Banking With The Best And The Brightest

Hello blogosphere! How are you? As you may have noticed (or may not have noticed, I don't know how many people are still bothering to see if I am writing) I took a summer break from blogging. But I am back and in full force! So watch out world, here I come.

Last week my husband informed me of mistakes on our mortgage statement that he is able to access on the Internet. Something about payment reversal and the balance going up instead of down. Hmmm. I had not noticed that. I don't notice a lot of things though. My husband is what I would call hyper-vigilant about all things financial. He knows exactly what all the balances are on our mortgage and credit cards. As soon as that paycheck is direct deposited in our account he is typing away paying eBills as fast as he can and because he is nine hours ahead of us, all bills are usually paid when I wake up. He even has a spreadsheet with all the payments and balances that he keeps track of. I take a different approach. More of a 'eh' approach. What's my balance on my credit card? I don't know. When is it due every month? I don't know. How much do I owe the dentist for my root canal? I. Don't. Know. Needless to say, money isn't one of my favorite conversations to have with my husband. Recently, my credit card misplaced a $1,000.00 payment I made to them. My husband was furious. I called them, very relaxed. I knew they would find it. I didn't even realize for two weeks that they had lost it because the only time I look at my account is when it's time to pay them. There are so many other interesting things I could be doing.

I will let you in on a secret. The reason I am so, let us say laid back about bills is because I know Matt is on top of it. In fact, the more on top of it he is, the more laid back I become. It's a vicious cycle.

Back to the mortgage. Matt told me that I was going to have to go down to the local branch of the bank and talk to someone about the mistakes on our mortgage statement. Oh joy.Now I get to talk about bills and money to someone else. I arm myself with all pertinent information and trudge down to the local branch. Personal Banker Shawn could answer no questions for me so he said he would call the mortgage center and get back to me. Guess what? He never got back to me. That was just fine with me but it wasn't going to fly with my husband. I called and left a voice mail for him. Nothing. So I went down there, again. More excitement.

This is what I said when I went in there, "Hi. My husband, who is deployed, was looking at these records online and they don't seem to match up. He wanted me to come in and have someone explain to me what is going on so I can explain it to him." Personal Banker Shawn now said he could help me. Except when he looked at the records, he didn't know what was going on either. We called the mortgage center. Call Rep Sylvia answered and tried to explain the situation to Personal Banker Shawn while I sat and listened. Sylvia wasn't very helpful. After about 15 minutes of Shawn and I passing the phone back and forth so she could explain it to both of us we both pretended we got it and hung up.

Personal Banker Shawn - "So, did you understand what she said?"
Me - "Um, no."
Personal Banker Shawn - "Me either! It was like she was just saying words that didn't make any sense!"
Me - "Well, now I don't feel so bad because you work here and if you don't get it, then how the heck am I supposed to get it?!"
Personal Banker Shawn - "Well, we could always call back and see if we get a different person."
Me - "Go for it. I don't think I could be anymore confused than I am now."

We call the mortgage center again hoping we don't get unhelpful Call Rep Sylvia again. Lucky us, we got Call Rep Beth. Call Rep Beth was clear and helpful and took the time to explain to me and Personal Banker Shawn that what we saw on the Internet statement was not necessarily what was really happening with our account. She walked us through every line and explained every payment, all additional interest, and the payment reversal. Personal Banker Shawn and I went, "Oooohhhhh...." At the exact same time. We got it.

After we hung up with Call Rep Beth we both remarked how convoluted the whole page on the Internet was.

Personal Banker Shawn - "So! Do you get it? Anymore questions?"
Me - "I think I get it. Do you get it?"
Personal Banker Shawn - "I think I get it too. Sorry you had to come down here and go through all that. I would have gotten back to you but I never heard anything from them after you came in the first time."
Me - "Yeah, I thought you were ignoring me. I even left you a voice mail and never heard back."

Here is the point in the conversation where I realized that maybe I should have had someone other than Personal Banker Shawn helping me figure things out because this is what he said:

Personal Banker Shawn - "I have voice mail? Huh. Maybe that's what that little blinking red light on my phone means."
Me - "You mean you have messages from last week just floating around out there in voice mail land?"
Personal Banker Shawn - "Actually, probably longer than that because it's been blinking for about a year."

