Must I Do EVERYTHING Myself?

Posted on October 11, 2018 by cordeliasmom2012

I’ve learned to pump my own gas.  I’ve accepted those automated phone systems which replaced real, live customer service people.  I’ve finally (mostly) gotten over the anger I felt when the Verizon representative told me to go outside and check my own phone lines. (Really?  Up a telephone pole? I don’t think so.)

But is it too much to ask that someone else scan and bag my groceries?

I had a few extra minutes and decided to pick up some groceries on my way to work.  There are two stores on my way – Wegmans and Tops.  I love Wegmans, but the store is huge and once I’m in there, I get distracted and always buy more than I really need.

So, I opted for Tops.  In fact, I was looking forward to stopping in because this particular Tops is not crowded in the early morning – and they have really good fresh-baked products.

Maybe I should have taken it as a sign when some old lady tried to run head-on into me in the nearly empty parking lot.  She seemed confused to see another vehicle, and I had to swerve once I realized she had no intention of slowing down or stopping (maybe she forgot where the brake pedal is?).  Swerving was easy, of course – the entire lot was empty except for one or two cars at the edges which likely belonged to store employees.

Anyway.

Having shopped this store before, I was familiar with its layout.  I got in, got my items, and was at the checkout within minutes.  But none of the regular checkout lanes were open.  Not a single one.  Only the self-checkouts were available.

I hate self-checkout, even if I only have one or two items.  I’m of a generation who is used to someone scanning and then bagging my groceries, usually with a smile and a bit of chitchat – but always quickly and efficiently, and always with respect.

Self-checkouts do not offer respect, nor do they offer efficiency.

The first lane I tried notified me it was a card-only lane, and no cash would be accepted.  I don’t like to use my credit card when purchasing only a few dollars worth of groceries.  I moved to the next lane.

This time, I made sure the checkout would accept cash.  Yes!  Then I followed the vocal prompts:

“Scan your first item and place it in the bag.“

Sure, where is that darn bar code?  This is a bakery item.  Oh, there it is, underneath. (Now the frosting will be f*d but does the store care?  Not at all.)

What about this 12-pack of bottled water?  I had a hard enough time getting it off the shelf and into the cart, now I have to take it out again and try to scan that itty bitty code on the side?  The damn package is HEAVY!

Ever tried to scan a package of bacon?  Or a bag of potatoes?  The scanner doesn’t like those plastic packages with slightly crinkly bar codes.

Do you know how annoying it is bagging groceries?  I had scanned the bakery stuff first and the heavy stuff last. Now I had to arrange everything properly to avoid damage to the contents during the car ride.  And I didn’t want the bacon in with the pastry, nor did I really want the bottled water in a bag (even though the machine told me to).  Grrrr.

“Do you have coupons?  Please scan them and then place them in the scanned coupon slot below.“

Huh?  What scanned coupon slot?  Oh, that little slit that’s so skinny I need  a magnifying glass just to see it?  And it only take those coupons one at a time, and you have to really maneuver them in there?  Thank heavens I only have two coupons today!

By now, I was cussing and mumbling – a lot.  Wouldn’t you think one of the store employees would amble on over to help?  Nope, they were all too busy chatting with each other while the customers fended for themselves.

Remember that jingle: “Tops never stops giving you more” ?  This Tops stopped.  Maybe the manager of this particular store needs a little re-education.

“Now, insert payment.  If you are using coins, please insert those first.“

My total was $19.47, and I had a $20 bill.  Should be easy, peasy.  But, of course, the scanner didn’t like the first $20 bill I inserted (too crinkled, maybe?), so I had to find a second one in my purse.  It takes time to find anything in my purse.

By the time the machine finally spit out my 53 cents in change, I was so aggravated that I forgot to grab the receipt that was eventually generated.  By then, I was already halfway to my car.  Hopefully, there will be nothing wrong with the items I purchased because I wouldn’t be able to return them without a receipt.  A human checker would have been sure to hand the receipt to me; the machine couldn’t care less.

