Car Talk: A+ for Cindee

I pick up Meems and Leonard for church on Sundays.  Without fail, Meems calls me at around 8:00 on Saturday night and asks without so much as a howdy-do, "I guess you're going to pick us up for church in the morning?"  "Yep."  "What time?"  "The usual."  "A little bit after 10?"  "10:05-ish."  "At my patio?"  [Heaven forbid that she would have to walk all the way to Raider Ranch's front door.] "Yep.  At your patio."  "Bye bye."  "Bye, Mom."

As he gets into the car, the first question Leonard asks without fail is "Where's Alan?"  "He's at church."  "Oh.  He's already there."  [pause]  "Is he leading today?"  "Yep.  He's leading today."  "That's what I thought."  (Alan is one of the worship hosts at our church's "groovy" service.)

Last Sunday after Leonard learned of Alan's whereabouts, Meems told me about her dream.  

Meems:  I dreamed that I evaluated Cindee Millard last night, and she didn't like my evaluation.

[Cindee is a dear, dear sisterfriend of mine.  I couldn't for the life of me figure out why Meems would think - or dream - about evaluating her.]

Me:  Why were you evaluating Cindee?

Meems:  I can't remember.  I just remember that she didn't like my evaluation.

Me:  Hmm.  You just evaluated her.  Well, my goodness.

Meems:  I do remember that I gave her an A+ for what she was wearing.

Leonard:  She should have been happy about that because A+ is as high as you can get.

Me:  Yeah, Mom.  A+ is as high as you can get.

Meems:  Her clothes were cute.  I can't remember what it was that I scored her low on.

Leonard:  Is Vladamir Putin married?

Oh, my.  Our Sunday morning drives to church.  Me, Miss Daisy and Hoke.

For the record:  Cindee, I give you A+++ in ALL categories - especially in haute couture.

Mimi Van Winkle

(from Classic-FairyTales.com)

"I love to sleep."  If I've heard her say it once, I've heard it a thousand times.  My mother can almost fall asleep on command.  There is Van Winkle blood flowing through her veins.

My sister, Kathy, and I used to tease mother about her ability to fall asleep while getting her teeth cleaned or waiting for her tires to be rotated.  We truly believed that general anesthesia during surgery would be a waste of money because The Meems would fall into a deep, wild-dreamed sleep before the surgeon had time to gown up for the procedure.

Now that Mom is a Lady of Leisure - because living at Raider Ranch is like living in a "resort hotel" - she has taken sleep to a whole new level.  She takes her shower right after dinner and heads to bed around 8:00.  She tells us that she lies there awake until about 11:00.  That is utter nonsense.  We've seen how she falls asleep when the lights go down in a movie theatre.  

At Raider Ranch, the residents are supposed to push a button in their apartments every morning by a certain time to let the receptionist-on-duty know that they are still members of the Land of the Living.  Mimi's bladder wakes her up just before the...uh...deadline (couldn't resist).  She pads into the bathroom and pushes the button which is conveniently located just above the toilet paper holder.  

Yesterday, I went by to see her.  I go over weekly to check on how many of her daily pills she dropped on the floor or left in the Sunday-Friday box entirely.  I also needed to see how her new pair of jeans was fitting after some alterations.

I called ahead from my car.

"Mom, sorry to wake you!  I know that it's only 11:00, but I need to come over now because it's next on my map of errands."

"ok"  (tiny voice)

"I'll be there in 20 minutes, so go ahead and leap out of bed and jump into those new jeans before I get there!"

"ok"

"Be ready when I get there!  So commence to leaping and jumping!"

"ok"

She was still in her robe and gown when I got there.  "What jeans?"  "I have new jeans?"

While she was tediously putting on said jeans she looked up at me and grinned.  "Guess what time I woke up on Monday?!"

She usually sleeps until 11:00ish.  "Hmmm.  Let me think...  Noon?!"

"Nope!  I slept until 4:30!"  We're talking PM people.  She was actually bragging.

