I can’t grasp numbers this big

The 2005 trade deficit hits record of $725.8B.

Up 17% from the year before – which was the previous record. $617 billion.

Four years in a row the deficit has set a record. Really, I think this is a new trend and can’t imagine how we won’t set another record in ’06. Not when everything we buy is built in Asia and half the fuel we burn is drilled in the Mid-east or South America.

The fun thing about deficits – they add up. It’s like a credit card, but they keep raising the credit limit. Who is “they?” I suspect the Chinese, but I’m sure it’s spread around a bit. Who else has such a vested interest in us buying so much more than we produce? And what happens when they decide to cash in on the debt?

Feeling a little old

(before you read my long rambling bit, go read Mir’s plea for boobie support. Boobies are always better than anything I could write. Don’t worry, my rambling will still be here when you get back)

Anyway, when I was fifteen, my parents agreed to let me purchase an automobile. This was a Big Deal because they had said “no fucking way” or something along those same lines. I think somebody convinced them it might help me learn responsibility and accountability and things like that. This was the days before Oprah or Dr. Phil or internet chat rooms so I’m guessing it was Redbook or something that had a “how to get your teen to be more responsible” column.

Anyway, they let me buy a car. I had to earn money. I dug through the want-ads. I found it – a 1965 Mustang. White. Stick shift. Classic. $1,500.

We went and drove it (it was in one of the semi-scary neighborhoods on the east side of Dallas. At least, it was semi-scary to a white guy like me, who knew only the sheltered suburbs up to that point.) They agreed to take $1,100 if I paid cash. Deal.

They brought the car and parked it on the street. First thing it needed was – brakes. The thing had no emergency brake (couldn’t hold the car on a slight incline, like a driveway). Then it needed an exhaust system. And, well, a battery. It passed inspection. I was allowed to drive it when I got my license.

Freedom! That’s what this car meant. Freedom to, um, spend a lot of money with a mechanic.

Electrical system? First time it rained the windshield wipers stopped working. “Needs a new wiring harness.” First hot day? Radiator blew a hole. A hole. With steam pouring out. “Needs a new cooling system.” Also? Needed a transmission. Tires. Stereo. The brake pedal’s spring was worn out, so if you weren’t careful, the brake lights would stay on while it was parked. Say, in a parking lot. And then the battery would be dead. It wouldn’t start on cold days, or warm days, or any day you had to be somewhere in a hurry.

I loved that car.

Well, like all good things, this came to an end. I traded the car to a guy named “Froggy” for a motorcycle. We both thought we had the better end of the deal. (He wrecked the car, I later sold the motorcycle to a guy that tried to ride it to California and it died somewhere in a desert, he was rescued by a cropduster. Really)

Oh, yeah, why I’m feeling a little old? I realized that my car. My Honda. That we bought with 10 miles on the odometer? Is older than my classic mustang was when I bought it. Has more miles, too. By the time my son is old enough to drive, my car will be equivalent that a 57 Chevy was to me when I was his age.

A challenge for you

Psssst, come on over here while Ben is in the corner muttering about oil and the government. I mean, yeah, sure; that stuff is important. But there’s little a person can DO about it, while sitting at their desk, pretending to work.

But do you know what you CAN do? You can give money to boobs! Yes! The boobs, they want your money!

Here’s the challenge: As those of you who’ve read over on my blog are aware, I’m in training to walk 60 miles this summer to raise money for the Susan G. Komen Foundation. There are certain milestones in both training and fundraising that the coaches ask participants to keep track of. We get a special badge with spots for little stickers for each milestone, and it’s sort of dorky, but I am just a wee bit competitive, it turns out (who knew!), and I’m a bit irked about one of my milestones.

Currently I am the top fundraiser in terms of dollars collected for the Boston walk. Woo! This means that I’ve blown through most of the fundraising milestones pretty effortlessly. But what I have not yet managed to do is get a single matching donation.

A matching donation is when you work for a big company that oozes money and matches any charitable contributions you make. I fail to believe that NO ONE out there works for one of these sorts of companies. Even if you only give $5 or $10, you fill out a form, and your company matches it and doubles your donation. It’s a beautiful thing.

It’s also the missing sticker for my badge. And I want it. So please consider donating to a great cause ESPECIALLY if your employer matches donations. My boobs will thank you. Well, sort of. Okay, I’m going to shut up now.