Pointless Drivel

The Ice Cream Dance

Remember when you were little and something was so completely exciting, you couldn't even sit still?

We had ice cream cones this evening after dinner.  But, as with most things in our lives, we can't simply go to the grocery store, get some ice cream and some cones, and bring it home.  Oh, no.  We have to get the special ice cream.

The Ways and Means Committee's favorite is Peppermint Crisp.  And not just any Peppermint Crisp, it has to be Bridgeman's Peppermint Crisp.  The stuff that is apparently so special, it is only made once a year -- Christmas season -- and is only available in limited quantities, so when it runs out, that's it for the year.  WMC normally gets it twice a week.  Fortunately, there is a Bridgeman's right near our house.  At least, there used to be a Bridgeman's near our house.  It closed in the last year.  So, apparently desperate for her annual fix, WMC went online to find where to buy the stuff, then sent me out to find it.

The closest place listed was -- I swear I am not making this up -- Bobby & Steve's Auto World, which is a gas station/convenience store/car repair place.  Which no longer has it.  Nor does Hennessey's Embers, the place the clerk at Bobby & Steve's sent me to.  Before leaving on the quest, I chatted with my neighbor, who said he saw a Bridgeman's "Coming Soon" sign nearby, so I headed over there, as well.  And after driving around, I realized he must have seen the Culver's "Opening Soon" sign.  So it was back to the grocery store.

Not that it mattered to The Shmunkin.  She just wanted an ice cream cone, regardless of flavor.  When I finally returned home, she cold absolutely not contain herself, jumping up and down and dancing back and forth, singing, "Ice cream, ice cream, this is my ice cream song."

Incidentally, if anyone knows where I can find the Bridgeman's Peppermint Crisp, let me know.  I have the sneaking suspicion I will need that information in the next month.

Baa

What is it about people that causes them to want everyone else to be just like them?  And I mean exactly like them!. Are people so enamored with themselves they think they have figured out what is right, and want everyone else to follow? Or are they so unsure of their own choices, they want others to make the same choices in order to somehow justify what they, themselves, have done? Alternately, is there a large percentage of people out there who want to do or buy something solely because everyone else is, as well?

What are we? Sheep?

My wonderment at this phenomenon is longstanding, but was brought to the forefront by a radio commercial I have heard ad nauseum recently for the Toyota Tacoma Billy Bob Sports Car. It starts with one manly-sounding man saying he is on his way to pick up his new truck, and suggests the other join him to check one out for himself. The other guy (also manly-sounding) demurs (assuming manly-sounding guys can demure) until the first finally says, in essense: How could you possibly NOT want to buy the same thing I am getting?

It seems the auto world is like that. They try to get people to buy something because everyone else is, as well. We so often hear commercials wherein we learn one of the greatest benefits of [insert vehicle here] is that it is, frequently by some minimalist criterion, the most popular. Take the Toyota Camry. I have come to the conclusion this car is so popular it has become a self-fulfilling prophecy: It is the best-selling car in America because it is the best-selling car in America.

(That's not to say it isn't a good car, oh you of the mythical cat. It is a good car. That's one of the reasons it is so popular. But another reason simply because it has been so popular for so long.)

Of course, cars and other belongings aren't the only things that fall into this "I-did-it-so-you-need-to-do-it-too" swirling vortex. Our very lives seem to be dictated by it. Tell me if this experience sounds familiar: Before I got married, and with just about everyone I dated from the time I was 21 on, people would continually pester me about when I was getting married. When I got married, they started pestering the Ways and Means Committee and me about having kids. And as soon as we got the one, we were asked when we were getting another.

(Incidentally, The Shmunkin is only three, so please stop asking when she is getting married and providing us with grandkids. She still thinks she is going to marry me, or crying out loud.)

Personally, I'm something of an individualist. I like having things that are unique and different. At least, I do when I can. When I bought that Toyota Spyder I used to have, one of the appeals was its rarity. In fact, a huge selling point for me was when the salesman told me they only made 5,000 a year, and the majority were sent to California and Florida. I loved the fact that, when driving around, it was rare that I saw another one like it. Of course, given there were so few made, it also cost more than it would have were they to make them in the hundreds of thousands. Economies of scale, and all that. Still, that was part of the appeal.

