My Four Cents

Let me apologize in advance for the brevity of this post. I know it won't hold you for long, but too much time has passed since my last entry and I started feeling like I was neglecting my legions of loyal readers. Not that I felt guilty about it, mind you. More like sorry for you. So here's a bone:

I have never pretended to be a numbers whiz. Or even a person capable of rudimentary math. As you can see, I'm more of a language arts person. In college, I took basic math. Math for English majors. We learned about sets and about how to write a check. I even tried to master balancing a checkbook. I think that was our final exam. It was an 8:00 class, so I made a D.

I get an upset stomach every time I have to figure out a tip. That's why I always hope someone else will pay. Or, I may say something stupid like, "Let me at least get the tip." (Just the tip.) Then I take an hour and a half writing the numbers on a napkin--doing math in public. I can't do percentages on a calculator. I carry one to help me when I'm shopping and find something that's "half off." I can divide by 2. To figure a tip, I round up, move the decimal to the left, divide that amount in half, and then add that amount to the first one. People say to just double the tax. I guess that would be about right here where tax is about 8-something percent. I can handle tax-doubling (if I round it down of course) as long as I have my trusty calculator. Bad math has caused me to tip as little as $2.50 on a $50 check and as much as $30 on a $15 check. So I guess it evens out.

Aside from bussing tables and supervising the games area at Chuck E. Cheese, I never had a job in food service or retail. The reason? First, I was a spoiled brat. But aside from that, I could never make change. Even with the help of a cash register, I would still need to count the money out. Sure, I can identify all the coins and bills; it was just the quick gathering of them that I could never master. I liked those old registers that would spit the coins down a little chute on the side. I guess that was back in the days of wheat pennies and buffalo nickels. And no, I'm not old enough to remember those days. I'm just imagining. The days when everything was in black and white and when people never noticed the smell of cigarette smoke because it was pretty much the same as the air.

While I love shopping at garage sales and flea markets, I dread the whole exchange of cash thing. The vendor will fork over some coins and ask, "Did I count that right?" "Sure," I say. Not wanting to appear less intelligent than the toothless sucker who just sold me a highly sought-after, authentic, vintage, mint-condition Gucci bag for $4.50. (Look for it on eBay soon.)

As much as I dislike making change, I do love finding coins. I even wrote a super cheesy story about it called Lucky Pennies. It's in A Second Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul (Page 293). That was 10 years ago. I like to think my writing has improved since then. Or at least become less cheesy. In college and even law school, I used to casually check pay phones and vending machines for change. Like a homeless person. One time, in high school (this one time...in high school...) I was in line at McDonald's with a friend. We were waiting to ask for medium Cokes in large cups so we could add our Jack Daniel's to it when we got back to the car. These were the days before it became "socially inappropriate" for 16-year-olds to drink and drive, and to do so without even a passing thought about using a seat belt. Goood times… (My amazement at our survival must wait for another post.) So anyway, there we are in the line, probably already buzzed, and I spot a nickel on the floor. Well, I of course bend down to pick it up as my friend draws my attention to the puddle of pee the coin is swimming in thanks to an unattended and incontinent toddler. Can't remember whether I went for it anyway.

One time I took our change jar to one of those Coinstar machines at the grocery store. I dumped the jar and enjoyed watching it do its thing. It spit out a voucher for like $94, which I thought was great until I decided to read the sign on the machine that says it withholds like 9%. I didn't know how much 9% would have added up to as I think I would have had to employ some impossible algebraic equation. I was pretty sure that 10% of $100 was $10. But I'm not sure how that related to my exact circumstances. I don't do as well with numbers other than 10. I just felt ripped off and wondered how much I really had in that dang jar. How much would the bank have given me? I'll know better next time.

Now to the reason for the title. When I go to Sonic (which is one of the most unhealthy fast food places ever, so the kids love it) I always act like a generous big spender and tell the carhop kid to keep the change (unless I use my debit card, in which case they are SOL). I never think about how much the change might be, so I have probably tipped up to 99 cents sometimes. Today I pulled a fairly recent Sonic receipt out of my purse. I paid $9.00 in cash on a total bill of $8.96.