Yesterday I was dashing around like a mad woman trying to finish the preparations for Emily's birthday. She was very specific in what she wanted for her birthday dinner and I was not able to find a couple common ingredients at the first store I went to. Or at Costco. In fact I went to THREE grocery stores to find a chocolate pie crust. In the amount of time it took to drive to those three stores, I could have bought Oreo cookies and made my own pie crust...
At the last grocery store, I was beyond the point of exhaustion. It had been a marathon errand day. Post office. Music store. Library. Kohls. Grocery Store 1. Costco. Grocery Store 2. Another store to pick up a final gift. Finally I stopped at Safeway.
I only picked up two things at Safeway--Fuji apples which were on sale and the Oreo pie crust. The lines were long. I thought, "I will do the self checkout."
Would you believe I needed assistance THREE times for two items?
The first time I needed assistance was really not my fault. The woman in front of me canceled her transaction and a friendly Safeway employee had to clear the scanning machine.
I scanned the Oreo pie crust. It was on sale if I used my club card. The machine asked me to scan my card. Obediently I did so. I like a sale!
I then placed the Fuji apples on the checkout scanner. There was no bar code so I had to find the correct produce and choose that option on the touchscreen. The apples were on sale for 78 cents a pound. Yet, the machine showed that they were $1.98. I called the friendly Safeway employee over and pointed out the error.
"Look," she said pointing at the screen, "They deducted part of the price reflecting the sale price because you used your Safeway Club Card."
Oh. I felt a little embarrassed. Because I was flustered, I placed the apples on the shelf next to the bag instead of IN the bag. I didn't think it mattered. Apparently it mattered.
"Unauthorized item on shelf. Please make sure you scan item."
Or something to that affect.
I quickly put my apples in the bag. I then told the machine I was done and needed to pay for my purchases. The machine gave me several options for payment. I pushed the debit/credit option. It told me to slide my card. I did. It told me to type in my pin. I did.
"Unauthorized transaction," the machine said. "Please see employee for assistance."
"That's strange," I thought. I KNOW I have money in my account. "Maybe I pushed the wrong button."
So, I tried it again.
I pushed the debit/credit button, swiped my card, typed in my pin.
"Unauthorized transaction. Please see employee for assistance."
"What?" I motioned to the friendly Safeway employee for the third time and then I looked down at my card. I was swiping my Safeway Club Card instead of my debit card! Quickly, I changed the card before the friendly Safeway employee came over. She walked me through the transaction and Voila! It worked.
It's amazing what using the right card will do!
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
911...What's Your Emergency?
I've only had to call 911 three times in my life. The first time was when I was 18 years old and working at a grocery store. We had a "situation" and because I had a phone in the bakery department that was out of sight of the "bad guy" one of my co-workers urgently asked me to call 911. I remember having a very hard time not breaking down as I asked for police help. The 911 Operator was very professional and helped keep me calm until the police arrived and arrested our unwanted visitor.
The second time I called 911 was when my daughters were young. We were pre-heating the oven to bake some cookies--some luscious chocolate chip cookies. Suddenly, we noticed that there was a fire in the oven. No, the cookies were not on fire. There were NO cookies in the oven yet. It was an electric fire where the element was having "issues." I quickly called 911. (I can't say I was any calmer this time than I was the first as I envisioned my house burning down.) I then ran into my bedroom closet and shut off the circuit to the oven. A few minutes later, the fire engine's loud sirens grew closer and closer. Three burly firemen, one with an AX came running into my house. I envisioned them knocking holes in my walls.
"It's a LITTLE fire," I yelled. "Right now it's just in the oven."
Slowly, the fireman lowered his ax. They checked out the oven. They made sure I had correctly turned off the correct circuit. The fire was put out and they advised me to buy a new heating element for the oven.
I thanked them profusely and I was very grateful that there were no new "openings" in my walls.
The third time I called 911 was a few years ago. We had installed a carbon monoxide detector. It suddenly went off.
"Great," I thought. "We are going to die or suffer brain damage!"
"Great," was my second thought, "Emily is going to be late for school."
