Brainstorming Umbrellas

I just wish I was a fly on the wall in the Japan Trend Shop brainstorming session on umbrellas. 
 
They clearly followed the cardinal rule of brainstorming:  no idea is a bad one.

It probably went something like this.

Haruto says, “We could sell an umbrella shaped like an apple.   No!   That’s too ordinary.  How about the head of lettuce!”

 

Nobody says, “Who wants to carry an umbrella that looks like their lunch?”   

Instead we get this:

Then comes Kaito’s suggestion, “When it stops raining and you close your umbrella, it gets your clothes wet.  How about an umbrella that can be dragged on the ground so you stay dry?”

And Tatsuki says, “Let’s put wheels on it!"

Nobody says, "Why not just stick your wet umbrella in a plastic bag?"
 
Instead we get this:

Then Yomato says, “Why not put the wet umbrella to work??!!  Let’s make an umbrella stand with grass seed in the bottom?”

Nobody says, “Who wants to weed their umbrella stand?”

Instead we get this:

Then Ibuki says, “Speaking of bottom, why not make an umbrella that looks like you’re looking up a girls skirt from underneath it?”

Nobody says, “私をからかっている低寿命逸脱の種類あなたは?”   

Or the English translation,  “ARE YOU FREAKIN’ KIDDING ME WHAT KIND OF SKUM BAG DEVIANT ARE YOU?”

Instead we get this.

The Pocket Protector

When my friend Debi texted me asking where she could get a Pocket Protector my first reaction was OMG.  I’m a nerdling and I don’t have a Pocket Protector.  How embarrassing.

I texted her, “Got a bunch at home.  I’ll mail you one.”
 
Don’t judge.  I have a reputation to protect.  I immediately ordered a 4-pack on Amazon.

Then I did some research about Pocket Protectors and learned that they were invented by an engineer from Buffalo.  My home town.

It brought tears to my eyes.

I was giddy with excitement when my Pocket Protectors arrived.  I tore into the box and examined them.   Quite impressive.  They hold up to 4 pens or pencils.  Leak proof.  

No more ink stains on my shirts!  

How had I gone through my whole life (39 years) without a Pocket Protector?

Of course, Kevin begged me give him one...since I had 4.

I couldn't wait to try mine on for size.  But then I realized that you have to have a pocket in order to use a Pocket Protector.

I went to my closet, searching for a blouse with a front pocket.

Not. A. One.

Nothing more pathetic than Pocket Protector with no pocket.

Surely I could find one stinkin’ shirt with a pocket SOMEWHERE IN THIS HOUSE!!!

I went up to Kimmy’s closet.  Nothing.  Are you kidding?

I tried Linda’s closet. Nada.

I was out of luck.  Now where was I going to put my pencils?

Wait. One. Minute.

I forgot all about my scathingly brilliant invention from 2013. 

(I think Einstein had a similar problem.  When you have so many great ideas, it's hard to keep track of them all.)

Who needs a stinkin’ Pocket Protector if you have a Boob Bin? 

Here's a Tip...

The email was certainly fortuitous.  It was from someone named Jess who said she loved my United Club blog post.  She asked if I would consider writing a post about optimizing your credit cards. 

I basically responded HELL YEAH!  I was actually considering blogging about that anyhow. Because my husband Drives. Me. Crazy.

With his optimization of credit card rewards.

At LEAST once every few months he’ll text me with instructions. 

He says he texts me so I have it “in writing”.  But it’s actually because he doesn’t want to be exposed to my eye rolls. 

Here is a typical text: “Use the Freedom card for groceries, the Red Bank of America card for Gas, the Discover card for restaurants unless you’re eating at Panera in which case you should use the Chase card.  Use the Blue Bank of America card for all online orders, unless it’s Amazon.  Use the Citi card for Amazon.” 
 
Then about two weeks later I’ll get another text, “We reached the maximum points for restaurants with the Discover card.  Use the Blue Bank of America card until July 1.”

I think Jessica’s on to something!  What Dave puts me through is ridiculously funny, in a sick kind of way.

Yeah.  That might make an okay blog.

Except it turns out Jessica was on an entirely different wavelength.  She thinks Dave’s a genius and wants me to include his “tips” in a blog.

HIS tips!  I spend most of my life trying to avoid his tips.

What about MY tips?   I mean, what am I, chopped liver? 

