn't want me to make friends, why do they keep telling me to do it?
After my 7 days in fb prison, I was allowed to make friends again. WOO HOO. The very next day, I find out that I'm banned from making friends for 14 days? What the heck? Why is fb telling me to do something, then putting me in prison for doing it?
Since I couldn't make friends on fb, I decide to try to make friends on the internet elsewhere. DON'T EVER DO THAT!
I start exploring around . . . DON'T EVER DO THAT!
I see ads where I can make money by filling out surveys . . . DON'T EVER DO THAT!
I fill out so many surveys, that my poor puter jammed up. I feel bad for it. I even pat my puter while trying to comfort it and saying, "Don't worry, puter . . . I'll get us out of this mess."
I learn that puters don't listen. I get in lots more trouble---more trouble than one person should get into in a whole life time. DON'T EVER DO THAT
I'm busy filling out one survey that makes me fill out another one, that makes me feel out another one . . . next thing is know, my phone is ringing off the hook and I find out that I have signed up for a year's worth of baby food, an ultra-sound for my baby (um . . . I'm 59 years old). I even get a phone call from some company wanting to know when my baby is due.
Because of all the surveys I filled out, I am now being offered lessons on foreign languages, no charge baby pain relief kit (um . . . I'm 59 years old).
Yesterday, after hours of working my fingers to the bone filling out surveys, some guy calls me and asks when my baby is due. I swear I marked my age and that I was not expecting on every one of those dumb surveys.
Here's the phone call:
One ringie dingie. Two ringie dingies. I look at the caller id . . . it's from an area code I don't recognize. I answer the phone anyway (<---one dingie--me)
"Hello?"
"Can I speek wif Laarrrie Paaarree?" He has an accent.
I answer, "You var speeking wif Laarrii Paaaree." I have an accent too.
"Yes, I vas ust vonderin vhen your babe ith dooo or vhen you var planning on getting pragneet." (I am not kidding---he asked me that . . . or . . . . that's what I think he asked.)
I lose my accent and literally yell into the phone, "I'M NOT PREGNANT, NOR DO I PLAN ON BECOMING PREGNANT (um . . . I'm 59 years old) SO DON'T EVER CALL ME AGAIN!
I slam my cell phone's little flappy thingie <----(official name)
It took me all of last night and this morning to get myself out of half the trouble I got into. Explore the world of the internet is not safe. DON'T EVER DO THAT!
Lesson Learned: Stay in Facebook prison---it's much safer
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)