My jaw dropped.  "Did you have fever?"  "Were you feeling poorly?"  "Were you restless during the night?"  I started studying her face for a slack jaw or half-closed eye.  She seemed just fine.

"No!  I just slept because I love to sleep."

That line in the song Silent Night is actually referring to Mimi Van Winkle.

Sleep in heavenly peace.  

Sleep in heavenly peace.  

The rest of us will stand watch over you while you Dance with the Stars and chase babies down the street in your new dress.

And so, she sleeps.

Diary of a Wimpy Woman

January 21, 2014

Dear Diary,

I can't believe that I sat through a whole movie clenching the arms of my seat pulling myself forward to allow Mr. Wiggles more leg room.  Ugh.  The stupid movie theatre at the mall has NO LEG ROOM.  

I considered moving to another seat.  Here are the considerations of a Wimpy Woman:

1. If I look behind me to see if there are 2 seats together that also have 2 empty seats behind them, Mr. Wiggles might mistake my squinting for a dirty look.  Maybe if I smiled sweetly and open my eyes really wide while looking past him...
2. Oh, well.  The theatre is really full, so I doubt there are any seats up there that fill the bill.
3. Even if I find 2 seats together and we pick up all our stuff to move, Mr. Wiggles might get his feelings hurt because his wiggling caused me to get a bit carsick.  Or, he might think that he is repugnant to our sensitivities.  I can't bear the thought of making a stranger feel repugnant!
4. Just pull forward as far as I can and try to ignore the staccato jiggles of his knees!  I can do this!  Only 1:45 left of the movie!
5. Besides, remember that guy that got shot in the theatre for using his cell phone during the movie?!  Moving seats in a dark theatre would be way more distracting.  Extreme distraction coupled with implied repugnance is a recipe for disaster.

So, Dear Diary, I sat there with my bottom scooted towards the front of my seat and my legs spread wide with one foot dangling over each side of my seat in order to spread my weight to keep the seat from automatically leaning so far back.  This position coupled with the clenching of the armrests helped.  A bit.  Alas, Mr. Wiggles thought that I was providing him even more room in which to wiggle.  Sigh.  There I sat muscles clenched breathing slowly in and out to ward off nausea.

Why do I do it?  Why won't I speak up for myself?  

Why.  Am.  I.  Such.  A.  Wimp.

I smile through gritted teeth when a waitress asks me how my mediocre food "is tasting."  "Oh, fine," I say, "and, if it won't be too much trouble, could you refill my tea when you head back this way?  I really wanted unsweet tea, and the glass of sweet tea you first gave me was fine.  But, this time could you please grab the pitcher of unsweet tea?"  A steak has to be gushing blood from an artery for me to speak up to the waiter.  I secretly fear that offended chefs spit on food that has to be "fixed."

I leave 20% tips for bad service because I don't want to hurt the bad waiter's feelings.  The time that we had horrible service - horrible - in a restaurant in Park City, I got sweaty palms as Alan wrote a scathing note on the ticket.  He left not one penny of gratuity.  As soon as he put the pen down, I jumped out of my chair and hurried to the door.  I didn't even put on my coat until I was standing in the snow.  When Alan casually sauntered out of the restaurant, I spat out a desperate whisper, "Run! Run!"  I took off running.  He sauntered.

I have bought clothes that I didn't like because the salesgirl proclaimed them to be The Most Flattering of All the Clothes in the World.  I have then tried to figure out the exact day of the week she might have the day off or time of day that she might possibly be at lunch so that I won't see her disappointed face when I make the return.  My  #1 backup plan: tell her that my husband simply loathed the flattering clothing.  "I loved the giant brown lace top that made me look like a linebacker, but my husband...  What can you do?"  

Just the other day a dear friend told me about an unsatisfactory experience she had during a massage.  Out of the one hour service she paid for, only about 37 minutes were spent on the actual massage.  When the girl announced that the massage had ended, my friend actually looked her in the eye and said, "Are you kidding?!"  "Yes, ma'am, that's the way we do it at Massage-A-Rama (not real name of spa)."  My heroic friend then proceeded to the front desk and let the powers-that-be know how very disappointed she was with the treatment she received.  Boom!  No charge!  Oh, how I wish I could be more like Linda the Lioness!