I use Ibotta.  Unless I’m with Dave because he points out that the Jiff Peanut Butter Bars with the 75 cent rebate actually cost $1.00 more than the generic brand.  

He’s just no fun.

And he absolutely NEVER appreciates what a good Belk shopper I am. I mean, I frequently save way more than I spend. 

“Guess how much I saved at Belk on this dress!” I’ll say, wound up like an addict on crack.

He ignores me.

“Dave!”  I’ll say, twirling in my dress, in front of the TV he's trying to watch. “Guess how much I saved!”

“I don’t know.”

“Guess!!!!”

“I don’t want to.”

“Come on.  Guess!”

“$200.”

“That’s ridiculous," I say.  "The dress only cost $24.”

He’s focused on the baseball game again.  I dance again in front of the TV.

“Guess!” I say again as I twirl. “Guess how much money I saved us."
 
“20 bucks,” he says.

“Nope,” I say, smugly.  “$170!”
 
Dave raises his eyebrow.

“It was originally $194 and it was marked down to $47.98 but it was in the red dot section so I got another 50% off." 

"I got it for $23.99!”

Then he says the six words I’ve come to hate.

“What credit card did you use?” 

Sorry, Jessica.  

Dave is not available to give tips to your readers.

He’s way too busy giving them to me.

That was the end of blog.  That is, prior to departing on my guilt trip.

Okay, okay.  Here are his tips.  I hope you appreciate that I not only had to listen to him tell me, I had to take notes.

You owe me.

The best card is the Bank of America Travel card.  They give you a  $1.50 rebate for every $100 spent.  The rebates go toward travel.  What makes it better than other cards, is if you have $25,000 at Bank of America you get a 25% bonus on the $1.50 rebate which gets you a $1.87 rebate for every $100 you spend.  If you have more than I think $50,000 at the bank you get 75% which is $2.63.  There’s no maximum on rebates.  The best part of this is that you are not required to use their travel agency.  (We got burned on this with a Citi Travel card a few years ago.)

The Bank of America cash rewards card has the same bonus features.  You get 2% rebates for groceries and 3% on gas.  If you have $25,000 at Bank of America you get a $3.50 for groceries and $5.25 rebate for gas. The bonus is limited to $1,500 for each per quarter, after which it goes back to 1%. 

Both Bank of America cards have a specials with discounts off at specific retailers (PetSmart, Auto Zone) throughout the year.

Discover has a card with rotating categories with 5% rebates.   For example, this quarter you get a 5% rebate on money charged at restaurants.   All others categories get 1%.  The Chase Freedom card works the same.  (Note, this is the one that gets under my skin.  Just sayin’)

None of these cards have fees but all have huge interest rates.  Always pay your balances off in full.   You shouldn’t use any of these cards if you carry a balance.

Don’t buy gas at gas stations that charge more for using credit cards.

Picking Up Rolls at Food Lion

I know I told Dave I’d pick up rolls for dinner on my way home from the theatre, but I couldn’t do it.  And he was being unreasonable.

“You don’t get it,” I said, “I have Dead Ancestor makeup on!”

“So what!  It’s Food Lion.”
 
“I look like a zombie!”
 
He didn’t care.  “You’re driving right past it.”
 
I glanced at myself in the rear view mirror. “There’s no way!  I’ll scare away the customers.”
 
“Nobody will be in Food Lion this time of day."  
 
Famous last words.  I cursed him as I turned into the Food Lion parking lot.  That was jammed with cars. Nobody will be in Food Lion.  Right.

I found a spot and raced into the store.

Where I ran head on into a Mom with a little boy.  The kid took one look at me and buried his head in his mother.  “No Caleb,” I heard her say, “Monsters aren’t real.  She’s just pretend.”
 
I put my head down, making a beeline for the bakery department, where I saw one of my neighbors.  Luckily, she didn’t see me.  Dodged that bullet.  I grabbed the rolls and ran toward the checkout lanes which were overflowing with people.

Crap!  There was that lady from church.  I did u-turn, took a detour through the cereal aisle and finally found my way back to the front of the store.

I stepped in line behind a woman with about 50 items in her cart.  “Oh my God!” she said when she looked at me.   “What happened to you?”
 
“It’s Addams Family makeup,” I explained. “I’m a dead ancestor.”
 
“Yes you are,” she said.  Then added, “You can get in front of me in line.”
 
