At lunch Monday, Kelly was telling me a story about the group eating dinner at Waffle House last Saturday night.
Me: How can you eat there without me?
Kelly: You like Waffle House?
Me: Hello?
I then explained that I always eat there on road trips and that I hope every new building going up or empty lot will become a Waffle House.
Kelly then decided I should own one, and she proceeded to sign me up on their website to become a franchise owner.
An hour later at Target (I bought five shirts and two pants), I got a call from a company about my interest in becoming a franchise owner. Sure, I say.
And two days later I'm on the phone with a consultant discussing my finances and my desire to get into business. He didn't work for Waffle House, mind you, but a company that pairs owners and companies together.
Colin the Consultant and I had a lovely conversation in which I learned that I'll never own a Waffle House. He says you need upward of 500,000 to open one of those things.
Colin: What's your price range?
Me: Not more than 50,000.
Colin: Oh. I don't have franchises in my portfolio for less than that.
Let's say, though, that I had 200,000 (the average to open for one of his companies) to spare. I'd have to fill out two forms and go through a series of consultations with Collin, concluding with a conference call with us and the corporation I wanted to become a franchise owner of.
Then, the corporation puts you through a seven-step process, including an in-person seminar. And that's before filling out a 23-item disclosure document.
After all that, maybe you get to be a franchise owner of a business that may or may not profit.
How the hell do people do this? Oh right, people already with money.
Anybody wanna be partners?
THE TINA CURSING CORNER
I'm looking for a document while talking to my mom on the phone. I can't find it among all my papers. "You better straighten out all your shit or you'll never find anything."
Mom is recalling her Katrina experience. She says it was particularly hot the day after the storm moved through. Me: How hot was it? Her: "It was fucking hot."
CUTTING UP
My grass was getting a tad high, so I got off my lazy ass and went to cut it late Monday afternoon. This is how far I got.
It looks like I heard a voice from the fields and started constructing a baseball diamond. I think I heard it say: If you build it, the Cubs will win the pennant.
There's even a weird little circle in the corner where I may or may not have made home plate.
All kidding aside, the lawnmower gave out after a minute and wouldn't start again. There was some gas left, but I added more just to be safe. Oil, spark plug and filter were all fine. That's the limit of my expertise.
I put the lawnmower away and went about a fine Monday evening. On Tuesday, I asked my neighbor for help. He tried several things with some gizmos. Nothing.
Tina stopped by. Pulled the chord as if she had a magic touch. Nothing.
So on Wednesday, I had my dad come by to pick it up and bring it to a repair shop. It is still under warranty.
Just as Tina did the day before, he yanked on the mower like he had some power over a broken machine. On the fourth pull, however, it started.
Mowed the back. Emptied the bag. Started it again. Still worked. Mowed the front.
Maybe it was bad gas that had to work its way out, and the new gas I put in Monday got into the engine by Wednesday? I don't know these things.
But it's working for now, as the grass is fully cut. And the Cubs will never win the pennant.
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