Thank you so much for listening, Dear Diary.  Your little lock broke years ago, but that's OK because the little key kept bending in odd angles.  Seriously, it's no problem at all.  I'm a freakin' genius when it comes to sealing my secrets with duct tape.

Sincerely,
cel

The Wedding Cake that Gave Me a Twitch

Yesterday I ran to Hobby Lobby at 3PM.  I'm sure of the time because I said to myself as I was walking out the door, "If you hurry, you can make it back in time to watch Dr. Phil!"  So, hurry to Hobby Lobby I did.

I've been in a baking mood lately.  So once I picked up the items on my mental list, I checked my watch - 3:30 - and allowed myself a little browse on the baking aisle.  Ahhhhh.  Cookie cutters!  Fondant!  Sprinkles!  It was supposed to be a 5 minute joy break.  

I had the aisle to myself save a cute couple that was gathering up supplies right and left filling their arms with more and more.  As I neared them, I playfully chided, "You guys are gonna need a basket!"  The guy who was in his mid-20s grinned and said, "Yes!  A basket!"  He quickly stacked on a shelf all the baking paraphernalia he had been hugging to his chest and sprinted towards the front of the store.

I strolled along a few steps past the young lady, then I just couldn't resist.  "So, what kind of project are you guys working on?"  I know.  It seems nosey.  But in Hobby Lobby, that's what we women do.  Like men who meet by happenstance while forging trails through the mountains, we are curious about where our fellow Project Queens are headed.

The young lady was beautiful.  She was either Hispanic or of Indian descent.  Her skin was rich and flawless.  Her glossy, smooth hair draped down her back.  She turned towards me with a radiant smile and exclaimed, "Our wedding cake!"

I was taken aback because of the way that they were rapidly selecting items from fondant to various fondant tools.  "What about this?!"  "Yeah!  Get that!  Oh....and one of these!!!"

I was in - hook, line, and sinker.  Trying to mirror the excitement in her eyes I exclaimed, "How fun!  When's the wedding!?"

Grinning like she was on some sort of romantic adventure she said, "Tomorrow at 2:00!"

Tomorrow at 2:00.  Less than 24 hours.  My stomach tightened.  I struggled not to react in a horrified manner.  What to say...what to say...what to say...

"Well, how exciting [trans:  terrifying]!  What an adventure [trans:  trip to crazy town]!" I croaked, barely able to breathe.

"I know!  I've never made a wedding cake before!  I'm going to try covering it in fondant, and I've never done that before either!" she continued, "It's going to be 3 layers and each one will be a different flavor and the top one is going to be heart-shaped!"

I turned my head slightly away from her so that she could not see the twitch that was rocking my left eye.  Visions of Pinterest cake fails flew through my mind.

All I could say was, "Well, congratulations!  Happy caking!  (yes, I said "caking")  Happy wedding!"

Her fiance rounded the corner with the promised shopping cart.  As I started to turn at the end of the aisle I heard her exclaim, "We need to go back to Michaels!  I liked that cake topper the best!  The dress matches mine better!"

Both eyes twitching, I headed across the store to browse the ribbon aisle.  I needed time to decompress.  It was all I could do to keep from running back across the store to offer my help on their monumental project.  But, I remembered how happy and silly-in-love they looked.  And, I was glad for them.  They had it all figured out.  A wedding should be relaxed, fun, and exciting.  They had definitely checked off all 3 boxes.

I slowly made my way around the rest of Hobby Lobby browsing to my heart's content with a song rolling 'round in my head.  "I'm gettin' married tomorrow AT 2!  Ding Dong!  The bells are gonna CHIME!"  I missed Dr. Phil entirely.

Dear LORD, please get the happy couple to the church on time.

