Serious Injury Inflicted

Seminarily speaking

2010-11-06T10:14:00.000-07:00

I had a bad experience with seminary. I repeat. I. Had. A. Bad. Experience. Perhaps you would like to hear the tale?

In my freshman year, seminary was offered both in the morning and the afternoon. (I did not grow up in an area where seminary was part of the school day and I resent all you people who had that option. Jerks. (Just kidding) (No wait, yes, jerks.))) Since only a crazy person would get up in the morning earlier than they absolutely had to, I opted to attend the afternoon session. Afternoon seminary was held in the basement of a member's house who lived just down the street from the school and I had the best seminary teacher in the whole world. Brother Watkins. I know that all of you who know him are nodding in agreement. Brother Watkins is an incredible person and he was the best seminary teacher ever. These are the facts and they are undisputed.

My freshman seminary year was great. The classes were uplifting, spiritual, fun, challenging, and inspiring. Seminary was something to be looked forward between the end of a long school day and the beginning of a long night of homework. I can't recall ever not wanting to go to seminary that year. This is entirely Brother Watkins fault, I'm sure. So devoted to him (and to seminary) was I that when a schedule change made it impossible for my brother (who was responsible for driving me around) to attend Brother Watkins afternoon seminary class, I chose to go to Early Morning Seminary.

For the unfamiliar, Early Morning Seminary is even earlier than regular Morning Seminary. It was designed for those weirdos who take zero period classes. It started at oh-dark-thirty in the morning and ended an hour later, which was still pretty much oh-dark-thirty. Did I mention that Early Morning Seminary was not offered for my high school? Well, it wasn't. So I had to drive right past my own high school, which was already 20 minutes from the house, to the Stake Center, another 20 minutes down the road in order to be there at 6:30 am.

Let's do some math. Accounting for the 40 minute drive, to be there at 6:30, we had to leave the house at 5:50. And as a teenage girl, of course it was impossible for me to spend less than an hour getting ready for school. So let's see, carry the one, divide by zero... I was getting up at 4:50 am. Yes. Every school day. As a freshman in high school I was getting up before 5:00 in the morning. Every day.

But, it was totally worth it. Not only was I being edified and uplifted, but I was working toward the coveted Seminary Graduation, which would determine the course of the rest of my life. Okay, not really. But it is looked upon as a grand achievement. At testament to devotion and sacrifice. Bragging rights and something to tell your grandkids about.

Sophomore year. Afternoon seminary was still offered but Brother Watkins was only available 3 days per week. So, the missionaries were co-opted to teach the other 2 days. The missionaries were not as good, not as prepared, and there was a lack of continuity that was distracting. But it was still an enjoyable experience and worth my time. As a bonus, I got my driver license halfway through the year. And as long as I was attending seminary and willing to drive a few kids home, I could drive the car to school and avoid taking the dreaded schoolbus.

Prior to my junior year, it was announced that afternoon seminary has been eliminated. All students would now be required to attend morning seminary which would be held at the church building a couple of miles from the high school. There are some vague reasons given for the change but the feeling is that seminary should be a sacrifice. Kids will build character if they are required to sacrifice. Having to fork over a huge chuck of the afternoon was not sacrifice enough. A real sacrifice comes from getting up early and getting to seminary on time.

I wasn't happy about it, but at least it wasn't Early Morning Seminary. Just regular old Morning Seminary. I think it started around 7:00 am. Taking into account the 20 minute drive and the hour spent primping in the morning, I only had to get up at 5:40. What a bargain! Plus, I got to drive the car to school and avoid the dreaded schoolbus.

I suppose it didn't help that the teacher that year was new. I suppose it also didn't help that we seemed to have a unusually large and rowdy class. I know it didn't help that as the year progressed we seemed to have shorter and shorter lessons followed by longer and longer after-class basketball games. I am positive it did not help when I showed up for class one morning only to be directed to the gym where an overly zealous ward member had decided that seminary students would be perfect to help him stuff envelopes with flyers for his personal political crusade. Eventually, the sacrifice wasn't worth it. I told my mom that I didn't want to go to seminary anymore. I would prefer to sleep in and would be content riding the dreaded schoolbus. I didn't care about graduating from seminary. I just didn't want to waste my time any more.

I think everyone was a little shocked. I was a pretty good kid and mostly did what was expected of me without question or complaint. For me to refuse to go to seminary might have been a little wakeup call for the people involved. So, we struck a deal. If I would just finish out the year (a couple of months), I would get credit for that year. Then for my senior year, I would do home study seminary. I'd still graduate so the almost 3 years I'd already invested wouldn't be wasted.

The summer between my junior and senior year, I got a call from the stake seminary coordinator.

"Sister Ranger, I see you've signed up for 'home study' seminary for the coming year."

"That's correct. I didn't have a good experience last year so I'd prefer to do home study this year."

"Well, you understand that it is important that you graduate, right?"

"Yes. That's why I want to do home study. Otherwise, I don't think I'd attend."

"Alright. You just have to promise me... pinky-swear... that you will absolutely, positively, without excuse will do the home study. You'll have a workbook assignment page every day. Don't get behind because it's really hard to catch up."

"I promise."

So, at the beginning of the year, I got the workbook and faithfully started doing the assignments. It was Old Testament that year, so you can imagine what it was like for a high school girl to slog through the reading and writing assignments on her own. But I had promised that I would take it seriously and finish the year, so on I slogged.

Midway through the year, I had a regularly scheduled bishop's interview. The subject of seminary came up and I told him I was doing home study. He asked how I was doing and I told him I was keeping up and not getting behind. He congratulated me and asked if I needed any help or had any questions.

"Well bishop, actually maybe you can find out something for me. In the workbook, there are only 4 days of assignments per week. Am I supposed to be attending class on Friday or is that just a day off? I just need to know so I can make sure I'm meeting the requirements."

The bishop told me he'd check into it for me. I had no idea that my innocent question would put into motion the chain of events to which I was later subjected.

About a week later, the bishop called me back.

"Well, Sister Ranger, I looked into your seminary question for you."

"Super. I hope that I don't have to start going to class on Fridays. But if I do, I wouldn't mind too much since the home study is working out so well."

"Sister Ranger, I'm afraid I don't have any answer for you. It's very strange... but everyone I've spoken to says there is no such thing as a home study seminary program in our stake."

"Huh. That is weird. But I'm sure there is. I spoke to the stake rep over the summer. He okayed me doing home study and made me pinky swear to finish all the assignments so I could graduate. Did you talk to him? I'm sure he can clear this up."

"Yes. Actually, when I started asking around everyone directed me to him. He's the one who told me there's no such thing as home study seminary. All students who want credit need to be attending class."

I just... didn't even know what to do. I sat there with my mouth open for a while. Then I started blubbering.

"But he tol- tol- told me I could do it! I've spent months working on these stupid pages! We had an arrangement! A de- de- deal! How could he for- for- forget! What is ha- ha- happening here? I don't understaaaaaand!"

The bishop tried to reassure me and said he'd look into it further. The next week he asked me to come and meet with him. When I showed up for my appointment, he was there with a couple of other seminary-related people.

"Sister Ranger," they began gently, "We understand that you've been working this year on a 'home study' seminary program. Such a program does not exist in our stake. We're sorry that you misunderstood. Because there was a misunderstanding, we are going to give you credit for the work that you've done. But, from now on, you need to attend class in order to finish the year and graduate. Can you do that?"

I cannot even begin to express what a shock and betrayal this was to my teenage mind. I didn't imagine the fact that I had talked to the stake rep about it. I didn't misunderstand anything. They were changing the rules of the game, right in the middle and then pretending that I was the one who was confused.

But more important was the message they were sending. They would rather have me park my butt in a chair in a class for credit than actually learn something by working at home. Immediately, the seminary program lost all value in my eyes. The big deal that everyone made about completing four years of seminary, graduating from seminary, what an honor, what an accomplishment, what an achievement! All it means is that you occupied a seat for four years.

Fine. If that's what is required, I can do it.

For the rest of the year, I went to seminary every morning. I sat in the back. I slept. I did my homework. I didn't listen. I didn't participate. I didn't learn.

At one point, the teacher took me aside and said he noticed that I didn't seem to be participating in his class. He could sense something was the matter. He had heard that I might be unhappy about something. Did I want to talk about it? Could he help in any way?

I explained the situation. Remarkably, he understood completely. He said if I ever felt differently I would be welcome at any time to participate. I told him that it was nothing personal and that I'd probably really be enjoying his class if I didn't have to stage this protest to prove my point. He wasn't offended. He smiled and shook my hand and left me alone for the rest of the year.

So, I graduated from seminary. Four years. Big deal.

Not that I'm still bitter or anything.

Discovering a new fee

2010-10-19T14:55:00.000-07:00

Yesterday when I opened my Discover Card statement I was shocked to discover they had charged me a $19 late fee. Since I hadn't made any late payments I called them forthwith. The following conversation ensued: (let's listen, shall we)

Me: I'm calling about the $19 late fee on my statement.

DC: Yes. What do you need to know?

Me: I need to know what I was charged a $19 late fee on my statement.

DC: Well, our system shows that you didn't make a payment last month.

Me: I didn't make a payment? How odd. What was my balance last month?

DC: Let's see. It looks like you had a zero balance last month.

Me: ...

DC: Is there anything else I can help you with?

Me: ...

DC: Ma'am?

Me: ...

DC: Oh! I see your point! Let me take care of that for you right away...

I was glad I didn't have to spell it out for her.

I got something to say...

2010-08-23T13:26:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, while we were sitting in church, Brookey hollered out in her best big-girl voice:

"GOU!"

Brett tapped her lightly on the mouth and murmured, "Shhhh..."

She looked questioningly up at him and then whispered:

"Gou?"

Mr. Smith goes shopping

2010-02-24T15:07:00.000-08:00

I visited coolest-sister-in-law-ever last month to celebrate coolest-nephew-ever's first birthday. Toward the end of my stay, I ran out of baby formula and Shauna and I went to the store to get some more for the journey home. Shauna totally hooked me up with a coupon for Enfamil which stated "Buy one, get one free (up to $13.85 value)." If anyone has bought anything baby-related lately, you know that it is a TOTAL RACKET. Anything baby-related costs at least 3 times a much as it should. So, I really wanted to use the coupon. And besides, getting $13.85 off of anything is enough to make me sit up and take notice.

We used the self-service checkout lane at Smith's. (I love how stores are doing this self-service things now. It's like they are admitting defeat. "Yes, noble consumer, you can do just as good a job at checking yourself out as our professionally trained checkers. Have at it!") It works well enough, unless you have a problem and then you have to wait and wait for someone to help you. We expected no problems, however.

We scanned all the items in the basket and then tried to scan the coupon. No go. The scanner wouldn't accept it. So we flagged down the clerk in charge of overseeing the self-service lanes. He was a youngish fellow and looked bored so we were happy to give him something to do. He diddled around at his register and then gave us the "you're all set" wave.

Eagle-eyed Shauna noticed, however, that we were not, in fact, "all set." The coupon had only registered $10.00 off, instead of the $13.85 to which we were entitled.

"Excuse me," I beckoned to the clerk. "The coupon didn't ring up correctly. It's only giving us $10.00 off."

He plodded over to our scanner and made a show of looking at the read-out. "Uhhh, yeah. That's all it would let me do."

"I don't understand. All what would what let you do?"

"The system won't let me put it in. The $10.00 was all I could do."

"But we're supposed to get $13.85 off."

"Yeah. But that was all the system would let me do. Sorry."

He didn't seem sorry. He didn't seem like he cared at all actually. Nor did he seem competent. So we asked for the manager. Surely a manager would be able to a) understand what the problem was b) why it was a problem for us and c) fix it.

The manager arrives. She's a biscuit older than the clerk but has a more interested and competent demeanor about her. She assesses the situation and then agrees with the clerk. "Well, yeah, sometimes the system won't let us put these things in. Sorry."

It seemed like an appropriate time for Shauna to spell out exactly what we expected from Smith's that night.

"Look here, lady. The coupon says we are entitled to $13.85 off. We are not leaving until that happens. I don't care how you have to make it happen. Just do it. We'll wait. It's not like this is a manufacturer coupon. It's a Smith's coupon. From your store. I refuse to believe that your store would issue a coupon and then have absolutely no way to honor it. Figure it out. Call your supervisor. Get creative. We are not leaving until you honor the full face-value of this coupon."

The manager looked surprisingly unfazed. "Well, if the system won't let us put it in, it won't let us. There's nothing we can do. You can call customer service in the morning and maybe they can work something out for you. I'm the only manager here tonight."

"You're the only manager here and you have no power to honor your own store's coupons?"

"That's right. My supervisor left at 8:00. Calling customer service in the morning is the only thing I can recommend." (Apparently, she had already forgotten Shauna's warning that we would not be leaving until the problem was fixed. Or she thought she could outlast us. Foolish, foolish girl.)

Since she didn't seem to have her mind open to all the possibilities of what could be done, but rather wanted to focus on what she couldn't do for us, Shauna and I began to brainstorm for her.

"Well, how about you just refund the additional $3.85 in cash to us. That would be fine."

"No. Can't do that."

"Your system won't let you?"

"No. The till would be off by $3.85. You don't want his till to be off, do you?" She gestured to the hapless clerk sitting dejectedly by his register.

"Honestly, we don't care. That's not our problem if his till is off. Our problem is getting another $3.85 off our total."

"He could get fired. I could get in trouble."

"Aren't you the manager? I find it hard to believe that a clerk would be subject to disciplinary action over $3.85. And even is he was, you could just explain the situation. You know, making the customer happy, honoring your store's coupon, that kind of apparently meaningless-to-Smith's crap. Even the most craven disciplinary board would understand that."

"No. We can't have the till off."

"Alright, working within the constraints of your system, which you've indicated will not allow a discount greater than $10.00... why don't you just put in an additional miscellaneous coupon for $3.85. That would balance the till and you'd have a paper trail."

"No. The system won't let us do that either. And the till would be off."

Shauna and I began to wrack our brains. Then suddenly, a flash of genius... inspiration!

"How about this... You charge us for one can of formula, forget about the coupon, but let us take two home. We get two cans of formula for the price of one and your till stays in balance. I'll even give you a dime, since the formula is $13.95 and we are really only entitled to get $13.85 off. Or I can keep the dime, if that will throw off your till."

"No."

"NO? Why not?"

"Then our inventory would be off. We'd be missing a can of formula that was never rung out."

"For crying out loud! Are you trying to tell me that you have such high standards here at Smith's that you expect to balance to the penny every night and your inventory is always perfectly accounted for?"

"I can't just let you walk out with a can of formula that you didn't pay for. It's too much money."

"Okay. Then I'll gather up $3.85 worth of candy and other stuff and you can let me walk out with that."

"No. I can't do that either. Inventory matters."

We had presented her with four viable options and she had matter-of-factly rejected each of them. There was only one thing left to do. If the floor had been clean and one of us had not been 7-months pregnant, we would have parked our butts on the ground to drive the point home. Instead, Shauna fixed her with a stare designed to leave no doubt as to the seriousness of our intentions and hissed, "We are not leaving. Figure. It. Out."

The manager scrittered off and grabbed the next person in a Smith's vest that she saw. Together, the manager, the original clerk, and the random Smith's employee huddled around the register. They whispered, conspired, poked buttons, frantically flailed their arms, mopped their sweaty brows and stole glances at the two stubborn ladies who refused to leave without another $3.85.

Eventually, Random Smith stepped back with a sigh of relief. The manager came over and announced that, against all odds, they had managed to input a coupon for $13.85. The total was now correct and Shauna and I could leave with no ill will toward Smith's or its good-natured and helpful employees. How happy they were that they could help!

Ironically, as we left the building, the security gate began to wail in protest. Apparently, cans formula are fitted with magnetic security tags which need to be desensitized. Ours were not.

But Shauna and I just kept walking and never looked back.

Jiffy-suck, a three-part tragedy

2009-09-11T11:42:00.000-07:00

Let me tell you about my ongoing saga with Jiffy-Lube. It began 2 years ago when we purchased our new car. Eager to keep it in tip-top shape, I was excited to take it in for the first oil change at 3,000 miles. I was especially excited because the tires were getting low and I hate hate hate to take the car to the gas station to pump up the tires. Most of the gas stations around here require you to pay for air, or have a token to turn on the air machine. Then there's the frantic scrambling around to get to all four tires before the machine shuts off. There's the heavy, heavy hose which wants to retract without warning and drag itself across my shiny new paintjob. There's the squatting down and gravel and dirty fingers and all the other un-pleasantries which come with putting air in the tires. Needless to say, I am more than happy to let Jiffy-Lube take care of it.

Part 1

The service at the Jiffy-Lube on this day was particularly speedy. I was in and out before I could really delve into which spices Martha Stewart felt would make my cooking unforgettable. As I pulled back onto the road, I checked the dashboard display, fully expecting my tire pressure to read at 32 psi in all four tires. Wrong. Three tires were at 32, but the rear passenger tire was still at 27.

I sighed a heavy sigh. Was it worth it to turn around and take the car back? I'd have to make a u-turn, and then wait at 2 left-turn lights. But given my previously discussed hatred of filling my own tires, I decided it was definitely worth it.

I pulled back in and someone came running out to meet me.

"I'm sorry," I began. "I was just here and it looks like one of my tires didn't get filled up. Can you check it for me again?"

"How do you know that?" the guy asked, a little defensively.

"I have a display on my dash that tells me what the tire pressure is. It looks like all the other tires got filled, just not the rear passenger-side. Will you check it for me?"

"Well, we pump up all four tires when we do the service. That's our policy. I'm sure we did all of yours."

"It doesn't look like it, but whatever. Can you put some more air in it for me anyway? I'd like to have it at 32 like all my other tires. I see there's no one in the service bay. I'd be happy to pull it right in. Your guys can just fill it up really quick and I'll be on my way."

He pondered this for a moment. "You know what it is? It's your display. Those sensors take a little bit to reset. I'm sure yours just hasn't reset itself yet. You just need to drive it around."

"I think it has reset. I mean, all the other tires are showing that they are full and they weren't when I came in here. I just don't think that 3 out of 4 sensors would reset. I think someone just forgot to fill that tire."

"No. That's not it. You just need to drive it around."

"I did. I drove it out of here, down the street and back again when I realized that my tire was still low."

"You need to drive it some more. If it's still showing low when you get home, then bring it back and we'll be happy to fill it for you."

I knew he was full of it. So I did drive home and promptly logged a complaint on Jiffy-Lube's website. It wasn't that big of a deal, but I thought if I made enough noise I might get a free oil change out of it. I laid it on thick, too. "I KNOW that he was patronizing me because I'm a WOMAN and he didn't think I would understand about tire pressure because I'm just a GIRL... blah blah blah..." It was over the top, but not too far from the truth.

That evening, I got a call from Jiffy-Lube. At first I though they were responding to my e-mail. You know, because I had checked the box indicating I would like someone to contact me about my concern. No, it turned out that they were just having a major customer service push or evaluating the dealer's franchise or something and they were calling everyone that had work done at that location.

The nice lady seemed very concerned and I told her exactly what I had e-mailed earlier. She apologized again and again and asked if I would like to have someone contact me. "Well, if you aren't the person who can give me a free oil change, then yes. Have someone contact me." (I may or may not have actually said this to her.)

I waited for the opportunity to share my tale of discrimination and woe with a corporate executive. Surprisingly, no one ever called.

Part 2

Jiffy-Lube keeps sending us coupons which is why I keep patronizing them. I decided I would NEVER EVER go back to the shop in Elk Grove (serious injury inflicted) but that I'd try the shop just down the street from my office. I had a satisfactory experience there and for some reason that convinced me that I would have a satisfactory experience if I would just give the Elk Grove shop another try. I'm so stupid.

This time when I went in, I requested that all four tires be inflated to 35 psi, instead of the manufacturer recommended 32 psi. No problem, he assured me. It'll be done in a jiffy.

I honestly don't know WHAT the problem is with those people and inflating tires, but when I drove away, the tires on the left side at 32 psi and the tires on the right side at 45 psi.

Bless their poor, dense, dumber-than-dirt hearts.

Part 3

After deciding that I would NEVER EVER EVER AND I MEAN IT THIS TIME go to the Elk Grove shop again, my next oil change was at the Jiffy-Lube near my office. They got the tires right the last time, they can do it again. High score for the Florin Jiffy-Lube!

But when I pulled out of the driveway the next morning, there was a fair amount of oil underneath where my car had been parked. I inspected it closely. It was fresh and there was enough of it that I was concerned. So, back to the Jiffy-Lube I went.

The manager happened to be working at the counter when I arrived, so I was saved the trouble of asking for him. I asked if they would take a look and verify that everything had been properly tightened. Without even looking at my car, he said, "Yeah, that's just condensation from the air conditioner. It's just water. You see, the way the a/c works is that..."

I interrupted him. "I know how an a/c works. And this wasn't water. It was oil. I know what oil looks like when it's on my driveway. I put my finger in it. It wasn't leaking yesterday morning. Now it's leaking. You guys worked on it. Something didn't get tightened properly. You need to fix it."

He was a little taken aback. "Well, I can assure you that everyone involved in servicing your car yesterday is a trained professional. There's no way they would have made a mistake like that."

I was going to say, "Yeah, just like there's no way they'd inflate two of my tires to 45 psi." But then I remembered that I was at the wrong Jiffy-Lube, so instead I said, "It's leaking. You need to check it out."

"Well, of course we're going to check it out," he said in a tone that implied that he was offended that I had implied they weren't going to look at it, even though he'd been arguing with me since I walked in the door. "We want all our customers to be satisfied.*"

*even the delusional weirdos who can't tell the difference between water and oil on the driveway his tone implied

I watched them check it out of the corner of my eye. I can't be sure, but it certainly looked like the manager went under the car, inspected it, came up out of the pit, grabbed a technician who was dressed for getting dirty and who had a wrench in hand, made him climb under the car, tighten something, all the while guiltily looking around to see if anyone was watching.

The manager returned and triumphantly exclaimed to the whole shop, "Well, we checked it out and everything looks fine! There's no problem here! Nope! Everything is all tightened! No leaks! Yup! Everyone did what they were supposed to yesterday! It's all perfect!"

I wondered who he was trying to convince, since I was the only one present.

I'm running out of conveniently located Jiffy-Lubes to whom I can take my car to have them screw it up in a new and completely original way.

Missing person

2009-09-04T15:46:00.000-07:00

Have you seen this woman?

Last seen leaving California to attend Education Week in Utah. Has not been seen or heard from since. Devoted wife and mother. Doting grandmother. Exceptionally talented painter, sculptor, and potter. Distinguishing characteristics: high cheekbones, sparkling smile, cleavage. World traveler, including Chitzen Itza (see prior distinguishing characteristic). Limitless enthusiasm for life. Laughs at (all my) jokes. Loved by all, especially Sunbeams and grandkids. Hobbies include playing Catan, playing Catan, playing Catan, cheating at Catan, and playing Catan.

If you see this woman, be sure to give her a cookie for me.

The world is still full of serious injury...

2009-08-25T18:41:00.000-07:00

And this baby disapproves.

But here are some pictures, for you non-facebooking-types. (*ahem* Grandpa Fox, I'm looking at you.)

I've kept her alive a lot longer than any of my houseplants

2009-07-08T13:41:00.001-07:00

But that's not really saying much.

We were at the doctor's office yesterday for Brooke's four-month checkup. When the nurse came in to check her vitals and such, she (the nurse, not Brooke) asked:

"Do you shave her head? Or does she just not have any hair yet?"

Uhhh, what? Do I shave her head? What kind of a question is that??

When I indicated that she just didn't have any hair yet, the nurse replied condescendingly:

"Well, don't worry about it. She'll get hair eventually."

I know. I wasn't worried about it. But now I guess I should be, lest someone think I'm shaving my baby's head.

Keeping America safe from weirdos

2009-07-06T09:39:00.000-07:00

I love the Muppet Show.

Downsizing

2009-07-01T11:20:00.000-07:00

I called the company that publishes our accounting software to ask a technical question today. I told the receptionist that I would like to speak to someone in tech support. She said, "He is on another call right now. Can I take a message for you?"

He? HE? Your entire tech support department is one person and he is on another call?

Good grief.

Stating the obvious

2009-06-18T16:06:00.000-07:00

Conversation the other night at Elephant Bar:

Me: Ugh! There are onions on this bruschetta! Gross! Why would they want to ruin perfectly good bruschetta by smothering it with onions? *starts picking off the offending onions*

Brett: Instead of picking them off, why don't you just give it a try?

