Monday, January 21, 2013
You bought WHAT?
What is up with all the customer loyalty cards lately? Everywhere you shop you get asked if you would like to join their customer loyalty club, "it's free and you can get discounts". Yeah, great! I was almost convinced, until I thought about it.
I was watching an MSNBC show the other day about grocery store chains. They were interviewing the CEOs of these companies and asking questions about what methods they use to determine what will make their chains successful. They use very complicated methods of tracking customer purchases to determine what will be placed upon the shelves. One of these methods is the customer loyalty program. By using this method, a grocery chain can track your purchases, provided you use your loyalty card when you buy. Why wouldn't you? You get a discount every single time you purchase groceries, and they send you coupons and other incentives via email or even text messages to encourage you to buy more.
Now, I am a strict capitalist, ladies and gents. I have absolutely no problem with companies trying to make a profit. That's what makes America great, right? However, let me make this perfectly clear, I am not so comfortable with some mega giant corporation knowing my grocery buying habits (or any other buying habits, for that matter). "What's the big deal?" you may be wondering. Well, I'll tell you.
Let's say that I sign up for my local Supermart's loyalty card program and for the next year I buy everything there. I buy all of my family's food, our cleaning supplies, hygiene products, pet food, and any other miscellaneous household items. The whole year long, this company is tracking my purchases. They know when I purchase things like: toilet paper, feminine hygiene products, over the counter medication, pet food, and things you might not be so proud of purchasing such as junk food, alcohol, sodas, or even cigarettes. Now this company has very specific information on me, such as, when my monthly woman time is, how often I need to purchase pain medication, when and if I develop a yeast infection, if I'm pregnant, when I get diarrhea, if I am addicted to alcohol or cigarettes, and if I have an unfortunate junk food habit. They also know what kind of pets (if any) I have. They may have been able to gather whether or not I am married, how many children I have, and how often I like to bom chicka wow wow by how often I purchase KY Yours and Mine. Let me just show you some emails I would imagine getting over the next year.
Dear Mrs. Wespesser,
We have noticed that you have not purchased any flowery brand woman tampons lately. Perhaps you are in need of a coupon for prenatal vitamins. If you are no longer of child bearing age, perhaps you need a bottle of some herbal hippie-type estrogen supplement. Either way, please buy it from us.
Thank you and keep spending your entire paycheck here
SUPERMART
Dear Mrs. Wespesser,
We have noticed that you have purchased yucky sticky yeast infection medicine three times this past year. Perhaps you could use a coupon to visit our in-store clinic? Perhaps you need a coupon for Spartan condoms. Either way, you are a nasty whore, and we are embarrassed for you, but please continue to spend your money here.
SUPERMART
Dear Mrs. Wespesser,
We have noticed that your purchase of toilet paper and green apple splatter cure anti-diarrhea medication has increased over the past year. Perhaps you could use a coupon for some more binding dietary items like rice, whole wheat bread and bananas. Either way, you need to take better care of your bowels. Hey, even Jamie Lee Curtis recommends it. Oh yeah, here's a coupon for that yogurt brand she prostitutes her image for. Thank you and continue to spend your money here, you crazy pooping fiend.
SUPERMART
Dear Mrs. Wespesser,
We have noticed that you are no longer purchasing dog food. Perhaps you could use a coupon for our in store pet cremation and car wash center? How about a coupon for 25% off the purchase of a new puppy at our pet adoption center? Either way, we are glad you are an animal lover, even though you buy way too much red meat (YOU MURDERER). Thank you and please continue to give plasma so you can continue to afford to shop here.
SUPERMART
So, there's my argument for not signing up for the customer loyalty program. I'll just continue to clip coupons, and buy things the old fashioned way... with my checking account debit card.
Love and happy shopping!!