A Yuletide Nemesis: The Christmas Card

As I sit here in my cyber-confessional, guilt trickles from the top of my head to the bottom of my toes.  I received, yet, I gave not.  Beautiful family photos with artistic designs landed in our mailbox day after day after day throughout the holiday season magnifying my own personal dilemma.  The bar was set so high that I crumbled under the peer pressure.

I did not send out Christmas cards this year.  

Not one.  

True story.

Let's begin in the beginning.  My Christmas card history didn't really get into full and faithful swing until little boys began to spring up in our household.  Oh, their precious faces and silly antics!  Oh, so many cute quips and quotes!  The words of our Christmas letters flew from my fingers to the page in an 8 pt font into single spaced lines with 1/2 inch margins all around.  Tales of forts and "klubs" and skateboards and Suburban-flipping (new driver...) poured from my heart.  Those Christmas letters marked the genesis of blogging for me.  They date back to the '90's and most of the early ones were handwritten and covertly Xeroxed at the my husband's bank-o'-the-day.

Exhibit A

Exhibit B
(My All-Time Favorite)

Life was so simple then.  I bought 1/2 price matching sweaters at Gap in January.  Then come fall, it was simply a matter of picking the location for the "shoot," slicking back hair, and wiping peanut butter off of chins.  A big thanks to Alan for standing behind me acting like he was either pulling dollar bills (the bribery money) out of my ears or just about to give me a big sloppy wet willie while I shot the picture.

Last year, we sent out a recreation of the above picture.  The boys were pretty pumped about restaging their poses but put a big ix-nay on wearing matching red shirts.

Unless I miss my guess, Alan was probably behind me acting
like he was pulling ten dollar bills out of my ears.

Now, the boys are grown and gone.  The times that they are all together standing in my kitchen are few and far between.  So when I began imaginating (just got home from seeing Saving Mr. Banks) our 2013 card, I scrolled through the past months of pictures in search of that one perfect - no, LUCKY - shot.  Below is the only group photo I could come up with.  Problem:  The obvious bright sun effect.  And, missing people:  Grandpa and his wife (also named Carolyn), Nana, and ME.  Also, Leonard (far right) isn't technically a family member.  He's the Meems' best friend from Raider Ranch.  It would be weird if he was in the picture without Grandpa, Carolyn, Carolyn and Nana...  It gets complicated.  You're shaking your head mumbling, "Mmm Hmmm."  You, too, have faced the same dilemma.

Turns out there was never a Plan A.

Plan B:  Comb through hundreds of pictures in search of an appropriately sized and optimally flattering picture of each boy - preferably all "head shots."  According to Tiny Prints little computer elves' "warnings," some of the pictures were lacking in the "high quality" department.  "You can certainly use that picture!" they teased, "But we can't be held responsible for how terrible it's going to look.  It's up to you."

Plan C:  Aha!  I know what I'll do!  I'll have each boy take a fun selfie of himself - a selfie that represents what each boy is "all about."  For Reed, it would probably involve watching Baylor football.  Jonathan could take a picture of himself sitting next to one of those huge recording thingys with all the knobs and buttons at Chicago Recording Company.  Bryce's could be at a fun street fair in Chicago since he's a newby to the city and still enjoys every outdoor "feeding" opportunity.

I begged.

I pleaded.

I threatened to take matters into my own hands.

Then, I declared defeat.

I don't know how you other moms do it.  I've seen your casual family group shots on facebook.  You're "Hey, Everybody Look At Me" pix are like professional portraits compared to my most vigorous efforts.  My boys simply don't have the time or patience to pose for pictures.

Just before Jonathan and Bryce flew back to Chicago the Sunday after Christmas, I finally guilted them into a come-as-you-are photo session in the sunroom.  

"Do we have to take the picture outside?  It's too cold!"

No, Goldilocks, we can stay inside where the temperature is JUST RIGHT.

"Do we have to wear something in particular?  I don't want to be in the picture if you're expecting us to wear the matching sweaters Mimi gave us for Christmas!"