Me: Uhhhh... because I don't like onions.

Aaaaand... scene.

Tummy time

2009-06-01T12:48:00.000-07:00

Brooke has never really been a fan of tummy time. In fact, she hates it so much that today when I put her on her tummy, she used her freakishly strong arms to flip herself onto her back.

Three times in a row.

*dabs a tear* My baby is growing up so fast.

Awesome motherhood moment, part 3

2009-05-14T18:01:00.001-07:00

The other day, I had to change Brooke's diaper in a public restroom without a changing station. I spread her changing pad in the large section of empty counter beside the sink and laid her down. There was not enough room for the diaper bag and the baby, though. Not a problem for me, however, being the supermom I am. I plopped the bag into the dry sink so it would be within easy reach.

Then, the water automatically turned on and soaked the diaper bag.

Motherhood rocks.

Minor adjustments

2009-05-13T18:16:00.000-07:00

Brett wanted me to take his car in to the shop today to have the trunk latch repaired. We were dreading the idea of throwing another $300 or $400 into repairing a car that is 12 years old, but felt like the bungee cord we were using to hold the trunk shut wasn't offering us the level of security we needed to maintain to avoid having the car vandalized and/or stolen.

Brett had a great idea, though. He said to tell the shop that the trunk latch was "stuck." Not broken, not in need of repair. Just stuck. Maybe we could get out of having to special order and replace any parts if the repair technicians were pre-conditioned to believe that all that was needed was a hefty dose of WD40. He instructed me to say no more. Just keep repeating the word "stuck."

Armed with this game plan, I marched up to the service counter.

"What seems to be the problem with your vehicle?" they asked, dollar signs ringing up behind their eyes.

"The trunk latch... it's stuck," I declared.

"What do you mean? Stuck? Like it's broken and won't shut?"

"No, not broken. It just won't shut because it's stuck. Stuck... stuck open and won't shut. Stuck."

"So, the trunk doesn't latch shut? The latch needs repair?"

"No. The latch is fine. It's just stuck. It needs to be un-stuck so it will latch properly. It needs... adjustment."

"Oh, I see. An adjustment. I can have someone look at that right now for you. Would you like to wait while he sees if he can adjust it?"

Thirty minutes later, I was informed that the technician was able to "adjust" the latch and they would be bringing the car around for me shortly.

The total bill for unsticking and adjusting? Not the hundred of dollars we thought we'd have to pay for hours and hours of labor and parts. Just a measly $57.50.

And, we got a free car wash.

Awesome motherhood moment, part 2

2009-05-04T17:32:00.000-07:00

Our little girl has started sounding like quite the little piggy. She snorts when she's crying, she snorts when she's happy, she snorts when she's eating. At work, someone wanted to know if she knew any tricks. I popped her pacifier out and she started snorting as if on command. My co-worker was duly impressed.

We were visiting a friend's ward on Sunday. Brooke was in my arms and as she fell asleep, her head rolled back against my arm and her mouth dropped open. In the middle of the opening prayer though, she startled awake. As she jerked her head up, she let out the biggest snort I have ever heard.

"SNNNNNNNNNNNNNNERRRRRRRRRKKKK!"

I don't just mean it was a big snort for a baby. It was a big snort for a heavily obese man who has fallen asleep after drinking a case of beer in his easy chair. It rocked the house and rattled the windows.

As her parents, what did we do?

We sat and giggled like schoolgirls through the rest of the meeting.

Motherhood rocks.

Spies like us revisited

2009-04-21T12:01:00.000-07:00

I was telling my husband about my recent experiences at the bank. The following conversation ensued:

Me: ... I mean, I'm all for being friendly, but I just think that's a little over the top. Don't you?

Him: Well, that is kind of "their thing." You know, they are the friendly local bank. They know their customers by name. I mean, I even had one of the tellers recognize me at the mall and say hello.

Me: That would freak me out. Even more so because I would probably recognize her but wouldn't know where I knew her from. Is she from church? Is she a customer from work? Do I know her from the gym?

Him: I knew who she was, but it was kind of weird because after she said hello, she made a point of saying, "Yeah, I just saw you shopping in such-and-such store." That did kind of make me feel like she was spying on me.

Me: Ex-actly.

Him: Yeah. Because what if I was in there buying stuff for my mistress or something?

For all you non-facebooking types...

2009-04-14T13:15:00.000-07:00

Look what I got in my Easter basket this year...

It's the Easter bunny herself!

Yes, that is a bow on her head. Wanna make something of it?

Shine little glow worm... glimmer, glimmer

Eeeeeexcellent idea. Hand over those creme eggs!

We're both tired after a long hard day of being so dang cute.

Spies like us

2009-04-13T17:53:00.000-07:00

I've been learning a lot about how the world works since I've been staying at home with the baby lately. For example, I am going to the bank during the day now and interacting with the tellers. Our bank is locally owned and operated and apparently prides itself on knowing its customers personally.

The first time I went in to make a deposit after the baby was born, the teller scrutinized my checks carefully and then cried, "Oh! Are you Brett's wife?!" I answered in the affirmative and she seemed delighted to meet me. "We just love Brett," she gushed. "He comes in here a lot, usually with the dogs, but we haven't seen too much of you... that's why I didn't recognize you. But... but... YOU HAVE A BABY! Ohmygosh! Is she yours?" I answered in the affirmative again.

Suddenly, there was a swarm of bank tellers behind the bulletproof glass all angling for a glance at my newborn.

"Ohhh! She's so cute!"
"How tiny!"
"What a doll!"
"Awww..."
"Brett didn't mention that you were pregnant OR that you'd had a baby! Why didn't he tell us? Make sure you scold him for us!"

Uhhh... okay. I don't know why he would have told you, my bank teller friends, but sure, I'll yell at him for you.

"We watched you get out of the car, but none of us recognized you. We just figured you were just some new mother. We didn't know you were Brett's wife!"

You watched me get out of the car? And you tried to figure out who I was? Interesting. Okay, it was a slow day at the bank. Maybe you all had nothing else to do. Maybe you are required to try to greet everyone by name so it behooves you to get a jump start while people are still in the parking lot.

I wondered if they would remember me when I went in the next week without the baby.

"Oh, hello Mrs. Fox," the teller greeted me. "Is that your mom out there in the car with the baby?" she inquired. "I can tell. She looks a lot like you."

Okay. Now I just feel like I'm being spied on. It's one thing to watch the parking lot for customers. It's another thing to peer into your customers' parked cars and comment on the facial features of their passengers.

I pity the fool who tries to rob my bank. He won't realize there's 4 bored tellers and a bank manager watching his every move from the moment he steps out of his car until he hands over his hold up note.

They might even know his mother.

It's shower time

2009-04-06T08:54:00.000-07:00

Breakdown of how I spend my time in the shower these days:

10% = washing body parts
20% = washing/conditioning hair
70% = using long-handled brush to scratch my back

The good news and the bad news

2009-03-31T12:51:00.001-07:00

First, the good news:

Could this girl BE any cuter? No. You're right. She could not.

But now for the bad news. There are still serious injuries being inflicted. Case in point:

I got a call from the hospital last week. The admissions office was calling to "pre-register" Brett for a procedure he had scheduled for the next day. It's a routine procedure and he has it done a couple of times a year. I told the lady that I could give her Brett's information. She confirmed his address, phone, birthday, and insurance information. Then she said we should be prepared to pay a $290 co-pay at the time of service.

*screeeeeeech* Excuse me? I told her there must be a mistake. We've never had to pay anything for the procedure before and we have the exact same insurance coverage as last year. I asked if she could check again, just to be sure. She sighed and put me on hold.

Exactly four seconds later she returned, stubbornly insisting that she had checked and that $290 would be due at the time of service. I remained dubious, since I don't believe four seconds is long enough to conduct a thorough investigation. Since $290 is an odd amount for a co-pay, I asked her how it was calculated. Was it a flat fee deductible for the procedure or was it a percentage of the total cost?

She didn't know. And apparently she didn't want to spend another four seconds pretending to check for me. She recommended I call my insurance company for answers.

I did and I swear I ended up talking to the exact same person. How she could work for the hospital and the insurance company at the same time is beyond me.

So, the insurance lady said there was a $250 co-pay for the hospital stay. I patiently explained that it's an outpatient procedure so it's not really a hospital stay. She didn't care. Then I asked how the hospital might have determined that we would owe $290, not $250 (which I would disagree with, but I would understand). She didn't know. Then I asked her how we could have the same procedure done last year and be charged nothing, but this year it would be $250 (or $290). She didn't know and didn't care. I politely asked if I could talk to someone who might know.

"Like who?" she demanded.

"Uhhh... someone else. Someone who might be able to pull the records from last year."

"Who would that be?" she snipped again.

"Well, I don't know. I don't work there. But there must be someone else I can talk to who could give me a little bit more information."

"Like WHO? WHO DO YOU WANT TO TALK TO?"

Gaaah. Uh, Bob? Phyllis? Pauline? Jack? "How about your supervisor? Would he/she be able to help me?"

Big sigh. "Hold on."

The supervisor confirmed that everyone who works for the insurance company is an unhelpful idiot. I began to steel my nerves to fight with hospital admissions the next day over the co-payment.

We checked in and there were sticky notes attached to Brett's file. One said, "Collect $250 co-pay." The other said, "Collect $50 co-pay." The admissions clerk was confused. We admitted to being confused as well, since it was our impression that we wouldn't have to pay anything. But even if we did owe something, I was pretty darn sure it wasn't $50. I could see $250 for the hospital visit, but there's absolutely nothing in our plan with a $50 co-pay. It's either $40 or nothing. I told the clerk this and also told her that I thought the woman who had called me the day before was a cracksmoker.

The clerk actually smiled a little and admitted the other lady was pretty new. I told her that I didn't think we should have to pay anything, since we never had before. What she said next flabbergasted me:

"That's fine. We actually only collect the co-pay at the time of service for your convenience. Some people like to pay up front, so they don't get hit with a bill months down the road when our billing department catches up. If you don't want to pay anything right now, that's perfectly okay."

Errr? You were trying to extort $290 (or $250 or $300) out of me for my convenience? Ahhh, I get it. It's like my grocery store who put all the carts out in the rain and then posts a sign stating that for my convenience I should select a cart before entering the store. Or the department store employee who announces that the store will be closing in 10 minutes but that for me convenience they will open again tomorrow at 10:00 am. Well, if you were really interested in my convenience, you'd be open 24 hours a day. Or at least past 9:00 pm. And if you were really interested in my convenience, you'd have employees not only stationed at the entrance to the grocery store, handing me a cart as a walk in, but you might even have said employee push the cart around the store for me.

That would be convenient.

Awesome motherhood moment, part 1

2009-03-15T17:30:00.000-07:00

At church today, I found myself in a bathroom stall which was sadly lacking in toilet paper. (Read: two completely empty rolls.) Prior to motherhood, this would have been an awkward moment.

Awesome motherhood moment: I pulled out a baby wipe from the diaper bag, dabbed myself dry, and went on my merry way.

If I may borrow a phrase from a famous formula manufacturer... Motherhood rocks. And so do you.

Baby, baby, baby

2009-03-13T01:29:00.000-07:00

My mother-in-law has a special little song she sings to her kids and grandkids. It goes:

"Baby, baby, baby... baby, baby, baby..."

Meet Brooke Donna Fox. Our tiny little peanut of a girl. She weighed in at a measly 5 pounds 7 ounces (maybe... there's some confusion on that point). But I'm happy to report that both mom and baby are home and healthy.

The horse pistol

2009-03-06T11:32:00.000-08:00

So, like many of you, I was born in a hospital. I've visited sick friends and family in the hospital. I've taken people to the ER. I've even spent the night at the hospital (not as a patient, as a family member of a patient).

And as awesome as my health has been for the past 35 years, I wonder if maybe I shouldn't have tried harder to get hospitalized earlier in life. You know, just for the experience.

Because I'm looking upon my upcoming hospitalization with more than a little trepidation.

Yeah, I'm freakin'.

Mallrats

2009-02-26T16:27:00.001-08:00

A friend of mine is moving out of the ward. She's moving to another town about 45 minutes away. She's excited to be closer to her family and while she'll miss the ward, she made it clear that she's never really gotten used to living here. Apparently, it's more "rural" than what she grew up with and she's anxious to get back to the hustle and bustle of "city life."

I see her point. We live in an area of Sacramento that is kind of nestled between two major freeways, but closer to neither. And while there are plenty of places to shop and eat and watch movies, we're not near an actual mall. There are a lot of developed shopping areas, but no mall. The closest mall is almost 30 minutes away.

The mall was one of the major attractions for my friend in her new location. She's within walking distance. It's a huge and beautiful mall and is always under development to make it huger and more beautiful. It reminds her of where she grew up, where she was also within a 5 minute walk to the mall.

So, I didn't grow up near a mall. As a matter of fact, the closest mall was about an hour from my house. We went to the mall when we had a whole day to spend and a clearly defined list of what we needed to purchase. In high school, we occasionally would hang out at the mall. but it was a long drive there and back.

And now, that we still don't live close to a mall, we tend to do our shopping at the stores that are closer to us.

So, I guess I don't get the enthusiasm for living within walking distance of the mall. Is it a form of entertainment to go to the mall and hang out, even if you are an adult? Is it the ease of shopping from a variety of stores all conveniently located? How often do you go to the mall if you live within walking distance? Once a week? More? What do you do when you are there? Window shop? Because honestly, how much does the mall change week to week? Do you buy more if you frequent the mall more often? These are questions that need answering!

Maybe I fail to see the beauty of living near a mall because I don't actually like to shop. I'm kind of dude-like in that. Wandering around window-shopping doesn't appeal to me at all. But which came first, the chicken or the egg? Do I dislike shopping because I've never lived near a mall? Or do am I less appreciative of what the mall has to offer because I never lived near one?

Discuss.

Half-empty or half-full?

2009-02-26T12:00:00.000-08:00

I dished myself up a big bowl of cookies-and-cream ice cream the other night and went to retrieve a spoon so I could start stuffing my face. Not surprisingly, there were no clean spoons in my silverware drawer.

How inconvenient! Now I had to turn around and take one whole step to get to my dishwasher, bend over (without grunting, hopefully) and pluck a spoon from the silverware basket.

As I opened the dishwasher door, I was surprised to see that the top rack was empty, but the bottom rack was still full of clean dishes. How had this happened? I don't know. Had I unloaded half the dishwasher and forgotten to unload the rest? I don't have any recollection of doing that. I don't ever unload the dishes just because they are clean. I put away clean dishes because my kitchen is sooooo messy that I need somewhere to store dirty dishes and the dishwasher happens to be a good place to do that. (Also, they magically get clean while in the dishwasher. Bonus!)

It's like someone has been sneaking into my house and doing partial chores for me. Next thing, I'll find the laundry half-done (washed but not dried), or the dogs half-bathed (heads, but not tails, or Chewie but not Sammie) or every room in my house half-vacuumed.

I don't mind so much, just please, next time, put the spoons away, too. 'Cause sometimes a girl needs her ice cream, stat!

Anniversary, part 3

2009-02-12T14:38:00.000-08:00

(continued from part 2)

We had several handbook revisions that year, including the aforementioned "gifting policy," so it seemed like a good idea to reprint the handbook in its entirety, give each employee a new copy and have them sign an acknowledgement of receipt. It was my job to distribute the new handbooks and collect signatures from the employees.

For convenience, a list of the major changes was attached to each employee's new handbook, so if they didn't feel like reading the whole thing and comparing to the previous version, they could easily reference the changes which had been made. Most employees were not interested. They signed the acknowledgement of receipt without batting an eye. A few people brought questions to me later for clarification. But not Carol...

Carol insisted on looking up and reading every single revised section while I was present. She provided a running commentary on why and how she either approved (rarely) or disapproved (overwhelmingly) of the changes that were made. She may just been venting or she may have thought I would make further revisions based on her valuable input. I'm not sure. But when she reached the gifting policy, her eyes narrowed, she pursed her lips and said in a tight voice:

"What is this all about?"

"It's a new policy. We are asking that employees who wish to show appreciation for their co-workers do so by treating them with professionalism and respect every day. If you want to recognize a special occasion, please keep it on a personal level with your co-worker, rather than attempt to involve the entire store."

"And what do you think of this policy, Andrea?"

"I think it's exceptionally well-crafted. Whoever wrote it must have a lot of experience writing handbooks in order to be able to address the underlying problem with such tact and clarity," I replied, knowing full-well that she knew I'd written it.

Since she couldn't tell if I agreed or disagreed with the policy, she shifted gears with a long sigh. "You know, this company has changed so much since the original owner died..." *sigh* She peeked out of the corner of her eye to see if I was going to urge her to continue. I didn't. She went on anyway.

*sigh* "We used to celebrate things around here. We used to recognize special occasions, and that made everyone feel special. I mean, is it really too much of a strain on the budget to buy someone a card for his birthday? I think..." she lowered her voice conspiratorially, "the managers now are just too cheap for their own good. And that's really sad. Don't you think? Too cheap to buy a card." She clucked her tongue.

I remained silent, hoping she'd take the hint and do the same. This was the wrong strategy. It encouraged her to continue airing her grievances.

"You know, it was my 25th year with the company a few years ago. And I can't believe how horribly I was treated. It was my special day. I came to work expecting the royal treatment. I don't think any other employee has ever been with the company for so long. And do you know what happened?"

"They did nothing? They forgot?"

"Noooooo.... even worse. They gave me a... a.... thing. Some kind of stereo thingy. You know, it hooks up to your TV, with speakers and other electronic things. It was HUGE."

"Like a surround-sound system?"

"Yes! One of those. I just went into my office and cried. What am I going to do with a bunch of stereo stuff? They should know I don't have room in my house. Well, I do have room, but I'm not going to clutter up my living room with speakers. There were at least five huge speakers. What would I have done with all that? I was just disgusted. It was so... so... insensitive. I don't even watch that much TV and I certainly don't want it blaring in my ears. They really should have known better. I would have preferred that they didn't recognize my special day at all rather than give me a gift that they obviously put so little thought into."

"Well, see with the new policy, there's no danger of that happening again... to you or anyone... We're really just setting the expectations so that people aren't disappoin..."

She blazed on with her story, though. "You know what I did then? I. Gave. It. Back. That's right. I just marched right on in there and told them that if they weren't going to get me something meaningful, I didn't want anything. Oooh boy, was I ever mad. But I think they got my point."

"I'll say. You sure showed them."

"I think they took that stupid thing and gave it to one of the other guys for a wedding present later in the year. He was thrilled to get it. He had to bring his truck to work that day just to cart that big old box home, though."

I couldn't tell what offended her more. 1) That someone couldn't read her mind well enough to know she wouldn't have use for a $500 surround-sound system or 2) That the box it came in was so HUGE. But she seemed to be making my point for me.

"So, Carol, what I hear you saying is that you would rather have let the anniversary pass completely unnoticed, than get a gift you didn't feel was meaningful? Is that right?"

"Absolutely! It was just such a slap in the face to put in a quarter-century of devoted work to the company and get something they should have known I wouldn't use. But they did make it right eventually..."

"Make it right?"

"Well, I was so angry for weeks afterward that I could barely even come to work. The store manager was out of town, but when he got back I marched right into his office and told him how I felt. He wasn't going to do anything about it though. I told him he owed it to me and because I was still so mad, eventually he made it right. I was remodeling my kitchen at the time and he finally agreed to buy a new stove for me. He even came out and installed it for me. That's a meaningful gift. Something I needed and could use. Something with thought and feeling behind it. Not just a big box of speakers."

When I talked to the store manager later about my conversation with Carol, he confirmed that things had gone down essentially as she had related. He was able to fill in some details, though, details Carol might not even have been aware of at the time.

The surround-sound system that they ended up gifting to Carol had not been purchased specifically for her. One of our vendors had sent it to us as a thank-you-for-your-business present. It was highly coveted among some of the employees and the store managers had been wrestling with how to fairly decide which employee would get to take it home. When Carol had arrived that day and announced that she was expecting special treatment for her anniversary, the managers felt obligated to do something for her. To them, it seemed like a win-win situation.

So, yes, Carol did have a point. It was a thoughtless gift. It was, essentially, something they just had laying around. Five-hundred dollars worth of something they just had laying around.

"I remember she was so angry that she didn't really talk to anyone for a couple of weeks. You could tell she was just seething inside every day," the store manager recalled. "So, I tried to explain the situation. but she wasn't interested. I finally had to buy her a replacement gift so she would lighten up. If I remember right, I had to spend several hundred dollars on a new stove for her kitchen. And... I had to deliver it and hook it up for her, because she didn't want to pay someone to do it for her. Her reasoning was that she shouldn't have to shell out money, just because I got her a gift. Even though it was the gift she specifically wanted and the only one that would make her happy. I ended up spending hundreds of dollars and several hours of time, just to recognize that she'd been getting paid to come to work all these years. It was a... weird situation."

Weird. And the weird part really is that, after all these years, Carol still feels like the got the short end of the stick. And she's still bitter.

I never did get to ask if her stove came in a big box, and if so, was it bigger than the box of speakers?

Anniversary, part 2

2009-02-05T12:38:00.000-08:00

"Andrea's Company encourages its employees to demonstrate their support and appreciation for one another by consistently treating their co-workers in a positive and respectful manner. Andrea's Company recognizes and celebrates the talents and contributions that each individual brings to the success of the business each day. It is therefore appropriate that cards, gifts, and baked goods which recognize an employee's choices, such as holidays, anniversaries, birthdays, weddings, etc, be kept on a personal level and outside of working hours."

Pretty good, huh? Of course it is. I wrote it (or got it from somewhere, I can't remember). You may ask yourself, "What on earth would cause a company full of good, caring people to codify such a policy in their handbook? What's the harm in passing around a card for someone's birthday? Why can't we buy a cake to celebrate the anniversary of someone who has worked for the company for a whole decade? Isn't it a good idea for a company to recognize the achievements of its employees?"

I would submit to you that at Andrea's Company, it is NOT a good idea. Allow me to illustrate.

One day, it was mentioned to me by an employee named Brady that another employee, Carol, would be celebrating her 32nd year with the company the next week. He wanted to let me know because I, as the office manager, might be the one to organize some sort of recognition for her. It didn't sound like a bad idea, and I really like to eat cake, so I took it up with my boss to see what the company had done in the past and if we had a budget for that sort of thing.

My boss sighed a heavy, heavy sigh. "Well, we used to do that sort of thing, but we've moved away from it in recent years. It used to be anniversaries, then it was also birthdays, then it was weddings and babies and welcome-back-from-vacation and every other occasion you can imagine. It was just so big and out of control, we didn't have anyone to administer it and people were let down if they didn't get recognized for every little thing. But hey, we haven't had an office manager for so long, if you want to resurrect the monster, you are welcome to try."

I didn't really want to resurrect the monster and be in charge of its care and feeding, but since I really like to eat cake, I prodded a little bit more. "What about if we limited it to just anniversaries?" I suggested. "It's a nice feel-good for the employees to be recognized and it's business-related, unlike celebrating birthdays. It might be a morale booster. It wouldn't be too much work to keep track of everyone's five year marks and get a card and a cake, right?"

"So we recognize the fact that people are coming to work? Along with the fact that the earth has gone around the sun 5 times? An anniversary is not really an achievement. Besides we are already recognizing our employees by paying them for coming to work. Congratulations. Good job. Here's your paycheck. Keep up the good work. Same with birthdays. Congratulations for being alive still. Good job. What's the point?"

It sounded a little curmudgeonly, but I understood his point. "Okay, I'll tell Brady that if he wants to bring something in for Carol, he's welcome to, but there will be no officially-sanctioned event recognition."

My boss sighed again. "Did I ever tell you about the time Brady brought in a condolence card for a co-worker whose sister had died? He passed it around for everyone to sign, but one person thought it was a birthday card and wrote something like 'Many happy returns!' in it."

"That's terrible."

"Yes, and it was even worse because the sister hadn't died of age or infirmity. She was murdered."

"Okay. I'm convinced. I'll discourage this kind of activity. I soooo don't want to open this can of worms."

Apparently, I didn't discourage Brady enough. He brought in donuts for Carol's anniversary. He seemed hurt that no one recognized him for remembering her special day. I could see how this would spin out of control. Now we have to recognize the recognizer of the recognizee, otherwise there's hurt feelings all over the place. But how do you tell someone he can't do something nice for someone else?