And maybe that's why I don't understand the need to buy or do things because someone else is.

So what is the deal? Are people so wrapped up in themselves they want everyone else to do the same as they do? Are they people so unsure of themselves they want the actions of others to support their own? Is my self-esteem so low I have a deep-seeded need to be unique?

Or am I just bored at work?

I Love My Cub

As you know, my blog updates tend to be concentrated around two general themes. One of my daughter, the Shmunkin. The other focuses on things that bug me. Especially customer service things. But every once in a while, something positive happens that, boring as it may be, I just can't resist mentioning it.

I do the grocery shopping in our home, and when it comes to groceries, most of our money goes to Cub Foods. I like Cub, for several reasons. Their stores are generally very clean and well-stocked. Their produce and meat is surprisingly fresh. Not quite like Byerly's, but worth the lower cost. The employees are generally very friendly and helpful. And, to top it all off, they are cheap. Damn cheap. Probably the lowest cost around. Even better, they tend to have really great specials from time to time. In fact, using their weekly circular plus regular coupons from the Sunday newspaper as a guide for the shopping list, it is not unusual to see savings of 15 to 20 percent -- or more -- on our grocery bill.

This being the week before Thanksgiving, the Cub special advertised today was for turkeys. Jenni-O turkeys, for 37-cents a pound (which is a really great deal, considering they normally sell for around a dollar a pound). And, since we are hosting Thanksgiving dinner this year, I thought the timing to be about perfect. So I went to Cub at lunch today to pick up the turkey. Entering the meat department, sure enough, I saw a big sign for Turkeys at 37-cents a pound. What a bargain. I picked out a 22-pound bird, and headed up to the registers. The clerk told me the total -- just over $21, since that was all I was getting. I handed her $22, got the change, and headed out the door, happy with my great bargain on a turkey.

As soon as I walked out the door, the same thing that is now probably occurring to you also occurred to me: "Wait a minute, I went to public school, but even I know that, at 37-cents a pound, a 22-pound turkey should be less than $21!" I checked the tag, which said 98-cents a pound. I checked the receipt, which said the same. My first thought was to ignore it. After all, it was still just over $20 for something that will feed a whole bunch of people, and I'm generally not the kind who likes to complain. To peoples' faces, I mean. And, yet...

So I went back inside to the Customer Service counter and asked for clarification. She said the special price was only with a minimum $25 purchase. Hmm. Not being one to want to cause a fuss, I was leaning toward just accepting the price, but instead I said, "Well, granted, I'm not buying much today, but I do spend a large percentage of my income at Cub." (Granted, it's at the one near my home, not work, but I didn't want to bring that up.) She told me the sign clearly says "with $25 purchase." So I told her I just wanted to return the thing, and would get another one when I do some more shopping.

The expression on her face told me there may be an issue. "Well," she said, "we're not supposed to take back perishables. We end up just throwing them away." I noted I had literally walked out the door, then right back in. She said even if I had headed straight for the service counter from the registers, it would be the same rule. Then I could tell she was thinking for a moment, and suddently she brightened and said, "But I'll bet they'll let me give you the rest back. Let me just check."

So she called the manager over, explained the situation and, before she could even finish, he said, "Absolutely, credit him the difference."

Yup, you gotta love Cub. This even makes up for the cashier at the store where we normally shop who, when handed a stack of coupons, will first check to make sure everything for which there is a coupon was actually purchased, and in the correct numbers, despite the fact that the computer automatically does that for her.

But that's a different story.

Similar, But Bigger

We saw a new show the other day.  Maybe you've seen it.  It's called Jail, and, as the name suggests, it shows the activities inside a jail somewhere.  It's a new Reality TV show.

The whole reality show thing cracks me up.  According to pretty much everyone who talks about them, they are horrible entertainment that should never have seen the light of a camera, and no one watches them.  Of course, if no one watched them, they wouldn't stay on the air and no more would be produced.  Someone watches them.  Like me.  I actually kind of like them.  Not all, mind you, but a lot of them.  I won't even refer to them as a guilty pleasure, since I don't mind admitting to it.  They are just a pleasure.  It's a whole schadenfreunde kind of thing.  You know, the malicious enjoyment of another's misfortune. 