I placed my rolls on the conveyor belt and the teenage Food Lion worker, let’s call him “Denzel”, looked at me and said, “How are you?” as he proceeded to scan my rolls.

Not the reaction I was expecting.

“Well, to be honest, I’m not feeling very well,” I said, and giggled under my breath.

Denzel said, “$2.49.”
 
Damn Denzel!  I deserved a reaction and he was giving me nothing.

I slid my credit card into the reader and continued. “I mean, I’m really feeling sick.”
 
Denzel put my rolls into a bag, nonplussed.

“Really, really sick.”
 
Denzel handed me my bag.  "Have a good day."

But I wasn't done. “In fact I think I died last week.”  

"Yes, m'aam," was all he could come up with.

I was just about to ask him if he could give me a ride to my car in a grocery cart when I came to my senses.

I had to get home with my rolls.  

I had a husband to scare.

The Foreign Object

It was a beautiful Friday.  The end of a very long work week.  With nightly rehearsals. 

I was beat.

And ready for a weekend.

As I drove westbound on I-26, I slipped off my shoes, and turned on the soundtrack of The Addams Family.

I had to learn the words to “Move Toward the Darkness”.  I had been fake singing at rehearsal the night before.  And may have been caught.

I relaxed further by resting my left foot on the dashboard to the left of the steering wheel.  

Which is not dangerous when you're as flexible as I am.

I listened.  “Move toward the darkness.  Welcome in your pain.  Let each foreign forest.  Offer you its rain.”
 
I stopped the CD, rewound and sang along.

I sang perfectly until, “Let each foreign object.  Offer you its pain.”  Crap.
 
Then I noticed the dashboard.  There were two indicator lights on.  OMG! There goes my weekend!!!

But I couldn’t tell what the lights meant.  It wasn’t the tire light.  I knew that one.  Or the door ajar.

How would I ever learn the words to this stupid song if I had to take my car to the dealer???

I called Dave.

“I have 2 indicator lights on my dashboard.”

“Great.  Which ones?”
 
“I don’t know!  I can’t see without my reading glasses.”  I squinted.  “One looks like a car is skidding and the other is some kind of letters.  ECO.  What’s ECO?”
 
Dave, whose automotive IQ is possibly lower than mine, had no clue.  We decided that I should drive the car home - carefully - and we’d take it from there.

I played Move Toward the Darkness and attempted, in vain, to learn the lyrics.  Foreign forest.  Foreign forest.  Foreign forest.  

I pulled into the garage singing, “Let each foreign forest.   Offer you its pain.   

No! RAIN!!!!”
 
I turned off the car and pulled out the 2013 Elantra Owners' manual.  I put on my reading glasses and looked up "Indicators" in the index.  I then turned to page 4-51. 

There it was.   ESC OFF indicator. 

I read the paragraph. To turn off the ECO indicator, push the ESC OFF button which is located to the left of the steering wheel.  Right next to the ECO button.

That I had inadvertently turned on with my foot.

I walked into the house singing, “Let each foreign forest.  Offer you its rain!”

“What?” said Dave.

“Nothing,”  I said.  “Just fixed my car.  By myself.”
 
And I continued.  “Only at our lowest.  Can we rise above.”

The Stamp Fairy

Linda left for Marine Boot Camp eleven days ago.

My brave daughter, who is "too tired" to take our dog Kevin for a walk if she has had fewer than 10 hours of sleep.  

Whose bedroom consistently looks like it has been struck by an F5 Tornado. 

Who has to take a nap if she sneezes.   

Who has, on occasion, come home missing a shoe.

 
And who has never made her bed.  In her life. 

As you might imagine, I am a wee bit worried about her survival at Parris Island.

I’ve been engaging with the Parris Island Facebook Group for the families of the recruits who are in Linda’s “company.”

This Facebook group has been a lifesaver for me.  The administrators provide details about what’s going on each day and what to expect in the days to come. 

But what’s even more helpful (and therapeutic) are the posts from other families.  The people experiencing the same struggles as I am.

I read a post from a distressed Mom who cried herself to sleep in her son’s bed the night he left.  And  from parents who never got the call saying their son or daughter safely arrived at Parris Island. 

These parents, like me, live in a world of angst and worry.  All are baring their hearts to complete strangers on this wall.  We’ve become a virtual support group- BFFs from across the country.