Brady was a simple guy whose heart was in the right place, mostly. Unfortunately, Brady was not well-liked among his co-workers. Due to his circumstances in life (40-something, unmarried, living with his mother) and his personality characteristics (passive-aggressive, power-hungry, and mentally unstable), he was not taken seriously and often picked on by his peers. But he wanted to be a part of the group and maybe figured he could buy his way in.

The next month, he sidled into my office and quietly laid a greeting card on my desk. "It's Mike's birthday today. I got him a card. Can you make sure everyone signs it?" He began to back away.

"Brady, no. I will sign it right now and then you can take it around to the guys yourself."

"I think it's better if you do it. But just remember, I want to be the one to give it to Mike. I think that's fair since I bought it." He took a few more steps back.

"No, no, no. I'm not going to be responsible for this." Sensing the trainwreck that was going to occur, I waved the card at him. "Wait while I sign it. Then you can pass it around and give it to Mike yourself."

"I have to go back to work. I can't get everyone to sign it. Besides, they don't like me, but they'll do it for you..."

"Brady! I am going to sign this card and put it on the next person's desk. After that, it's out of my hands. I'm not going to keep track of it."

"I gotta go..."

Could I have been any more clear? My responsibilty for your project ends with my signature on that card. Get it? Got it? Uhhh... no. I don't think so.

All afternoon, Brady kept checking back with me. "Did everyone sign it yet? I have to leave early and I want to give it to Mike before I go."

"I don't know. I signed it and passed it on, like I told you I would."

"Well, who has it?"

"I don't know. It's going around, I guess."

"But I NEED it back! I have to go early today! I need to give it to Mike!"

"Ask around. I'm sure someone has it."

"You have to help me! I need to find it! They won't tell me who has it! They're just playing games with me! And I have all this work to do before I go!" He was desperate and near tears.

Against my better judgement, I told him I'd ask around next time I went out into the showroom. No promises, though. I wasn't going to collect any remaining signatures. I would simply find out who had the card and let him know.

I asked around. People rolled their eyes. Yes, they'd signed it. No, they didn't know where it was. Why was Brady so concerned? I explained that it was really important to Brady that he present the card himself and he was leaving soon.

As I was talking, an employee walked in, holding the card. "Great. Hurry and give it to Brady so he can go," I instructed, anxious to be out of the middle of the situation.

"Give it to Brady? I thought it was Mike's birthday."

"It is. But Brady really wants to give it to Mike personally. Maybe we should page Brady..."

"You're not really going to do that to Brady, are you?"

"Do what?"

"Put him in that position."

"What position? It's his card."

"The position of giving this card to Mike again."

My heart sank. "Again?"

"Yeah. I found the card on Mike's desk. It was already open. Don't give it back to Brady just so he can give it to him again. He'd feel really stupid."

I'll say. We quietly put the card back on Mike's desk.

A few minutes later, Brady slunk into my office. "Look," I began to explain, "It looks like someone already gave..."

"I know," he pouted with a thanks-for-nothing tone in his voice.

"Brady, I did tell you that I wasn't..."

"It doesn't matter now. Everything is ruined."

"It's not ruined. You wanted to wish Mike happy birthday with a card that was signed by all his co-workers. Mission accomplished."

"I didn't get to give it to him. It's not fair. I bought the card. It was MY CARD." He sulked away without another word.

You might be thinking, "So, you changed company policy just for this one immature guy who couldn't handle the responsibility of sending his own birthday card around?"

No. Not just for him. Stay tuned for part 3...

Super terrific happy fun jolly anniversary post

2009-02-03T14:29:00.000-08:00

It occurs to me that February is the month in which I started this blog last year. I know. Who cares? It's also the month in which I started working for my current employer 3 years ago. I know. Who cares? It's also the month is which I started my epic war against the-vendor-who-shall-not-be named. I know. Who cares? I do. This isn't the Serious Injury Inflicted blog for nothing. Things have been a little too rosy around here lately, what with new nephews and awesome velociraptors and all. That's about to change.

It all started 2 years ago with a simple request to The Vendor. Let me esplain... no, no, there is too much... let me sum up. We do not have the option of not doing business with this vendor. Otherwise, believe me, this vendor would have gotten the boot long, long ago. Anyhoo, The Vendor was sending some of our invoices to the wrong store. Since all of the accounting is done at my location, I politely requested that they change the mailing address.

"Absolutely!" they responded with glee. "Anything for our valued customer! We will change it immediately... although you might not see the change until next month."

"No problem!" I responded with equal enthusiasm. "Thanks for being a great vendor!"

That was in February 2007. In March, the invoices were again sent to the wrong address. "I'll wait another month," I reasoned, in a reasonable sort of way. "They might not have made the change in time. Surely, they will change it. I'm sure they don't want me calling every month saying I didn't get the invoices because then they have to reprint them and fax them to me. It's just more work for them." Confident that The Vendor would want to reduce their workload and mine, I waited patiently.

In April, the invoices are sent to the wrong address again. I called to request that the missing invoice be faxed to me and gently inquired about getting the address changed. After some investigation into the matter, they determined that the problem was entirely their fault. For some reason that no one could explain, the mailing address was corrected in the system, but was still printing incorrectly on the actual invoice. The Vendor promised to have their tech guys look into it and gave me a help ticket number in case I didn't hear back in a couple of days.

I waited patiently through May and June. Convinced that the problem had not been corrected (since I still wasn't receiving invoices), I finally called and referenced the ticket number I'd been given.

"Hmmmm... well, I see that ticket was closed in April," said the kindly customer service rep.

"Closed? So they fixed the problem? Because, I hate to tell you, nothing has changed."

"Well, no. It's just closed. I don't see any notes on what was done or what the resolution was. But they are not working on it any more. Actually, it looks like it was closed the day after you called."

"Well, there's still a problem. The same problem, in fact. Can you open another help ticket?"

"I'd be happy to. I apologize for the inconvenience. It might take another month to fix, though. Here's you ticket number..."

July and August rolled in, but the invoices did not. I called again for an update. They asked me to wait another month. In October, I called again. They asked me to wait another month. I told them I'd been waiting since February. They were shocked that it would take so long to fix such a simple problem.

Tell me about it.

"I'll tell you what... I'm going to forward this to a team manager. Her name is Vicky and she has a whole team devoted to resolving these kinds of issues. Her direct line is..."

I thanked him profusely and waited another month (or two) before contacting Vicky. She confidently told me that she had reviewed my ticket and it was scheduled to be resolved within 2 weeks. "We're just running behind on our projects. Please be patient."

In February (a whole year after my original complaint), I talked to Vicky again. She was vague and distracted. "Your ticket... uhhh... yes... I see it here. Hmmm... I don't know what the status is." I reminded her that she said it would be completed within 2 weeks from my last call. "I said that? Well, okay. We'll fix it this week."

Next month, I talked to Vicky, she pretended not to know me but she referred me to her supervisor, Jennifer. Jennifer was sympathetic and business-like. "I'm sorry this has been going on for so long," she said sincerely. "I'm the project manager for this whole department and I am allocating resources for your project right now. You won't have any more problems."

"When should I call back?"

"Three weeks. By the end of March it will be done for sure. You can call me directly if there's still a problem after that... here's my direct line..."

At the end of April, I called to report a lack of progress. She told me there'd been some reorganization of the teams and my project had fallen through the cracks. She assured me it would be completely immediately. I should call back at the end of the week.

(For those of you, like my husband, who have fallen asleep by this point, I want to remind you that all I want them to do is correct my mailing address...)

I called back for an update and she didn't answer my call, nor did she return my message. I called again a few days later. No response. I called and left a message each week for the next 5 weeks. Always the same polite message, "Just wondering if you have a status update for me." Maybe Jennifer is dead or has been fired, I thought. Maybe I should try to find out. I called the customer service desk and asked to speak to the supervisor. I was transferred to Jennifer's voice mail. I called the customer service desk back and told them that I was trying to reach Jennifer, but hadn't been able to speak with her for FIVE WEEKS. Was she okay?

"I think so. I just saw her this morning."

"So, she still works there? She's still the project manager? Do you see her now? Can you hand her the phone?"

"Ha ha! Unfortunately, no. I can transfer you to her voicemail, though."

I called Jennifer 12 times in total over the course of about 3 months. She never returned my call. I finally gave up.

Not long after I gave up, I received a notice from The Vendor. "Be advised that we will no longer be sending invoices to our customers. All invoices are available on our website at..."

You dogs. How many companies require their customers to print their own invoices? And Jennifer? You suck. You totally knew this was where your company was headed. You knew if you could put me off long enough, my problem would be a non-issue for you. Professional courtesy would dictate that you return at least one call just to let me know that I wasn't being ignored. But, I was being ignored. So bravo, for not sending me mixed messages. I guess.

But wait! There's more!

I go to the website to print my own invoices, and it doesn't work. The invoices are all garbled and incoherent and completely unusable. I called customer service to see if I was doing something wrong.

"No. There are some formatting issues we are still ironing out. We know about the problem. Hopefully it will be fixed soon."

"Well, how am I supposed to get my invoices? You guys have abdicated your responsibility of printing them and sending them to me (not that you were very good at that) but now you tell me I have to print my own, but don't even provide a method to do that. What am I supposed to do?"

"Well, what you have to do until the formatting gets resolved is pull them up one by one, then copy them into Word and then you can print them one by one."

"You're kidding, right? That's hours worth of work each month."

"Uhhh... yeah."

"Uhhh... yeah? YEAH? Is that all you have to say for yourself? YEAH?!?!"

"It's just until we get the formatting straightened out. Probably in the next couple of weeks it will be resolved."

"This is unacceptable. Who can I complain to?"

"You can talk to Jennifer... she's our project manager..."

Yup. The same phone-call-ignoring Jennifer from last time. That was many moons ago. Guess what I should be doing right now instead of blogging? That's right. Pulling up my invoices and printing them ONE BY ONE.

Yeah, don't think that wound doesn't get opened every single month when I spend hours and hours doing work that The Vendor should be doing for me. Serious, serious injury inflicted.

Raptors are the new chickens

2009-01-29T10:02:00.000-08:00

Let's face it. Chickens are funny. Just saying the word chicken makes me giggle. Put a chicken in any situation, and bam, that situation has its hilarity quotient elevated exponentially. Squirrels, cows, and the dun-dun-dun prairie dog are acceptable substitutes.

Well, listen up people, because we are taking this thing out a whole new door.

Brace yourselves....

Velociraptors.

Not funny at first, you say. Well, check this out:

If you are a facebooking type, check out the group "The Notebook would be better with velociraptors" for more fun and frivolity. It's certainly the most fun I've had this morning.

P.S. I have the most awesome brothers-in-law.

*Update!* My very own raptor pic, by special request!

Spring chicken, part 2

2009-01-28T12:13:00.000-08:00

My boss's wife was in the other day and we were chatting about all things pregnancy related. I told her that I've already had 4 ultrasounds done because I am past the cut-off age for being a spring chicken (maternityally-speaking). She said:

"Wow. So you're thirty-years-old already, huh?"

And I said:

"Yes. Yes I am."

Four minutes

2009-01-23T11:22:00.000-08:00

My wonderful husband insisted that I get a massage last week. I was informed that I needed to specify "prenatal massage" when I made the appointment so they could be sure to have a certified specialist available for me. Because I am that special.

The massage, of course, was heavenly. The lights were dim, scented candles flickered on the shelf, mood music filled the air along with the aromas of luscious oils and lotions. She worked my back and shoulders, then wrapped my feet in hot towels. I confess, I might have drooled a wee bit on gigantic pillow supporting my head.

Naturally, I was on my side, since laying face down these days is akin to trying to balance myself on a watermelon. (A watermelon that squirms around and kicks when you put pressure on it.) At the midpoint of my session, my masseuse asked me to flip over to my other side.

Uh-huh. Right. First of all, I have one of the salon's gigantic pillows stuffed between my knees "for support." Just above that, there is the watermelon-belly, so I'm not exactly the most nimble person right now. Then there's the matter of the massage table. It's not wide. As a matter of fact, I'd call it "fairly narrow" or even "exceptionally narrow." It's not like I can just flip over. I have to turn, skooch, turn, skooch, turn, skooch, so I don't end up in a big heap on the floor.

Oh wait, yeah... a big naked heap on the floor. Let's not discount the modesty factor. I'm trying to keep my bits covered here as well. But as the gigantic pillow between my legs turns with me, it flaps the sheets around, and I'm only a few thread counts away from giving my 19-year-old masseuse with the pierced lip a huge eyeful. Poor girl. She didn't know whether to try to help or just avert her eyes and let me holla when I'm a bit more situated.

Turn, skooch, turn skooch... was that a breeze I just felt? Nevermind, keep moving! You're wasting valuable massage time with all this turning and skooching! Turn, skooch, turn, skooch. Gak! Pillow tangled in sheets! Disengage! Disengage! Still covered? Check. Keep turning! You're almost there! Turn, skooch, turn, skooch. Oh wait, you're only on your back. That's only halfway there. Stop flailing like a upside-down turtle and put your back into it. Heave-ho! Turn, skooch, turn, skooch.

Eventually, I made it to the other side. With my modesty intact, thank you very much. Total turning time? Probably about four minutes.

Can I get a little refund for that?

Pretty pretty princess

2009-01-22T11:22:00.000-08:00

Because I'm not deaf, dumb, and blind, I'm aware of the current "Princess" trend among young girls today. I won't come right out and state my opinion, but please be advised if any of you give my daughter pink apparel with the word "Princess" emblazoned in sparkles across the front, there's a good chance that will be the day I decide she has too many clothes and that some of them must be donated to charity right away.

The other night, a friend came over with his two young daughters. They wanted to watch a movie, but had already seen almost everything the family section of our DVD collection had to offer. They finally settled on Disney's "The Sword in the Stone." During the exposition scenes at the beginning of the movie, a little voice piped up:

"What's this movie about?"

I figured she didn't understand what was going on, since the backstory was being sung by a guy with a very warbly voice. "Well, you see that sword in the stone? Whoever pulls it out gets to be king..."

"Oh. Is there a princess in this movie?"

"I, uhhhhh... a princess? Well, the story is about that boy there, Arthur..."

"Oh. It's not about a princess?"

"Well, no. There might be a princess at the end. I can't really remember."

"Oh." She darted her eyes about, looking for an escape.

"But there are a lot of cool things in this movie! There's, uhhhh... castles, and uhhhhh, knights and uhhhh... magic. And Merlin! Have you heard of Merlin?"

"No."

"He's a wizard... Like... like in Harry Potter!"

"Oh. A wizard. Okay."

Phew. To her credit, she did watch the whole movie. I think she even enjoyed it. Even without the princess.

Dilemma, part 6

2009-01-16T13:16:00.000-08:00

I've gotten a couple of e-mails from a co-worker asking about DMV fee increases for 2009. I don't know the answer to her question. The DMV knows the answer to her question. That's what I told her the first time she asked the question. "I don't really know. You can call DMV to find out, though," was my reply several weeks ago.

The next time she sent me an e-mail with the same question, I ignored it. Because I'm passive-aggressive like that.

Today, there was a new e-mail, same subject. I responded with. "I don't know. Only DMV knows for sure." That was as lighthearted as I could be given my current irritation level.

What I wanted to say was, "I still don't know. Why do you keep asking me this question? The reason I don't know is because I haven't called DMV to find out. The reason I haven't called DMV is because it's not important to me right now. When it becomes important and I am forced to find the answer, I will do so. It seems important enough to you, however, to ask me (the wrong person) about it 3 times. You are just as capable of finding out from DMV as I am. So please do so and stop asking me. And in case that's not direct enough (since my previous suggestions that you call DMV yourself have gone unheeded), YOU NEED TO CALL DMV PERSONALLY TO GET THIS INFORMATION. I AM NOT GOING TO."

I'm not planning on having a discussion about this with her, but if it comes to that I will certainly try to find out why she keeps asking me. Does she think I get a secret bulletin from DMV that gives me information that she doesn't have? Does she not have the phone number for DMV? Is she just trying to fop it off on me?

I suspect the real reason is this: She started wondering about it in November. It's been on her to-do list since then. She probably thinks it must be nagging at me like it's nagging at her. Eventually, I won't be able to take it anymore and I'll break down and call DMV. I must have done so and just not communicated the information to her so eventually, at some point when she asks me the same question I will have answer.

But she's wrong. The only thing that's nagging me is her.

So, here are some options:

1. I ignore her every time she asks about it.
2. I keep telling her that I don't know and that she should call DMV if she wants to know.
3. I tell her that she has irritated me so much at this point that even if I did know, I wouldn't tell her.
4. I call DMV myself, just to get her off my back.
5. I don't deal with the issue directly, but instead turn the conversation to why, WHY DO YOU KEEP ASKING ME THIS?

I'm sure there are other options. Your opinions?

World, meet Liam. Liam, the World.

2009-01-15T11:39:00.000-08:00

Hey you! Head on over to coolestfamilyever to get a first look at Liam (Official title: CoolestNephewEver). Doesn't he have the fluffiest little cheeks and roundest little belly you've ever seen? We've not met in person, but I hear he's scrumptious. Nom nom nom!

My father-in-law called last night, beaming about his new grandson (and his new car) and we had the following conversation about hairbows:

Him: And did you see all that hair? It's a good thing he's not a girl otherwise, *voice dripping with disdain* someone would have tried to stick a bow in his hair already. Wait a minute, you're not planning on sticking a bow on my granddaughter's head for her blessing, are you?

Me: Nothing bigger than my fist, I promise.

Him: No, really...

Me: Not really. I dunno. It depends on what she looks like. Personally, I think only bald babies need hairbows. Ironic, I know. Babies with hair don't really need decoration up there. It's only the really shiney ones who need a bow to break up that great expanse of forehead/scalp.

Him: *Harumph*

Me: But, I promise, if there is a bow involved, it will be very small and very tasteful. You probably won't even notice it.

Him: *Harumph* Okay. I better not.

You know it's an awesome day when I get to have a discussion about infant haberdashery with my father-in-law. Oh yeah... and a beautiful new nephew. Let the nommings begin!

Waste not

2009-01-14T15:09:00.000-08:00

I was sitting at the drive-thru window at Burger King yesterday, waiting for my Whopper Jr. (with cheese, no onions) and I noticed that I could see a sign on the wall which was clearly intended only to be viewed by employees. In angry, bold letters it proclaimed:

"EXCESSIVE USE OR WASTE OF THE FOLLOWING ITEMS WILL COST YOU YOUR RAISE!"

Underneath the message there were pictures of supplies and condiments which would normally be given to the customer with a drive-thru order.

Ketchup packet = 5 cents
Napkins = 5 cents
Salt = 5 cents
Straws = 5 cents
Sporks = 5 cents
Dipping sauce = 10 cents
Salad dressing = 10 cents

Clearly, this particular Burger King is trying to cut out some unnecessary expenses. I mentally applauded their efforts, especially since time and time again I have been given enough napkins to wipe the faces of a family of ten or 27 ketchup packets after telling them I did not need ketchup for my fries. (Is it so unthinkable that someone might want ZERO ketchup for their jumbo-size order of fries?)

Threatening employee raises seemed a little extreme to me, but desperate times and all that, so whatever works, I guess.

I had to laugh, though, at what I found in the bottom of my bag when I got back to the office...

Two straws.

Monday, Monday

2009-01-13T14:17:00.000-08:00

There was an extremely rude and irate message on my voicemail this morning. It went something like this:

"Ummm, yeah. HELLLLLLLLLO! Is there anyone there? HELLLLLLO! I'm looking for someone to answer the friggin' phone! I've been calling and calling! Is anyone there today???!! HELLLLLLO! Come on! Answer the phone!! I need to talk to someone and no one is aaaaannnswering! You just don't answer the phone on Mondays? HELLLLLLO! HELLLLO! Answer your friggin' phone! HELLLLLO!"

No, moron, we don't answer the phone on Monday because we are closed. You would know this if you had listened to the message which played when you called which said, "Thank you for calling Andrea's Illustrious Company. Our hours are Tuesday thru Saturday, 9 am to 5 pm. We are closed on Sunday and Monday. To leave a message, press...."

In addition, what decade are you living in? Do you really think you can call a business, select the option to be transferred to my voicemailbox, and expect that, even if I am sitting at my desk ignoring you, I will be able to hear your brainless HELLLLLLO caterwauling and that will make me pick up the phone? It's not an answering machine, it's voicemail, ya jerk.

And finally, if it is soooo important that you talk to someone, why not leave your name and number? Because I would have loved to return your call this morning and let you know how immature and idiotic you sounded demanding to have your call answered on a day when we are not open for business.

So many idiots, so little chance for retribution.

This is why I keep my mouth shut

2009-01-08T12:59:00.000-08:00

I was admiring someone's hair in church a few weeks ago. I was sitting a few rows behind her and couldn't help noticing her hair was perfect. A sleek, shiny bob angled to perfection. And it wasn't just the cut I admired. The color was awesome. Multi-faceted but oh-so-natural.

I like my hair. I really do. It's nice. It looks good right when I get done styling it in the morning. It's soft. It's practical. It keeps my head warm. It has a lot of potential.

I know it could be more. I could be more stylish by keeping up with the latest cuts and colors. But I lack the desire (not to mention the resources) to encourage its full potential. The people I know who have stylish hair spend a lot of time and money to have stylish hair. They have special relationships with their hairdressers. They see them more than they see some of their friends. Hair is a priority for them. It involves getting up earlier in the morning. It involves scheduling their activities around their every-six-week-set-in-stone hair appointment. It involves working a second job to afford a cut and color.

I have no issues with this lifestyle. These women look great and I wish I could be one of them. But I can't right now. That's okay, but it doesn't keep me from wondering what it would be like.

Anyway, back to the lady in church. I figured she must spend a bomb on her hair each month because either she just had it done (like MINUTES before church started) or she sees her hairstylist once a week without fail. It was seriously that perfect.

Should I say something to her? If I had put that much work into my appearance, I think I'd like to have my efforts recognized. But I don't really know her that well. Still, who wouldn't want to be told they look smashing? Might be one of those conversation/friendship starters. But could I really be friends with a woman who had such perfect hair?

No. I don't think so. It's bound to be the first of many dissimilarities which would lead to the ultimate demise of any fledgling relationship I might initiate. I decided to say nothing.

AND IT WAS A GOOD THING I KEPT MY YAPPER SHUT. Several days later, someone told me that this same woman had been diagnosed with breast cancer and was undergoing treatment. She'd kept it very hush hush. Only her family had been told. No one in the ward knew until just recently. She didn't want a bunch of people talking about her and asking her how she felt and coming over to her house to help out. Because...

She was extremely self-conscious about loosing her hair and having to wear a wig.

That's right. Had I said something about her hair, it would have been akin to stuffing my whole foot in my mouth, deciding that it wasn't full enough, cramming the other foot in there as well and swallowing myself whole. That's how bad it would have been. Maybe worse. There's no way of knowing.

Take what you can from my story. Use it in your daily life.

Calling all callings

2009-01-07T14:45:00.000-08:00

So, you know when you get that phone call during the week...

"Hi, this is Bishop/Brother Smith. I'd like to meet with you/you and your spouse sometime this week/before church on Sunday..."

You know it's a calling. If it was a talk, they'd just ask you over the phone. If they were going to release you without issuing a new calling, they'd just stop you in the hall and let you know. So, it's a new calling.

Then, there's the issue of who you are going to meet with and if your spouse is invited. Primary teacher? Bishop's counselor, no spouse. Young Men's President? Bishop, spouse required. Activities committee? Bishop's counselor, nabbed in the hallway between classes.

So what about when a counselor wants to meet with both of you? It's likely not a high-profile make-sure-the-spouse-can-support-you-in-this-calling calling. Otherwise, you'd be talking to the bishop's secretary to make an appointment. Could be a joint calling. "We'd like the two of you to work in the nursery." Or it could be two separate callings and they are just saving time by having you come in as a couple. "Sister, we'd like you to be on the enrichment committee and Brother, we'd like you to be in charge of the ward bulletin."

I know, I know... all callings are important. Any opportunity you have to serve in the Church is a good one and you will be blessed for it. Some callings are time-consuming and emotionally draining. Some call for you to linger in the background until needed. Some are require special talents that not all members possess. Some require no special training, just a commitment of time.