I grabbed the cordless phone and went outside and called 911. I was a little calmer this time. No bad guys. No fire. Just an odorless gas trying to KILL us! Within a few minutes, the very loud sound of fire engines grew closer and closer. Neighbors came outside to see what the fuss was all about. I waved, a little embarrassed. Three burly firemen rushed into my house and began checking for carbon monoxide. They found no evidence of a problem, but did say that one of my smoke detectors was so old that is was basically useless. They replaced the smoke detector and were on their way. I could not figure out WHY the detector had gone off in the first place. A few days later, I figured it out. Whenever someone in the house used hair spray, the carbon monoxide detector went off. After this happened several times, I threw the detector away. How good could it be if it thought HAIR SPRAY was a deadly gas. A stinky gas, yes? A deadly gas? I hope not!
And those are my experiences calling 911. I'm very happy for the service but I hope I don't have to use it again in a very, very long time!
The second time I called 911 was when my daughters were young. We were pre-heating the oven to bake some cookies--some luscious chocolate chip cookies. Suddenly, we noticed that there was a fire in the oven. No, the cookies were not on fire. There were NO cookies in the oven yet. It was an electric fire where the element was having "issues." I quickly called 911. (I can't say I was any calmer this time than I was the first as I envisioned my house burning down.) I then ran into my bedroom closet and shut off the circuit to the oven. A few minutes later, the fire engine's loud sirens grew closer and closer. Three burly firemen, one with an AX came running into my house. I envisioned them knocking holes in my walls.
"It's a LITTLE fire," I yelled. "Right now it's just in the oven."
Slowly, the fireman lowered his ax. They checked out the oven. They made sure I had correctly turned off the correct circuit. The fire was put out and they advised me to buy a new heating element for the oven.
I thanked them profusely and I was very grateful that there were no new "openings" in my walls.
The third time I called 911 was a few years ago. We had installed a carbon monoxide detector. It suddenly went off.
"Great," I thought. "We are going to die or suffer brain damage!"
"Great," was my second thought, "Emily is going to be late for school."
I grabbed the cordless phone and went outside and called 911. I was a little calmer this time. No bad guys. No fire. Just an odorless gas trying to KILL us! Within a few minutes, the very loud sound of fire engines grew closer and closer. Neighbors came outside to see what the fuss was all about. I waved, a little embarrassed. Three burly firemen rushed into my house and began checking for carbon monoxide. They found no evidence of a problem, but did say that one of my smoke detectors was so old that is was basically useless. They replaced the smoke detector and were on their way. I could not figure out WHY the detector had gone off in the first place. A few days later, I figured it out. Whenever someone in the house used hair spray, the carbon monoxide detector went off. After this happened several times, I threw the detector away. How good could it be if it thought HAIR SPRAY was a deadly gas. A stinky gas, yes? A deadly gas? I hope not!
And those are my experiences calling 911. I'm very happy for the service but I hope I don't have to use it again in a very, very long time!
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Plates of Food = Plates of Love
When my oldest daughter Christie was in High School, she was part of the newspaper staff. A few times a month, the editors would stay late working on the layout of the newspaper. I began bringing her a plate of dinner to the newspaper classroom. While other kids would forage for food at the vending machines or go out for fast food, she had a warm, hopefully balanced and nutritious meal for dinner. It was a way I could support her in her endeavors and show my love for her.
As Heather and Jennifer later joined the newspaper class, they soon were staying late for layouts. A tradition had started and plates of warm food were delivered a few times a month at the high school classroom for at least seven years.
This past week, Emily has had a very busy, stressful week. She leaves for Seminary at 5:40 am. She gets out of school at 3:05 pm. She then rehearses for her school play until 5:30 pm. Three nights this week she has immediately left school and gotten together with a group to work on their English project and has not returned home until 7:00 pm or later. That's a very long day.
It's been a few years since I brought a plate of food to school. But, I knew it was time to start the tradition again. Instead of the newspaper classroom, I have delivered homemade chili, cheese-stuffed ravioli, and orange chicken to the theater. The other students have been shocked. Some have told Emily that they wish their parents would bring them food. I am just happy that I could keep the tradition alive for another year. I really, really like being a Mom!
As Heather and Jennifer later joined the newspaper class, they soon were staying late for layouts. A tradition had started and plates of warm food were delivered a few times a month at the high school classroom for at least seven years.
This past week, Emily has had a very busy, stressful week. She leaves for Seminary at 5:40 am. She gets out of school at 3:05 pm. She then rehearses for her school play until 5:30 pm. Three nights this week she has immediately left school and gotten together with a group to work on their English project and has not returned home until 7:00 pm or later. That's a very long day.