No, Goldilocks, whatever you are wearing will be JUST RIGHT.

"Is this gonna take very long, 'cause we have a plane to catch!"

No, Goldilocks, I'll keep it brief so that our timing will be JUST RIGHT.

I shot exactly 3 pictures.  In the other two, the smiles seem more "forced."  Lacking a background of mountains or a beach or some significant landmark or a wedding cake or a building with peeling paint, this is not what I'd call Christmas Card Worthy but will have to suffice.

The Good News:  This year all of our bills and birthday cards will sport stamps with Jesus and the Virgin Mary on them.  The KING OF KIIIIIIINGS!  FOREVER AND EVER!

A Special Surprise

The title of this post pays homage to the third grade Dick and Jane readers of yesteryear and my beloved teacher, Lois Deloney.  You may remember that I wrote about her a couple of years ago:  I Love Lois Deloney.  Shortly after posting it, I received an email from her grandson telling me that Mrs. Deloney had passed away a few days before.  He asked me if he could share a bit of my post in his eulogy at her funeral.  I was more than honored.

Today the doorbell rang.  I looked up from my sink of dirty dishes just in time to see the UPS man run the 10 yard dash back to his truck.  I strolled to the front door to see what he had dropped on my doorstep.  When I saw the return address on the padded envelope, my jaw dropped.

I bolted to the kitchen and tore into the envelope.  In it was a little box.  Without looking, I knew what was in it.  I began to cry.  Then, I read the enclosed note.  I cried even harder.

Savoring the moment, I slowly opened the box with tears streaming down my cheeks.  And, there it was.  Straight from Room 15 at Libby Elementary.  Straight from the sweater hanging from her sweet shoulders.  One of Mrs. Deloney's Christmas tree pins.

A treasure of all treasures.  It will sit in a place of honor in the midst of my collection of Christmas tree pins.  Forever in it's special box.

Daryl Deloney, I can't imagine that any gift I receive this Christmas will be as special to me as this one.  Heartfelt thanks to you!

Now, I must go back to the dirty dishes.  Company's a-comin'! Jonathan and Bryce fly in from Chicago in an hour.  The tears of joy will continue to flow.

Merry Christmas, my friends!

Christmas Eve 2013

Hooray! It's Leopard Panties Day!

I may well be the world's most simple simpleton.  

First,  earlier this morning, I literally just heard myself inwardly cheering, "Hooray!  It's Leopard Panties Day!"

Second, before writing the above sentence, I had to google the correct spelling.  "Panty?"   "Pantie?"  "Panties?"  It's hard to find the correct term for referring to one "pair" of panties.  Think about it.  

Now, you're googling it, aren't you!?  Yes, you are.  

You can't figure it out either.  

This one thing we surely have in common.

When I tumbled out of the shower a bit ago, I spied with my little eye the pile of panties that Alan had tossed onto the counter on my side of the bathroom earlier this fine morning.  Why did Alan toss the panties?  Because, I don't dry them in the drier.  I lay them out on the side of the tub to dry.  This morning,  he needed access to the tub.  He had to tear down what he lovingly refers to as the "Wall of Panties."  Per usual, he scooped them up and tossed them.  

Now, you know why Alan tosses panties from time to time.

You're welcome.

Back to cheering for the leopard underpants.  I love, love, love my Soma Vanishing Edge pantaloons.  However, they are not all created equally.  Depending on the fabric and trim of the actual panty, they vary a bit in overall comfort.  The difference is minute compared to the difference in the comfort level of the several pairs of jeans I own.  Fat jeans.  Skinny jeans.  Those-don't-work-with-that-blouse jeans.  Lay-on-the-bed-to-zip jeans.

The leopard panties are comfort personified.  Make that "pantified."

The leopard panties are  "stylish."

The leopard panties are suitable for auto accidents involving the cutting off of clothing.

The last time I slipped into a Soma boutique - lured by the tantalizing SALE signs - I picked up a lovely leopard pair with lace insets.  This was so out of character for me.  I am traditionally a safe-playing-"light nude"-no-frills kind of panty girl.