I'm not interested in trying to rank the importance of callings within the church. But I have noticed differences in the manner of issuance of the call which seem to correlate to "importance." The bishop vs. counselor issue. Or the spouse or no spouse issue. Or this:

"Brother and Sister, thank you so much for taking the time to meet with me today. We've been reorganizing some of our auxiliary organizations and have been prayerfully considering who the Lord might desire to fill these callings. The new auxiliary president has given me your name as someone he/she felt inspired to call as the new secretary in this presidency... We'll set you apart after church..."

Versus:

"Well, we've had a really hard time getting someone reliable in this calling. But the stake is really on our backs now to make sure that each ward has a representative. We thought of you because it would probably fit into your schedule and we need someone right away. I don't have any details about it, but I'll try to find someone to get you some information... If you want to be set apart, you can come down after church..."

I've experienced both. Isn't there anything between inspiration and desperation? Are there only certain callings inspired and the rest are just plug-and-play? Because it also seems like people are encouraged to go home and pray about certain callings but other callings are based solely on your availability and your willingness to serve. And I've got to say, it doesn't really make you feel like you will be contributing anything important when someone tells you "We picked you because you don't have a calling" as opposed to "We were inspired to call you."

I'm not complaining, I'm just wondering. Anyone out there have any insight as to how this works?

Bad boys, bad boys... whatcha gon' do?

2009-01-06T11:44:00.000-08:00

I was driving to work this morning down a wide two-lane road near an elementary school. A school bus was stopped on the opposite side, its flashing red stop sign extended, waiting for the children to board.

Traffic coming from behind the bus had stopped and was waiting patiently. There were also two cars in front of me in my lane who were giving the school-bus-as-a-mobile-stop-sign law its proper due and waiting patiently. Well, the first driver (closest to the bus) was waiting patiently. The second driver apparently decided that 30 seconds was too long of a wait and chose to go around the first car on the shoulder.

It's too bad that she was in such a small car. Had she been able to see around the mini-van in front of her before passing it, she would have seen the black-and-white Highway Patrol cruiser sitting just half a block down the street.

I'm pretty sure she noticed when he flipped his lights on and motioned for her to pull over though. Now she's really going to be late for work.

A Christmas miracle

2008-12-30T14:12:00.000-08:00

Due to circumstances beyond my control, I was forced to go to the supermarket on Christmas morning. Since I had to run errands anyway, I decided to get gas and pump up my low front tire in preparation for a long day of traveling.

Someone was hogging the air machine when I pulled up to the station, so I went ahead and filled my tank. I checked my purse for spare change, knowing that this particular station doesn't give its air out for free. I know, I know... if you buy gas you are supposed to get the air for free, but I didn't feel like walking all the way across the parking lot to the cashier to get a token. Also, I'd neglected to have the pump print a receipt which I knew I would have to present in order to prove that I was an actual gas-purchasing customer, not just some floozy off the street who needed to fill her tire.

I thought I might have a quarter in my purse and it would be worth 25 cents to me not to have to stand in line just to argue with the cashier about my right as an American to free air. I zipped over to the air machine as soon as it was free and was dismayed to see that the zero cents I was currently carting around in my purse would be insufficient to feed the greedy machine. (Seventy-five cents for air! You've got to be kidding me!) Resigned, I opened my door and prepared to brave the blustery weather to claim my token from the cashier.

But then... I heard a noise. Kind of like the merry jingling of Santa's bells or a choir of heavenly hosts singing hosanas or a frosty snowman chasing laughing children down the street or chestnuts roasting on the open fire. Something CHRISTMASY!

"BrrrrrrRRRRRrrrrrrrRRRRR...." was the gentle message which vibrated into my soul. The air machine was still on! I leapt from my car, scurried around to the low tire, sprayed some cold water on my shoe (because I can never tell which one is air and which one is water), grabbed the correct nozzle, and jammed it onto my tire.

A soft whoosh of air told me that my PSI was going up, up, up, just like my Christmas spirit. And then... *clunk*. Just like that the free air was gone. "Perhaps it is enough," I mused solemnly, trying not to let my dejection show. It was, after all, Christmas, and I'd been blessed with 10 seconds of free air.

I started the car again and my dashboard readout showed me the happy news. Ten seconds had been sufficient. My tire was full again... just like my heart.

Born free

2008-12-19T10:20:00.000-08:00

Quote of the day:

"You don't get it. Dudes like to be naked in public, but just not too close to other dudes. If we could stay far enough apart, we be in loincloths all the time."

Dilemma, part 5

2008-12-17T10:38:00.000-08:00

It's a happy dilemma this time (so stop rolling your eyes).

Last night was the Christmas recital for my five piano students. They did great and their families were so impressed with their progress since last year. I was showered with praise and also (yay!) with presents.

In previous years, the families of my students have usually given me Christmas cards with some sort of treat inside (like a gift card). The message inside is "Thank you for all your hard work. We appreciate you. Have a Merry Christmas." I've always felt like these were thank you gifts, rather than Christmas gifts. I felt a little silly trying to write a thank you card for a gift that essentially was a thank you gift. So, I would verbally express my appreciation and leave it at that.

This year, I received similar cards from a couple of the families. But in addition, one family also gave me a wrapped present. Okay, I opened it last night when I got home (even though it was a Christmas present. Don't judge me! You would have done the same!) It turned out to be a whole bunch of really cute baby clothes and a soft soft blanket.

Clearly, a thank you note is in order for the baby stuff. It's obviously beyond the scope of thank-you-for-being-a-great-teacher. So, I should send my thank you card to them along with my regular batch of Christmas thank yous, yes?

I also have a new family this year and I'm teaching both of their boys. At the end of the night, each of the boys gave me a present. These were Christmas presents (not that that stopped me from tearing them open as soon as I got home) as opposed to thank you gifts. I feel like I should send thank you notes for them as well.

So, here's the dilemma(s):

1) Two of the three families gave me Christmas gifts. If I send thank yous only to them, I feel like I'm leaving out the one family who still gave me a lovely card and a gift certificate. But I feel stupid writing a thank you card for a thank you gift. It might set off a parastoltic chain reaction of "Thank you for your thank you for your thank you for your thank you..." Should I acknowledge all the gifts in writing, regardless of their intent?

2) Should I address the thank you notes to the family or to the students? The presents from the two brothers were clearly marked "Merry Christmas, from Connor" and "Merry Christmas, from Cooper." But it is obvious that the boys had no part in selecting, purchasing, or wrapping the gifts. Do I write individual thank you notes to each of them, to set a good example? Or should I send one note to the family as a whole?

3) There is one more piano lesson before Christmas. Should I try to get something for each of the students? Should I get something for each family? It feels weird to have received this huge haul of presents, especially when you consider they are already paying me for me services.

Please note: I'm not trying to get out of writing thank you notes. I love to get thank yous in the mail and I have no problem sending them to others. I just want to do it appropriately.

Discuss.

Open mic

2008-12-16T11:04:00.000-08:00

At my last doctor appointment, I was advised that the time has come to up my office visits from once a month to every two weeks. Based on past experiences, I am thrilled to have this opportunity. So, I know that this every-two-weeks things means the end is quickly drawing near.
(Not that I would know when exactly the end will be because I am Mrs. RottenMotherAlready.)

I guess I'd better start getting ready.

So, all you pregnancy-gurus out there (you know who you are), tell me about childbirthing classes. Do I need them? What would you recommend? The hospital offers Lamaze classes but there are private instructors in town that offer other methods, for a price. I'm not planning to try a natural or low-med birth or anything crazy like that, so would it still be of value to take classes?

I've been told I have a low pain-tolerance so I'm open to anything that minimizes the pain.

Discuss.

Degrees of separation

2008-12-10T15:38:00.000-08:00

My husband was born in Wisconsin. My college roommate was from Wisconsin. I've never been to Wisconsin or anywhere near it, really. Apparently, it's a very, very small place.

Last winter, my mother-in-law and I were chatting as we drove through the dreary Nevada wastelands to get to the dreary wastelands of Utah. I mentioned that my college roommate was from a little town in Wisconsin called Grafton and asked if she had ever heard of it.

"Nope. Doesn't ring a bell. Must be a very small town."

"I think so. But I understand the ward and stake boundaries out there are huge, so I thought maybe it would have been in your stake or something. It didn't look like it was too far from where you guys lived when Brett was born."

"That's true. But I don't think I've heard of it."

We drove on through the unchanging scenery, each lost in our own thoughts.

"Wait!" she cries, causing me to almost veer off the freeway. "Did you say 'Grafton'?"

"Yes. So you've heard of it?"

"Of course, it wasn't too far from where we lived when Brett was born! They were in our ward! I thought you said 'Brafton' at first."

"Well, my roommate was Miranda. Miranda M******. But everyone called her Mandy. She about my age so she would have been a baby when you guys were there. I think her dad was Mike M*******."

"Oh oh! I do remember them! Mike was a big, big guy, if I remember right."

"Yeah! He came to visit Mandy while we were in school and I remember he filled up the whole doorway to our room. Wow. It's a small world. Who would have thought that you were in the same ward with my college roommate's parents when my husband was born?"

Amazing, right? It gets better.

At Sunday dinner last week, the talk turned to delivering babies and the relative merits of taking pictures or video of your offspring being born and the appropriateness of sharing such a record with others. My father-in-law remembered that once in his was a member had brought photos of his wife giving birth to church and had shared them freely with others.

"It was certainly... out of the ordinary," he admitted. "Do you remember who that was?" he asked my mother-in-law. "Was it when we lived in Chicago? Or no... It think it was Wisconsin. Yeah, it was, uhhh... I don't remember his name. But they were related to the J***** family."

"Hey, I know some people named J*****," I chimed in unhelpfully. "But they lived in Provo. They were my roommate's cousins and they used to store her stuff for her in when she went home for the summer. As a matter of fact, mom actually knew my roommate's family when you guys lived in Wisconsin. The M******* family. Come to think of it, my roommate's mom's maiden name must have been J*****, because it was Mandy's aunt and uncle."

"Yup. That's it."

"What?"

"M*******. That was the guy's name. Mike M*******. He's a really big guy. Very tall, just massive."

"How funny! That's my roommate's dad! I can't believe you knew him!"

"He was a great guy. We went hunting a few times together. Anyway, yeah, he was the one who brought the pictures of his wife giving birth to church."

"No kidding. It makes sense though. I mean, he is a photographer by trade so it's understandable that he'd want to capture and share the moment on film. It's so weird that we can be thousands of miles away and yet still so connected. I only know one family from Wisconsin and they happen to be people you also know. AND you've seen pictures of..."

My voice trailed off. "It just occurred to me," I finally was able to continue, "Those pictures... that baby... That was my roommate. Being born."

So there you have it. My father-in-law not only knows the parents of my college roommate, but has seen pictures of her birth.

Now, if only we could fit Kevin Bacon in this story somewhere...

It's a bird, it's a plane

2008-12-09T11:16:00.000-08:00

We were having a Christmas-themed sharing time on Sunday. The teacher asked the kids what the Wise Men saw waaaay up in the sky on the night that Jesus was born. One enthusiastic boy cried out:

"Harry Potter!"

It wasn't one of my Sunbeams this time, though. Phew.

COD is not just a tasty fish

2008-12-05T16:06:00.000-08:00

I got a call from a vendor this morning...

Her: *curtly* I'm calling about such-and-such a shipment. We haven't gotten paid for it. Can you tell me when to expect payment?

Me: Hmmm... that doesn't sound familiar. I don't think the invoice has come across my desk yet. Can you tell me when it was sent?

Her: According to UPS, it arrived at your store C.O.D. on December 2nd. So-and-so signed for it. When will we be receiving payment?

Me: You sent it C.O.D. with UPS?

Her: That's right. So, when can I expect a check?

Me: *blink* *blink* Well, if it was sent C.O.D., without knowing anything about it, I would have to assume that you've already been paid. It was delivered C.O.D. by UPS on the 2nd?

Her: *impatiently* Yes. I have the tracking record right here. So, you've sent a check?

Me: Noooo... UPS would have collected it upon delivery.

Her: What do you mean?

Me: Well, if it was sent C.O.D....

Her: That's right. Collect. On. Delivery. C.O.D.

Me: Yes. That's right. So we would have had to pay for it in order for UPS to deliver it. Collect. On. Delivery. C.O.D.

Her: Ma'am, I'm not seeing what that has to do with you sending me a check for the shipment.

Me: Well, if we paid for it when it was delivered, I don't want to send you another check and pay for it twice.

Her: Why would you have paid for it when it was delivered?

Me: Because, according to you, it was sent C.O.D.

Her: I don't understand. Hold on...

At this point I can hear her talking to someone in the background...

Her: Hey Gary, that thing was sent C.O.D., right?

Gary: Yup. What's the problem? When are they going to pay for it?

A different voice is heard in the background...

DV: Hey, you two! C.O.D. means that...*garbled sounds as the phone is now being covered*

Her: *back on the line* Uh, ma'am? I guess... the uhhh, shipment wasn't sent C.O.D. It was sent, uhhh... whatever the opposite of C.O.D is...

Naming fail

2008-12-05T10:21:00.000-08:00

I was driving behind a van this morning that had the company name emblazoned across the rear doors. The name of the company was:

"WTF Plumbing"

WTF, indeed. I wish I had my camera.

Waterslides and whirlpools

2008-12-02T13:56:00.000-08:00

I like to sleep. When I sleep, I tend to dream. A lot. And unlike many people, I remember a good portion of my dreams. This provides hours of weekly entertainment for my husband, whose absolute mostest favorite thing in the entire world is hearing about my dreams. I know he loves it due to the glassy-eyed look he gets within the first three seconds after hearing the words, "So, I had this dream last night..."

But it occurs to me that the entire world (all of whom read my blog, mind you) might not enjoy hearing about the random crap my brain spews forth during my downtime, so I generally refrain from posting about it.

I'll bet you didn't know though, that I am a hack dream analyzer. It's true. I've read (okay, own) two books on the subject. With these credentials, I can certify that 98% of what I dream about is just loose wiring in my brain. Inner crapola. But I have been able to identify a few recurring dreams, the themes of which should be easily identifiable to even the novice dream-ologist.

Recurring dream #1: I'm being thwarted in my efforts to communicate with someone. Usually it's because they are refusing to listen. I start screaming and shouting and throwing things around. Sometimes I threaten them with bodily harm, to no avail. In the end, I am never able to get my point across.

Ooooohhhh...mysterious, I know. Whatever could it mean?

Recurring dream #2: I am unprepared for something. Most recently, I dreamed that I'd been asked to give a talk in church but didn't know about it until I got there. I've also been unprepared for tests in school, late for important meetings at work, still packing my bags when my plane is leaving, and enrolled in classes which I never attended and never completed any assignments.

I'm just a hack, but I sense a theme of "unpreparedness" in these dreams.

Recurring dream #3: Waterslides. I dream about waterslides ALL THE TIME. I kid you not. It's not uncommon for me to have a waterslide dream twice a week. As far as I can tell, there are no other common elements to these dreams. The settings and characters vary. The emotions range from misery to glee. Sometimes I work at a waterslide park. Sometimes I am hiking in the forest and just happen to come across a waterslide coming down the side of the mountain. Sometimes I'm riding the slide, sometimes it's just there.

"They" say that water in dreams is significant. Whether the water is clean or dirty, calm or tempestuous is supposed to be symbolic. Are you drowning or in a boat? Are you afraid of the water or happy to be near it? It's a subject ripe for analysis.

But I've not been able to find one scrap of information specifically about waterslide dreams. Does no one else dream of this on a regular basis? Why are you holding out on me, internet? Why? I need to know!

In the last couple of weeks a new angle has cropped up in the waterslide dreams. The waterslides are now usually a series of interconnected spas or hottubs or whirpools. Sometimes the jets are on, sometimes the water is still. Sometimes it's warm, sometimes not so much. But now my waterslides have multiple landings, all of which are some sort of jacuzzi tub.

What do you think? Feel free to poke around in my psyche for a bit. I'm stumped.

Two more victims

2008-11-18T11:58:00.000-08:00

My in-laws came to visit last week and we all settled in to watch a movie. Even though the movie was interesting and entertaining, I fought to stay awake. My eyelids drooped and darkness began to cloud my thoughts. Surrender to the sweet, blissful oblivion seemed to be the only option. Suddenly, I was jolted back to reality by an unwelcome din coming from the other end of the couch:

"SNNNNARRRRRGGGHHHH! *snork* *snork* SNNNNNEERGH!"

My mother-in-law had succumbed to the siren song of the sofa and was snoring peacefully at the other end. To be fair, she had already seen the movie.

Sunday, my parents came over to celebrate my dad's birthday. Since my parents had not seen the new furniture yet, I suggested they try it out.

"Oooohhh, ahhhhhh..." sighed my mom. "I want one just like this..."

"Wow, this is really comfortable. This headrest supports my neck just perfectly," my dad commented appreciatively.

Stop the press. Did I just hear my parents agree on the comfortableness of a piece of furniture? To my knowledge, this has never, ever, EVER happened before in the history of the universe. A tear came to my eye. It was like watching history in the making.

Two parents sat on the couch. Only one got up. A few moments later, I was not surprised to find my dad fast asleep, cradled in the loving embrace of my new best friend, The Couch.

Dilemma, part 4

2008-11-14T16:06:00.000-08:00

One of the roads I have to drive on to get home from work has been under construction forever. There's a part where the left lane ends and all the traffic has to merge right. I know from experience (since this road has been under construction forever) that if I stay in the left lane until it ends and then merge right, I can save a couple of minutes.

The people who have chosen to merge into the right lane early often do not appear to appreciate this tactic. I can see why. They have been sitting in traffic for some time, watching people like me zip by and merge much further up the line. Occasionally, they try to refuse to let me in. Their disadvantage is that they are not moving and I am, so I can partially wedge myself into any newly created opening, thus securing my spot in front of them before they can move forward to block me out.

My dilemma is two-part:

1. Is it wrong to pass up all the people who have been sitting in the right lane and merge in when my lane ends? My guts says I should have to wait just as long as anyone else, but my mouth says, "Suckers!"

2. Should I refrain from waving a "thank you for letting me in" wave to a driver that I merged in front of, knowing full well that if he was in a position to shut me out, he would have?

Discuss.

Rub-a--dub-dub

2008-11-14T15:22:00.000-08:00

Quote of the day:

"No one wants to touch your belly when it's just FAT, but put a fetus in there and BANG, you're fair game."

Primary gems

2008-11-11T15:43:00.000-08:00

On Sunday, the Sharing Time lesson was about being thankful for our bodies. The teacher prefaced her lesson by telling the children that Heavenly Father had given each one of them a very special gift.

Teacher: And that special gift is... a body. Each one of us has a body that Heavenly Father has given us.

Kid sitting on the front row: Yeah! A body! He gave us a body! And also... a potty! He gave us a potty, too!!!

The teacher then had the kids come up and choose pictures of various items that would either be good for our bodies or would go into the garbage can. One of my Sunbeams had bailed hard on his turn at the board, putting the scriptures into the garbage can as the rest of junior primary screamed for him to change his mind. He was still smarting from the embarrassment and so I tried to make him feel better on the next round.

Me: Okay, look what she chose... oooohhh... it's a picture of cigarettes. Do those go in the garbage or are they good for your body? I know you know this one...

Sunbeam: *sniff* Good for your body.

Me: *blink* Cigarettes? Does Heavenly Father want us to smoke cigarettes? Or would he want us to put them in the trash?

Sunbeam: Good for your body.

Me: No... if you had cigarettes, you would want to throw them away... wouldn't you?

Sunbeam: *stubbornly* Well, I liked them when I tried them!

Another no-so-update

2008-11-07T13:09:00.000-08:00

By popular demand, more of my uneventful pregnancy:

I've been having monthly appointments with the OB/GYN. (Which reminds me: Brett wants to know why it is pronounced "Oh-Bee-Gee-Why-En" instead of "obgin." Any input?) The routine is pretty much the same, I check in, pee in a cup, get weighed, and have my blood pressure taken. Then, the nurse asks me for my due date, which I think is funny because she has my chart in hand as we are speaking. I tell her, "March 7th" which she notes and then tells me exactly how far along I am. Then invariably, she looks at the chart and says, "Oh, you are actually due on the 9th!" Then she revises her estimatation of how far along I am and gives me a look that says, "You are a rotten mother already. You don't even know when your baby is due!"

Two thoughts to keep in mind here: If I tell her I'm due on the 9th, the exact same scenario plays out. "You're actually due on the 7th. Mrs. RottenMotherAlready!" Also, two days? Does it really matter? Aren't there only, like, 5% of babies born on their due date? Honestly woman! You are just setting me up for failure. I can't live up to your expectations. I'm going to have the baby 3 weeks late, just to spite you.

So, then my doctor comes in. I like my doctor. She's easy-going and sympathetic and never tries to make me feel bad for not knowing my due date. She's got a big smile and you can tell she just loves babies. She reviews my chart and then always asks, "How are you feeling?"

From what I can tell, this is why I have an appointment every month. So a person with a lot of schooling can ask, "How are you feeling?" And then, so I don't feel bad about paying $40 to have someone with a lot of schooling ask how I am feeling, she listens to the baby's heartbeat.

These appointments are riveting, I tell ya.

But, in other baby news, we've been testing out names. Brett will lean over to my belly and say, "Hello. How ya doin', Helga?" or "What's up, Baby Olga?" You know, we're just throwin' names out there to see if they stick.

I felt one stick, just a wee bit, last night.

So, we have a contender. But it's a strict "don't ask don't tell" policy 'round these parts. Sorry.

Dilemma, part 3

2008-11-07T11:11:00.000-08:00

When my sixty-something year old co-worker tells me (for the FOURTH TIME) that she has begun giving computer lessons to an 80-year old lady who lives down the street from her, would it be wrong for me to comment supportively:

"Must be nice to have someone close to your own age to talk to."

Discuss.

I'm gonna take you on a magic sofa ride

2008-11-04T10:38:00.000-08:00

We bought a new couch and easy chair last month. At first, I was resistant to the idea of purchasing new furniture in such economic times, but after we sold our easy chair at a garage sale and Brett took our sofa to his office, it became clear that I no longer had a choice. It was either buy new furniture or sit on the floor.

We parked our butts on a lot of different living room sets during our search for The Couch. When we came to the couch that would eventually become The Couch, Brett knew it right away. He was in love. Me, on the other hand, being the skeptic that I am, had to be convinced. I didn't particularly care for the style (it's fluffy and casual, I would have preferred something more formal) and the fabric was unlike any other sofa we looked at. It's a very soft green micro-fiber with almost a terry-cloth feel to it. I joked, ala "Friends", that is was made from Genuine Muppet Skin.

But we ended up buying it anyway and we had company over for dinner the night we brought it home. Our friends ooohhhed and ahhhhed appreciatively, but I thought it was probably just because they were glad not to sit on the floor. Late that night, Brett's pregnant sister arrived after a long and grueling flight from Utah. We invited her to relax on the new sofa. She settled in, popped up the footrest, leaned the back back, and summed her feelings up in one word:

"Uuuuunnnnnnggghhh..." <--- groan of approval

My feelings for the new furniture started to grow after Shauna gave her unabashed endorsement, but for some reason, I still held back. When I would watch TV, I'd sit up ramrod-straight and never even try to relax and get comfortable. I didn't want to become too attached. Then, one night as we started to watch a movie , Brett insisted I recline my seat and use the footrest. I did so just to humor him. And, after a few moments... I fell asleep.

This wasn't just any sleep. This was the sleep of the dead. I was comatose for almost 2 hours. Brett woke me when the movie ended and told me to go to bed.

It must have been a fluke, I rationalized. I was just really tired. I could have fallen asleep like that anywhere. The sofa had nothing to do with it.

The next night, the couch beckoned to me with its siren song. "Just recline for a few moments. Rest your weary bones. It won't take long. A little rest is just what you need..." I thought I would experiment to see if the previous night's slumber was due to the couch or my personal exhaustion. That was my last thought... for another two hours.

Repeat for the next 4 nights in a row.

Now, I can't sit on The Couch without falling asleep. We rent movies, I fall asleep. I read a book, I fall asleep. I sit on The Couch to talk on the phone, I fall asleep. The Couch is like a vortex to another dimension... a wonderful warm, relaxed, sleepy dimension where troubles melt like lemon drops.