Valerie
Monday, October 29, 2012
Fun with Warehouse Shopping
On Sunday, we drove down south into Austin for our monthly trip to the dreaded land of discount warehouse shopping. After nearly being run down and backed into several times, we found a parking spot towards the rear of the busy parking lot. We got out of our car, and hiked the treacherous fifty yards to begin our own version of The Hunger Games, dodging speeding cars, and runaway shopping carts, loaded so full of merchandise, the person pushing them can no longer see where they are going. The games began by fighting the crowds to procure one of the huge shopping carts, praying that it doesn't have a spastic wheel. Successfully maneuvering through, we flash our membership cards to the Gestapo at the front door and head on forward, not stopping to browse at the opening displays for fear of being run over by the stampede trying to get through the front door. The next hour and a half are spent traversing the aisles, being bumped, not just by people, but by shopping carts, flatbed carts, and flying merchandise. Not an apology is muttered, and everyone has the same weary, beaten down, trod upon look on their face. The meat cooler is reminiscent of jackals fighting over carrion, complete with pushing, shoving, growling, snapping, and the occasional "accidental" shopping cart crash. The butchers only cut so much, and it's first-come, first-served... imagine that.
Now, not only are people fighting for a limited stock of merchandise that changes frequently, but there are the free samples. At the end of almost every aisle, especially in the foodstuffs section, are sweet little retirees in hairnets passing out samples of things like, taquito rolls, barbecue chicken wings, mango nectar, pumpkin seeds, quinoa and rice, energy drinks, and various other items that you would probably not even consider buying if you weren't being stampeded through the bowels of this gigantic, money sucking, warehouse nightmare. The worst thing about the free samples is the traffic jam they cause. If the meat cooler is reminiscent of jackals at carrion, then the free sample end caps are reminiscent of piranha de-fleshing a cow in the Amazon. Any samples put out are gone within seconds, and there are hordes hovering over these poor elderly people like vultures circling a dying animal in the desert. If you are just trying to move around, beware, people will dart out of nowhere, run in front of you like squirrels on crack just to get to the free sample of turkey jerky being handed out by poor little Ida who probably took the job just to pay for her blind granddaughter's cello lessons.
Now that your shopping is completed, you may believe you are home free. Oh no... the most fun is yet to come... the checkout lanes. The lines are usually so long that people and carts are trailing into the aisles, further blocking traffic. Heaven forbid you are in a line that ends up close to one of the free sample end caps... you might lose a hand, or a child if you don't keep close watch on them. The lines do not move quickly, either. You would think that most people would know the drill, but there is always that one person who does not know that they do not take checks, or certain credit cards, or who does not have their membership card ready, or who, after finding out they had spent way more than they intended, tries to return half the items in their cart.
Once it is your turn to check out, you will be asked if you would like boxes for your items. This is a stupid question, because usually you have (unintentionally of course) managed to procure enough food, laundry detergent, or vitamins for ten years. (Funny how it never seems to last that long, though) The cashier rings you up, you have a mini heart attack at the amount of money you have just spent, but justify it saying that you needed everything you have just purchased, and you will not need to return for a very long time. You then join the line at the exit door. Two burly men in vests, the supervisors of the membership Gestapo at the front door, are checking every receipt to make certain that you aren't trying to smuggle a truck tire sized wheel of brie out of the store underneath your shirt. Once your receipt has been marked in your own blood, I mean with a pink highlighter, you are finally allowed to leave. You once again brave the parking lot, trudging uphill no matter which way you parked with the heaviest shopping cart in the free world. You reach your vehicle, begin the arduous task of unloading enough food to feed the starving children of (insert name of third world country here), climb wearily in your car and drive home, taking some joy in the knowledge that it will be an entire month before you will have to do this again.
Shop classy, America.
Now, not only are people fighting for a limited stock of merchandise that changes frequently, but there are the free samples. At the end of almost every aisle, especially in the foodstuffs section, are sweet little retirees in hairnets passing out samples of things like, taquito rolls, barbecue chicken wings, mango nectar, pumpkin seeds, quinoa and rice, energy drinks, and various other items that you would probably not even consider buying if you weren't being stampeded through the bowels of this gigantic, money sucking, warehouse nightmare. The worst thing about the free samples is the traffic jam they cause. If the meat cooler is reminiscent of jackals at carrion, then the free sample end caps are reminiscent of piranha de-fleshing a cow in the Amazon. Any samples put out are gone within seconds, and there are hordes hovering over these poor elderly people like vultures circling a dying animal in the desert. If you are just trying to move around, beware, people will dart out of nowhere, run in front of you like squirrels on crack just to get to the free sample of turkey jerky being handed out by poor little Ida who probably took the job just to pay for her blind granddaughter's cello lessons.