"Well, hubba hubba," I thought, "Won't Mr. Alan be in for a big surprise!"  I actually felt a bit brazen when I piled the panties on the counter at the register.  I sheepishly tucked the bawdy leopard showgirl panties into the middle of the pile.

Home with my new panties, I dubbed the daring leopard panties "Save-These-For-Special."  It wasn't until I actually tried them on that the whole meaning of "special" changed dramatically.  Those leopard panties are (is?) quintessential in fit and comfort.  Love.  Love.  Love.  Heart.  Heart.  Heart.

Now, I save them for special days when I want to feel extravagantly comfortable as well as sassy.

It's Wednesday.  I may run a few errands.  I have no lunch plans (unless Alan figures out it's Leopard Panty Day.)  When I - fresh from the shower - spied those panties, I quickly reviewed my mental list of Leopard Panty Day requirements, and then light-heartedly threw caution to the wind.

Hence, the "Hooray!  It's Leopard Panties Day!"

Yes, I, Simple Simpleton, am greatly pleased by the tiniest of daily hidden treasures that normal people stroll past hurriedly unaware like the deep golden-amber color of a perfect tall glass of sweet tea with lemon, the way raindrops slide into themselves becoming tiny united rivulets on a windshield, and a perfectly sharpened #2 pencil.  Most days it's great fun to be me.

The Wonderful Wizard of Lumosity

I watch Lumosity commercials like men watch Viagra commercials.  If only I could be sure...it couldn't hurt...what have I got to lose...  Oh, heck!  Why not!  Nobody will know!

And so, I signed up for the free portion of Lumosity.  

Oh, Wonderful Wizard of Lumosity!    

Allow me to introduce myself!  

I. Am. Tin. Man.

E Pluribus Unum is I.

Free stuff = A little is better than nothing. 

Oh, Great Wizard!

I cast myself down before you!

Evaluate my brain!

And, so he did.  With a quick click-click-click evaluation, he prescribed games that are sure to fix my empty little tin head. 

After about 3 days of "gaming," I felt the need to pony up to the full-meal-deal 1-year membership which promised even further evaluation of my cognitive abilities AND the key to all of the locked games that tease the freebie members.  (Lumosity sent me an email offering me a "one-time-crazy-low rate."  It was cheaper than a good pair of shoes.  My brain is worth way more than a good pair of shoes.)

With the membership, you get added extras that give you TMI.

So, I thought, "Hmm.  I wonder..."

And then I thought, "But surely..."  

The Wizard's games are sure to help me for I have no ruby slippers.

I am counting on each and every "Benefit."

There.  I've bared my brain to the world.  I needs me a keeper.

Today's challenge:  Quit calling the site "Lumenosity."  I can't seem to drop that unnecessary  syllable.

I'll keep you posted on my brain's progress.  If and only if I can remember to do so.

Octoberfest with Bananas Foster

Me, Alan, Meems, and Meems Best Friend, Leonard

Meems invited Alan and me to attend Raider Ranch's anual Octoberfest this evening.  It was rather nippy outside, and I really just wanted to curl up in my favorite chair with a Lean Cuisine.  Alas, Meem's enthusiasm about the event prompted me to crank up the car and head over to the Ranch.  "They'll have German food, free beer [I hate beer], and Bananas Foster!"  I didn't really get the "Bananas Foster" connection, but she sounded darn sure that it was the German dessert du jour.  Who can resist a good German Bananas Foster anyway?

We arrived promptly at 5PM, and the line into the dining room was already really long.  The Ranch residents do not mess around when it comes to meal times.  A few at a time, they begin to line up at around 4:30 on any given evening.  Eyeing the line, I got that nervousy feeling like I was waiting in the cold for Toys-R-Us to open the day after Thanksgiving.  Would there be enough Red Power Rangers?  Beer?  Sausages?  Bananas Foster?