It's been a few years since I brought a plate of food to school. But, I knew it was time to start the tradition again. Instead of the newspaper classroom, I have delivered homemade chili, cheese-stuffed ravioli, and orange chicken to the theater. The other students have been shocked. Some have told Emily that they wish their parents would bring them food. I am just happy that I could keep the tradition alive for another year. I really, really like being a Mom!
Thursday, November 4, 2010
"Honey, I Shrunk Your Past"
It is strange moving back to a place where you spent so many of your growing up years. Many things are the same and many things have changed....
For example, several weeks ago I attended Emily's "Back-to-school" night. She is attending the SAME high school I attended. As I walked toward the gym, the school looked the same, but it also looked a little different. There is a new theater and one quad has been recently redone, but the layout of the school is basically the same. As I walked into the gym, it brought back memories of rallies, assemblies, and the occasional basketball game. It also brought back painful memories of P.E. classes and being chosen last for a team. As I settled into my bleacher seat I thought, "When did the gym become so small?"
Last Saturday, Ron, Emily, and I went to Eastridge Mall. I hadn't been to this particular mall in probably 20 to 25 years. I spent many hours happily shopping in this mall. I spent many hours feasting on "Hot Fudge Nutty-Nutties" at Farrell's Restaurant--either celebrating good grades at the end of the school year with my family or heading there after a stake dance with friends. Eastridge was "THE MALL" growing up! It was the first indoor mall in the Bay Area and I am not exaggerating when I say, it was a big deal! However, I have been told that it's gone downhill in recent years. I've been told that it's not as safe as it used to be. So, as we pulled up to the mall on a Saturday night I told Ron and Emily that we needed to stick together because this mall is in (shudder) East San Jose and is (shudder) probably infested with gang activity.
"Mom," Emily said with exasperation, "We're from Stockton. We can handle East San Jose."
Oh yeah. Reality check.
After visiting one department store and not finding the thing we were looking for, we discussed whether we should drive to the "other end of the mall" to go to another department store or if it would be just as fast to walk to the other end.
"I remember this mall being HUGE," I said. "It will take us FOREVER to walk to the other end."
Ron and Emily convinced me that we should walk. And we did.
We got to the other end in just a couple of minutes. When did this mall get to be so small?
So even though many things stay the same, it seems like I've changed. I see my old high school and my old favorite mall with different eyes. They were bigger and brighter in my younger years. I'm a little sad that they are smaller than I remember.
For example, several weeks ago I attended Emily's "Back-to-school" night. She is attending the SAME high school I attended. As I walked toward the gym, the school looked the same, but it also looked a little different. There is a new theater and one quad has been recently redone, but the layout of the school is basically the same. As I walked into the gym, it brought back memories of rallies, assemblies, and the occasional basketball game. It also brought back painful memories of P.E. classes and being chosen last for a team. As I settled into my bleacher seat I thought, "When did the gym become so small?"
Last Saturday, Ron, Emily, and I went to Eastridge Mall. I hadn't been to this particular mall in probably 20 to 25 years. I spent many hours happily shopping in this mall. I spent many hours feasting on "Hot Fudge Nutty-Nutties" at Farrell's Restaurant--either celebrating good grades at the end of the school year with my family or heading there after a stake dance with friends. Eastridge was "THE MALL" growing up! It was the first indoor mall in the Bay Area and I am not exaggerating when I say, it was a big deal! However, I have been told that it's gone downhill in recent years. I've been told that it's not as safe as it used to be. So, as we pulled up to the mall on a Saturday night I told Ron and Emily that we needed to stick together because this mall is in (shudder) East San Jose and is (shudder) probably infested with gang activity.
"Mom," Emily said with exasperation, "We're from Stockton. We can handle East San Jose."
Oh yeah. Reality check.
After visiting one department store and not finding the thing we were looking for, we discussed whether we should drive to the "other end of the mall" to go to another department store or if it would be just as fast to walk to the other end.
"I remember this mall being HUGE," I said. "It will take us FOREVER to walk to the other end."
Ron and Emily convinced me that we should walk. And we did.
We got to the other end in just a couple of minutes. When did this mall get to be so small?
So even though many things stay the same, it seems like I've changed. I see my old high school and my old favorite mall with different eyes. They were bigger and brighter in my younger years. I'm a little sad that they are smaller than I remember.
Friday, October 29, 2010
My Patriotic Duty
Well...I have a dilemma. (Don't you HATE dilemmas?) Election Day is coming up and I feel like a very uninformed citizen.