I start laughing so hard that no noise is coming out.

Personal Banker Shawn - "What? Is that bad? What's so funny?"
Me - "Absolutely nothing."  But in my head I am thinking this bank is run by people who have the intelligence of chimps.

Personal Banker Shawn - "Well, that was a lot of calling, explaining, and hassle just to be told that we weren't seeing everything that is going on."
Me - "Yeah. Why don't they just put all the information on the page so you don't have to call and get it explained to you?"
Personal Banker Shawn - "Why don't you and I start a bank where what you see on the Internet is what is really happening with your mortgage?"
Me - "Let's do it. Except, everything will be face to face because you have already proven you can't handle voice mail."
Personal Banker Shawn - Hysterical laughing.

Dumb Things I've Done (Just This Week)

I bought some clothes on the internet this week for an upcoming trip. My husband is returning from the vast and great desert of the Middle East for a little R-n-R. That is actually what the military calls it. R-n-R. That would be Rest and Relaxation for you lay people. Back to the clothes. I have bought clothes from this website before. I trusted the sizing. I ordered pants and shirts and decided that I wanted them sooner than the date listed as my expected arrival date. How soon? Overnight. I forked up the $25.00 overnight shipping charge. Money well spent I thought.

Package arrived overnight as promised. I skipped back into my bedroom, so excited about trying on my new purchases. Excitement turned to dismay. EVERYTHING was too big. Shirts, too big. Pants, too big. Apparently I am thinner than I think (don't hate me). I stared at the package on my bed, all the clothes (tags still on) strewn around.

Sigh.

I so wanted to wear these next week. An idea! I ran upstairs and checked website. They still had the items I wanted in the next smaller size (don't hate me). I paid the overnight charge once, what's paying it again going to matter? Except that it would. It's after 5:00 on a business day so that would push the overnight delivery to the next day. Saturday. No Saturday delivery. And Monday is the 4th of July. Even overnighting it would only get it here on Tuesday, the 5th.

Unacceptable.

I check the box for overnight Saturday delivery. $35.00. Yep. I just paid a total of $60.00 in shipping charges for clothes that were on sale. Kind of negates the sale price, don't ya' think? And I have to drive 15 miles to the store that sells these clothes to return them so I can get the credit sooner.

Again. Sigh.

Other dumb things I have done is left the house with Andre and Alexander to take them to kindergarten and then soccer camp. In that order. Got on the main road, chatting them both up. Got to the soccer field where camp was being held. Let Alexander out. Realized that Andre was still in the back seat. Drove all the way back to the school to drop him off. He was 10 minutes late. Oops.

I picked up Alexander's phone to make a quick call. Started touching the screen to try and dial the number. Tossed him the phone telling him it was frozen and wasn't working. He pushes the keys and dials the number and tells me the phone is working fine. I tell him it wouldn't work when I touched the screen. And he then tells me that that's because it's not a touch screen. Oh....

Went to the gas station and only put in $15.00 because I didn't have our membership card which gives us a better deal. Drove around for awhile and used that $15.00 up. Went back to gas station. Same attendant was there. "Weren't you like just here an hour ago? Where'd you drive lady?" Um... I just didn't put enough in. He walked away shaking his head. I think I may have even got the you-are-one-dumb-lady look from him. You ladies know what I'm talking about. When a man looks at you and almost pities you because he thinks what you have just done is because you are a member of the lesser sex and obviously not capable of the level of thought required by the situation. I stuck my tongue out at him. Behind his back though. Besides, what does he know. He is only a gas station attendant. Ha!

Went to buy my son some soccer clothes for the above mentioned soccer camp. Looked up store online. Found address. Drove down street. Didn't see it. Drove down it again. Not there. Well, they say the third time is a charm. Drove down one more time. It still hadn't magically appeared. Called up store. They confirmed address. I almost said nuh-huh because I've been down that street, and let me tell you buddy, it ain't there! I then realized that I had been driving down the wrong street. And this is in the town I grew up in. Got to the great hidden soccer store. It had closed five minutes earlier.

