I was chatting with a client about how sedentary our culture has become and about how our grandparents didn’t have to go to gyms – they got plenty of exercise doing everyday things like working in the yard, cleaning the house and shucking corn for god’s sake. They actually USED their lower appendages for walking, whereas I sometimes eye mine suspiciously waiting for them to make the first move. So anyway, It occurred to me that people don’t need fancy gyms, they just need to get up and DO stuff! Some of you are probably asking yourselves, “How can humans do manual labor when most of us get winded just putting on our pants?! And who in the world does things for themselves anymore?”

The Amish do…that’s who.

Say what you will about their Flowbee-like hair cuts and apparent dislike of color, these folks work their asses off. My new business plan doesn’t include rent and there’s no overhead. All I need to do is find some people who need a bunch of crap done and there you go – all the fresh air, sunshine and basal cell carcinoma they can handle.

Having a direction got me pumped up and ready to get started. The perfect workout AND the joy of helping others all bound together in one cozy little package of fluffy feel good…mmm! So here’s just a few examples of my work out videos that will undoubtedly have Guthy-Renker adding me to the payroll. You know I’m right.

Melissa’s Kick-Ass Amish Workout! This is a 5 DVD set for one LOW PRICE! Here’s what you get:

Barn Raising Cardio
Cinnamon Crunches For Your Abs
Yoke The Oxen and Lose the Fat
Shunning The Pounds Away
Stoning Your Neighbors For Fun & Fitness

You get ALL this for the freakishly unheard of price of just $19.95 OR 13 easy payments of $1.53! This offer is only available in Canada and a few impoverished areas of Africa, so pick up the phone and call now! If you call within the next 9 minutes we’ll also throw in Melissa’s newest DVD – Stop Drop and Roll In The Hay.

Limited quantities so act fast!

Oh, they’re sure.

I decided rather quickly that I needed to voice my displeasure and so I didn’t bother to spend a whole lot of time choosing my words carefully or even attempting to be a grown up about it. I pretty much just vomited my disgust via an email to Brian Moynihan, CEO & President of BOA.

FUN FACT #1! Brian Moynihan’s annual income is $6,511,468.00 (2009) (That’s 128 times the average US income!) and his daily compensation is $17,839.64!

So anyway – gross display of greed aside, here’s what I had to say:

“I need some clarification about these new fees. First of all, what happened with the bail out money? And when did it become the customer’s problem because the banks made bad decisions? I understand that the percentage rate on merchant transactions is being reduced and you and the other banks would like to “recoup” that loss by passing it on to your customers – but again how is that our fault? So your profit margin won’t be as high as you would like it to be and perhaps you won’t get a raise and will have to squeak by on just a few million, but you shouldn’t have to alter your lifestyle too much – Maybe a little less sushi here and there and you sell the yacht on CraigsList.

It seems to me that if you are essentially BORROWING other people’s money to invest and make MORE money for yourselves you should be giving US something. Not the other way around. Don’t bill me for borrowing MY money and don’t bill me for using a debit card to access MY OWN MONEY.

WHAT THE HELL IS THE MATTER WITH YOU GUYS????”

And get this zinger! Someone from Brian’s office actually called me the next day to “discuss” my email. I interpreted that to mean that they wanted to sing me some banking blues and to be honest I didn’t think I was up to it. However, since I had another issue to discuss with the bank regarding my free savings account having a maintenance fee taken out, I decided I could kill two birds with one stone.

I spoke to Matthew from the OFFICE of the CEO of Bank of America – close enough. He apologized for the way in which customers had found out about the fee. I’m not sure why he was sorry for that – it wasn’t like we were chlorophormed, pulled into a dark room with a strobe light and loud Carpenters music playing while they piped in subliminal banking propaganda into our ear buds. I for one had no problem with the delivery of the news just the content. After 30 minutes of talking to Matthew I learned that “banks are in the business to make money.” You don’t say! I had no idea! Next we talked about my savings account which has been changed twice to a different type of savings account than the one I signed up for, but Matthew cleared that up as well. He explained that the bank realized they weren’t making money off of my free savings account and that they were forced to change it. Although no one called or sent a letter to this fact, Matthew said it was probably sent with my online statement.

“M’am the changing of your account without your consent was clearly stated in Summerian cuneiform on page 149 of your online statement. Failure to read your online statement could result in a fee.”

There seems to be a real issue with the bank’s ability to communicate with its customers – I guess they can’t find the right words to let us know that they don’t care if we are struggling and trying to make ends meet when they have profit margins to think about.