Now that your shopping is completed, you may believe you are home free. Oh no... the most fun is yet to come... the checkout lanes. The lines are usually so long that people and carts are trailing into the aisles, further blocking traffic. Heaven forbid you are in a line that ends up close to one of the free sample end caps... you might lose a hand, or a child if you don't keep close watch on them. The lines do not move quickly, either. You would think that most people would know the drill, but there is always that one person who does not know that they do not take checks, or certain credit cards, or who does not have their membership card ready, or who, after finding out they had spent way more than they intended, tries to return half the items in their cart.
Once it is your turn to check out, you will be asked if you would like boxes for your items. This is a stupid question, because usually you have (unintentionally of course) managed to procure enough food, laundry detergent, or vitamins for ten years. (Funny how it never seems to last that long, though) The cashier rings you up, you have a mini heart attack at the amount of money you have just spent, but justify it saying that you needed everything you have just purchased, and you will not need to return for a very long time. You then join the line at the exit door. Two burly men in vests, the supervisors of the membership Gestapo at the front door, are checking every receipt to make certain that you aren't trying to smuggle a truck tire sized wheel of brie out of the store underneath your shirt. Once your receipt has been marked in your own blood, I mean with a pink highlighter, you are finally allowed to leave. You once again brave the parking lot, trudging uphill no matter which way you parked with the heaviest shopping cart in the free world. You reach your vehicle, begin the arduous task of unloading enough food to feed the starving children of (insert name of third world country here), climb wearily in your car and drive home, taking some joy in the knowledge that it will be an entire month before you will have to do this again.
Shop classy, America.
Thursday, October 25, 2012
Strep Throat is from the Devil!!!
Strep Throat is evil! It's a sneaky, dastardly, horrible illness. It's bad enough when an adult contracts it, but a child? UGH... Buckle down and brace yourself because you are in for a bumpy ride my friend. On top of fever, aches and chills, horrible sore throat, nausea from the super powerful antibiotic, and constant danger of infecting everyone else in the house, when contracted by a ten year old, prepubescent, moody little girl, you're looking at a nightmare of a recovery period.
I love my daughter. I really do. Beth is a beautiful, sweet, kind hearted and sensitive child. However, she has a tendency towards the dramatic. (NO IDEA where that came from - cough cough - no comments from the peanut gallery, please). I'm not kidding. Every cough is pneumonia, every queasy stomach is dysentery, every scratch a time bomb of tetanus and gangrene threatening the need for amputation of the affected limb. Just try explaining THAT to the pediatrician who glares down his rather large nose at me when he asks why I waited 48 hours into a fever to make her a doctor's appointment. Yes, yes, you proved me wrong, oh wise one with your medical degree and superiority complex. She's sick. Just write the stupid prescription and let me get her home.
As I stated before, when you are a mom, there are no sick days. I've been battling a horrible kidney infection for about a week, so I'm not feeling up to par right now, myself. Unfortunately this does not make me very patient, and every single one of my nerves are raw and exposed, and my sweet little darling has managed to stomp the crap out of them all. So, two sick females, two feverish, moody girls alone together in a house all day long. Poor David. I wouldn't be surprised to wake up tomorrow and find a note from him telling me he's decided to join the French Foreign Legion... at least until Beth and I are both well. He's been returning home to an estrogen filled fog of crazy female type persons every single day this week. The man has the patience of a saint, I swear. I'm seriously considering writing a letter to the Vatican when this is all over recommending him for sainthood, or perhaps I can write Queen Elizabeth II and recommend a knighthood... They do that, right??
He has patiently waited out the storm, and not once have I found him curled in the fetal position sucking his thumb and praying for God to deliver him from us both. Someone give the man a medal. He's cooked dinner a couple of nights, ordered pizza, and even put up with watching Beth's movies. The poor guy has been subjected to enough Disney Channel shows to choke a confession out of a terrorist. Seriously... Have you SEEN the crap that's on Disney lately? UGH... A few minutes of this stuff and Osama Bin Laden would have marched himself to the nearest U.S. Embassy begging for the death penalty. I know wherever old Walt is (and I have heard some strange rumors), he's rolling in his grave, or freezer bag, or whatever they put him in when he left this world.