All I can say is it's a good thing I'm going on vacation next week with my husband. My brain obviously needs a break. I am going to let him do all the thinking. Hmm... well, maybe not all the thinking. He did get us lost in Wyoming once. Or was it Idaho? Turns out, he didn't know where we were. He actually had to go to the gas station and ask, "What state is this?"

Have fun and stay smart.

Four Bikes And Crying

My daughter turns eleven on Wednesday and all she has wanted for months is a new bike. Not any old bike, but a beach cruiser. With big fat rims and the old fashioned styling. With wide handle bars and a basket. Being the type of mother who gives in to her children's every whim, I set out last week on what shall now be known as "The Great Beach Cruiser Quest". I hit the two stores that are in a 2 mile radius from my house. Target and Wal-Mart. Target and Wal-Mart were lacking in the beach cruiser department. They both had mountain bikes. Road bikes. Bikes with training wheels. Bikes with spinnin' rims. No beach cruisers.

When I returned from my great 2 mile radius journey I found that she had searched the internet for beach cruisers and found a hot pink one at Target.com that she wanted. I praised her for being so industrious. And then while she was at school, I bought it. This would be bike numero uno (bike number one).

When I first went on the website, Target.com, it informed me that I would receive free shipping on the hot pink beach cruiser. But when I checked out, they charged me $40.00 in shipping. Not exactly free. It had pushed the $130.00 price tag up to around $180.00 with tax. I may give in to my children's every whim, but only if it comes with free shipping. I called up Target.com customer service and was greeted by a man who spoke exactly like Apu in the Simpson's. He then went on to apologize that while the website might be advertising free shipping, my hot pink beach cruiser did not qualify. "Well, that sucks," I told him. "Yes ma'am, it does suck," he said in an Apu accent.

Feeling very taken advantage of, I went on to look at ToysRUs.com and low and behold they had the same bike. For $10.00 less! And FREE shipping! And they could get it there a whole FIVE days sooner than Target.com. I ordered hot pink beach cruiser number two. Then called up Target.com and cancelled bike numero uno. I then also wrote a scathing email to Target.com about how I would never shop in their stores again (a lie). They sent me back an auto-reply about how they were so very sorry to hear that (another lie), but they were looking forward to serving me in the future.

I went on with my day, cleaning the kitchen, doing laundry, counting how many times my neighbors leave and then come back and other mundane things I use to fill my time when all of sudden I realized that I didn't check Walmart.com. If I got a good deal at ToysRUs.com, I would probably get an even better one there. I run back upstairs to the office and immediately log on. Much to my surprise, Walmart.com has an even bigger and better and cheaper selection of bikes. And they will ship it and assemble at my local store tomorrow. And this time it isn't any trashy hot pink beach cruiser. It is a mint green, classically styled beach cruiser with cream rims and brown leather seat and handle bars with a wicker basket for the low, low price of $89.00. I was instantly in love. I order it. It shall now be known as bike number three. I then called up ToysRUs.com and explain that I needed to cancel the order I just placed for bike number two. The woman on the other line (who does not have an Apu accent) tells me that my order that I placed two hours ago has already shipped. She has a tracking number and everything. Crap. I now have two bikes on their way to my house.

Later in the day Wal-Mart sends me a text that my mint green beach cruiser has arrived and is ready for pick-up. I take the seats out of my very large sport-utility vehicle and drive down to collect my daughter's new bike. But when I get there, there is a problem. No one can find it. I stand in customer service for 45 minutes while they search shipping and receiving, high and low, front and back for my bike. They finally tell me to just go home and they will call me when they find it. Two hours later I get bad news. I drive back down and they inform me that the bike was sold by another associate out of the back of the store. Turns out a Wal-Mart employee will sell you anything that isn't nailed down out of the back when no one is looking. And so my bike was gone. Even though it said purchased by me. It even had receipt stapled to it and said customer will be in today. Good-bye bike number three.