The ultimate demonstration of The Couch's power came last night when I was reviewing my ballot in preparation to vote today. The house was chilly from the rain so we built a small fire in the fireplace. The flames crackled merrily and The Couch lured me in once again.

By 9:30, all thought of ballots and propositions were forgotten. "Must not recline... Must be responsible citizen... Must vote..." I struggled to focus. I glanced over to where Brett was already slumbering in the recliner at the opposite end. "Just for a few moments," I thought. "I'll be able to focus better after a 10 minute nap."

I should have known better. I woke up at 8:00 this morning...still cradled in the loving bosom of my new best friend, The Couch.

I'd like three four-inch sandwiches, please

2008-10-30T15:54:00.000-07:00

Brett and I attempted to use a discount card that we had purchased from the local high school at Subway the other night. The discount was "Buy one 6-inch sandwich and a 32-ounce drink and receive one 6-inch sandwich FREE." I thought that since we were both pretty hungry, we might be able to buy more and save more, so I asked the girl behind the counter...

Me: I know this is for a 6-inch sub, but if we bought two drinks, could we use it for two footlongs instead?

Her: No. It has to be a 6-inch sandwich.

Me: I gotcha. That makes since because if we did that we'd essentially be using the card twice in one visit.

Her: --

Me: So, anyway, we'll get a footlong ham and cheese and one six-inch pastrami...and a 32-ounce drink.

Her: And what would you like your other 6-inch sub to be?

Me: Huh? Nothing. Just one footlong and one 6-inch.

Her: You can't do that. They both have to be 6-inch subs.

Me: Well, I'm getting at footlong, part of which is the first 6-inch sub, and then the second 6-inch sub is free. I'm still paying for at least one (actually two) 6-inch sandwiches.

Her: You can't do that. They both have to be 6-inch subs.

Me: *blink* *blink* But I am buying 6-inch subs...

Her: You need to buy two 6-inch subs.

Me: I am. I am buying three 6-inch subs...

Her: You can't do that. The discount is only good two 6-inch subs.

Me: So, I can't buy more than two? I don't want an additional discount. I just want one free 6-inch sub. Just call it three 6-inch subs instead of a footlong and a 6-inch.

Her: --

Me: *deep breath* Okay, how about I buy a footlong for me and a footlong for my husband and, of course, a drink. Will I have enough sandwich credits then?

Her: It has to be 6-inch subs.

Me: Mine is a footlong so just ignore that. Imagine that he is getting two 6-inch sandwiches. They are just the same kind of sandwich. And they are on the same piece of bread. You can cut them apart and wrap them separately if that makes you feel better.

Her: You still need two 6-inch subs.

Brett finally steps in...

Brett: Okay, my wife will have a footlong ham and cheese and I'll have a 6-inch pastrami and a 6-inch Reuben.

Her: *beaming* Great! What kind of bread would you like?

I can't tell if she was just not very bright or if she knew that she could scam us into buying another six inches of sandwich by playing dumb. Either way, our discounted dinner turned out to be over $13. For that money, we could have bought two whole pizzas with the same discount card and probably had leftovers the next day. It certainly would have been less hassle.

And another thing I hate about Subway, while I'm on the topic, do they just assume that we all eat there enough that they don't show which meats come on each sandwich on the menu? I mean, Meatball Marinara and Ham and Cheese are easy enough, but am I really supposed to know what comes on a Coldcut Combo or a Spicy Italian Sub? Are these sandwiches so common that they need no introduction? Would it kill them to give me a heads-up so I can make a decision without holding up the line?

I'm just sayin...

Now for the weekend not-an-update with Andrea

2008-10-28T15:09:00.000-07:00

Last week, I was talking with my boss and he said that his wife keeps asking for updates on my pregnancy. (For those of you who don't know, or don't know me, I'm pregnant. Great, now it's no longer a secret.) Anyway, he said his wife asks about it every night and his response is always the same:

"I dunno."

"How can you NOT know?!" she cries. "This is a big deal! I need details!"

"Well, honey...I'm a guy."

I told him to reassure her that everything was normal as far and I knew and not to feel too bad on not having any details for her.

There aren't any.

The doctors tell me everything looks normal (even though I will be officially "old-fart" age in terms of giving birth by the time the baby is born next March), all my test results have been satisfactory, and I feel fine.

But for those who really, REALLY want something juicy...I still can't brush my teeth without gagging. Should make for a fun dentist appointment next week.

Oh, and she's a girl. Please let me know if you would like us to consider naming her after you or someone you know.

Sorry I'm so boring. *sniff*

At the bank

2008-10-28T11:57:00.000-07:00

There was a sign on the door of my bank yesterday:

Happy Halloween!

Please leave masks outside.

Great sign. Tactful and to the point. It would have been so easy to muddle the issue with "In light of the fact that we were recently robbed, for the safety of our customers and employees...blah blah blah..."

I wonder if facepaint is okay, though.

Dilemma, parts 1 and 2

2008-10-24T12:09:00.000-07:00

Workplace dilemma, part 1:

People at work often greet me with, "Hi, how are you today?" I reply, "Fine, thank you."

I know the socially acceptable response is, "Fine, how are you?" But I don't want to feed the how-are-you-as-a-greeting machine, so I simply answer the question. It has led to an awkward pause on more than one occasion, though.

Am I wrong for failing to observe this nicety?

Workplace dilemma, part 2:

A certain co-worker starts all of her phone conversations with me, "Sorry to bother you, but..." When she has to call more than once in a day, she starts with, "I know I'm being a pest, but..."

She pauses and waits for me to reassure her that she's neither a bother nor a pest. I never do. I usually just say nothing and wait for her to get to the point.

Whether or not she is bothering me is irrelevant. The damage is done. She's already pestered me. Also, I don't really believe she's sorry. If she was, wouldn't she stop calling me?

Should I cut her some slack?

Discuss.

Love may transform me to an oyster

2008-10-23T14:15:00.000-07:00

Question:

Does anyone else out there think John Mayer always looks kind of clammy? Sleepy and clammy?

Kind of like he was sleeping inside an oyster and having a cold-sweat nightmare, but then was suddenly jolted awake when someone slapped him across the face with a dead fish?

It's just me, isn't it? I promise, this has nothing to do with the fact the I've never met a John Mayer song I liked.

Bonus points for naming the movie from whence the title of this post cometh.

The Office

2008-10-21T15:34:00.000-07:00

Recently, Brett's cousin became convinced that we would be the kind of people who love "The Office" and insisted we borrow season 1 and season 2 from his collection. He was right. We are totally hooked, as is, to my understanding, most of the rest of America.

It has come to my attention, however, that there are a few naysayers out there. The most common complaint I've heard (okay, it was hearsay from ONE person, but still) is that Michael is way too over-the-top. The show is not realistic because no one would ever act like that.

Untrue. I am here to bear witness to this fact. I worked for Michael for a brief time, only his name was Rick back then.

I'll give only one example to support my claim, but I think it should be sufficient. *Warning! The following material may not be appropriate for young children and for those who are squeamish about body parts/functions.*

This scene from "The Office" was actually one of the deleted scenes. Deleted, mind you, probably because it was too much for TV.

Pam is eating her lunch and reading a book. Michael approaches her and begins to small talk. Even though he is clearly interrupting her break, she humors him a little which encourages him to stay and chat more. He peers over her shoulder and asks about the book she's reading. She replies and an awkward pause follows. Michael fills in the dead air by saying:

"Yup. Had a big scare this morning." Pam responds by nodding politely but uninterestedly. Michael continues:

"Yup. Big, big scare....probably took a few years off my life. Yup, it wasn't good. Found a lump. You know...down there." Michael gestures toward his groin. He pauses dramatically. Pam lowers her head and begins to cover her eyes. "I was totally freaking out. Just freaking out. Wow. My life flashed before my eyes. Just think about... well, you know... what would happen if... well, you don't need to worry about that but, wow... I was really sweating it. Yup... Oh, it turned out to be nothing, but phew! Can you imagine? It's scary to think about..."

Of course, the comedy is that Michael is sharing way too much personal information with someone, his employee even, completely oblivious to the fact that she's uncomfortable and he is being completely inappropriate.

Compare the following situation:

Andrea is at work one afternoon when the power goes out. Computers are down, phones are down, and there's almost no light. Being the only one in the office, she opens the doors to some of the exterior offices which lets a small amount of sunshine in. About 10 minutes later, the power revives and a few minutes after that her boss comes charging in.

"Good thing the power came back on. I hadn't realized how dark this office is when the power's off. I was about ready to go home." she jokes with her boss.

"Dark? You think it's dark in here? I was in the bathroom when the power went off. It's pitch black in there."

"Uhhh...yeah. I can imagine," Andrea replies, treading lightly. She's not really interested in exactly where in the bathrooming process her boss was when the power went off. She's afraid he's going to tell her anyway.

"Yeah, it's pretty funny. I'll tell you, because it's just the two of us and I know you can keep a secret..."

Andrea cringes. Rick continues.

"So, I was in the bathroom and well, I'm of a certain age where doctors start checking for various illnesses and diseases by using stool samples. So, I was actually trying to collect my sample when the power went out. It was soooo dark! *chuckle chuckle* Anyway, I've got the collection stuff all ready and I don't want to loose my opportunity..."

Andrea lowers her face and covers her eyes, just like Pam. Rick charges on:

"Actually, you've probably never had to do this, but basically you collect the stool on a piece of cloth, then there's this little scooper that you use to take the samples to send to the lab. Aaaaanyway, I'm standing there, all of a sudden in the pitch black, all ready to collect my sample and I don't know when I'll get another chance, so I pull out my cell phone, open it up and set it on the counter, just for a little light. And when I'm right in the middle of things, someone calls and the ringer makes the phone vibrate right off the counter, because I've got my hands full and can't answer it. Then, when it hits the floor, the battery pops off, so I'm in the pitch black again. But now, I'm crawling around with the scooper in one hand, trying to find my phone and the battery with the other. Hahaha! I'm glad the power came on when it did, because I might have been in there all day. I finally found the battery and it was clear over on the other side of the bathroom, under one of the urinals..."

Andrea is wishing the power would go off again so that she can escape under the cover of darkness.

"Anyway, pretty funny story, huh? Just don't tell anyone. It's way too embarrassing! Hahaha!"

Mercifully, the story ends when the office door opens and another employee enters. Rick accosts him in the doorway.

"Hey Keith! Want to hear a funny story? This happened just now when I was in the bathroom and the power went out. See, I was trying to collect a stool sample for..."

Too over-the-top to be true? Not even. I was there. It just wasn't as funny as "The Office."

Darn kids! Turn that racket down!

2008-10-17T14:01:00.000-07:00

I was out toodling around this afternoon, running some errands for the office. The glorious weather inspired me to pull out a CD that Brett made for me a couple of years ago which is filled with rap, dance and hip-hop music. It's not always what I am in the mood for, but today it was perfect.

One of my favorite songs came on just as I was pulling up to a stoplight. ("Yeah!" by Usher. Ok? Don't judge me.) I cranked it up and the bass started thumping.

"BOOM! BOOM! Ba-BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BA-BA-BA-BOOM!" The windows of my car were almost rattling and I was feelin' da power.

An elderly man and woman were in the car next to me, waiting at the stoplight with their windows down. (My windows were up, thank you very much.) As soon as the song, and specifically the BOOM-ing, started, the woman's face contorted and looked as if she had just caught a whiff of something very, very rotten. She turned her crusty-face to her husband and he began twisting around every-which-way in his seat, obviously to locate the car from whence this unholy sound was emanating.

"BOOM! BOOM! Ba-BOOM!" My stereo thumped on and on.

After making a quick survey of the surrounding cars, any of which could have been producing the offending noise, the man turned and stared directly at me with a look of annoyance on his face. I stared back, displaying my innocent blue eyes and distinctly pregnant belly as prominently as possible. His gaze immediately softened and he rolled his eyes at me as if to say, "Kids these days! You must be as annoyed at this racket as I am..." I nodded sympathetically and lifted my hands in a "But what can you do?" gesture. The light turned green and we both drove on.

Poor guy. He had no idea that he was trying to commiserate with Chill Cool Li'l Puffy Snoop Platypus herself. At least, that's what they call me in da 'hood.

Just in case it ever comes up

2008-10-16T13:03:00.000-07:00

44 seconds

Created by Bunk Beds Pedia

With our powers combined

2008-10-14T16:14:00.000-07:00

Thanks to my awesome husband, I am now the proud owner of this awesome shirt. Jealous yet?

Another one bites the dust

2008-10-10T10:10:00.000-07:00

Three years ago we purchased a gazebo for our patio. In addition to giving us some shady, bug-free outdoor living space, we hoped it would protect our dining room from the harsh afternoon sun. We bought a couple of patio chairs, added an old end table, and hung a basket full of trailing flowers at the peak of the roof. We planned to add a two-person swing when our funds permitted. It was a lovely little sitting area.

One morning I awoke at my customary hour and stumbled out to the kitchen for some water. Something was different. I couldn't put my finger on it. I turned around slowly in place. No, the dishes were still piled in the sink in their typical state of unwash. The garbage can was still stacked to the top. Junk mail and empty cereal boxes still littered the dining room table. What was different?

I peaked out the sliding door onto the patio. Hmmm... patio chairs were still there as was the end table. I noted that one of our potted plants had been knocked over by the windstorm that began the night before and was still furiously blowing around the house. "I'd better move those plants so they don't get totally destroyed," I thought.

My bathrobe began to flap around my ankles as I stepped out of the house and looked up at the steel-gray sky. The wind chilled my bones and I mused, "Looks like it's going to rain today...look at those clouds...they're so big and black and OH MY GOSH! Sweet mother of a badger! WHERE IS MY GAZEBO!"

My gazebo was gone. Disappeared without a trace. Vanished like the fine morning mist. Where it had stood, there was... nothing. Just open sky. Sky that I should not have been able to see due to the fact that my gazebo should have been covering me.

"What the... Who the heck would steal a gazebo?" I tiptoed around the back of the house, wary that the gazebo thief might still be lurking in the backyard. He would have accomplices, I was sure and I wasn't sure if I could fight off two or three wanton criminals in my bathrobe with my hair whipping around in my face.

The backyard was empty, though. No hardened criminals. No gazebo.

"Maybe there's a clue out front...maybe I'll find some tire tracks or bloodstains or something," I thought.

Yeah. There was a big clue out front in the form of a mass of twisted aluminum which I surmised must have once been my stately gazebo. Apparently, the wind during the night had been sufficient to lift my 10'x10' gazebo completely off the patio, carry it over a 6-foot redwood fence, and twist it almost inside-out before smashing it down in the middle of my front lawn.

I reacted like any normal person would. "Brett! Brett! Wake up! We've got to get this gazebo off the front lawn before the neighbors see! Hurry! Oh gosh. I wonder how long it's been out there. People have probably been driving by all morning and laughing. Ack! Help me!"

Together, Brett and I wrestled apart the mangled posts and rods until we could remove the corpse to a more suitable resting place, in the backyard, away from the prying eyes of the neighbors.

I guess the ropes and stakes that were provided (which we promptly discarded) when we purchased the gazebo were actually supposed to help anchor it to the ground on windy days. Who knew?

The next summer, when the sun began to scorch our dining room again, my mom called and told us that she'd found a similar gazebo on sale. She was going to buy one for herself and she wanted to know if we wanted one, as well. Being older and wiser to the care and feeding of gazebos, we felt that we were responsible enough to try again, so we agreed.

The new gazebo had an extra vent at the top which seemed to be a bonus feature. We pondered this vent and promptly concluded that the lack of this vent on our other gazebo was what led to its early demise. Surely, a gazebo with a vented top would not be carried away in a windstorm, but we were not about to take chances. After completing the assembly, we weighted down each side with weights borrowed from Brett's dumbbell collection. No way this gazebo would be blowing away. Not with a vented top and 40 pounds of metal on each corner.

We enjoyed the new gazebo all summer and in the fall, when the winds started to blow, we congratulated ourselves that our patio decor had remained intact.

Intact, that is, until one beautiful day the next spring when birds sang to a clear blue sky and not even a gentle breeze ruffled the budding trees, I arrived home and found the gazebo collapsed in a heap on the patio. This time, there was no explanation. It was as if the gazebo had simply given up the will to live and crumbled to the ground. Disgusted and unwiling to give this second traitor-gazebo a proper burial, we dragged it to the corner of the yard where it remains to this day, unwept, unhonored, and unsung.

The next summer, we purchased a super-UV blocking screen door for the sliding glass door. It worked almost better than either gazebo for keeping the sun out and the house cool. I was done with gazebos forever, I thought.

On Labor Day, Brett returned from the sporting goods store with a new swimming suit, several pairs of shorts, and ... a gazebo. This was a different type of gazebo, though. Instead of being like a room with decorative supports and mosquito-netting walls, this was just a sun shade. It was made to be portable and could be set up and taken down fairly easily. Brett said it was on sale (50% off) and he could use it at some of his DJ events. We set it up on the patio where its forefathers had stood during the summers before. Since it provided a nice, shady spot for the dogs to rest while we were gone, we left it there.

Yesterday, as in the Octobers of yore, the wind began to blow. I mentioned to Brett that we should lower the gazebo, and maybe put it away, just in case, ha ha. I didn't really think it would blow away since it was quite a bit heavier that either of the other two and the wind wasn't really that strong. We were both running late for work, so we left it up... just for a few hours.

That night when I got home, the gazebo was gone, presumably packed up and put in storage for the winter. I told Brett I appreciated it and asked if he'd had any trouble taking it down by himself.

He was very, very quiet.

"Well..." he began eventually.

"Oh, ha ha ha. Very funny. Don't try to act like this one blew away, too. I'm too smart to fall for that."

He was very, very quiet.

"I didn't have time before work..." he started again.

"I know. We were both running late. You're not saying... No, you're kidding. I can see it in your eyes. You're kidding. You're kidding, right? RIGHT?"

"It was in the rosebushes when I got home."

"NO, IT WASN'T. STOP KIDDING AROUND."

Silence.

More silence.

I thought if I acted like I believed his little tale, that he'd come clean with the truth. "Okay. So it was in the rosebushes. Was it broken?" I said, waiting for him to break into a smile.

"Just a little. I think we can fix it," he replied solemnly.

"NO FREAKING WAY! You're not kidding, are you?"

"No. I'm serious."

I'm beginning to think we are just not supposed to have a gazebo on our patio. Really. I'm not kidding. I'm just now BEGINNING to think that.

You can't get there from here

2008-10-07T11:47:00.000-07:00

On Saturday, when Brett and I were in Roseville setting up for a homecoming dance at their local high school, he asked if I would run to the Radio Shack to pick up some cables for him.

Roseville is not my town. Most of the time when I try to find anything in Roseville, I get lost. Even if I have been to my intended destination a thousand times before, I will probably get lost. Knowing this, and knowing we were short on time, I resolved to call the Radio Shack and have them give me directions to their store.

The following took place between 11:03 and 11:04 am.

Me: Hi. I need to get directions to your store. I'm at Roseville High School right now. Can you tell me how to get there.

Radio Shack Employee: I don't know where Roseville High School is.

Me: Oh. Well, I'm just off Highway 80 at the Eureka exit.

RSE: Hmmm... well, we're next to Big Lots.

Me: I don't know where that is. I'm not from around here.

RSE: Big Lots is in the Harding Plaza. You know, where Random Store #1 and Random Store #2 are. We're right next to Random Store #3.

Me: I'm sorry. I don't know where any of those stores are. Maybe you can just tell me how to get there from Highway 80.

RSE: From 80? Well, uhhhhhh...

Me: If I'm on 80, what exit should I take?

RSE: Uhhhhhh... Douglas?

Me: Great. So, after I take the Douglas exit, which way should I turn?

RSE: Uhhhhhhh... I don't know. I, uhhhhh... don't drive that way.

Me: *patient sigh* Okay. When you drive to work, which roads do you take?

RSE: Uhhhhhh... I don't know.

Me: You don't know?

RSE: Well, uhhhh, it's just... we're next to Big Lots. Just go into the Big Lots parking lot and we're right there.

Me: I'm sorry. That doesn't help me at all. I don't live around here, so I don't know where that store is.

RSE: *suddenly excited* Oh! Oh! I know! Do you have internet? I can give you the address and you can get a map... just go to mapquest.com. It's totally cool and will give you a free map. You can even put in the address of the place you're coming from and it will give you directions and everything. That would probably work great for you.

Me: *gritting teeth* No. I do not have internet access right now. If I DID, I would NOT have needed to call YOUR STORE FOR DIRECTIONS.

RSE: Oh, yeah. Tee hee. Silly me.

So, who a) doesn't know where the high school in their town in located, b) can't give a customer any useful directions on how to get to their store from a major freeway, c) can't even tell someone how she gets to work in the morning?

There are really two kinds of direction-givers in the world: Dead Reckoners and Landmark Navigators. A Dead Reckoners will actually give you directions to get to your destination. "Take the Douglas exit. Turn right at the light. Turn right at the second street. Go down one mile and it will be on the left." A Landmark Navigator flails around, throwing out places she thinks you might recognize and then says, "Oh, you do know where the Wal-Mart is? Well, we're right next to Wal-Mart." Of course, this approach is completely useless if the person receiving the "directions" is not familiar with your landmarks.

In the interest of time, I terminated the conversation with Radio Shack #1 Employee and proceeded to call Radio Shack #2.

Me: Hi. I'm at Roseville High School and would like to get directions to your store.

RSE2: I don't know where Roseville High School is.

Me: Okay. I'm on Highway 80 coming from Sacramento toward Roseville. What exit do I take?

RSE2: Oh, okay. You, uhhhhh, take the Highway 65 exit then go to the Pleasant Grove exit, turn left and we are in the first strip mall.

Me: Thank you! Now just to clarify, when I take Highway 65, I'll be going north, right?

RSE2: Uhhhh....

Me: Like, in the direction I would go to get to the mall?

RSE2: The mall? No way! We're not near the mall AT ALL. It's the exit after Galleria Boulevard.

Now, as previously mentioned, I get all turned around and lost a lot in Roseville. But the one thing I do know in that the GALLERIA MALL is on GALLERIA BOULEVARD.

I drove out there and found the Radio Shack. I also found that I could see Galleria Mall from their parking lot. But, dude, if it makes you feel better to think that you are not near the mall AT ALL, whatevah.

3:26 am

2008-10-03T09:12:00.000-07:00

Last night, the night before, and the night before that, I woke up at exactly 3:26 am.

That must be the maximum limit for my bladder.

Either that, or the island is trying to tell me something...

Does that come with curly fries?

2008-10-01T15:51:00.000-07:00

Brett took the dogs to work with him today. He left them in the car while he went in to disable the store alarm. We he returned, he saw that, in the few moments without adult supervision, Sammie had chewed up some of the papers that Brett had left in the back seat.

There were a lot of papers for Sammie to choose from: online map printouts, receipts from recent oil changes, old church programs and newsletters, lots of junk mail.

Amid all these tempting options, Sammie chose to chew up the Arby's coupons that Brett was going to use for lunch.

You know, the coupons with pictures of roast beef sandwiches on them.

I'm thinking we might need to start feeding Sammie more often.

Brett's genius idea

2008-09-24T12:38:00.000-07:00

I can't even go 5 business days without yielding to the demands of my eager public for "NEW POSTS!"

And since the eager public's birthday just happens to be today, I must oblige.

My husband is always coming up with genius ideas. Why, just last night, he devised a solution by which we could remove our rather large sofa from our living room to his office. I would have sworn this task was impossible, since I had measured all the means of egress from our house and concluded that none of them were large enough to move said sofa through. But then again, we got it in the house, why wouldn't we be able to get it out again? He had no doubts, though and he was right. We were able to get it out with minimal effort.

As an added bonus, we now have no sofa and no easy chair in our living room. (It was another one of his genius ideas to put the easy chair out the last time we had a garage sale, just to see if anyone would buy it. Someone did.) If you've ever been in our living room, you will now realize that, as of this moment, we have gotten rid of all our furniture and now have nowhere to sit (except the massage chair, but that doesn't really count since contrary to what you might think based on its name, the massage chair is not very comfortable to sit in.). On the plus side, it's super-easy to vacuum the room now. On the super-plus size, I mean side, now we have no choice but to buy new living room furniture. Yay! See what I mean? He's an out of the box thinker.