It all started when we moved from one county in the once-Golden State of California to another county. Ron and I were conscientious citizens and re-registered to vote. However, we have not received any information--no sample ballots, no voting guide, no obnoxious phone calls (I can live with that) and the only mail we've received are for the local elections from the county we've moved from. Local elections that aren't so local now.
When I called the Registrar of Voters to check on our voting status, they confirmed that Ron and I are registered to vote. That's good. When I complained about the lack of sample ballots and voter registration guides, the man was less than helpful. "I can't help you there."
WHAT?!!! Isn't that your job--to help voters, vote?
He suggested three options. 1. Drive to the register of voters office and pick up said materials.
I COULD do that, but it's not exactly a quick little drive.
Option #2: Show up at my polling place and ask to look at one of their sample ballots. Somehow, I don't think that is the best way to make an informed decision BEFORE I head into the polling place--unless I want to spend an extraordinary amount of time in said little cubicle.
Option #3: Do my research on-line. When I explained to said official that I tried doing this, but I wasn't sure exactly which measure and which officials I could actually vote for in my little town in this new county, he was unsympathetic. "Well, good luck."
So, I have taken option #3 and have scribbled little notes on who and what I want to vote for. But, I may come across some unknown judges, some unstudied measures, and some other men and women hoping for my vote and I may just have to leave those areas blank because I am an frustrated uninformed citizen.
I just hope I can read my own writing once I show up at my polling place on Tuesday.
It all started when we moved from one county in the once-Golden State of California to another county. Ron and I were conscientious citizens and re-registered to vote. However, we have not received any information--no sample ballots, no voting guide, no obnoxious phone calls (I can live with that) and the only mail we've received are for the local elections from the county we've moved from. Local elections that aren't so local now.
When I called the Registrar of Voters to check on our voting status, they confirmed that Ron and I are registered to vote. That's good. When I complained about the lack of sample ballots and voter registration guides, the man was less than helpful. "I can't help you there."
WHAT?!!! Isn't that your job--to help voters, vote?
He suggested three options. 1. Drive to the register of voters office and pick up said materials.
I COULD do that, but it's not exactly a quick little drive.
Option #2: Show up at my polling place and ask to look at one of their sample ballots. Somehow, I don't think that is the best way to make an informed decision BEFORE I head into the polling place--unless I want to spend an extraordinary amount of time in said little cubicle.
Option #3: Do my research on-line. When I explained to said official that I tried doing this, but I wasn't sure exactly which measure and which officials I could actually vote for in my little town in this new county, he was unsympathetic. "Well, good luck."
So, I have taken option #3 and have scribbled little notes on who and what I want to vote for. But, I may come across some unknown judges, some unstudied measures, and some other men and women hoping for my vote and I may just have to leave those areas blank because I am an frustrated uninformed citizen.
I just hope I can read my own writing once I show up at my polling place on Tuesday.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Dentophobia
When I was a little girl, I had a peculiar problem. My teeth would not fall out.
When other little children would celebrate losing a tooth in kindergarten or 1st grade, my teeth stayed firmly in place. I was blessed with an extremely good "root system."
In the course of natural events, the permanent teeth would eventually begin growing in which made for a rather crowded mouth and since the cute little baby teeth weren't moving, it was determined by my dentist that the unwanted baby teeth would need to be "extracted."
I hate the word extracted.
And for many, many years, I really hated going to the dentist. It meant painful Novocaine shots and much wriggling and yanking and, well, I don't want to think about it anymore because it seriously is bringing butterflies to my stomach just typing these words.
In all my childhood years, I only lost TWO teeth the "normal way." Every other cute little baby tooth was "extracted." Along with several permanent teeth because of braces. And wisdom teeth, too. Yes, I developed a massive fear of dentists.
After I became an adult, I went to several dentists hoping to find the "perfect dentist" who I could be comfortable with. One day, I was inspired to ask a woman in my ward (who I knew was pretty particular) who her dentist was. That was when I discovered the husband and wife team of Gary and Sheri.
I explained my great fear to them. They did not mock me. They understood. With extreme gentleness they helped me overcome my dentophobia. I loved my dentists. I got to the point where a dental visit was a "non-event." I hardly gave it a thought. In the past, I would dread an upcoming visit for nearly two weeks, worrying about what would happen.