Wal-Mart places another order on-line for the same mint green beach cruiser. Hello bike number four. They tell me that it will be there in 48 hours. "Not good enough!" I tell them. I'm trying really hard to give off the annoyed customer vibe but all I can manage is the tired customer vibe. Apparently it's enough because the Asst. Store Manager gives me a gift card for $20.00. I'll take it.

Meanwhile, an unwanted bike number two, a hot pink beach cruiser has been delivered at my home (thank heavens it was in a box). My daughter is dancing around the living room singing "I know what that is! I know what that is! It's my birthday bike!" Very annoying. "It's not a bike. It's a desk. And it's going back." I tell her. "Then why is it from Toys-R-Us?" She counters. "Because," I answer. "It's a desk for your brother but it's too small so it's going back." She still doesn't believe me. But you should have seen her face when UPS showed up with a call-tag for the package and she watched them carry the box out and load it in the truck. She stood there not knowing what to say. "See? I told you it wasn't your bike." Her eyes welled up with tears and she ran upstairs. That scene alone should get me nominated for Mother Of The Year.

Anyway, Wal-mart called me early the next morning to tell me that bike number four was there and assembled and had an armed sentry standing guard until I picked it up. As the bike was wheeled out to me the Asst. Store Manager kept apologizing. "This has never happened before. I'm so sorry." "It's okay," I told her. "I got the cute bike. I got $20.00 bucks out of it. Let's call it good." She seemed very relieved that I wasn't going to be causing a ruckus in the middle of the store. I don't know. Maybe I should have. I probably could have gotten the bike for free.

What lessons did I learn from all this?
Lesson #1- The internet does not make things easier.
Lesson #2 - The internet gives you too many options.
Lesson #3 - Hide any packages that are delivered to your house before child thinks they are for them and then is crushed when they are picked up.
Lesson #4 - I need to be a more decisive shopper.
Lesson #5 - It probably would have been easier if when I went to Wal-Mart, and didn't see what I liked, I just grabbed the nearest associate and asked, "Whatcha got in back?"



Bike Number Four

Well? What do you think? Was it all worth it?

The Best Laid Plans

I try to make my life easier by planning. Planning on when I will do things, how I will do things, if I want to do things. But things don't always work out how I think they will.

Last week Matt asked me to send him a new pillow. Apparently the pillows in the Middle East are sub-par. Who would have thought?  He asked would I be a dear and send him one? And could I also slip in some Propel drink mix? I got the pillow and the drink mix and got a box from the store and got everything all packed up for him. I get to post office and of course, it's Christmas time, so I wait for about 20 minutes in line. When I finally reach the clerk at the counter he informs me that it will be $35.00 to ship the package but if I split the contents up into two smaller boxes it will only be $20.00 total. I'll take it. He shows me the size of the boxes that I need to use to get this rockin' deal from the post office. They are about the size of a shoe box. The drink mix fits in no problem. The pillow is another story. I show the clerk the size of my pillow and he says, "Hmmm, it might not fit." To which I answer, "Ya think?" He hands me a roll of tape and directs me to a clear spot on the floor to attempt to stuff this pillow in this box and tape it up.

I spend the next ten minutes attempting to cram and shove this oversized, extra firm pillow in this teeny, tiny box which seems to be getting smaller by the minute. I can actually get the pillow in but I have to hold my weight on the box to keep it closed. This leaves me with no hands to tape it up. I ask my five year old, Andre, to put his hands on the box and hold it while I tape it up. It was like opening a can of springy worms. The pillow came popping out of the box. I could have just given up, but I would not be beat by this pillow. Did I mention that I'm still on the floor of the post office? There is still a line out the door. I'm in a T-shirt, a heavy sweat shirt, my heaviest winter coat and a knit hat. After wrestling with this pillow for going on 15 minutes, I'm working up quite a glow. And people are STARING at me on the floor while I try to manipulate the simplest of things, a pillow and a box, into joining and becoming one.

I start to mutter under my breath. "Go in! Go in! Go in pillow! It's your home! Are you to good for your home??" Yes. I am that crazy lady in the post office in a weird knit hat (it was a very bad hair day) talking to her packages. Finally, after much stuffing and cajoling, the pillow and box work out their differences and fit together. That and about half a roll of tape to keep this thing from popping open somewhere over the Atlantic. I should have just paid the extra fifteen bucks.