Our latest fears relate to addresses.  Word started getting out that some parents had their kid’s addresses and some didn’t.  Those who didn’t were rightfully worried that their kid would be the only one not getting a letter from home. 

As you can imagine, the posts on this wall are oozing with emotion.

We’re talking Nicholas Sparks ooze.   

Well...

Until Megan M.’s post. 

Now to be fair, Megan M. is young.  Perhaps the girlfriend of a recruit.

In the midst of these highly emotional posts, Megan writes, 

It made me laugh out loud.

Why Megan, don’t you know it's the Stamp Fairy who brings stamps to your house? 

But she doesn’t go down the chimney like Santa. Rather she slips in, elusively, through the dryer vent, and gracefully descends to the desk, where she carefully places the stamps. Sprinkled with magic pixie dust.

And Megan, if you’ve been a good little girl, the Stamp Fairy will bring you fun stamps.  Like Harry Potter.

But if you’ve been naughty, the Stamp Fairy may bring you some Jesus stamps.

(Just say a couple Hail Mary's over the letter before you mail it.)
 
And if your grades are not up to par, she will probably bring you an Albert Einstein stamp. 

Now, perhaps I’m being a bit hard on poor, unaware Megan.  Who most likely used up the last stamp without her parents knowing it.

Because guess what? 

Megan’s post was a welcome distraction from my fears and anxiety.

It reminded me to look for the humor in this crazy whacked out existence.

So, yes, Megan, there is a Stamp Fairy.  She exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy.

Let’s just hope that there’s also a Basic Training fairy.

And Linda finds her.

The United Club

I was giddy with excitement.  I had the key to a magic kingdom in my wallet: a segregated sanctuary for the snobs.  

I mean the elite travelers.

I’d been carrying my Free One Time Use of the United Club for more than 6 months, just waiting for a chance to optimize its value.  A 5-hour layover at Dulles on the way to the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop? 

Hell, yeah.  No gate seating for me!

I put on my best “I’m hot shit” face as I walked through the mahogany doors.

A woman sat guard at the desk that stood between me and the United Club.  I smiled and handed her my United Club card. She asked for my boarding pass, my drivers’ license, passport, dental records, fingerprints, and my 6th grade report card. 

She then eyed me suspiciously and asked a trick question, “Who do you want to win American Idol?” 

“Dalton… I mean, Duh… I don’t watch American Idol.”

She smiled and said, “Welcome to the United Club, Miss Clyde.”

As I descended the stairs into the wonderful world of the United Club I had an epiphany.

I should not have gone to breakfast first.  Because there is complimentary breakfast in the United Club.  

I just spent $5.00 for stinkin’ orange juice that is F*R*E*E to the elite members of the United Club.  Like me.

No worries.  I helped myself to a cup of hot chocolate.  Not Nestles Hot Chocolate.  Ghiradelli Hot Chocolate. 

(Gate seaters drink Nestles Hot Chocolate.  From styrofoam cups.  United Club members drink Ghiradelli.  Served in fine china.)

I looked around at the other elite members.   They were a quiet bunch.  Reading the Wall Street Journal or watching the business channel on the flat screen TVs. 

No HGTV in the United Club.  Or Project Runway.

Wait.  What’s that?  A room in the back of the United Club with workstations!  And phones!  And a printer, copier and fax machine!   

An office for the Nerdling.

I set up shop.  I fit right in, hardly working working hard on my laptop.  And I had 4 more hours to spend there!  The perfect environment to write a blog about the United Club.

I took several laps around the space, attempting to look important.  I studied the departures board and noticed that I had 3 hours and 50 minutes until my flight.

There were newspapers scattered about.  Wall Street Journals and the New York Times.  No People Magazines in the United Club. 

Damn.  I wanted to read about Ben and what’s her name from the Bachelor.

I returned to the departures board.  Only 3 hours and 45 minutes until my flight. 

I looked around again at the other elite members sharing “our” lounge. 

They were boring. 

Then I had my second epiphany.  If I wanted entertainment, I’d have to go to the gate.  The United Club had no fighting kids, no fashion don’ts, no middle-aged slobs spilling mustard on their shirts, nobody singing off-key with earbuds in their ears.

No nose pickers.

I packed up my laptop and headed out of the ridiculously boring United Club.

But not before filling my purse with some snacks to take to my gate seat.

I deserved them.   After all, I am a United Club member.