Back to the point, this show is called Jail, though I couldn't tell you what channel it is on.  It appears to be shot inside an actual jail in Florida (though it may be at other locations, as well).  I think it could also be called "Cops, Chapter Two" since it is sort of the next phase.  It comes after people are arrested, and shows their first few hours in jail.  Even the Ways and Means Committee enjoyed it.  We had recorded two episodes on Wednesday evening and made the agreement that if she lets me watch one, we will then watch an episode of Sex In The City.  After the first episode, she said, "I could watch another."  Excellent.

Of course, they don't show everything.  Just the things the producers believe will be interesting on television, which is pretty much the drunk, angry, belligerent people who give the jail workers all kinds of trouble.  The deputies try to do the simplest things, and the arrestees fight them at every turn, yelling and screaming, refusing to listen or follow instructions, refusing to give any information, ripping off their clothes and throwing things for no apparent reason, the whole bit.

So we watch the first half hour and are halfway through the second.  At this point, they are following a guy who is bouncing back and forth between complete cooperation and total belligerence.  He will listen to what he is told and follow instructions, and seconds later will erupt in a burst of anger for no apparent reason.  After the third such transformation, the Ways and Means Committee turns to me and says, "It's kind of like having a three-year-old."

Yup.

Leaf Me Alone

Autumn is one of my least favorite times of the year.  But not for the usual reasons:  It isn't because snow and cold is right around the corner; in fact, I very much look forward to the change in seasons.  And it isn't because summer fun is over and it's back-to-school time; I haven't had to worry about that for over fifteen years.  It isn't even because of allergy season, though I do live with what seems to be a major cold for about two months every fall.  Nope, it's because of the leaves.  I hate leaf season.  Most yard work doesn't bother me, but the leaves do.  And we get a lot of leaves.  Much more than our share.

There are three reasons we get so many leaves.  First, despite a very small yard, we have five mature oak trees on our property.  The entire neighborhood is filled with them.  Second, we live on the north-west corner of our block, with a park to the north-west of us.  When the wind blows, coming primarily from that direction, it forms a nice little tunnel effect aiming right at our yard, and every spare leaf in the neighborhood ends up here.  And third, both of our neighbors -- to the south and the east -- have fences, which stop the progression of the leaves.  They blow into our yard, but they don't blow back out.  That, combined with a relatively hilly property, results in piles of leaves that, if left untended, can end up three or four feet deep.  No joke.

The actual amounts vary somewhat from year to year, but the first year we lived here, I filled something like 130 or 140 bags (on a yard that is 6200 square feet, including the house!).  The second year, I bought a leaf blower with the mulcher attachment to quicken the pace.  I was able to mulch it down to around sixty or seventy bags.  Year three, I bought a lawn vacuum.  Actually, I didn't so much buy it as con my father into selling me his.  Looking kind of like a lawn mower on steroids, the lawn vacuum is designed solely to suck up and mulch leaves, and it works great.  Or, more accurately, it would work great, if it wasn't for all the hills in our yard, and the fact that the wind piles the leaves so high.  (Our yard maybe small, but it has a wide range of geographical features.)

Basically, the way I do the leaves is to either blow or rake them into a series of piles, then use the lawn vacuum to mulch them up.  I haven't out yet if this is actually saving me time, but does make for few bags to handle (now down to 30 or 40 a year), and the noise from all the gas engines is wonderful.  Of course, I still have to do it several times.  After clearing out the leaves that fall from my trees, we get the ones that blow across from the yards of the lazy bastards who simply wait for the wind -- and me -- to take care of it for them. And I end up doing it every weekend and many evenings during leaf season.  Not that I am bitter.

So what's the point of all of this?  Believe it or not, it wasn't to garner sympathy for my leaf travails.  While I think that is perfectly valid excuse for getting sympathy, I have found no one, including the Ways and Means Committee, agrees.  But I have recently been reminder of the positive side of doing the leaves:  Shmunkins love them.