My second plan that didn't work out quite as I had thought was the situation of hiding the Christmas presents. I have actually had my chidren's presents for awhile and they have been stashed all over the house in various spots. Storage bins. Unused drawers. In the cat's litter box. Just kidding. But if I did hide something there, the kids would never, ever find it. 

I start wrapping but I don't want to go to the effort of re-hiding everything. I decide to leave all the wrapped presents in my room and just lock my door. I have a good lock on my door. It's very hard to open. In fact, you need a special tool that came with the doorknob to get it open. And I have the only one. Which turns out is actually a problem.

I locked myself out of my room. I could see the tool in my mind. Sitting on my dresser next to my jewelry box, completely out of reach behind the locked door. I spent 20 minutes taking off the doorknob to get the tool to unlock the door and and then putting the doorknob back on. It was a very productive day.

But that isn't the worst part. The worst part is I did it again two hours later. Or I thought I had. I actually left the tool in my car. But since I couldn't find it I assumed it was locked behind the door. Again. So out come the screwdrivers and off comes the doorknob. Andre walks by me and says "Really, Mom?" Thank you, Andre. I know. Of course I search my room. No tool to be found. Aidan comes in from the garage after I picked him up from school and says "Hey, Mom. Isn't this the tool to unlock your door? Did you know it was in the car?" No, Aidan. I didn't. But thank you.

Just goes to show you no matter how ahead of the game I think I am, I always end up two steps behind and it's usually my fault. 

Really? I Mean, Really?

I woke up Sunday morning to a dead car battery. Nothing in this world is less fun than getting in your car, turning the key, and hearing nothing. I sat in my car silently for a few seconds, and then I began ranting to myself, the steering wheel, and the mail on the passenger seat. "Stupid car! Stupid car! YOU STUPID CAR!"

I'm usually not prone to uncontrollable rages, but we had just gone through a whole phase of our car not starting. Something with the fuel gauge in the fuel tank. The car would have half a tank of gas, but the gauge would tell the car it was empty so the car would shut itself down.I never knew when it would start. I would go out every morning with my fingers, arms, and toes crossed hoping against all hope that today it would start. Over two thousand dollars later, (it needed a little more work than just a fuel gauge) it now starts. So you can see why I was so upset by this dead battery.

My dad swung by Sunday evening and he jumped the car. But guess what. On Monday morning I went out to start the car and again, dead battery. Now we have a problem. I know I wasn't leaving my headlights on or anything like that so the battery must be going bad. I have to jump it myself. I'm not a total moron, I know how to jump a car and have assisted many a neighbor in jumping theirs (I'm always home). But the thought of doing it myself leaves me in a cold sweat. Literally. I am DEATHLY afraid of electricity. I don't know why. I've never been shocked, never been struck by lightning (unlike my little brother). But I was sure that jumping the car by myself would surely lead to injury and/or death. I read through the owner's manual just to make sure I'm doing it right. I am physically shaking as I hook up the cables to the batteries. Red on positive. Okay. Black on negative. Oh good heavens don't let me end up a smoking pile of blonde flesh on my drive way. As you can guess I managed to successfully jump the car by myself. Mission accomplished. 

I drive to Auto-Zone and stand in line ready to inform the technician of my predicament (they will test your battery for free). I should tell you now that I hate cars. I hate everything to do with them. I hate fixing them. I hate buying parts for them. I hate washing them. I hate cleaning them out. So standing in line at Auto-Zone I'm not too happy. After testing my car the technician informs me that it is in fact not my battery that is the problem, but my alternator. Lovely. I put in a call to Rick. Rick is my car-mechanic god. I love him. I would kneel down before him and worship the ground he walks on, but since he's my step-brother, I don't. As soon as he sees it's me on the caller ID he's asks 'what now' because I am always calling him with problems on my car. As I tell him what is wrong he doesn't seem to think it's my alternator. We talk on the phone for another 5-10 minutes debating what-in-the-world could be wrong with my car. While I sit there with the car off, I hear a mysterious ticking noise coming from the passenger seat and since I don't believe in ticking ghosts, I check it out. I discover that the motorized control for the power seat adjust is stuck in the down position. Are you kidding me? I just subjected myself to the torture of jumping my car myself and then going to the place where all evil resides, a car parts store, all because my leg pushed the lever down Saturday night while I got something out of the car? Rick, the car-mechanic god, is laughing and assuring me that is what has been draining my battery. I guess I should just be happy that I don't have to shell out more of my husband's hard earned defending-the-country paycheck to fix the car. I fixed it myself. By pulling the lever up. You should be impressed. I was.