As seating began with people shuffling in pushing walkers or scooting on scooters, music began to lilt from a corner of the dining room.  A light polka danced in the air transforming the Mediterranean interior design to a festive beer hall with plastic tablecloths.  Thanks to this guy...

                      

He was either wearing very short lederhosen (hot hosen?) or forgot his pants entirely.  

It was hard to tell what with the accordion and all.

Yup.  It looks like a German beer hall.  On Ladies' Night Out.  At the Elderhostel.

Our favorite Raider Ranch frau und mann.

I told Frau Kinzbach that this should be her Christmas card picture.

"Not a picture with a beer," she quickly replied in a most serious tone.

"But it's a really cute picture," I teased.

"Not a picture with a beer."

So, take a long look because you won't be seeing this picture on her Christmas card.

There.  Much better.

As for dessert...it wasn't Bananas Foster.  It was a scrumptious warm-from-the-oven apple strudel.  Not one banana in sight.  Pity.

A teaser for my next blog post: 

Our discussion over sausages, German potato salad and sauerkraut?  Meem's Halloween costume.  She cracks me up.  And, no.  I'm not going as her side kick.  Neither is Leonard.  Neither is Alan.  Sorry Meems.

The Midnight Mourning of Milk

It was about midnight when my sweet husband got home last night after helping with a fundraiser in Odessa.  He had been standing over a smoky grill all day long doling out pulled pork tacos and New York strips.  He smelled delicious.

When he shuffled into our bedroom after banging around in the laundry room and kitchen, he bemoaned, "We need more milk.  The milk is out of date."

This morning, when I stumbled into the kitchen for my first glass of sweet tea I stopped short when I saw this sad tableau on my kitchen counter.  I made my little Poor BooBoo face envisioning the slight slump of Alan's shoulders when he read the date on the milk jug.  Sigh.  "Glug-Glug-Glug," taunted the milk as it circled the drain in the kitchen sink.  Too tired and disappointed to cope, he simply turned off the light and headed to bed.

What a week.  Government's shut down.  National Parks are closed.  Miley Cyrus is still running free.  A Georgia woman named Susan Bennett has "come out" as the voice of Siri.

Can't a hard-working man reasonably expect a jug full of cold, frothy, fresh milk - or sweet milk as my grandmother would say - after a slaving all day over hot coals and red meat?  

My heart went out to my man.  I, too, have had that late night disappointment.  Bowl.  Spoon.  Cereal.  Splenda.  No milk.

"Best by" date on the milk?  October 2nd.  Yesterday was the 3rd.

I would have totally had a big old bowl of cereal last night.  I ain't skeered.

stamps.com: A Cautionary Tale

I am about to relate to you the sad story of something I did.  A very stupid thing.  Then, I'm going to need for you to tell me your story.  Surely, you have one.  I imagine that everyone does.  I just need to know that I'm not alone out in the world of "I Signed Up for WHAT?"

First, I'll confess something that Alan and I did years ago.  We rented a phone from Southwestern Bell.  Remember going into those stores and looking at different models of phones?  There were princess phones, wall phones, rotary phones, new-fangled push button phones.  Oh, and the colors!  Blue, pink, deep green, red, yellow!  As newlyweds, we felt so mature as we marched into the phone store to pick out our first "married" phone for our new one bedroom apartment.  We had to be very careful about our choice because some phones cost more to RENT than others.  Key word:  RENT.

Yeeeeeeeears after we made our first phone purchase, it occurred to me that we still had that old rental phone.  One day it dawned on me that we should probably figure out where to return it because we hadn't really used it for a long time.  I felt guilty about giving the phone to Goodwill since we didn't technically own it.  Phone stores as we once knew them were no longer in existence.  Guess what?  We had been paying a little monthly fee for all those years for a phone we didn't use.  D.U.H.

Today, I got an email from stamps.com telling me that there was a problem with the payment for my monthly fee of $15.99.  At this point, I'd like to thank the person who used our credit card number to make purchases in a foreign country last June.  If it hadn't been for you, Pierre, the stamps.com fee would have been charged to us until the end of our natural born days.  My new charge card will forever remind me of your thoughtfulness.