The total process took me three times as long as it would have taken to go through a regular checkout lane.  As a result, I was late for work. 

I should have gone to Wegmans.

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I love to hear from my readers. You may comment on this post, comment on my Facebook or Twitter pages, or email me at cordeliasmom2012@yahoo.com
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Images by Cordelia’s Mom

 

 

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Oh Lord, Please Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood

Posted on October 8, 2018 by cordeliasmom2012

Another blogger reminded me of this earlier post. I’m republishing it for the benefit of those readers who have since joined me.  If you’re in an abusive relationship, get out!  Tell people about it.  Don’t wait, don’t let it slide, and don’t hide it for the rest of your life.  No one, woman or man, should suffer abuse at the hands of another, and no one, woman or man, should be allowed to lie about it.

(Post title based on song by The Animals)

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

“Mo-ooom? [sob].  Come get me.  I’m scared!”

It was 1978. I was 26 years old and had been married for 6 years to the man I thought was the love of my life.

Jimmy (not his real name) was charming. Jimmy was loving.  Jimmy was fun.  Jimmy enjoyed cooking, and when not working his construction job, he cooked at various restaurants.  People would follow him to each restaurant because his food was so good, and presented with such zest.  Everyone loved Jimmy.

But there were signs. My mother tried to warn me, but all she could do (and did more than once), was to tell me that no matter what happened in my life, no matter what was done to me, no matter what I did to anyone else, I could always come home.

I was young and in love. I ignored the signs.

There was a reason Jimmy had fled his home state, and it wasn’t the reason he gave me.

There was a reason Jimmy’s first marriage had failed, and the fault was not completely his wife’s, as he had told me.

Who do you know that carries a hip flask? Jimmy did.

Who do you know that brags about hurting other men in bar fights? Jimmy did.

There were reasons Jimmy lost or quit every job he held. The day before we married, he came home from his construction job happy that he wouldn’t have to return soon.  I assumed he had taken vacation time for our honeymoon.  Years later, I found out from a friend that he had quit his job, telling his boss that he didn’t need to work anymore because his new wife would be able to support him.

Jimmy was happy to treat me like a princess as long as I footed the bills.

Jimmy was charming. Jimmy was fun.  Jimmy was loving.

Until he wasn’t.

Until he stole all of my money and spent it on booze, leaving no food in the house and forcing me to choose between feeding my dog and feeding myself (the dog won).

Until he held a shotgun to my head and told me he was going to blow my fucking brains out.

What caused such rage, you ask? Jimmy had just finished 6 weeks of alcoholism treatment at the VA hospital.  Every day, I worked 8 hours, then took 2 buses to visit Jimmy, followed by 3 buses back to my suburban apartment.  Jimmy seemed to be doing well – I was so proud of him.  Finally, we could get our lives on track and become the couple we were meant to be!

Unbeknownst to me, one of Jimmy’s “friends” smuggled booze into the hospital on a regular basis. The day Jimmy came out of the hospital, he went to a party and came home drunk.  I told him I hoped it was worth it because it was the end for us.  I then searched for the bottles of liquor he had stashed away, and poured it all down the toilet.

Hence the threat of impending death.

Soon enough, Jimmy passed out drunk (guess I missed a bottle or two). I carefully dismantled the rifle.  Me – who had never even touched a gun.  It’s a wonder I didn’t blow myself up.  I threw the firing pin off the apartment’s balcony.

After my panicked call to my mother, my father (bless his heart) corralled my brother and the biggest friend my brother had, and drove over 400 miles to pick me up. In the dead of winter.  Mere days after a major snowstorm.

I left 99% of what I owned sitting in that apartment, taking only enough to fit into the back of my father’s station wagon. And my dog, Sherman.  Only lovable Sherman kept me sane in the following days.

In Dorothy’s famous words – there is no place like home.