I Am Dum (Or Stoopid)

I've become dumb. I say 'become' because I wasn't always dumb. It happened some time in my 20's. Interesting. I also had three children in my 20's. Hmmmm... Coincidence? I think not.

Specifically I have lost the ability to spell, and it sucks because English and spelling used to be 'My Thing'! I was in honors English classes all through middle and high school. I did pretty good on my ACT's and I was even published in college (yeah, it was only the community college little creative writing book, but it counts). So hopefully by giving you this little resume I have convinced you I wasn't always the idiot I appear to be now.

What happened? One word. Pregnancy. I felt my former correct-spelling self actually slip away as I delivered my first child. Who knew that spelling isn't controlled by an area of the brain? It's actually controlled by your uterus. It has to be, otherwise my spelling wouldn't have been so affected by having kids. I think I can actually remember the doctor telling me everything that was going on. "Baby. Afterbirth. Oh! And here is your ability to spell correctly. Don't need that anymore." I really don't know. Maybe the doctor didn't even see it when my baby was born. Maybe it accidentally fell out and got kicked under the bed and then Matt and I just left it at the hospital.

I have, every now and then, regained a little spelling ability. But of course, I get pregnant again so any growth that little spelling gland has done is completely undone by having the baby. And now that I have done this four times, I fear I have permanently damaged my spelling uterus.

Here is an example of a few of the words I ALWAYS misspell -
1. Guard  - I can never remember the order of the A and the U.
2. Priest - It just looks wrong. It seems like it should be one the those exceptions to the I before E rule.
3. Definitely - I always put an A where the second I is.
4. Medieval - Shouldn't it be mid-evil?
5. Across - is it one C or two?
6. Address - so if across is one C, shouldn't address just have one D?

I tell you all this, my dear friends, hoping that if you see some of my spelling errors, you will just smile and think of my beautiful children. And remember that once upon a time, I could write a paper without hitting spell check 37 times.

Um, Sir, Can You Help Me?

I gave up a long time ago pretending that I had any sense of direction. Without 11,000 foot mountains to orient me in my home town, I'm totally lost.

Last night I ventured into the compound to do a little Christmas shopping. Otherwise known as Hill Air Force Base. I get nervous going through the check point. I don't know why. It's not like I have anything to hide. I have the proper military stickers on my car. I have my current military ID, except for the last time that Matt and I went up to the base. I had forgotten my wallet and they wouldn't let me on the base. I had to sit in one of the checkpoint buildings while he went in. I was deemed unworthy to set foot on the hallowed ground.

I'm on the base. Driving around in the dark. I have a vague memory of where the BX is (base exchange for you lay folk). I drive up to it and it's no longer there. It's some building that I don't even recognize. I drive past it 4, maybe 5 times to really make sure it's not the BX. I need help. I drive back to the checkpoint to ask for directions. The heavily armed guard gives me an address followed by a ma'am. I tell him that I have no idea where that would be in the daylight, let alone in the dark. He then precedes to tell me directions. This is an approximation of what he told me.

"Ma'am. First-you-take-Hill-Field-Road-directly-north. You'll-see-an-intersection. Don't-turn-there. Turn-left-at-the-IPC-building. Take-your-second-right-at-the-CPC-unit-and-then-turn-left-on-F-street. Go-over-the-river-and-through-the-woods. Past-the-big-airplane. Not-the-really-big-airplane-but-just-the-big-airplane. There-will-be-a-formation-of-tanks. Turn-at-the-tanks. You'll-see-the-FMYSE-square. You-have-to-turn-left-before-you-get-there. Drive-through-the-Med-Tac-tunnel. If-you-find-yourself-at-the-commissary-you've-gone-too-far. Turn-around-and-just-follow-the-directions-in-reverse. Ma'am"

There very big on the ma'am in the military. And acronyms.