I’m pretty sure this new $5.00 fee won’t have me living on the streets but since I don’t make anywhere close to 6.5 million I think I would rather BOA sacrifice it’s income goals for the year and give me a break instead.

FUN FACT #2! Brian’s direct email is: brian.t.moynihan@bankofamerica.com

Angela is what I call a neurotic sleeper. All sounds, no matter how varied and distinct, are indications of an intruder coming into our house. The ice maker is someone breaking in through a window; the washer is someone kicking down the back door and the newest sound that signifies home invasion is the rattling noise made by the air filter when the A/C cuts off.

In Angela’s defense, the air filter does make quite a ruckus – its location in the ceiling right outside the bedroom makes it all the more alarming when your in a deep sleep. To her unconscious mind the air filter denotes danger. She immediately springs to her feet- her eyes not even open and in a voice that sounds like the moan of cat in heat, she yells “WhhAAAt isssss thaaat nOIsssse??!! “Jesus Angela! You are going to seriously give me a heart attack!” She just stands there looking apologetic while I check to make sure I haven’t soiled myself. “I’m SORRY, I just thought someone was in the house.” YES…I KNOW”, I said. “Now hand me my nitroglycerin and go back to sleep.”

The next 3 nights went something like this:

Tuesday:
“MELISSA!!!! Someone’s in the house!”
“Its the filter.”

Wednesday:
“Ahhh!!! What was THAT!!”
“It’s the filter.”

Thursday
“OH MY GOD!!! I heard a door slam!!”
“It’s the filter.”

So. I am now taking a proactive approach and I try to give Angela subliminal suggestions except they really aren’t that subliminal since I say them to her when she is wide awake and staring me in the face. “Tonight – the loud and intrusive sound – is just the AIR FILTER. Try to stay calm.” So far it seems to be working but I have a lot of work ahead of me – I just have to convince her that the ice maker means her no harm.

Angela says “Oooo who’s it from…never-mind, I’ll eat it! She probably thought it fell from Heaven. After trying to discover the secret sender with no luck, we finally just threw it away. I probably should have gone to greater lengths to actually have it destroyed lest Angela rummage it out of the trash like a raccoon.

Under normal circumstances, even “unannounced” chocolate is welcome and will usually send Angela squealing and skipping into the kitchen to fetch a fork, but the cynic in me thought differently. I assure you that to Angela, chocolate is of divine origin and therefore cannot be used for anything sinister – I’m confident that if she were to amble upon a parfait glass of chocolate mousse, sitting under an enormous metal cage with a trip wire, I would find her chocolate smeared face peering out from behind the bars.

Holidays are an emotional roller-coaster around our house. The excitement and anticipation of the probable pastry or 3-month supply of Godiva Goody-ness is too much to bear. To the serious chocoholic only the best will do and often times I will find the rejected carcasses of a less than desirable nut-filled truffle left to petrify in the molested Easter basket or Valentine tin from which it came.

Luckily, disaster was avoided and Angela did not fall prey to the siren song of the heart shaped ambrosia that beckoned to her from our front porch.

I would say that 85 percent of Sarah fans are lesbians and the other 15 percent is split between gay and metrosexual men. It was definitely an interesting mix of folks I had sitting around me. There was a man and woman sitting in the front row that barely moved – they looked more like a couple at their niece’s piano recital than the estrogen driven scream fest the rest of us were living. And of course, there was the amorous lesbian couple right beside me that were laying on the cuddly so thick they made Ang and I look like two catholic school children.

It was pretty ordinary stuff really until I noticed…HER…from the corner of my eye. She was right there in front of me the whole time. Sobbing and swaying to the music like she was at a slave song revival was Sarah’s “Biggest Fan.” She was clutching a ridiculous amount of glow sticks in each hand and waving them around like she was bringing a 747 in for a landing. There were a couple of moments when she rushed the stage all snot-nosed and breathless – I thought security was going to have to use a tranquilizer gun on her and drag her back to her seat. Her friend next to her seemed unfazed by the outbreak of emotions coming from Miss #1 Fan. I could see the face of the girl playing the electric guitar and I think I saw her reach for a shank.

“I love you Sarah…please notice me…I’m all lit up like a Christmas tree for YOU!!!!”

She had finally calmed down a bit until the band started playing ‘Sweet Surrender’. Then she tore into another bag of glow sticks like a Rottweiler going after a package of Snausages and the cycle started once more.

It was hard to look at. But I did anyway.