I went to the stamps.com site and tried to log on.  Sure enough,  I had a username and password written down in my secret-log-of-passwords.  When I tried to log in, the site didn't know me.  AHA!  Someone has signed me up for stamps.com using my old credit card number!  So, I called the stamps.com customer service department.

WARNING:  What you are about to read may cause you discomfort.  The details of my complete and total stupidity may be too much for you witness.  Don't say I didn't warn you.

I explained to the lady that I must have been hacked by someone in a foreign country and that I needed to know what all had been purchased on my behalf.  My expectation was that the matter would be resolved within minutes, and I would come out the winner in the case of Carolyn Lackey VS Internet Thief.

Not so much.

Long story somewhat short.  In August 2010, I was on the usps (UNITED STATES POSTAL SERVICE) site probably printing a click and ship label.  I was bedazzled by a little picture of a small home-use postal scale for FREE.  So, I clicked.  Since September 2010, I have been paying stamps.com $15.99 per month for a service that I have never, ever used.  Even the customer service lady on the phone said, "Oh, I see!  Looks like there has never been any activity on this account."  Me:  "AHA!!  My point exactly!  I've never USED this account because I didn't know I'd signed up for it."  I assumed that her "Oh, I see!" was synonymous with "I'll refund your money!"  I assumed wrong.  Very, very wrong.

Yes...yes...yes...  Those are the answers to all of the questions that you're yelling at your monitor right now.  I know.  I know that, too.  I know.  I'm an idiot.  I will have to admit that I must have signed up for some trial offer.  Guess what?  Stamps.com doesn't notify you when your trial offer expires.  They just giddyup on charging those monthly fees. 

Phone lady was really nice and offered to refund me 2 of the 36 months of service.  "Is there anyone else I can talk to?" I whimpered.  "Why, yes!  Do you mind if I put you on hold while I contact a supervisor?"  There is only one answer to that question.  "I'll hold."

Supervisor Lady was equally as nice.  I will have to give stamps.com kudos for their customer service training.  Both ladies were able to convince me that they truly and sincerely "felt my pain."  Supervisor Lady said that she would give me the maximum refund ever offered in stamps.com history.  Six months.  Of the thirty six months.

Even as I was explaining to her that I would NEVER signed up for a membership to their club because I'm just a mom who occasionally mails packages to her college sons, and I can do that for FREE on usps.com.  The more I explained, the more stupid I felt.  I'm sure that Supervisor Lady put me on speaker phone at some point so that her co-workers could get their laugh-o'-the-day.  She's probably still retelling my story at the water cooler.  "And then she said,  'me-me-me-me-me-me-me-me.'" To which one of her comrades bellowed, "Boo-frickety-hoo, lady!  Boo-frickety-hoo!"

They had me over a barrel.  Judge Judy would make mincemeat out of my stupidity.  "See there in the size 2 font print?!  It's spelled out in plain English!  You shoulda read it!  You really, really shoulda read it!  Judgement for the Defendant!  You people need to read the fine print, for Pete's sake!"

Why didn't I notice the monthly charge on our Visa bill?  Good question.  I never look at it.  Alan pays the bills.  He told me that he remembers seeing it on the bill but assumed that it had to do with clicking and shipping which he knows I often do.  I must give him credit for never really questioning my purchases.  He's really sweet like that.  In this case, his sweetness coupled with my stupidity got expensive.

There you have it.   My cautionary confessional.  I'm sure that someday in the future I'll "Find the Funny" in this auto draft debacle.  Just as soon as I stop thinking of everything I could have bought with the $576 I paid for a service I never used.

I must commend ATT and brag on them.  They actually backtracked our account and refunded us about $200 for our obsolete rotary rental phone.

Go, my friend.  Search your Visa bill.  Turn your house over for lost overdue library books.  Did you remember to cancel your gas bill when you moved from the last house?  You, too, may be as blonde as me. 

Now.  Your turn!  Please confess.