I have no idea what he is talking about so of course I pretend to totally understand everything he has said and I take off on the only direction I remember. Head north on Hill Field Road. Why you ask? Because being on the Air Force base I always feel a little intimidated. We aren't Air Force. We are only Army. We're like the Air Force's backwoods cousin they are afraid is going to embarrass them at a family get together.

I drive around for another 10 minutes. Past the old BX to make sure it's still not there and then I find myself at the Shoppette. What's a Shoppette? It's the equivalent of a gas station/convenience store on a base. I ask a very nice airman (they aren't soldiers, they are airman in the Air Force) if he can tell me where the BX is. He tells me that it's across the street from the old BX.

Why couldn't the guard have told me that? I guess he figured if I wanted to go to the BX I had to work for it. I head back over to the old BX and sure enough, across the street, hidden by some trailers, is the new BX. I found it. It only took being told three times! Not bad.

The thing about bases, at least to me, is there is no rhyme or reason to them. The street names, if there are even names, are totally confusing. Sometimes the streets are named after the buildings on them. Or the units that are headquartered on that street. All the buildings look the same. Brick, tan, square. Maybe this is to confuse the enemy if they ever make it on base. I can tell you it does a good job of confusing me.

I shop. I stand in long lines. I save. Mostly stand in long lines though. It was a very exciting trip. What should have taken me 45 minutes takes me almost two hours. I hope on Christmas morning my kids appreciate what Santa went through for them.

Signs of Love, or How To Set Yourself Up For Teasing

Welcome to my blog, Maybe Too Blonde. After much prodding by people who shall remain nameless, I have decided to start a blog. It may be funny, it may not. It may be sad, it may not. But it will always be here. Let me introduce myself with a story.

Those of you out there that know me in person will know how much I love to tease people. I love to make little jokes at other's expense. Like when my brother clogged our toilet. I love to tease him about that. Which brother was it? I'm not at liberty to say.

My husband and I were once on the freeway when a dump truck flew by us at well over 90 mph. We were both shocked by the blatant disregard for safety when my husband said, "There should be a law against trucks going that fast." I looked at him, and I'm afraid, burst out laughing. "There is!", I laughed. "It's called a speed limit!" He then turned bright red and sat silent. I have never let him forget this. I break out this little story, along with a few other gems, at parties and get togethers. And people crack up. Matt takes this all in stride. He is great. But I on the other hand have on many occasions been described as a person who can dish it out, but not take it. When people make jokes at my expense, I tend to pout, get defensive, and leave. Usually all three. My family or friends, sometimes both, have to come and get me from the other room and tell me to lighten up. So it is with this following story that I am prepared to tell that I knew my husband really loved me. Or understood me. Or wanted to make me happy. Or probably all three.

About four years ago we were driving as a family from Disneyland in California to my dad's house in Phoenix. Any of you that have ever driven this stretch of highway know how desolate and barren it can be. Picture me driving. We depart a little town called Kingman where you leave the interstate and take a little two lane highway all the way into Phoenix. We had about a half a tank of gas at this point. I thought it was enough. I was almost, almost, wrong. About two thirds of the way to Wickenburg, the first sign of civilization in the desert outside of Phoenix, I started noticing the needle on our gas gauge dropping much more quickly than I thought it should. With 45 miles to go still to get to Wickenburg, our gas light came on. Crap. Matt started to say in that I-told-you-so voice that I should have filled up in Kingman. This is not the point in the story where I messed up. I slowed our speed from a clippy 65 to a turtle's pace of 40 hoping the reduction in speed would help us consume less gas. Ten miles out of town, the car started chugging. I'm really sweating now. It's 110 degrees out and Matt has just informed me that he will not be the one walking into Wickenburg with the gas can. Another crap. I silently start the bargaining with the Almighty. If you will please just help us get to the gas station, I will never swear again. I will volunteer at the homeless shelter. I will donate all my shoes to charity. Just pleasepleaseplease let us get to the gas station. Miracle of all miracles, we make it. We are still not to the teasing point of the story. Hang on.