There is a light at the end of the tunnel. We are both feeling better. Tomorrow is another day. Once I pick up her schoolwork tomorrow, the boredom issue should be resolved. The whining, NO. I'm sure I'll have to hear more than one complaint over the amount of work she has to do after missing an entire week of school, but, oh well... at least it will give her something to focus on other than her misery. Hopefully I can get some housework done. My house, which was nice and clean on Sunday, now looks as if a tornado carrying dirty dishes, used tissues and empty cranberry juice bottles swept through it, not to mention the Mount Everest of laundry staring me in the face.
Wish me luck, my friends...
Poor sick baby!!
I love my daughter. I really do. Beth is a beautiful, sweet, kind hearted and sensitive child. However, she has a tendency towards the dramatic. (NO IDEA where that came from - cough cough - no comments from the peanut gallery, please). I'm not kidding. Every cough is pneumonia, every queasy stomach is dysentery, every scratch a time bomb of tetanus and gangrene threatening the need for amputation of the affected limb. Just try explaining THAT to the pediatrician who glares down his rather large nose at me when he asks why I waited 48 hours into a fever to make her a doctor's appointment. Yes, yes, you proved me wrong, oh wise one with your medical degree and superiority complex. She's sick. Just write the stupid prescription and let me get her home.
As I stated before, when you are a mom, there are no sick days. I've been battling a horrible kidney infection for about a week, so I'm not feeling up to par right now, myself. Unfortunately this does not make me very patient, and every single one of my nerves are raw and exposed, and my sweet little darling has managed to stomp the crap out of them all. So, two sick females, two feverish, moody girls alone together in a house all day long. Poor David. I wouldn't be surprised to wake up tomorrow and find a note from him telling me he's decided to join the French Foreign Legion... at least until Beth and I are both well. He's been returning home to an estrogen filled fog of crazy female type persons every single day this week. The man has the patience of a saint, I swear. I'm seriously considering writing a letter to the Vatican when this is all over recommending him for sainthood, or perhaps I can write Queen Elizabeth II and recommend a knighthood... They do that, right??
He has patiently waited out the storm, and not once have I found him curled in the fetal position sucking his thumb and praying for God to deliver him from us both. Someone give the man a medal. He's cooked dinner a couple of nights, ordered pizza, and even put up with watching Beth's movies. The poor guy has been subjected to enough Disney Channel shows to choke a confession out of a terrorist. Seriously... Have you SEEN the crap that's on Disney lately? UGH... A few minutes of this stuff and Osama Bin Laden would have marched himself to the nearest U.S. Embassy begging for the death penalty. I know wherever old Walt is (and I have heard some strange rumors), he's rolling in his grave, or freezer bag, or whatever they put him in when he left this world.
There is a light at the end of the tunnel. We are both feeling better. Tomorrow is another day. Once I pick up her schoolwork tomorrow, the boredom issue should be resolved. The whining, NO. I'm sure I'll have to hear more than one complaint over the amount of work she has to do after missing an entire week of school, but, oh well... at least it will give her something to focus on other than her misery. Hopefully I can get some housework done. My house, which was nice and clean on Sunday, now looks as if a tornado carrying dirty dishes, used tissues and empty cranberry juice bottles swept through it, not to mention the Mount Everest of laundry staring me in the face.
Wish me luck, my friends...
Poor sick baby!!
Nice to meet you
Apparently, I am hilarious and need to share my wit with the world. I'm not boasting, just repeating what I've been told. For this reason I have been pressured for awhile now to start a blog about my life. I make no promises, but hopefully if you are taking this journey with me, you might find yourself amused or maybe you may sympathize with some of my predicaments. Perhaps you will be able to relate to me, or at the very least, feel somewhat better about yourself as I share my foibles and awkward moments with you. So, let's get started, shall we?
In "The Sound of Music" the Reverend Mother tells a troubled Maria that "Whenever God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window." This is all well and good, unless the door in question happens to be attached to a minivan that is slowly sinking into the dark, murky waters of a frigid lake. In this instance, an open window would allow water to rush in, eventually submerging you in the icy depths. This is the situation I found myself in (proverbially, of course) five years ago when my husband of sixteen years calmly, and
annoyingly cheerfully told me he wanted a divorce.