When we moved, I needed to find a new dentist. Much as I love Dr. Gary and Sheri, I really did not want to drive two hours each way to visit the dentist. After hearing about my mother's dentist, I decided to give him a try.
Last Wednesday morning, I saw my new dentist for the first time. When I am saying I woke up in the middle of the night in a near panic attack, I am not exaggerating. I did not sleep the rest of the night. All my old fears came back.
As I drove to his office, my heart was racing. I silently prayed that I would be OK and that I would like this dentist.
I'm happy to report that everyone was very friendly and kind. It may take two or three more visits to work up to the same level of trust I had with Gary and Sheri, but I think I may have found another dentist who I can trust.
When other little children would celebrate losing a tooth in kindergarten or 1st grade, my teeth stayed firmly in place. I was blessed with an extremely good "root system."
In the course of natural events, the permanent teeth would eventually begin growing in which made for a rather crowded mouth and since the cute little baby teeth weren't moving, it was determined by my dentist that the unwanted baby teeth would need to be "extracted."
I hate the word extracted.
And for many, many years, I really hated going to the dentist. It meant painful Novocaine shots and much wriggling and yanking and, well, I don't want to think about it anymore because it seriously is bringing butterflies to my stomach just typing these words.
In all my childhood years, I only lost TWO teeth the "normal way." Every other cute little baby tooth was "extracted." Along with several permanent teeth because of braces. And wisdom teeth, too. Yes, I developed a massive fear of dentists.
After I became an adult, I went to several dentists hoping to find the "perfect dentist" who I could be comfortable with. One day, I was inspired to ask a woman in my ward (who I knew was pretty particular) who her dentist was. That was when I discovered the husband and wife team of Gary and Sheri.
I explained my great fear to them. They did not mock me. They understood. With extreme gentleness they helped me overcome my dentophobia. I loved my dentists. I got to the point where a dental visit was a "non-event." I hardly gave it a thought. In the past, I would dread an upcoming visit for nearly two weeks, worrying about what would happen.
When we moved, I needed to find a new dentist. Much as I love Dr. Gary and Sheri, I really did not want to drive two hours each way to visit the dentist. After hearing about my mother's dentist, I decided to give him a try.
Last Wednesday morning, I saw my new dentist for the first time. When I am saying I woke up in the middle of the night in a near panic attack, I am not exaggerating. I did not sleep the rest of the night. All my old fears came back.
As I drove to his office, my heart was racing. I silently prayed that I would be OK and that I would like this dentist.
I'm happy to report that everyone was very friendly and kind. It may take two or three more visits to work up to the same level of trust I had with Gary and Sheri, but I think I may have found another dentist who I can trust.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Chocolate Turtle Cheesecake
Last evening I made a "Chocolate Turtle Cheesecake." The picture from the magazine looked absolutely yummy. Picture a vanilla wafer/pecan crust, a layer of melted caramels, a thick decadent layer of cream cheese that has melted semi-sweet chocolate added to the mixture, topped with more pecans and a drizzle of chocolate. Don't you want some?
The directions said it would take 15 minutes to prepare. Fifteen minutes! Those 15 minutes turned into nearly an hour. An hour of chopping pecans, unwrapping caramels, melting said caramels, softening cream cheese, melting chocolate, burning the first chocolate I melted (my new microwave is very powerful), melting more chocolate, mixing, mixing, mixing, until finally it was ready to go into the oven.
I told my family I hoped it was worth it.
Tonight, after a lovely family home evening, a discussion of the perfect nail color Emily and I needed to get next, and a rousing game of Swap, I pulled the "Chocolate Turtle Cheesecake" out of the refrigerator. Ron lovingly dished it up and then we took our first bites.
The recipe is going into the garbage. Along with the rest of the cheesecake.
The directions said it would take 15 minutes to prepare. Fifteen minutes! Those 15 minutes turned into nearly an hour. An hour of chopping pecans, unwrapping caramels, melting said caramels, softening cream cheese, melting chocolate, burning the first chocolate I melted (my new microwave is very powerful), melting more chocolate, mixing, mixing, mixing, until finally it was ready to go into the oven.
I told my family I hoped it was worth it.
Tonight, after a lovely family home evening, a discussion of the perfect nail color Emily and I needed to get next, and a rousing game of Swap, I pulled the "Chocolate Turtle Cheesecake" out of the refrigerator. Ron lovingly dished it up and then we took our first bites.
The recipe is going into the garbage. Along with the rest of the cheesecake.
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