I am generally skeptical of Brett's genius ideas at first, because I'm not wired to think in the genius way, like he is. Also, they almost always involve me going out of my comfort zone. Like getting rid of all our furniture when we have company coming over on Thursday. Like that whole, "Let's get scuba-certified while we are in Mexico!" thing, or the "Let's go down the natural waterslides!" thing, or that ever-annoying "Why don't you bear your testimony today?" thing. But I have to admit (since he's unlikely to read this), my predictions of doom rarely come true and his ideas are generally solid.

It was a few years ago when Brett had one of his genius ideas. We were sitting in the car, engine running, getting ready to go home from the weekly Fox Family Dinner, when he said thoughtfully, "I think it would be really great if you were friends with my sister."

"What do you mean? I am friends with your sister. Well, I mean, you know, I like Shauna. She's your sister. What's not to like?"

"I know. But you guys aren't really friends. Why don't you invite her to dinner or something?"

Crap. He was serious about this whole make-friends-with-my-sister-thing. It was definitely out of my comfort zone to approach someone and say, "So, uh, let's be friends, okay." There's a vague, nebulous, but very real fear associated with this kind of endeavor. Is it the fear of rejection? Is it the fear of just looking like a dork? Is it the fear of attempting to make a new friend and flat-out failing? I don't know, but it sure put me in my stress zone. I tried to blow him off.

"Sure, yeah. I'll catch up with her sometime and see if she wants to hang out," I replied non-committally.

"Great! I'm so proud of you!" He smiled and then sat there, looking at me expectantly.

"What?"

"Go ask her."

"What? Now?!"

"Yeah, why not? You know she's there. I know you won't call her because you hate to talk on the phone. Go back in and see if she wants to have dinner with you this week. Tell her Tuesday, 'cause I'll be at scouts." He continued to smile angelically. "You promised, remember?"

I hadn't technically promised and I could have debated that fact with him, but it wouldn't have done any good. I sighed, steeled my nerves, and trudged back up the driveway.

Shauna was just coming down the stairs and I almost ran into her in the doorway.

"Hey, I thought you guys had left already. Did you forget something?"

"Uh, no. I, uhhhh...ahem... well, see, I was, uhhhh wondering... if you... uhhhh..." Sweat started to bead on my forehead. My body felt like someone was holding a blowtorch to my back. "Iwaswonderingifyouhadtimethisweek... ifmaybeyouwantedtogoouttodinnerorsomething."

It took a moment for Shauna to parse what I had just said into actual words. "Uh, sure. That sounds great."

"Okay." I had to take a deep breath because I was feeling lightheaded. "HowaboutTuesday? Justcomeonoverafterworkandwe'lldecidewheretogo."

Another pause. "Okay. Tuesday is good for me. I'll come over around 7:00."

"Greatokaygottago. SeeyouTuesday."

I know Shauna thought I was a blithering idiot. Or maybe she was so taken off-guard that she didn't notice my perspiration-soaked armpits and my fight-or-flight breathing. I'm just glad she said yes.

Lemme tell you why I'm glad. Shauna is really is the coolest chick ever. Actually, she's the Coolest Chick Ever. It's a proper name and a proper name for her.

She's funny. She's smart. She's cute. She's generous. She's loyal. She's fashionable. She can sing. Boy, can she sing!

Trying to describe all the great things about Shauna is like trying to tell someone about a dream you had last night: words do not do it justice. She's subtle and layered and full of little nuances. We used to work out together and then go out to Coldstone for ice cream. She teaches her mom how to tell "your mom" jokes. She sings karaoke with me in the garage. She eloped with Coolest Husband Ever. She made the best dang churizo and waffles for us when we visited last December. She drove all the way home from work the morning we left, just to wish me happy birthday. (Well, that and to pick up the super-important papers she'd left on the piano, but I like to think I was the real reason she came home.) She sent me a pizza all the way from Utah, because I had subliminally messaged her to do so. She sat with me all day in the cafeteria at Park City because, honestly, who wants to get all wet and snowy on a ski trip. She bought me a platypus flute (coolest gift ever). That's how awesome she is. And I'm not just saying that because it's her birthday. I'm saying it because it's true.

Brett really hit it on the head with this genius idea. He was right. His sister and I really should be friends. And I'm glad we are.

Shannon, you make my day

2008-09-19T15:34:00.000-07:00

Amy gave me the “Make My Day” award. Here are the rules:

(1) give this to people whose blogs mean something special to you - or give it to the blogs whose persons mean something special to you
(2) leave a comment on their blog so they know they got it
(3) you get to pick the number of times you give it

Shannon is the lucky winner from this blog because a) she is one of my oldest (not age-wise) friends, b) we are fortunate enough be now be related to each other, and c) she is most likely to pass the award along to one of her friends or family.

There's no serious injury inflicted when Shannon's around. That makes my day.

Vacation, all I ever wanted

2008-09-17T10:16:00.000-07:00

"I need a vacation. Just a little one," I sighed heavily last night while getting ready for bed.

"Uh-huh," Brett replied, not really paying attention.

"I'd love to go back to that Westin hotel... you know the one we stayed at on our honeymoon."

"Oh, yeah?" Brett's ears perked up.

"Yup. Remember that awesome bed? It was huge and piled high with pillows and fluffy down comforters and it had the softest sheets EVER. I wonder what the threadcount on those sheets was..."

"I have no idea about the threadcount, but you can bet that I remember that bed..."

"Well, here's what I would do for my vacation...I'd check in as early as possible, go upstairs to the room, hang the 'do not disturb' sign on the door..."

"Go on..." I had Brett's full attention now.

"Then I'd hop into that big ol' bed and I think that within 5 seconds of my head hitting the pillow, I'd be fast asleep. I'd stay asleep until 11:00 the next morning, at which time I would phone the front desk and let them know I'll be staying another night. No need to make up the room. Then I'd go back to sleep until check out the next day."

"Oh."

"You're welcome to join me on my vacation, if you want. You just can't make any noise or flop around in the bed or kick your feet or anything like that. I also don't want to hear any whining about you being hungry or going into a diabetic coma or anything like that. This isn't an eating vacation. It's a sleeping vacation. I also don't want you complaining about being bored. If you can't sleep the whole time (it's a rare gift I have) then you can watch TV. Softly. I love you that much."

"Platypus?"

"Yes?"

"You're a cracksmoker."

"I know, honey. I know."

Six things

2008-09-12T12:06:00.000-07:00

I was (unofficially) tagged by my excellent sister-in-law over at cutestfamilyever. You might read her post and think, "She didn't tag you! She didn't tag anyone!" Well, you would be wrong. She cleverly tagged me on my own blog. I am that special.

So, here are six things about me. Don't judge me too harshly.

1. I am obsessed with lava. It's just so... so... awesome. It's beautiful and powerful and scary all at the same time. For Christmas, I want a lava video to watch over and over and over again. Mind you, I do not wish to actually go near lava (I have safety issues), but I wouldn't mind flying over in a helicopter or something like that. But not the lava stuff that looks like a mudslide. I want to see the real fiery stuff. You know, that stuff that seems like it could make you burst into flame if you look at it long enough. That's what I be talkin' 'bout.

2. I don't have a preference between Miracle Whip and mayo. Really. I don't. It just does matter which one is on my sandwich. I was accused of being a blasphemer by my brother-in-law when his mom asked which one I wanted on my BLT and I replied, "Whatever is out. I don't care." He roared in indignation. "You can't NOT CARE! You HAVE to have a preference! I don't even care if your preference is different than mine, but you HAVE TO PREFER ONE OR THE OTHER! You can't LIKE BOTH!" Uhhh... okay. Mayo... I mean Miracle Whip. See, I can't make myself care one way or another.

3. I don't "get" poetry. I can't even explain to you what I don't get, because I don't get it. I know poetry is popular. People like to read it and people love to write it. I don't DISlike it. I just don't understand it. Brett wrote a poem for me after we were engaged. I read it, appreciated the craft and sentiment that he put into it, kissed him and thanked him, and then tucked it away with all my other keepsake treasures. This, apparently, is NOT what you are supposed to do with a poem that your loved one writes a poem for you. I still don't know what the correct behavior is, so any tips are appreciated. I'm a total clod in this respect. I know it. I despise it.

This deficiency extends to song lyrics, too. On more than one occasion, we've been listening to a song and Brett will make a comment like, "Oh man, this guy has had his heart ripped out one too many times and he is so bitter..." and I'll say, "Huh? This is a song about heartbreak?" and he'll say, "So, when he sings, 'I'm so bitter because I've had my heart ripped out so many times and I'm brokenhearted,' that wasn't a clue for you?" I just... well, never thought about what the song was about. I know. I'm a clod.

4. I hate the word "lilac." Not the color, not the flower, just the word. When I was a kid in Primary, we used to sing about walking by the lilac tree and it would make my blood boil. It just makes me angry and I can't explain it. Other words that make me angry: squat and condiment. Some favorite words: eucalyptus, gecko, and barley.

5. I have to hold my nose to jump into water/I can't gargle. This is a source of endless amusement for those who know me. I HAVE to plug my nose or I'lll get water in it. I even hold my nose going down waterslides. When we were scuba diving and I was wearing a mask that covered my eyes and nose, I still plugged my nose for my backward tumble off the boat and into the ocean. (That might have been psychological, though.) I think this is related to my inability to gargle in some way. There must be some genetic anomaly that affects my nose and throat. Maybe I don't have a uvula. Oooohhh.... uvula. Another good word.

6. I love "The People's Court." I watch it every day at work. Yes, I am Rain Man.

If you feel like playing, consider yourself tagged.

You are afraid of the claw (part 3)

2008-09-10T13:50:00.000-07:00

As previously mentioned, Brett loves to scare me when I'm in the shower. I try to get him back, but I'm just not as sneaky, conniving, and weaselly as he is, so I have limited success.

One morning when I woke up, I could hear the shower running in the other bathroom. As I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I realized that this could be the chance I had been waiting for. The dogs were still sleeping and Brett didn't know I was awake. I could scare the crap out of him and he'd never see it coming. My palms started to sweat in anticipation.

Rather than try something fancy like dumping in ice water or surreptitiously turning the faucet to cold, I decided to keep it simple. An eardrum shattering shriek should do nicely. (It's a wonder our neighbors don't call the police sometimes.)

I cleared the morning frogs from my throat and crept down the hallway into the bathroom. I stood on the mat and drew in as deep a breath as I could manage. Then I let loose.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRRRRWWWWWGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!"

From the kitchen, I heard a tiny snicker start. The tiny snicker crescendoed into a booming laugh. "Are you trying to scare me, you crazy platypus? 'Cause if you are, you are in the WRONG ROOM! Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha!"

It's true. I had unleashed my lungs' fury on an empty shower. Brett was in the kitchen having a bite to eat while waiting for the water to get hot.

Score one for Brett, zero for the platypus.

On another day, Brett was out running errands. He told me he would be home soon and I resolved to find the perfect hiding space from which to leap and shriek and prove my superior scaring-skills. How about behind the door to the garage? Naw, he would probably come in the front door. Behind the bed? No, he'd see my big ol' rump in the mirror. Bathroom? Nope, the dogs would give it away. What about the coat closet?

Hmmm.... a promising idea. The closet was jammed full with enough coats and games and blankets that it would be an unlikely hiding spot. Also, I could leave the door open just a crack to watch him approach and spring out at the optimal moment for maximum scariness. Alright. The coat closet it is.

It required some precise measurements and I had to give it several test runs. To avoid suspicion, the door could only be open a tiny crack. And when the moment arrived, I would have to leap out, opening the door, springing forth, and screaming like a banshee, all in one fluid movement.

At last, I heard his car pull in. I squeezed into my hiding spot. There was barely enough room for my feet and I had to semi-squat between a big pile of blankets on the ground and our winter coat collection hanging from the rack above.

The garage door opened. I could hear the dogs going nuts and Brett encouraging them to "jump higher and I'll love you more." I was trembling with excitement as I waited for him to come into view.

I heard the mail keys rattle and the door opened again. "So, he's going out getting the mail," I gloated. "All the better. He'll walk right past me to take the mail to his office. He's toast." I waited, ready to strike.

I waited. And waited. And waited. I could hear faint voices outside. He was talking with our neighbor at the mailbox. The ringing of his cellphone finally brought him inside again. He answered it and began pacing around the living room. I thought that the effect I was trying to achieve might be spoiled if I interrupted his important business call, so I resolved to wait in the darkness for as long as it would take.

It took a LOOOONG time. He finished, snapped his phone shut and went back outside to shut the garage door. Just when I thought I could bear it no longer, he approached, lighthearted and carefree, never dreaming that he was about to get the fright of his life.

Like a coiled snake I burst from my hiding place. Or rather, I intended to burst forth. The semi-squat to which I had subjected my doughy legs for the preceding 15 minutes had turned into a crippling lactic acid burn in my thighs and massive charlie-horses in my calves. I tumbled from the closet and landed in a heap on the floor at his feet.

"Rrrawr..." I managed weakly. I thrust my claw toward his kneecap for added effect.

"What the heck are you doing? Were you trying to scare me? Aww.... that's cute. You are a cute platypus," he said, patting my head condescendingly.

Brett's score, two. Andrea, still zero. I should give myself minus points for that failure.

But I never learn. I thought I'd give my scaring-skills another workout one evening when Brett was showering after mowing and edging the lawn. He had looked exhausted and filthy when he'd come in and I hoped he be off his guard.

I put the dogs outside and waited outside the bathroom door, listening. I heard normal shower sounds, so I was pretty sure he was in there, but this time I wasn't taking any chances. I inched the door open and peered inside with my eyes right up to the crack.

Suddenly, a geyser of freezing cold water shot directly into my face. I spluttered for air and heard manical laughter echoing off the bathroom walls.

He'd been waiting for me to try something. And he didn't just spray me with the showerhead. He had actually removed the nozzle so he could point the hose directly at my face for maximum saturation. I retreated. I was beat.

Later that night, I bemoaned my fate to him. "It's not fair! You scare me every single day and I never get you! Ever! I'm so depressed."

"Awww... isn't that just too bad?" he snarked. "Just keep practicing and maybe someday you'll be a master, like me." He got up to get a soda.

"Will you bring me a glass of water while you're up?" I asked mournfully.

"Sure. It's the least I can do for such a pitiful little platypus."

A moment later, there was a yelp and a crash. "Why you little..." he cried as he came around the corner, his face and shirt dripping wet.

"Gee honey, you're all wet. How did that happen? It almost looks like someone put a rubber band around the faucet sprayer nozzle while you were in the shower and angled the nozzle just so that whoever used the faucet next would get sprayed in the face. What kind of pitiful little platypus would do such a thing?"

Score: Brett, 2. Andrea, 1. You'd better believe I'm catchin' up.

It's a hate/hate relationship

2008-09-03T15:54:00.000-07:00

I have had a hate/hate relationship with Nextel ever since I was in charge of a 50-phone account at My Former Company. Nextel hates me. I hate them. It's symbiotic.

It was very distressing to me a few years ago when Nextel announced plans to merge with Sprint, my cellphone carrier. I'd always received excellent customer service from Sprint and I was sure that the insidious apathy and flat-out mean-spiritedness that I'd encountered in my dealings with Nextel would eventually taint the alabaster halls of Sprint.

They got tainted, alright. Tainted with stupidity.

After the merger, Brett bought a new phone and wanted to swap his cell service onto the new phone. This was a procedure I'd performed literally hundreds of time in my stint as the Nextel Administrator for My Former Company. It was either very easy or very time consuming, depending on the experience level of the Nextel rep that answered the call. But, Brett had never had any problems swapping service through Sprint, so he was confident it would only take a few minutes.

In order to avoid being bothered by pesky customers like us who would just call and want stuff, the newly formed Sprint/Nextel cleverly changed their customer service number. Not only did they change it, but they kept the new one carefully hidden. It wasn't on any of our bills, nor was it on the website. We were kind of at a loss until Brett remembered that he could use a Sprint phone to get directly to customer service by dialing *611. (Or something like that. I can't remember what the code was exactly.) Knowing he would have to power the old phone and the new phone off for the swap, Brett wisely made this call using my cellphone.

It worked. He was connected with Anton, a highly-trained Sprint/Nextel customer service representative.

From the other room, I could hear Brett giving Anton the serial numbers and SIM codes from the old and new phone. Standard procedure, I thought. Then, I could hear Brett disagreeing with Anton and re-explaining what he wanted to do. More disagreeing, then more patient explaining. Then came louder disagreeing and less-than-patient explaining along with a hearty dose of frustration. I couldn't hear exactly what was going on, but Brett was obviously not getting his point across.

Because Brett had to leave soon, I offered to take over the call for him. He threw the phone at me and said, "Good luck getting that moron to understand a simple swap."

"It can't be that bad," I thought. "Maybe the guy just doesn't understand English very well. I've talked to a lot of people that I've had a hard time understanding, so I'm sure sometimes they feel the same way. I'll just try a little harder."

From Anton's first words, I could tell that he was as relieved to be rid of Brett as Brett was to be rid of him. I could not, however, detect anything in his speech that would indicate that English was not his primary language.

A: Phew. Okay, ma'am. Your husband said he would like to swap his service onto the new phone. I can assist you with that. Are you calling from a landline or a cellphone?

Me: I'm calling from a cellphone, but it's not the one we are going to be swapping.

A: Well, ma'am you're going to need to power off the phones, so I need you to call back from a landline.

Me: No, really. This is a totally different phone, totally different number. This phone I'm calling from won't be affected at all. But I have the old phone and the new phone both powered off, right now. Do you want me to turn them on?

A: I can't perform the swap if you are on a cellphone. I need you to call from a landline.

Me: Okaaaaaay. Why? What's going to happen if you try to swap the phones right now?

A: We'll get disconnected. I need the numbers from the back of the phone, behind the battery. The phone won't still work with the battery out, now will it?

Me: I'm not going to take the battery out of the phone I'm talking on. I would think I'd have to take it out of the phones involved in the swap, right?

A: No ma'am. All the batteries will have to be removed.

We went back and forth like this for about 10 minutes. When I realized that I wasn't going to convince him to change his mind, I gave up.

Me: Okay. I'll call back on a landline. Will you give me the number? It wasn't on the bill or on your website, so I don't know how to get back to you.

A: You don't need to speak with me personally. Any representative can help you. Just make sure to call back on a landline.

Me: I know I don't need to speak with you directly. But I don't have any customer service number to call. Do you have the 800-number for customer service?

A: You just call the same number you called before.

Me: Well, I used my cellphone to get to you. I just dialed *611.

A: You'll need to use a landline.

Me: That's my point. I can't dial *611 on a landline and get to customer service. What is the number I should call?

A: *exasperated* Just use your landline to call the same number.

Me: *more exasperated* No, that won't work. You need to give the number that should I dial.

A: The same one as you dialed before.

Me: Listen, the number I dialed was *611. If I dial that from my landline, it won't work. Give me a different number!

A: Um, I'm not understanding the problem here. You don't have a landline? Well, you might want to go to a neighbor's house then.

Me: *deep breath* Okay. Try to picture this. I'm walking to my home phone, my landline, my non-cellphone. I pick it up. I hear a dial tone. My pointer finger is poised, ready to dial. What number should I press on my telephone?

A: The same number as before.

Me: *another deep breath* Okay. The first number I pushed before was *, then 6, then 1, then another 1. Picture me pushing those numbers on my landline phone. Now what I hear on the other end of the phone is "doo Doo DOO! The number you dialed is not valid. Please check the number and try your call again." I CAN'T DIAL *611 ON THE LANDLINE AND REACH SPRINT/NEXTEL OR ANYONE ELSE! IT WON'T WORK!

A: Ahhh, of course not. You need to call the customer service number.

Me: YES! Ex-actly! Now tell me... what is the customer service number?

A: What do you mean? It's the same number. You're going to need to hang up and call back from a landline. Do you want me to hang up first? Is that what you are saying?

Me: No! If you hang up, I will never be able to call back on a landline, because I don't know what number to call! You must have a 800-number for customer service, yes?

A: Yes, of course. That's the number to call you need to call from your landline.

Me: Please, please, please... tell me what that number, that number that starts with 1-800, that number that will connect me with customer service from my landline, tell me what it is. I beg you. Please.

I don't know why, all of a sudden, Anton figured out what I was talking about. But, bless his poor idiotic heart, the lightbulb finally went on.

A: So, you don't have the customer service number? I think you do, otherwise you wouldn't have been able to call mein the first place. But, okay, let me get it for you again.

The ironic thing is that the number was something stupid like 800-GO-NEXTEL. If I had invested the 40 minutes I spent talking to Anton into dialing random numbers from my landline, I probably could have figured it out. Actually, the ironic thing is that Anton had to go look it up when, essentially, it is his phone number. Actually, the ironic thing is that it was probably all a practical joke and the mystery people who "monitor calls for quality assurance" were probably busting a gut. Actually, the ironic thing is that Anton probably won $5 for each minute he kept me on the phone.

Anton, I want my cut of that money, jerk.

I'm lovin' it

2008-09-03T10:27:00.000-07:00

As part of our lesson on Sunday, we talked to the Sunbeams about where food and clothing come from.

"Where do we get clothes from? Do clothes grow on trees?" I asked.

"No! That's silly!" the Sunbeams shouted.

"What about food? Does food grow on trees? Yes? What kind of food grows on trees?"

"Apples!" shouted one girl. "Oranges... and... and... uh, grapes!" said another, enthusiastically.

"Very good. But what about things like hamburgers? Do they grow on trees?"

"NO!"

"Really? Well, where do hamburgers come from then?"

There was no hesitation before three kids answered in unison, "MCDONALDS!"

It really was a beautiful sweater

2008-08-26T15:49:00.000-07:00

Brett and I spent the day in San Francisco last year while we were getting passports in preparation for our trip to Mexico. No, you don't normally have to go all the way to San Francisco for a passport. Yes, we could have sent away for them. But there were some technical difficulties which led us to believe they wouldn't arrive on time and we didn't want to take that chance.

Aaaaanyway, it was a blustery day in San Fran and we didn't realize that we would be spending a great deal of time in the out-of-doors while waiting in line to get into the building for our appointment. Not only that, but after we'd parked the car, we didn't want to move it, so we spent most of the day wandering the streets in the cold, cold wind.

We ducked into a men's clothing shop to warm our toes for a bit and Brett discovered a leather jacket which fit him perfectly. To our surprise, it was on sale and after the discount it was a steal. We bought it with the rationalization that Brett had neglected to bring his coat and it was far too cold for him to be without one that day. Also, he'd always wanted a leather jacket.

I wasn't really too cold, especially now that I had a big hunk of leather-wrapped man to nuzzle my face into. But Brett felt I needed something more substantial than my windbreaker, so we kept an eye out for an inexpensive jacket or sweater for me.

I'm not sure what area of the city we were in, but there were a million stores to shop in. Some were very reasonably priced, like where we bought Brett's jacket. Some were very, very high-end. At one point, we went into an upscale necktie shop. There were maybe 30 ties on display, which is not very many considering that's all the merchandise they had. After extolling the virtues of Italian silk neckties and ascots, the salesman asked Brett to select his favorite.

"Oooohhhh," he cooed with delight at Brett's choice. "An excellent decision. You can wear with many different earth-tones and will look also very sophisticated with black. Shall I wrap it up for you?"

"No, no," we laughed. "We're just poking around the city, trying to get out of the wind. Brett has lots and lots of ties."

"But, everyone must have at least one Italian silk necktie!" he cried in a passionate Italian way. "It last forever and your selection never go out of style! I give you a special price because I like you. You are nice young couple. I do you a favor. Today only $395.00."

I snorted. Brett politely considered the offer for about 3 seconds and then we hightailed it out of there. Like I said, Brett has lots of ties and we'd rather KEEP OUR HOUSE than pay hundreds of dollars for a fashion accessory (even if the salesperson did keep calling it an "accoutrement").

We moseyed down the street a little further when Brett stopped short. He gasped. "Okay, that's the sweater I want you to get. That's the most awesome sweater I've ever seen. I don't care how much it is. It's too cold for you not to buy that sweater and wow, I've just never seen anything so beautiful."

The sweater was gorgeous. It was a rich peacock-blue hue with a subtle green and purple design woven in at the edges and cuffs. It looked soft and warm and oh-so-inviting.

"Go in and try it on," he urged. I protested, telling him that I was sure it would be very expensive and that a shop like that wouldn't carry my size anyway. "It won't hurt just to try it on," he insisted, "You might be surprised. I'm going into the shop next door. Buy it if you like it, even if it is a little expensive." He shoved me toward the door and took off.