My mother (bless her soul) never once said I told you so. Later she told me she was shocked by how thin I was and was both amused and chagrined at how much food I shoveled in during the first few days back home.

Sometimes you’re powerless to stop your kids from making horrendous mistakes – all you can do is wait by the sidelines until comfort is needed. Sometimes you can only hope that you will never have to comfort your own kids the way your mother comforted you.  Sometimes you can only pray that the feeling of spiders crawling up your spine is just overreaction.

I re-built my life and soon met the man who became my second husband and the father of my children. He was in Buffalo all along.  Perhaps I never should have left home.

NOTE TO READERS:  If you’re ever afraid of your partner – the very first time you’re afraid – get away!  He (or she) is not going to change.  Things are not going to get better.

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I love to hear from my readers. You may comment on this post, comment on my Facebook or Twitter pages, or email me at cordeliasmom2012@yahoo.com.

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Image by Cordelia’s Mom

Posted in Health, Photography, Re-Blogs, Relationships, That's Life | Tagged , , , , , , | 16 Comments

Lied to Me – Again

Posted on October 3, 2018 by cordeliasmom2012

Who’s to blame?  Government or media?

Or me, for believing either?

Yes, I knew the Presidential Alert system was being tested, and I knew it was to be at 2:18 pm EST.  I knew the text would be sent to all cell phones.

But on the way into work, I heard on the radio that older flip phones, like mine, would not be able to receive that text.  Only people with smartphones would be affected.

I liked that.  I didn’t want to be bothered at exactly 2:18 pm EST.  I didn’t want to be reminded of elementary school, when those emergency system messages were broadcast on TV and radio:

“Beeeeeep.  This is a test.  It is only a test.”

Sure, it is.  If it’s only a test, then why are me and all my friends standing in the school hallway with our faces to the wall and our hands over our heads.  Like that’s really going to protect us from those A-bombs.

Anyway.

It was a slow work day.  Both bosses were gone, and the other secretary had left for her usual noon-to- 1 pm lunch.  While she was out, I decided to eat my sandwich at my desk, thereby freeing up my 1-2 pm lunch period in order to run an errand or two.

I took along my trusted point-and-click camera (yes, the Nikon’s still in the shop), hoping to ply my trade craft hobby and maybe get a few decent shots.  Not to be.  The weather was crappy, I wasn’t feeling particularly energetic,  and the best I could do was this Fall display at the grocery store:

Wegmans on Amherst Street in Buffalo, New York

On the way back to the office, I did spot a sign outside an apartment building, which declared:

“Free pizza with this apartment!”

But traffic was too heavy to pull over and take a photo, and I was already running a little late.  So, as usual, I let the opportunity pass.

By the time I returned to the office after my lunch period, I had totally forgotten about the scheduled Presidential Alert text.

They lied.  Flip phones did get that text, along with a really loud, annoying emergency tone (rather than my phone’s normal musical tone for text messages).  And, of course, since I had forgotten about it, I jumped when the phone went off.

Crap.

I so wanted to respond, but there was no “Reply” option on that particular text message.

Hopefully, it was a one-time test.  I hate tests.

(Were it a real emergency situation, I would be hiding under my desk with my eyes closed and my hands over my ears – ’cause that absolutely would protect me, right?)

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I love to hear from my readers. You may comment on this post, comment on my Facebook or Twitter pages, or email me at cordeliasmom2012@yahoo.com
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Images by Cordelia’s Mom

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Mother-Daughter Time

Posted on October 3, 2018 by cordeliasmom2012

Like most many kids, my three daughters were a pain in the butt growing up.

But eventually, they became young women whose company I enjoyed, and who were [finally] willing to be seen with their mother.

Mostly, it began with our infamous college inspection tour.   (If you haven’t read that post, click here.  You’ll be glad you did.)  We had a great time traveling together, even if the youngest claimed to be “terrified” of my driving through a rainstorm.

