My husband and I are on a corporation name quest. Over the last few months, he has decided to go “all in” and join me in my business venture. This is quite a big step for the two of us who have never merged our monies, even after eleven years together, eight of those married. Initially, I blamed my paranoia on a former mate who micro-managed money. Yet in time, I realized part of my personal identity development entailed learning how to handle my own.
Several important events transpired that lead us to the conclusion that collaboration was a must. The increased pressure of trying to hold all of the reins of a rapidly advancing business has unraveled my brain. Becoming a modern Renaissance writer has taken its mental toll. Whenever I try to think on too many levels simultaneously, I have these horrible brain freezes.
So here we go. My present hubby bellied up to our business bar and we envision melding individual strengths to create a more cohesive whole. He will take over the business administration aspect, as fitting his degree in progress, which allows me to focus on the innovative aspects: writing, blogging, web designing, social media, networking, and publishing.
The climax that confirmed my need for help occurred recently. We joined his colleagues and their wives at South Point, a resort just outside of Las Vegas. The men golfed while the women sunned by the pool.
Here is how our turning point business epiphany played out:
The four couples had ventured into Las Vegas for dinner one evening and my husband had won $750 playing craps for about twenty minutes. The next day before checking out of the hotel, he handed me a $500 chip from the Excalibur and said, “Hang on to this chip so when I drive up to the Excalibur, you can go inside and cash it. I will use the money to buy you some clothes for the Writer’s Digest Conference in New York.”
(*Side note: Yes, we are going to the conference, daughters and all. Fuel for another post)
I shook my head up and down while a mental jumble of fifty different thoughts clunked into one another. The porter grabbed our bags and I thought, I’ve got to tip him. I looked at the chip in my hand and saw the 5, thought my husband had given it to me for the tip, and handed it to the porter.
When I got to the car and my husband tipped the porter, I looked at him puzzled and asked, “Why did you tip him? You gave me money to tip him in the room.”
“I didn’t give you money to tip him.” He replied.
I still did not realize what I had done until we reached the Excalibur and he turned to me and asked, “Where’s the chip?”
“I don’t have the chip. You have it.” I said.
“No, I gave you the chip before leaving the room.” His voice had a nervous edge while I tore my purse apart looking for that chip.
Then it hit me and I screamed, “I gave it to the porter. I thought you had given me a $5.00 chip for a tip.”
At that point, we both screamed like in one of those madcap movies. Then in fear my brain freeze would prematurely end my marriage, I called the hotel and spoke to the head porter explaining the mishap and pleading for mercy.
“Just a moment Mam.” I head the phone go click and yet I held on for what seemed like an eternity. After about ten minutes of silence, I heard his voice.
“Mam, I have your chip.”
When I got back to the hotel and walked up to the bell desk, He handed me a white envelope with the chip and smiled.
“I made all of the bellmen come down to the front office and empty their pockets. Please understand that when we are all rushing like this. Sometimes mistakes are made.”
I could see the concern in his eyes that I might accuse the bellman of purposefully ripping me off. I assured him that I knew the bellman hadn’t even looked at the chip when he slipped it into his pocket.
“Thank you for saving my marriage!” I teased, and then slipped him a generous tip for the honest bellman.
Here’s the most amazing part of the story. My husband drove me back into Las Vegas and spent the entire $500 on buying me clothes and a masquerade mask. I can build a business with a man like that.
When we discussed our traumatic experience on the drive home, Justin’s wit kicked in, “You should blog about this and call it The JoDee Luna Stimulus Package.”