An small tinkling bell announced my arrival in the shop and summoned the most elegant woman I have ever seen. From tip to toe, she was flawless. Her hair was immaculately styled, her makeup enhanced her exotic features, and her four-inch heels sunk deep into the plush carpet on the shop floor.

"Good afternoon," she smiled warmly. "Is there something I can show you?" Her voice carried just a hint of a Slavic accent.

The thick silence of the shop was deafening after the cacophony of the noisy street corner outside. I was suddenly conscious of my wind-whipped hair, watery eyes, and touristy capri pants. She didn't seem to notice. I had her full attention and she never once gave me a look of disapproval.

"I....uh... My husband really liked the sweater in the window. Can you show me where it is?"

She glided across the room and took my arm. "Certainly. Your husband has a wonderful eye for style. This is a very classic design. It looks wonderful on everyone and the colors are so vibrant."

She hung my purse out of the way and helped me slip off my tattered old windbreaker. "It's... uhhh... really windy today and... uhhh he wanted to get something to help me stay warm," I stammered.

"He must certainly love you, then. This sweater is a nice weight for days like today." She pulled the sweater up over my shoulders. "How does it feel?"

It felt like falling into a cloud in heaven. Fuzzy softness surrounded me from neck to knee. The chill evaporated from my bones and I could feel a rosy glow creeping up my cheeks.

"It looks beautiful on you," she said earnestly. "Step over here and look in the mirror."

She was right. It looked fantastic and felt great. I knew it would be pricey, but I also knew I would want to wear it every day and it would go with absolutely every piece of clothing I own, so it might be worth a splurge.

"Wow," I breathed.

"Yes," she agreed. She told me the designer's name and said he was well-known for his beautiful, classic outerwear designs.

"It's incredible. I've never owned anything like this before. How much is it?"

Without a crack in her porcelain demeanor, she replied, "Eight thousand five hundred and seventy-five dollars."

*gasp*

I'm sure she was not surprised when I regretfully declined to purchase it. "I understand," she said gently. "But maybe another day, you'll be back."

Brett was waiting for me on the noisy, windy street corner. "So," he shouted above the traffic, "You didn't like it?"

"No. It was perfect. Just too expensive."

"C'mon! It's freezing out here! We just spent over $100 on my jacket! You deserve it!"

No, I'm pretty sure I've done nothing in my life to merit an $8500 sweater. Really, though, has anyone?

Which begs the question: WHO ON EARTH COULD AFFORD SOMETHING LIKE THAT? Seriously, that's so far out of the realm of possibility for 99.9% of the people on the entire planet. That's like so far beyond even doctor-rich or CEO-rich. That's like heiress-rich or movie-star rich.

So, when I see Paris Hilton or Katie Holmes on the cover of People magazine, wearing my sweater, I'll be sure to let you know.

Paging Dr. Pinhead...

2008-08-22T14:03:00.000-07:00

If the word "fathead" was invented to describe Rush Limbaugh, then then word "pinhead" was certainly invented to describe Dr. Laura. I have formed this opinion by listening to a total of 10 minutes (combined) of both their shows. I don't necessarily disagree with the content of their messages but they are both so darn abrasive that I wonder how anyone can stand the sound of their voices.

The other day, I was out running errands at a time when I'm normally at work. Dr. Laura was on the radio so I thought I'd give her a listen.

A young father called in and was concerned about his six-year-old daughter's bad habit. He wanted to know what would be the best way to encourage her to stop. Should they ignore it and hope she grows out of it? Should they scold her and risk psychological trauma? He explained that she was an only child and they were very concerned and caring parents who only what to do what was best.

Dr. Laura listened for a while then interrupted him mid-sentence to give her opinion. (I'm paraphrasing here.)

"Well, children can have bad habits for two reasons. They are anxious or they are bored."

She stopped. She seemed to be waiting for him to elaborate on his daughter so he jumped in to fill the silence.

"Well, she's pretty self-confident and there aren't a whole lot of situations where she gets anxious, so I don't think that's it. But, yeah, she's probably bored a lot because she's an only child, so I could definitely see..."

She interrupted again. "Sir! You are repeating yourself! I am trying to conduct an investigation into what might be the root cause of your daughter's bad habit you are giving me the same facts over and over and over again! Please, only say something if you are going to be able to add useful information!"

The caller was stunned into silence again and I turned the station.

What a pinhead. She wasn't "conducting an investigation" into anything. She gave him two sentences of advice and then stopped talking. Then she screamed at him for trying to keep the conversation going, which I would think is a good thing for a TALK RADIO SHOW.

I'm sure she probably talks to a lot of people who really are morons. People who call and have big drama of their own making who need someone to give them a verbal slap in the face. She probably gives a lot of good advice to people who will never follow it because it's too hard or they are too self-delusional. That must be hard for her. Maybe she was having a bad day, who knows?

But she reminded me of Sylvia Browne, the world-renown psychic who appears each week on the Montel show. Sylvia will just make up nonsense as a psychic answer to some poor schmuck's question and then changes her prediction based on what the schmuck's reaction is.

"Yes, I see a woman standing near you. She has really long, dark hair. Tell me who that is?"

"Long, dark hair? Hmm... I don't know anyone who..."

"Well, yeah. It's like, you know, shoulder length. Kind of a light brown color."

"Oh yeah! That's my sister Sally!"

"Yup. I had a feeling her name started with an S, but I wasn't sure if it was Sarah or Sally, so I didn't want to say anything. Anyway, she wants you to know that she loves you and forgives you."

"Forgives me? But she died when she was four."

"Yeah. How old were you at the time? Six? Well, she wants you to forgive yourself. Because all these years you've been feeling guilty."

"Well, I do miss her a lot..."

"See? Exactly. Let it go. Sally would want it that way."

*poor schmuck starts to cry* *audience applauds*

Her original story of seeing a woman with long, dark hair turned out to be a four-year-old girl with shoulder-length light brown hair, all based on the feedback she got from the schmuck. And people believe this crap.

That exactly what Dr. Laura did. She gave her diagnosis of "bored" or "anxious" and waited for the guy to agree with one or the other. Then when he started to steal her thunder by continuing on with the train of thought, she sniped at him because she wanted to be the one who figured it out, not him.

I would bet that the next words out of her mouth were, "Your daughter is bored because she's an only child. You need to provide more distraction and activity for her."

Wow. Freaking genius. No wonder America loves you, Dr. Laura.

Same call, different day

2008-08-22T13:10:00.000-07:00

Her: This is Alice from careerbuilder.com. I need to speak to the person in charge of your hiring.

Me: What do you need, exactly?

Her: I need to speak to the person in charge of your hiring to tell him or her about the products and services we offer.

Me: We are not interested. Please put us on the "do not call" list.

Her: Can I ask why you are not interested?

Me: No. We just aren't. Please put us on the "do not call" list.

Her: Well, ma'am, who would it be that I could talk to about hiring in the future?

Me: No one. Because you are putting us on the "do not call" list, remember?

Her: *sigh* O-kaaaay. Thanks for your help.

Seriously people! I only have a small problem with you calling as long as you are polite and respectful and immediately responsive when I tell you not to call back. I have a huge problem when you think you are all hot stuff, like this lady, and figure that you can weasel more information out of me just because you are more well-spoken than the average telemarketer and I must just be a lowly receptionist who has been given a charge not to let telemarketers disturb the higher-ups but is incapable of making a decision about whether my company needs what you are selling.

Well, guess what sistah, unbeknownst to you, you did reach the person in charge of hiring and she told you in no uncertain terms to stuff it. And as the person in charge of hiring (and lady, if you really wanted to impress you might use a more professional term like "HR Specialist"... just a thought) I want to let you know that we will never, ever, ever use careerbuilder.com. Ever.

And no, you cannot ask why.

Well, we didn't know what that was

2008-08-20T15:15:00.000-07:00

I was having trouble a couple of weeks ago reconciling a statement sent to us by one of our regular vendors. Last month's check seemed to have been applied to random invoices, resulting some some items being prepaid and some being overdue.

I called the company and asked to be transferred to the accounting department. I got Holly's voicemail:

"Hi, you've reached Holly. I'm in the office today, but not at my desk so please leave a message and include your account number. Bear in mind that I am REALLY busy, so I might not be able to get right back to you."

O-kay. Essentially tell me right in your message that you are not going to call me back. Nice. I left a message explaining the problem and asking that she phone me. That was on August 7th.

On August 12th, I figured I'd enough time had elapsed even for a busy person to find a moment to call me back, so I left another message.

On August 15th, I left another message saying that I wouldn't be able to pay the invoices until I was able to get the statement straightened out. I thought that might get her attention.

Apparently not. She never called me back.

Today, I called and asked to speak to the accounting manager. He was smart and helpful and said he'd look into it and have someone call me.

So, Robin called me back later in the afternoon.

"Andrea, I did review your account and there were some errors on our part, but well, frankly it looks like there are some errors on your end, too."

I was skeptical, not because I don't make mistakes, but because it's really, really hard to make a mistake when you pay the balance on the statement in full. Robin elaborated:

"Well, there's a credit memo here for $xxx.xx. Maybe you can tell me what that is?"

"That's our 3% discount we take for paying in full by the 10th of the month."

"Discount on what, exactly?"

"Uhhhh... on the total amount that we owe for the month."

She digested that. I could hear her adding machine working fast and furious in the background, verifying my math.

"Humph. I see. Well, we just didn't have anyway of knowing what that was. So, that's why your statement is off. We just didn't know what that was."

"That's the way we've always done it. It's never been a problem before. Is there another way you would prefer to have it done?"

"Well, I don't know. It's just no one here in the office could figure out what that amount was for."

"So, when I sent in the remittance stub with my check with the words '3% discount = $xxx.xx' written on it, that wasn't clear enough?"

*pause*

"I'm not actually the person who handles that."

"Well, who is? Holly?"

"Sort of. We both work on it."

"It's funny, but I've been trying to get a hold of Holly for 3 weeks and she's never returned my calls."

"Maybe she just didn't get your message."

"I left 3 different messages."

*pause*

"We're really busy here in the office. Maybe she didn't have time to call back."

"In three weeks? Not even a courtesy call to tell me she's busy but she got my message?"

*pause*

*pause*

"We're really busy...she probably would have called you back but no one in the office could figure out what that credit memo was..."

"Yeah, or SHE COULD HAVE RETURNED MY CALL AND ASKED ME ABOUT IT."

"We're really busy. We didn't know what it was."

And on and on. I'm tempted to not pay the statement this month. When they call to demand payment, I'll just say, "Yeah. I've been busy and well, I just didn't know what it was."

Do I have detail-oriented co-workers?

2008-08-19T11:59:00.000-07:00

You decide.

When we run out of office or shop supplies, someone will usually start a shopping list and pin it to the bulletin board. The last guy who started a list put a title at the top:

"Things We Need To Get"

Personally, I don't think a shopping list needs a title. A piece of paper, tacked to the corkboard, exactly where our shopping lists have hung for the last 15 years, with items like "copy paper" and "staples" written on it, is probably going to be... well, self-evident as to its purpose. But okay. If you want to title it, then "Things We Need To Get" is a fine title. It's to the point and an accurate description of what this mystery piece of paper is.

A few days later, I noticed the list had been revised. The title, "Things We Need To Get" had been crossed out. Underneath, a new title had been typed in to more accurately describe the purpose of this piece of paper:

"Shopping List"

Whew. Thanks for clearing that up for me.

I did not work hard on this.

2008-08-18T11:19:00.000-07:00

Today at work, I received an unusual piece of junk mail. It was a glossy, three-fold pamphlet advertising some sort of specialty office supply. I normally would have thrown it out without a second glance, but the message on the front caught my eye.

"Please Don't Throw Me Away!

At Least look At Me.

Alot Of Hard Work Went Into Making Me For You!

And Our Pricing Is Great Too!"

Never mind the overzealous use of capital letters and the common misspelling of "a lot." What grabbed my attention was the fact that they expected me to not toss the brochure as trash (and by extension expected me to consider buying their product) simply because they had worked hard to make it.

Ahem... excuse me for a moment...

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

What marketing genius thought that up? Is this supposed to get some sort of sympathy vote? It's plain that someone did some work to bring this brochure into existance, but honestly, I can't even believe they worked "hard" on it. It was totally non-descript and looked exactly like any of a thousand of pieces of junk mail I toss every week.

Even if it had been interesting or flashy or creative, is the fact the someone "worked hard" on it really a reason for me to open it? No. That's just pathetic.

I think this thing stems from the "self-esteem" thinking that seems to be prevalent today. The most important thing for some parents and educators is that a child grows up with high self-esteem. They seem to believe that any criticism will cause a child's self-esteem to falter and his ability to achieve will be compromised.

In a way, it is a self-fulfilling prophesy. If a person grows up being continually indoctrinated with the idea that everything he never makes mistakes and everything he does is a rousing success, then yes, of course, any criticism will probably be crippling.

I'm not saying good self-esteem isn't an important component of being a high-achiever, it's just not the only thing. People need to learn the difference between what is a real triumph of hard work and something they may have worked hard on, but is still crap. We learn because we are allowed to receive feedback and criticism. If everything you put hard work into is excellent, just because you worked hard on it, you loose the motivation to do it even better the next time.

I guess their marketing ploy worked better than I thought it would, because I actually did open and peruse the brochure instead of just throwing it away. But only so I could make fun of it.

Transgender platypus?

2008-08-15T12:09:00.000-07:00

The morons on the radio this morning were having a "deep" discussion about a transgender individual named Isis, who will be on America's Next Top Model this season.

The two supporting DJs, Dawn & Arnie, were of diametrically opposing viewpoints on the issue. They exchanged their opinions in the heat of emotion, neither willing to listen or consider the other's point of view.

Finally, Dawn turned to Rob (the main and most intelligent DJ on the show) for support and said, "Rob, it's like the platypus. Tell him about the platypus!"

My ear perked up immediately.

"The platypus?" Rob questioned.

"Yes!" Dawn raged. "The platypus! The platypus is the only mammal that lays eggs. It's the only venomous mammal on the planet. It has a duck bill and a beaver tail and webbed otter feet. It's different, but that doesn't make it wrong. That's true, isn't it, Rob?"

"You want to know if it's true that a platypus is like a transgendered person?"

"Yes!"

"Well, of course. They're both freaks of nature."

I resent that remark.

I'll do my shopping at night from now on

2008-08-13T09:47:00.000-07:00

I went to the grocery store this morning to pick up some noms for lunch. As I was pulling in the less-frequently used side driveway to the shopping center, I saw several drop cloths laying in the empty parking spaces. I thought it was odd because the shopping center is fairly new and certainly not in need of painting. Also, there were no work vehicles anywhere in sight.

As I drove toward the other end of the lot, I saw a beat-up green Taurus slowly cruising along. Every few feet, the car would stop and the driver would hurl out another drop cloth. Weird. What kind of painting company sends a private vehicle out early in the morning just to throw drop cloths into the parking lot? Wouldn't it be better if the driver got out and arranged the cloths so they were actually covering the ground near where the painting would be taking place?

The driver of the Taurus turned suddenly, gunned the engine, and raced down the aisle (nearly clipping my car in the process). I could see the driver was a young woman with a look of steely determination in her eyes. She screeched to a halt as a man jumped out in front of her car.

The man slammed his hands down on the hood and they exchanged heated words. He walked to the driver side window and she threw a pair of shoes at him. He swore at her, she swore back and threw another pair of shoes at him. She raced off, leaving the man in a trail of black exhaust, his arms extended wide in a "What the..." posture.

With an air of resignation, he slowly bent down and picked up the shoes and a drop cloth. I realized then that what I had thought were drop cloths were actually denim jeans. His jeans.

Ahhh... so baby did a bad bad thing and got caught. I guess kicking him out wasn't enough. She had to spread his clothes all over the Safeway parking lot. When I left the store and headed to work, I could see she had not limited herself to the parking lot. There were clothes strewn for a least a mile down the nearest main drag.

I laughed. I couldn't help it. I wasn't laughing at their domestic difficulties, though. I was laughing at the fact that this man, who maybe had a 26-inch waist, owned at least 12 pairs of jeans large enough to be mistaken for drop cloths.

Haha, haha.

Who?

2008-08-12T14:51:00.000-07:00

We're shorthanded today and I made the mistake of answering the phone at work just now... remind me to never do that again.

Me: Good afternoon, (company name). How may I direct your call?

Him: Is this the Sacramento store?

Me: Yes, it is.

Him: Lemme talk to Lori.

Me: I'm sorry. There's no Lori who works here.

Him: No. Loren. I want to talk to Lor-en.

Me: Oh, I'm sorry. Loren just comes in as needed. He's not here today. Is there someone else who can help you?

Him: No. Larry. I want to talk to Larry.

Me: Sir, I'm sorry. There's no Larry here. Maybe if you tell me what you need I can direct your call to someone who can help you.

Him: I want to talk to Larry... in maintenance.

Me: Maintenance? Like, you want to talk to our janitor?

Him: *sigh* Maintenance. Larry. He's a maintenance guy... you know, like he works on the engines and stuff.

Me: A mechanic? We don't have a mechanic named Larry, but I can connect you to the service department.

Him: *exasperated* Yes. The service department. That's what I want.

So, I transfer him to the service manager. Five seconds later, I hear the service manager paging over the intercom.

"Sales, line one. Sales, line one."

You are afraid of the claw (part 2)

2008-08-11T16:12:00.000-07:00

Brett takes a fiendish delight in tormenting me while I shower. When we had glass doors on our shower, he would wait until I was rinsing my hair (and hence had my eyes closed), sneak into the bathroom, slam both hands on the glass, and holler, "RRRRRAAAAWWWHHHH!" It was quite startling and did not endear him to my heart.

Now that the glass doors are gone, he has to find alternate ways of making my showertime a living hell. He will still creep in and holler while slapping the shower curtain around, but it's not really the same. And after so many uses, it's lost what little effectiveness it had in the first place.

He was quite fond of dumping things over the top of the shower curtain for a while. You know, flour, Kool-aid, ice water, stuff like that. Operations like that, however, were quite a bit more risky and less likely to be successful. He might dump an entire gallon of carefully prepared ice water over the top, only to discover that I was at the other end of the tub shaving my legs. There was also the retribution factor. If he didn't bug out of there fast enough, you can bet I was going to spray him with the showerhead.

His new favorite game is to very quietly reach his little paw in and turn the water knob from "Ahhh...warm shower" to "Holy cold water, batman!" This is very smooth since it's almost completely silent and he can be in and out before I even know he was there.

I am on constant alert when I know Brett is home and awake during my showertime. I've had to change the way I shower, just to be ready for his little surprises. I used to let the warm water massage my back for most of the time. Now, I face the faucet, ready to slam down the diverter if I see his grubby paw intruding on my space.

Brett laughs at me for the noise I make when I do see his hand dart in and out of the shower. Even if I am successful in stopping the cold water from reaching me, I always yelp. Or...yawp. Or make some other non-human sounding holler. It's hard to describe. It sounds like, "Aaarbbbgggllliiii!" Or something like that.

The noise is visceral, guttural reflex. I can't control it and I certainly can't stop it. I had to explain it to Brett this morning.

"You see, my first thought when I see your hand is not, 'Oh no! Cold water coming!' or 'Ack! Brett's up to his old tricks!' No. My first thought every single time is, 'A disembodied hand! I'm going to die!' It always takes me a minute to realize that it's YOUR hand."

Over his peals of laughter, I tried to explain that when I was a youngster I saw a movie about a guy who kept a severed hand in a jar on his desk. The hand came to life (or maybe he was keeping it alive), tipped the jar off the table, dragged itself through the shattered glass, and began crawling across the stone floor. It was terrifying to me. For weeks, maybe months, I had nightmares about severed hands dragging themselves across stone floors to kill me. (In the movie, the scientist stopped the hand by pouring a beaker of acid in it. I wasn't allowed to keep a beaker of acid by my bed, though.)

Someday, a disembodied hand really is going to try and get me in the shower. I just hope my cry of, "ARRRRBGGGLLIII!" is enough to scare it away.

Oh, crap.

2008-08-08T14:22:00.001-07:00

Just now, I opened the door to the ladies room here at work and was greeted with the most wretched smell known to the earth. It was what evil smells like, I'm sure. Without turning on the light or crossing the restroom to the toilet, I could see there was a mess of toilet seat covers and wads of paper stuffed into the bowl.

"This can't be good," I thought. "And I really have to go."

I took a step backward and the door slammed shut, trapping the evil-smell inside.

I looked down. There was a schmear of brown on the floor. A few inches away... another schmear. And another... and another. A trail of brown dotted the walkway to the bathroom door.

So. Gross. I understood now. Someone wasn't being inconsiderate. They had legitimately lost control of their bowels a few steps from the bathroom. (No excuse for not cleaning up the toilet, though.)

There were customers hanging around the counter, so I tried to be as discreet as possible. I wet a mess of paper towels, dropped them over the first little pile and rubbed my foot back and forth. Not great results, but it would keep the customer from stepping in the little piles of crap until it could be cleaned thoroughly.

I did the next one... and the next one... After about 2 feet, I realized there was no end to the poop-trail. Someone had come in the front door, poop dripping from their shorts, walked ALL THE WAY ACROSS THE ENTIRE SHOWROOM FLOOR, and exploded into the toilet. And then left the mess for someone else to clean.

Well, crap. There's no way in heck that someone is going to be me.

I was tempted to page over the intercom, "Wet clean up on aisle... well, aisle everywhere."

Someone with a lower propensity to vomit is cleaning it as we speak.

I'm not asking you to be interested...

2008-08-08T10:17:00.000-07:00

The quality of telemarketing in the world today is rapidly reclining. Just now, I got this call:

TM: We'll be sending you out some information about tech support for your business. I need to verify the address.

Me: I'm sorry. We're not interested. Please take us off your list.

TM: Well, I'm not asking you to be interested. We'll be sending out some information about tech support for your business.

Me: Please, don't do that. We're not interested. Just take us off your list.

TM: Ma'am. You don't have to be interested. We'll be sending out some information about tech support for your business.

Me: *blink blink* You want to send me information for something I'm not interested in? Please, no. Just...take me off your list.

TM: *sigh* You don't have to be interested. We'll be sending out some information about tech support for your business. Is there someone else there I can talk to? A manager or someone? (acting like I'm the idiot)

Me: Well, I'm the office manager. I'm telling you to take our company name off your calling and mailing lists. It doesn't get more official than this.

TM: *sigh* I'll call back later. *click*

1-800-DONT-GO-FEDEX

2008-08-06T11:00:00.000-07:00

I was expecting a couple of pairs of shoes to be delivered via FedEx last Thursday. I wanted to wear them to a party that Brett and I were attending on Friday night. I was surprised when the package didn't arrive on Thursday, as expected, so I checked the tracking information for my account.

The tracking information indicated that the package had been delivered at 1:06 that afternoon. Brett was home at that time and he didn't recall anyone coming to the door or ringing the bell or even the dogs barking. The following describes my subsequent conversations with FedEx:

Thursday, 6:00 pm
Me: My package was supposed to arrive today but it never came.

FE: I show that it was delivered at 1:06 pm and left by the front door.

Me: Well, it wasn't.

FE: I'm sorry about that ma'am. We'll have to contact the driver when he returns to the station to get some more information from him. What's a good number to contact you at?

Me: It's xxx-xxx-xxxx. That's my cell so call me anytime.

FE: He should be back to the station soon, so we should be able to let you know tonight.

Friday, 6:00 pm
Me: I called yesterday. Someone was supposed to check with the driver about my package and call me. I didn't hear from anyone.

FE: It looks like the driver hasn't returned to the station yet today.

Me: But they were supposed to check with him yesterday and call me.

FE: I'm sorry about that ma'am. I'll have someone call you tonight when the driver returns.

Me: Call me anytime. I'll have my cell phone on.

Friday, 10:00 pm
Me: I called earlier this evening. Someone was supposed to call me about my missing package.

FE: I'm sorry about that ma'am. It looks like we don't have any new information for you.

Me: Well, did someone talk to the driver?

FE: It looks like your question was transmitted to him today at 4:25 pm.

Me: Today? They were supposed to check with him yesterday.

FE: I'm sorry about that ma'am. He hasn't logged a response yet, but it looks like the system hasn't updated since the station closed. I'm sure his response is waiting for you, it just hasn't been uploaded.

Me: When should I call back?

FE: Tomorrow. We'll definitely have the information by tomorrow.