Have you ever been scared to death that something terrible was going to happen, like running out of gas in the middle of the freaking desert and then it didn't happen? You were alright? You know that relief that floods over you and you almost can't believe your good luck? That was where I was. The first gas station we come upon on the highway is one of these really old stations. It only has two pumps and they are not the digital kind. They have the rolling numbers that click away as you fill your pump. Matt stays in the car to entertain the kids, who are hot and tired, and I get out and start to fill the car. I prepay and I watch the numbers click away and start to scrub the suicidal bugs off our huge windshield. I scrub and scrub some more. Noticing that the pump is done, I dump the squeegee in the bucket of water, climb in my car, and drive off. Hmm, what's missing? I will tell you what is missing. I drove off with the nozzle of the gas pump still in my car. Yes. It is true. I did this. As we drive off, slowly I might add because I am all about safety, we hear a terrible crashing-tearing-ripping sound. And this is how smart I am because at first, I don't know what it is. But Matt does. He starts screaming "You are still hooked to the pump!" I slam on my breaks expecting gas to be pouring from the pump but it has one of those safe guards that stops gas from going everywhere when people do exactly what I have just done. How did this happen? I'm not sure. Maybe I was just so happy we made it I was in a fog. At this point I look at Matt and say "what should I do?" I thought I was scared when I thought we were going to run out of gas. But now I'm really scared because I think I'm facing a very expensive gas pump repair. We sit there for about five minutes half expecting the attendant to come running out. But nothing happens.

Here is the part of the story where I am not proud of myself. I ask Matt if I should just leave. I know, I know. Not very upstanding, am I? Matt sits there, speechless, letting me figure this out. I then decide to go in and explain what happened, because hey, my kids are watching and for all I know, they guy inside is probably writing my license plate down right this second and calling the cops. I remove the nozzle, which is still in my car, and carry it, hose and all into the gas station. At the counter of the very old gas station which on a side note I think was called Billy-Bob's (no lie) was a girl all of 14. She doesn't even look up at me when I walk in carrying the amputated hose and nozzle. She is chewing gum and reading a magazine. I slowly approach her and when she finally acknowledges me, I carefully, oh so carefully, place the mess on the counter. Now here is where I don't really understand what came out of my mouth but it sounded kind of like this:
"I-was-putting-gas-in-my-car-and-somehow-I-don't-really-know-how-this-nozzle-fell-off-all-by-it-self-when-I-drove-off-with-it-still-stuck-to-my-car-and-I-don't-know-how-I-did-that." She looks at me apologetically and says, just leave it here. I'll let the owner know tomorrow. Okay. You don't have to tell me twice. I looked at her and said "Gotta go!" and ran to the car. Matt was very anxious to know what had happened. Were they calling the police? Was I being chased? I started the car, made sure it wasn't attached to anything, and got the heck out of Dodge.

Now where in this story does the teasing take place you ask. But that is the point. It never does. As we drive the remaining 30 miles to my dad's I am mentally playing out all the things, ammo if you will, that Matt has against me now. Know how blonde my wife is? Let me tell you. She can't even pump gas. I am waiting, just waiting with a big target on my face for the verbal ribbing that I am sure is coming. But it never comes. He has never mentioned it again. I have told the story a few times. It gets a lot of laughs, but Matt never elaborates or makes fun of me. Don't get me wrong, Matt has done his fair share of teasing, but about this, never. I must say, that this one event in my life did cause me to question my intelligence. Was I not as smart as I thought I was? How could I be so stupid! This takes the cake for all the dumb blonde things anyone could do. All I can say is that maybe Matt knew how I was silently lashing myself and figured he had nothing to add. But after about six months of no teasing, I quietly decided that he really did love me and was choosing love over a good tease.

Would I have done the same? I really don't know. I'd like to think I would, but honestly, I'm not sure. I guess at some things, he is better than me. Not teasing some you love would be one of them.

What little things made you realize that you were loved?