So, here I was, up to my neck in the proverbial icy black water of fear and change. Let's face it folks, I was 37 years old and no Julie Andrews. Besides, just exactly how many dishy, widowed, wealthy, Austrian Naval captains are out there anyway? It's not like you'll see an advertisement from one in Craigslist..."Wanted, wife and mother to seven spirited children. Excellent benefits. Must have beautiful singing voice and be physically able to twirl around like an idiot in the mountains of Austria. Nazis need not apply."
I wish I could say I handled my new single motherhood gracefully. I had my moments of strength and grace, of course, but they were too often interrupted by my goofs and awkward moments. I learned quite a bit about myself, though, and the first thing I learned was that I actually LIKED myself. I enjoyed my own company. On the weekends the kids stayed with their father, I found that, once I had gotten over the initial shock and depression of the devastating change of divorce, I was not all together unhappy. In fact, if I took the time to think about it and actually admit it to myself, I was HAPPY. It was as if I was awakening from a long sleep. I began to notice things about myself that had long lain dormant in my sacrificial attitude as some one's wife and some one's mother. I lay no blame on anyone for what happened to my personality. You should never put so much of yourself into any relationship that you forget who you are, and that is what I had done. Now I was realizing who I was again, and it was marvelous!
During this time of self realization, I met Mr. Right. Unfortunately, I met him at the WRONG time. Upon the suggestion of friends, I signed up for an Internet dating site. (NO, I will not tell you which one... they are not paying me for my endorsement, so until they do... no dice). He emailed me and we exchanged a few flirts back and forth. Then, he did something totally weird in today's electronic age. He asked me for my telephone number. He said he wanted to hear my voice, and neither one of us were technologically savvy enough to know how to set up a web camera and talk that way, so phone calls it was. We spoke every single evening for about three weeks before I agreed to go out with him. I had already gone on two very awkward, "I met you on the Internet so you must be interested in sex" dates... UH - NO THANKS... not yet, guys!!! David was different from the off... and this was his eventual undoing early on, but redoing later on... THANKYOUGOD.
He complimented me very first thing. I had told him I wasn't a petite girl, by any means, but he told me that I was beautiful... and you know what, folks? I think he may have actually meant it. (I mean NOW I know he did, but then... well, let's just say the trust of men thing was in the crapper). We had a few wonderful dates, and I was shortly coming to view him as (WHAA WHAA WHAA RED ALERT>>>PANIC MODE) relationship material. Now, folks, don't think less of me here. My ex husband was a rebound relationship, and well, we all know how that turned out. I didn't want David to be mine, so I BOLTED. Yes, I took the chicken poop way out and just stopped answering his calls or texts. Crappy of me?? YES. Cowardly of me??? OH HECK YES.
OK - for times' sake, and to spare you the gory details of dating in your late thirties, I'll skip the details of the next year. I had some fun, and a few nice men went out with me, along with a fair share of losers. I had a really decent rebound guy, who taught me that I deserved the love I had been holding back from. He told me to go for it... that he knew there was someone out there, and if it wasn't him, then, I needed to find that guy, and never let go. So.... almost EXACTLY one year from our last date, I logged onto my computer and I took a shot in the dark. I emailed David. My heart was pounding as I typed out my apology for not returning his calls. I told him I was more than certain he had already found someone, and if he had, I apologized for bothering him, but if he was interested, well... here were my details, in case he no longer had them. Well, folks, I waited... all of two hours!!! He replied almost immediately after he got home from work. We talked on the phone for six hours that night, and agreed to go out again the next weekend the kids were at their father's house.
We have been together ever since. So, he forgave me for my cowardice, and only OCCASIONALLY does he make me feel guilty for it. We actually discussed it this past weekend, as I was talking to him about this blog. He says he wished that I would've just given us a chance, and that neither of us had to waste all that time with other people. That makes sense, and in a way, he's right.... HOWEVER, I'm grateful for my period of self awakening. That time that I was single and messing in the dating scene was an eye opener. It taught me to only accept exactly what I wanted. David was willing to give me that, and in return, accept it from me. I wouldn't have it any other way!
Nice to meet you - hope you enjoy the blog!!
In "The Sound of Music" the Reverend Mother tells a troubled Maria that "Whenever God closes a door, somewhere he opens a window." This is all well and good, unless the door in question happens to be attached to a minivan that is slowly sinking into the dark, murky waters of a frigid lake. In this instance, an open window would allow water to rush in, eventually submerging you in the icy depths. This is the situation I found myself in (proverbially, of course) five years ago when my husband of sixteen years calmly, and
annoyingly cheerfully told me he wanted a divorce.