Saturday, 2:00 pm
Me: I'm calling about my package. I was told to call back today.

FE: We've put a trace on your package, but looks like it is missing. I recommend filing a 'missing package claim.'

Me: I thought that's what I did last three times I called and chose the 'missing package claim' option from your menu.

FE: Well, no. I'm sorry about that ma'am. But I can help you with that now... oh, wait... actually I can't file a claim because we are waiting for a response from the driver.

Me: I know. He was supposed to respond Thursday, then I found out your people didn't even ask him until Friday. He was supposed to have responded last night, but I'm assuming, based on your reaction that he didn't. This is my fourth call. I wouldn't keep calling except your reps keep assuring me that they will have more info for me later. What should I do now?

FE: Well, at this point I think you should talk to a supervisor.

Me: Great idea.

So, I talk to Buzz, a supervisor in Dallas. He is smart and genuinely concerned about my plight. He gently suggests that the package might have been mis-delivered and asks if my neighbors wouldn't bring it by if they had received it by mistake. I tell him that every 5th house in my neighborhood is vacant, so if it has been mis-delivered, I will likely never get it.

Buzz tells me he will personally call the station and speak to the driver. I tell him that if the driver did deliver the package to our house, he would certainly remember the piles of dirt and rocks that he had to walk around to get to the front door.

Buzz actually calls me back in a few minutes. The driver is off on Saturday and Sunday, but someone will certainly call me on Monday. Buzz apologizes profusely again and gives me his direct line to call if I don't hear from someone on Monday.

Monday, 7:55 am
FE: Hi, this is FedEx calling you back. Uh, yeah... the driver went out and verified that he did deliver your package to the correct house.

Me: Really? How did he verify it? All the houses in our neighborhood look pretty much alike.

FE: Well, he went out there and verified it.

Me: Sure. But what exactly did he verify? You're telling me he remembered coming to our non-descript tract home 5 days ago well enough to say, "Yup, this is the place"? Did he remember the piles of rocks and dirt in our walkway?

FE: I don't have that information ma'am. I just know he verified it. Do you have house numbers clearly visible?

Me: You tell me. Your driver was supposedly out here "verifying" the address. He should know if I have house numbers. Honestly, lady, I find it very, very improbable that he came all the way out here prior to 8:00 on Monday morning and "verified" the address. I know he was off on Saturday and Sunday. So, can you at least tell me when he "verified" it? I think he's full of it.

FE: I don't have that information ma'am. I can have someone call you.

No one ever called me.

You might think I was being a little hard on the poor woman and you would be right for thinking that. But I knew for a fact that the driver was either a moron or a liar. You see, over the weekend, a neighbor did come by and drop my package off. She lives several streets over, but her house number is the same as mine. Right number, wrong street.

Sure, it's possible the driver came out bright and early Monday morning and verified the address, but if he did, he was at the same wrong house. It's much more likely he's just a liar.

Ironically, when I e-mailed the company from which I had purchased the shoes to let them know my package had been misdirected, they automatically re-shipped my order, free of charge. That package got delivered juuuuuust fine.

By the way, www.endless.com rocks. I highly recommend them for shoes.

Coolest. Aunt. Ever.

2008-08-05T12:45:00.000-07:00

My excellent sister-in-law and I have a "merry war betwixt us." We shamelessly vie for the love and affection of our shared nieces and nephews and for the coveted title of "Favorite Aunt." Most of our (my) strategy involves shameless bribery and endless brainwashing. These are young, impressionable children. It only takes a couple of days of quality time to convince them that I am the FUNNEST AUNT EVER and if they vote for me, I will shower them with gifts and love. My visits with them involve a lot of this action:

Me: Niece or nephew, who is your favorite aunt?

N or N: Shauna.

Me: WRONG! I mean, have a cookie, dear. Now who is your favorite aunt?

N or N: You are!

Me: That's right. Aunt Shauna only pretends to like you. I love you a lot and that's why I'm going to spend hours and hours playing your favorite mind-numbing video game with you.

Aunt Shauna has an unfair advantage. She's known these kids since they were born. She's had much more time to bond with them. Plus, she lives close to four of them and gets to do fun things with them ALL THE TIME. I've had to make up a whole lifetime in the seven years I've known them.

But I chip away at her wall of invincibility whenever I can.

A couple of years ago, Brett and I visited the three nieces that live in Virginia. This was more neutral ground. Both Shauna and I can only visit infrequently, so I figured this would be the best time for my special brand of brainwashing, uh, love.

The nieces and I had a great time. We read stories, played video games, took trips, and even baked a cake together. We were solid. When I asked, "Who's your favorite aunt?" The girls would cry with unbridled enthusiasm, "You are!" It was a major coup.

We had to leave very early to catch our flight on the last day. I snuck upstairs to kiss the girls goodbye. Sydney slept soundly as I kissed her cheek and stroked her hair. Savannah woke up a little bit, wrapped her arms around my neck, and put her soft cheek against mine.

"Goodbye, sweet girl." I whispered. "I love you and I'll miss you very much."

"Mmmm..." Savannah replied sleepily. I tiptoed from the room.

"Aunt Andrea?" I heard her little voice call a moment later as I crept down the stairs.

"Yes, honey?" I replied expectantly.

"When you get home, make sure you tell Aunt Shauna I love her."

Greatest misspelling ever

2008-07-31T09:59:00.000-07:00

After reading this article (courtesy of Eric D. Snider) and Seriously, So Blessed, I've become more aware of what my roommate from Wisconsin used to call the "Utah accent."

Now, my Wisconsin roommate definitely had an accent. I would describe her accent as "rounded" or perhaps, "Canadian" (a term with which she violently disagreed). She described the Utah accent as "lazy." I can see what she means.

In Utah-ese:

fill = feel
sell = sale
will = wheel
well = whale

When you really think about it, doesn't everyone have an accent to someone else? But for the most part, people who speak English can understand other people who speak English. The amusing part comes when the regional oddities of the spoken word creep into the written word, particularly in the spelling.

And so, ladies and gentlemen, I give you the greatest misspelling of all time (as found on a blog that I will not post on this forum):

The word is "intill."

As in, "I never noticed you had an accent intill I read what you wrote on your blog."

Ironically, the rest of the blog was fairly well-written which made this misspelling stick out like a sore thumb.

That's all for now. Intill next time...

Gimme one good reason

2008-07-30T16:09:00.000-07:00

A telemarketer called just now to "update their records."

I told him we had no interest in being updated and asked that he remove our company from their calling list.

"Yes, ma'am. I can certainly remove you from our list. I just need a good reason I should do so."

"Because I told you to."

*pause*

*pause*

*he waits for me to elaborate*

*pause*

*pause*

*pause*

*he is outsilenced by the master*

"Okay, ma'am. Uhhh...thank you for your time."

At the car wash

2008-07-30T10:25:00.000-07:00

One cold February night, when Chewie was still a tiny puppy, the three of us piled into my car and headed to the gas station. I needed gas and car wash since, for weeks, it had been way too cold to wash the car by hand. We were a little surprised that the car wash was open because many stations close their washes in the wintertime. We naively considered ourselves very lucky.

As I pulled the car into the wash, Brett rolled down his window.

"What are you doing? Roll up the window! It's freezing out there! I've already put down the antenna. " I snapped at him.

"Hold on... I'm just so curious..."

"About what?"

"What are these brushes made of? They don't look like fabric, but they don't look like regular bristles either... Pull forward a little bit so I can see..." Brett leaned his whole body out the window, stretching his arm toward the floppy tendrils on the giant roller-brush. "Just a little bit more... further... up just a weeeeee bit more..."

*Click* My front tires rolled onto the activation plate. Water began to drizzle onto the windshield.

"Ack! It's starting! Get back in here and roll up the window! Quick!"

Brett fell backward into his seat and fumbled for the automatic window switch. He pushed up on it, but nothing happened.

"It must be on child-lock! You do it!" he cried as the giant brushes began to spin and pick up speed.

I tried the window switch on the driver's console. The window started to ascend. It rolled halfway to the top, and then... stopped. It refused to budge. Brett wiggled it, banged on it, yanked on it, and swore at it, until...

*SPLOOSH!!!* A gigantic tidal wave of freezing cold sudsy water shot in through the 8-inch gap at the top of the window. I screamed. Brett spluttered. The puppy dove toward refuge in the back seat.

The water kept coming and coming and coming. Brett stood up as best he could, put his back to the window and spread his thin jacket across the opening. The giant bristles beat on his back and another wave of arctic water poured in.

The soapy spray passed overhead again, then a double rinse, and an extra pass with a spray wax (curse you, deluxe wash!) and we were finally clean, inside the car and out.

That window had never malfunctioned prior and has never malfunctioned since. As soon as we pulled out of the car wash, freezing, soaked, and defeated, the window saw fit to work once more. Very funny, Honda Civic passenger-side window. Good one. Joke is on us.

But lest you think this was not a learning experience for us, we did come away with one tidbit of information:

The giant floppy bristles on the giant roller-brushes in the car wash are made of rubber squeegees. Just though you'd like to know. Pass it on.

Yes, we have no bananas

2008-07-23T12:34:00.001-07:00

There a charming little fruit stand on the corner near where Brett's parents live. The summer crops have arrived and a variety of hand-lettered signs advertise the fruits that are available for sale.

FRESH CHERRIES (sounds delish!)

JUICY STRAWBERRIES (I love strawberries... especially the juicy ones!)

RIPE PEACHES (Mmmmm... peaches!)

But my favorite?

NICE MELONS

Well, thank you for noticing!

You are afraid of the claw

2008-07-22T14:14:00.000-07:00

One day at work, I was really, really, really, really bored. I had nothing to do but stare at the walls, twiddle my thumbs, and marvel at the intricacies of the human body.

I started staring at my hand. Really staring. My knuckes suddenly seemed fascinating and I flexed my fingers over and over again to watch the tendons and ligaments work in perfect union just under the skin. I marvelled at the multitude of things I could do with my hands and how each bone and muscle must function properly in order to perform the most simple task.

I flipped my hands over to examine the palms. I looked carefully at the lines criss-crossing the palms and at the swirls of my fingerprints. I wiggled my fingers some more and began to think about how strong my hands are (in comparison to the rest of my body). I bent my fingers into a claw-like shape the pushed on the fingertips. Yup. Those are some strong fingers. I'm pushing as hard as I can and my claw isn't collapsing at all. How useful, I thought.

Hmmm... useful.... useful for what exactly? Well, anytime I need to grip something, especially if I'm going to grip and then pull. Like if I was opening a really heavy door. Or, let's say I needed to dig in the dirt but didn't have a shovel. Strong fingers might come in handy. Maybe I got into a fight and needed to claw at someone. It would be very useful to have strong fingers with which to claw at your opponent, I would think. Especially, if you wanted to claw their eyes out, right?

But if you were fighting an able-bodied opponent. surely they would be resisting with their own strong hands and fingers. How would they do that exactly? Well, the most obvious way would be to grab my wrist and try to keep my claw away from their face. Which would be harder? Trying to claw someone's face or trying to keep your own face from being clawed?

This was worth an experiment. I tightened my fingers again and began to move the claw toward my face. I grabbed my wrist with the other hand and tried to force the approaching claw away from my eyes.

It was an epic struggle. I contorted my face and began to make sound effects to add drama to the scene. Left hand approaches... no! It's forced away by righty! Right hand seems to have an extra advantage, but wait! Argh! The claw gains some ground as righty wears down! Will Andrea loose her eyes after all?! There can be only one winner! Only one will be victori...

"Andrea. What the h*ll are you doing?" a co-worker asks from the doorway.

I'm startled by her sudden appearance. Think fast, Andrea! "I was, uh, stretching."

"Really? Why were you growling?"

"Well, you know...it was a stretching-noise."

"Uh-huh. Right." She looks at me strangely for another minute then leaves, unconvinced.

I just thought it would take too long to explain to her my fascination with the mysteries of the human body. Well, that and she did catch me trying to claw my own face off. That's a little embarassing.

Argument Clinic

2008-07-21T10:59:00.000-07:00

I had a strange and frustrating dream the other night. When I woke up, I told Brett about it.

Me: So, I had this dream last night that I was in a room full of people trying to lead some sort of discussion. But whenever I said something, someone in the group would argue with me. It was so frustrating. They argued with literally every single thing I said.

Brett: No they didn't.

It's the gift that counts

2008-07-15T10:16:00.000-07:00

I have serious issues when it comes to buying gifts for people. My usual and customary tendency toward indecisiveness becomes a crippling and paralyzing force when faced with picking out gifts for friends and family. If my friend and I were at the store together and he or she picked up an item, showed it to me and said, "I would absolutely LOVE to have this EXACT thing! This one! Right here! This one I'm holding RIGHT NOW!" I might feel confident in my decision to purchase it for him or her. Maybe.

The blame for this singular facet of my personality lies square on the shoulders of my friend Portland, about whom I have spoken on a couple of occasions.

It was Christmastime and our friendship was such that we exchanged gifts on special occasions. Other than family, I didn't have a lot of people to shop for that year. That was good because I also didn't have a lot of money. I thought if I could find the perfect gift for Portland, he would know that what I lacked in money I made up for in thoughtfulness.

So, I began to think. The more thought, the better, I thought. For a gift to be truly thoughtful, it must take into account the preferences and personality of the recipient. It should say, "I know you well enough to know that you would like this." Personally, I also really like to receive gifts that are things I would use if I had them but would never actually go out and buy for myself--useful but slightly impractical. Also, a dash of creativity goes a long way toward saying, "I was thinking about you."

Well, Portland didn't have a lot of diverse hobbies. He liked music, but he only deemed a few select artists worthy of his time. He collected rare, bootleg recordings of worthy performers but he already had every recording known to man. I didn't want to risk trying to buy something rare that he might already have or that he might deem unworthy.

Portland was also into computers. His personal computer was always a work-in-progress, waiting for the next memory or operating system upgrade. I would be way over my head trying to find the latest and greatest computer thingie.

But, an idea slowly formed. I knew that his computer was in the basement and that the basement was pretty cold in December. We would often chat in the wee hours of the morning and he would complain that his parents had turned off the heat when they went to bed. His ill-tempered cat occasionally deigned to sit on his lap to keep it warm, but for the most part he had to wear layers and layers of clothes.

Aha! thought I. What about a big box full of keeping-warm stuff? Polar fleece blankets were very popular that year and all the stores had stacks of them piled on the shelves. I picked out a manly pattern, lest a snuggly blanket seem too girly. I added a Far Side mug (he was a fan), several packets of gourmet hot chocolate, and a pair of those stretchy gloves, which I thought would keep his hands warm while he typed.

My package was complete. Because of the fluffy blanket, it was a very large box, but not heavy. I mailed it off and waited for him to tell me it had arrived. He called a few days later.

"So, I had to go to the post office today and pick up a big box...a big box from Camino. It had your return address on it..." he told me coyly. "I wonder what's in it."

"You haven't opened it yet? I'm surprised you're waiting until Christmas. I wouldn't. If you want to open it ahead of time, go ahead. I'm not going to wait to open yours."

"Well, since I probably won't send mine until after Christmas, you won't have to wait."

"Uh, okay. Open it if you want, though."

"Well, my brother was here when I brought the box home. He's dying to know what's in it. He's been bugging me non-stop all day. I might not be able to put him off. He's excited because it's such a big box, but not heavy. We can't even guess what it might be. I'll let you know if we do open it, though."

The peer pressure eventually got to be too much and he didn't end up waiting until Christmas. During our next conversation, he was much more subdued.

"So, I opened the box. Thanks for the present. It's really nice."

"Yeah? Did you like it? Did you get what I was trying to do? It's all stuff to keep you warm. You know, since you spend so much time in the basement on the computer."

"Uh, yeah. I get it now. I, uh, wasn't sure before. So, yeah, thanks."

"Wasn't sure? What do you mean? You sound weird. Was it damaged?" I began to worry that the mug had shattered or the cocoa packets had leaked all over the inside of the box.

"No. Everything was fine."

"Well, what is the deal then? I can tell there's something wrong."

"Well, it just that... um... this is mostly my brother's thing, so don't get me wrong or anything... it's just that well, you have to understand, he was really excited to see what was in the box...so when I opened it... well...I mean I really liked it when I first saw it..."

"Just spit it out!"

"Well, when I opened it, my first thought was, 'Cool, what a great blanket!' But my brother was there and he said, 'What kind of crap is this? A blanket? What did she do? Just grab the first thing she saw when she walked into the store? How stupid!' But that's not what I thought, honest. That was all my brother."

"Well, I don't really care what your brother thinks. The gift wasn't for him, anyway. It doesn't surprise me that he doesn't 'get it.' So what's the problem?"

"It's just that...after he said that... I got to thinking, 'What if she did just grab the first thing she saw?' And then I got to thinking that it did kind of look like something that someone who didn't really want to buy a gift would pick out. So, did you really want to get me a present this year or did you just get this because you had to? Because, if not, then I'll just send this back to you..."

I was speechless. My gift, the one I had been so proud of and had taken such care with, was not only unappreciated, but had sent him into a state of paranoid frenzy about whether or not we were actually friends.

More than anything, though, this was an indicator of his very, very weak character. His brother's mindless comments influenced him so greatly that he began to dislike the gift that, by his own admission, he initially liked.

Serious injury inflicted. It haunts me to this day. I'm scarred for life.

The next year (why we were still friends the next year is still a mystery to me) at Christmastime, I went shopping for him again. I made one stop. I grabbed the first shirt I saw in his size. It looked exactly like a shirt he already owned. I called him and told him I was sending something but that I had put absolutely no thought into his gift and that I truly did buy him the first thing I saw and that he should prepared to be disappointed.

The irony was lost on him. He had forgotten the previous year's debacle. When the package arrived, he called to tell me how surprised he was.

"Well, I was expecting something stupid because you kept talking about how lame it was...but when I opened the box, there was this really cool shirt inside. I love it! It's just like one I have! Why would you think that I wouldn't like it?"

Why, indeed. I guess, for some, it really is the gift that counts.

Begging for more

2008-07-14T11:16:00.000-07:00

I have heard the cries of my eager public for "new material." Well, not really. But, here's some old material to tide you over until another serious injury comes my way.

I started this post after Memorial Day, but didn't get around to finishing or posting it until July. The blog-thingie gods saw fit to assign to it the date I had started composing it instead of the date I actually hit the "publish" button. I'm sure that's some kind of special feature that I should be grateful my blog service offers, but I think it's stupid. And the three seconds of investigatory work I put into the project trying to change the date yielded no immediate results.

So, enjoy.

Spring chicken

2008-06-30T16:35:00.000-07:00

I was standing at the sink doing dishes last night when Brett snuck up behind me, put his arms around my waist and laid his head on my back. We stood there for a moment, enjoying the closeness. Eventually, he picked his head up, but didn't let go of my waist.

All of a sudden, I felt a sting on my scalp, like a bug bite. Then another. And another.

"Ow. OW!" I cried. "What's going on? What are you doing back there?"

"I thought you'd want me to get this out of your hair..."

"Get what out? Is it a spider? I think it bit me! Get it out! Get it out!"

Brett reaches his arm around and dangles something in my face, too close for me to see. "Look how long it is!" he says admiringly.

I crane my neck backward and the object between his fingertips comes into focus.

It's a gray hair. Very long. Very gray. Very unwelcome.

It has friends, too. There's a party going on and all the gray hairs are invited.

Second Law of Thermodynamics

2008-06-27T16:07:00.000-07:00

Our new car seems to have a target on it. It's been hit twice (while parked) since we bought it a year ago. My dad summed up the situation thusly:

"Yup. You just can't keep anything nice."

I was discussing this with my boss, who was a physicist in a former life, and he informed me that my dad's pithy statement was actually a simplification of the Second Law of Thermodynamics. "The universe, as a whole, tends toward disorder," he told me, with the glee of a professor expounding the laws of the physics to a dewy-eyed freshman. "You're always going to have to expend energy to keep that particular structure of molecules perfectly ordered."

Apparently, my shiny new car is offending the universe by being so pristine. Bummer.

Then I got to thinking. Maybe the disorder that's being inflicted on my vehicle is due to too much organization elsewhere in the universe. Maybe there are places and things in the universe that are organized so rigidly and precisely that the universe has no choice but to continually put dents in my car, just to compensate.

So, please... join the fight to keep my car in one piece. Stop cleaning your houses. Leave your dirty dishes in the sink. Let your kids scatter their toys about. Forget about vacuuming. Accumulate piles of bills on your desk. Stop doing so much dang laundry.

Many of you have already donated nobly and generously to this worthy cause, but there is still more to be done! I hereby pledge to not make my bed for a least a week and leave my clothes in a crumpled heap on the floor at night in order to spare my car another humiliating trip to the body shop!

Who is with me?!

Stuck in the dragon's toilet bowl

2008-06-23T10:45:00.000-07:00

Brett and I took my excellent niece and nephew to Raging Waters at Cal Expo on Saturday. Brett's mom also came with us, which was awesome because the kids aren't even her grandkids and she could have spent the day hanging out by her own pool for free. My six-year-old niece was just tall enough to go on all the waterslides. And she did. All of them. There was nothing too scary for this little girl. After each slide, I kept expecting her to emerge at the bottom, spluttering and coughing and crying and demanding to go back to the wave pool with her brother.

She never did though. She'd shoot out the end of the slide breathless and exhilarated and ready for more. It kind of made the rest of us look bad, actually. (And by the rest of us, I just mean me.)

Toward the end of the day, the lines were short even for the most popular slides so we thought we'd hit a few more of her favorites before the park closed. Brett had been squiring her around to the super scary slides but he insisted I take her back to the Dragon's Den so I could ride it with her.

Dragon's Den is the newest slide at Raging Waters and I'd seen the ads for it online. It's a waterslide with a unique twist. After an initial plunge into a dark and twisty tube, the riders (on a two-person innertube) are shot out into a large basin. Jets of water coming from the bottom and sides propel the innertube around and around the basin and eventually into another slide which leads to the splashdown pool.

Looks like fun. Not too scary. No freefalling. No airtime. Plus, I get to ride with my niece. All systems are go.

We load onto the innertube, Jess in front, me in back. We go hurtling down the slide. There's speed and screaming and splashing. Suddenly, we are in the Dragon's Den, shooting around and around the sides of the basin. Mist sprays. The Dragon growls. Jess giggles.

The basin is ingeniously designed so that the flow of the water and the angle of the sides will push the riders toward the opening to the second half of the slide as the initial momentum decreases. We pass this opening two, three, four times as we swirl around in the Dragon's Giant Toilet Bowl.

On our next pass around, it is clear that it is our final lap. We are now going slow enough to get caught in the raging torrent at the opening of the second slide. Actually, it almost seems like we are going a little too slow. Actually, we are loosing speed rapidly. Actually, we are grinding to a stop. Actually, we are stuck now on the exact opposite side of the basin from where we need to be. Even with all the water and slippery fiberglass, we're not moving. At all.

It seems as though the combination of an innertube which was a little flat from the day's use along with my big butt in back and Jess's tiny butt in front was enough to create sufficient drag in an area which had very little water flowing across to act as a breaking mechanism. Right in the middle of the ride.

As much as I wished another rider would come shooting out into the basin and knock us loose, I knew that would not happen. There was no one else in line behind us. Also, due to an accident years ago which involved several high school students piling into a slide and causing it to collapse, Raging Waters now staffs the top and the bottom of each slide. The guy at the top will only let the next rider go when he receives the signal from the bottom that the first rider is clear.

We sat there for a moment, stunned. I realized I would have to dislodge us before the staff sent someone to look for us. Jess leaned forward and I lifted my soggy butt as high off the slide as possible. I pushed us forward with my fingertips. We moved a fraction of an inch. I gave another superhuman push with all my fingertip strength. We moved enough to get back into the water flow. A little more wriggling and butt-scooching and we were finally on our way again.

I told Brett about our unique experience and blamed it mostly on the fact that the innertube was slightly flat. "Well, when we went on it the first time, the guy told us we needed to try to keep our butts up the whole time."

Funny, he didn't mention that to us. Of course I can see why he might warn my tiny-butted niece and my average-butted husband when they rode, but I guess he felt a Rubenesque lady like myself would just know to not let her butt drag.

Maybe they should add that to their warning signs:

You should not ride this ride if you:

1. Have back trouble
2. Have heart trouble
3. Are pregnant
4. HAVE A BIG BUTT