At some point, it occurred to me that it would be fun to plan annual mother-daughter weekend trips.  We managed two before we all ran out of money/developed other hobbies/acquired significant others (the girls, not me – my husband would have disapproved of such an acquisition)/got tired of each other.

The first of these trips was to Niagara-On-The-Lake in Ontario, Canada, just over the bridge from our then home in Tonawanda, New York – less than a half-hour drive, assuming the driver doesn’t get lost.

Which, of course, I did.  Not seriously lost, but I did manage to miss the approach to the international bridge.  It wasn’t my fault (and I’m sticking to that story).  I had taken back roads, there was road construction, and I couldn’t find the right on-ramp because it wasn’t well marked.

I eventually found myself driving over a bridge, and suddenly realized I was, in fact, on the Lewiston-Queenston bridge and fast approaching the Canadian border – and my ID was somewhere in my purse, but God knew where my purse was!  Imagine the border guard’s amusement as he watched an American car approaching while the driver and her passengers were frantically searching through the glove box, console, under and between the car seats, etc.  Sure, back then I probably could have gotten into Canada without ID, but getting back into America after the weekend would have been a no-go.  I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life in Canada.

Fortunately, the ID was located.  I won’t tell you where.

Our trip to Niagara-On-The-Lake was to see a play during the Shaw Festival.  We drove up the day before and stayed at the Riverbend Inn & Vineyards – a beautiful Georgian-styled inn within minutes of the bridge and a little outside of the town itself.  It reminded me of the plantation Tara in Gone With the Wind, but with grape vines instead of cotton fields.  The Canadian-American currency exchange rate was good, making the Inn affordable for us.

We had a lovely suite, with a sitting room and a fireplace.  The Inn had its own dining room, with a piano player.   The menu offered a variety of gourmet meals – and, of course, wine.

The wine was somewhat more expensive than my normal fare, but since my oldest daughter was now over 21, I felt sure she could help me drink it, so I ordered an entire bottle.  Unfortunately,  my daughter then informed me she had taken some medication which prevented her from drinking.  There was an entire bottle of expensive wine, and we were eating in the same inn where we would be sleeping – and yes, we could take any leftover wine upstairs with us.

So, we did.  My girls and I watched movies, and I finished off the wine.  Did I mention it was an entire bottle, and I was the only one drinking it?

I don’t remember the movies.  I do remember waking up at about 3 am and puking in the bathroom.   My youngest was very concerned and asked if I had the flu.  No, just something I ate, I replied.

The next morning, I hadn’t improved much.  We ordered room-service breakfast – cooked to perfection and beautifully presented, but all I could eat was one tiny corner of pastry.  And coffee, lots of coffee.  I think my oldest daughter suspected what was up, but wisely said nothing.

The play was scheduled for mid-afternoon, and we wanted to do some shopping first.  By the time we left the Inn, I was well enough to drive.

But lunch was a challenge.  I was feeling a wee bit better, but the idea of looking at, much less eating, food was not at the top of my list of things-I-want-to-do-today.  For the sake of my girls, I faked it as best I could.

Which apparently wasn’t all that good.

Halfway through our lunch, my oldest daughter looked at me twirling uneaten food around my plate, nodded, and said in a stern, matronly voice:  “Now, Mom, let this be a lesson to you.”

Little brat.

It still turned out to be a great trip.  The play was awesome!  Our trip back to the US after the play was uneventful.

And the best part was – to this day, my girls have never told their father about my indiscretion.  Nothing like a few girly secrets during mother-daughter time, and it gives us something to laugh about now that we’re all (including me) adults.

Subsequent trips were wine-less, or at least wine-conservative.  Best trips ever!

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I love to hear from my readers. You may comment on this post, comment on my Facebook or Twitter pages, or email me at cordeliasmom2012@yahoo.com

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Top Image by Cordelia’s Mom; others downloaded as indicated under photo

Posted in Humor, Road Trips & Cars, That's Life | Tagged , , , , , , , | 9 Comments