So, here I was, up to my neck in the proverbial icy black water of fear and change. Let's face it folks, I was 37 years old and no Julie Andrews. Besides, just exactly how many dishy, widowed, wealthy, Austrian Naval captains are out there anyway? It's not like you'll see an advertisement from one in Craigslist..."Wanted, wife and mother to seven spirited children. Excellent benefits. Must have beautiful singing voice and be physically able to twirl around like an idiot in the mountains of Austria. Nazis need not apply."
I wish I could say I handled my new single motherhood gracefully. I had my moments of strength and grace, of course, but they were too often interrupted by my goofs and awkward moments. I learned quite a bit about myself, though, and the first thing I learned was that I actually LIKED myself. I enjoyed my own company. On the weekends the kids stayed with their father, I found that, once I had gotten over the initial shock and depression of the devastating change of divorce, I was not all together unhappy. In fact, if I took the time to think about it and actually admit it to myself, I was HAPPY. It was as if I was awakening from a long sleep. I began to notice things about myself that had long lain dormant in my sacrificial attitude as some one's wife and some one's mother. I lay no blame on anyone for what happened to my personality. You should never put so much of yourself into any relationship that you forget who you are, and that is what I had done. Now I was realizing who I was again, and it was marvelous!
During this time of self realization, I met Mr. Right. Unfortunately, I met him at the WRONG time. Upon the suggestion of friends, I signed up for an Internet dating site. (NO, I will not tell you which one... they are not paying me for my endorsement, so until they do... no dice). He emailed me and we exchanged a few flirts back and forth. Then, he did something totally weird in today's electronic age. He asked me for my telephone number. He said he wanted to hear my voice, and neither one of us were technologically savvy enough to know how to set up a web camera and talk that way, so phone calls it was. We spoke every single evening for about three weeks before I agreed to go out with him. I had already gone on two very awkward, "I met you on the Internet so you must be interested in sex" dates... UH - NO THANKS... not yet, guys!!! David was different from the off... and this was his eventual undoing early on, but redoing later on... THANKYOUGOD.
He complimented me very first thing. I had told him I wasn't a petite girl, by any means, but he told me that I was beautiful... and you know what, folks? I think he may have actually meant it. (I mean NOW I know he did, but then... well, let's just say the trust of men thing was in the crapper). We had a few wonderful dates, and I was shortly coming to view him as (WHAA WHAA WHAA RED ALERT>>>PANIC MODE) relationship material. Now, folks, don't think less of me here. My ex husband was a rebound relationship, and well, we all know how that turned out. I didn't want David to be mine, so I BOLTED. Yes, I took the chicken poop way out and just stopped answering his calls or texts. Crappy of me?? YES. Cowardly of me??? OH HECK YES.
OK - for times' sake, and to spare you the gory details of dating in your late thirties, I'll skip the details of the next year. I had some fun, and a few nice men went out with me, along with a fair share of losers. I had a really decent rebound guy, who taught me that I deserved the love I had been holding back from. He told me to go for it... that he knew there was someone out there, and if it wasn't him, then, I needed to find that guy, and never let go. So.... almost EXACTLY one year from our last date, I logged onto my computer and I took a shot in the dark. I emailed David. My heart was pounding as I typed out my apology for not returning his calls. I told him I was more than certain he had already found someone, and if he had, I apologized for bothering him, but if he was interested, well... here were my details, in case he no longer had them. Well, folks, I waited... all of two hours!!! He replied almost immediately after he got home from work. We talked on the phone for six hours that night, and agreed to go out again the next weekend the kids were at their father's house.
We have been together ever since. So, he forgave me for my cowardice, and only OCCASIONALLY does he make me feel guilty for it. We actually discussed it this past weekend, as I was talking to him about this blog. He says he wished that I would've just given us a chance, and that neither of us had to waste all that time with other people. That makes sense, and in a way, he's right.... HOWEVER, I'm grateful for my period of self awakening. That time that I was single and messing in the dating scene was an eye opener. It taught me to only accept exactly what I wanted. David was willing to give me that, and in return, accept it from me. I wouldn't have it any other way!
Nice to meet you - hope you enjoy the blog!!
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