RITE AID - WRONG AID

I need to buy a couple of things at the store, and I also need stamps.  I decide to go somewhere I don't usually go because I have a coupon for 25% off of my entire order -- I go to Rite Aid. 

I'm all excited imagining my great savings when I get stuff I need, like a bottle of lotion, maybe some sunscreen, tape for my empty dispenser, soap, maybe even some small, travel-sized items for my upcoming quick trip down South.

I get to the store and wander around.

Hmmmmm. Not much of a selection.   Tiny display of shampoo, and they all have conditioner built in.  Nope, that's not what the family needs.  Lotion selection is pathetic.  I'm not a fan of Jergens, but if I were, Rite Aid could be its pimp. 

Aisle after aisle is a bust.  What I do realize is that this Rite Aid, like its out-of-state counterparts, is allowed to sell wine and beer.  Not even sure this is legal here in Massachusetts with all of our stupid Blue Laws. 

This is when it dawns on me that this Rite Aid isn't actually a pharmacy store at all. It's a liquor supplier for the kids from the college next door who can walk here from their dorms or the athletic fields.

I buy one roll of tape (on sale for 88 cents) and then ask for stamps.  "Sure," the cashier says, "but we sell them in packs of four."

Four?  Who the hell only needs four stamps?  I throw in a couple of four-packs of stamps, hold on to my 25% off coupon (only applies to the tape, anyway), and pay.  When I get to my car, I look at the receipt. 

RITE AID CHARGED ME $2.80 FOR $2.00 WORTH OF STAMPS. What the hell.  And I got rooked several times because I bought a couple of these packages. 

Is this even legal?  Can a stamp "dealer" overcharge for stamps by making me pay 140% of the actual price?  Damnitall.  By the time I figure this out, I'm already late in mailing the items, so I stick the stamps on and consider myself schooled.

So much for making a killing at Rite Aid with my coupon.  Instead, I got a free financial proctal exam.  Anyone want a Rite Aid coupon?  I'm NEVER going back.

BRING ON THE STORM FRONT

At some point during the day or evening on Friday, this heatwave is supposed to break. I'll be honest: I don't mind the heat, but the humidity is horrifying. The dew point is so high that my sweat has its own sweat.

Over the course of the multi-day heat wave, I clean my patio, throw a BBQ, visit the zoo, and sit outside trying to read.  Out of all the things I accomplish despite the horrid weather, it is the simple act of reading that puts me over the edge.

I set up my chair at 9:40 a.m., and by 10:15, I've melted through my bathing suit and the towel I have draped over my chair, and I've sucked down an entire container of ice water.  Still, I'm sweating profusely.  The air and my face are both so thick with humidity that my glasses keep fogging up.

I've been in the South during the summer.  I know that my body would eventually adjust to the temperature and weather changes.  A few years ago, I spent several days in Delaware during a particularly stubborn heatwave.  The heat index reached 105 degrees daily, and my hotel bathroom became a drying station for oft-changed clothes that I washed by hand and hoped to wear again, like underwear.  By the time I returned to Boston, the temperature was in the 80's, but my body was chilly and I had to avoid air conditioning until I re-acclimated to New England weather.

No such luck today. 

The temperature in the morning is already hovering around 94 degrees, and I am dripping sweat.  My bathing suit has a huge swath of sweat from my decolletage to my navel.  I am probably getting heatstroke or sunstroke, or I might be frying my brain from the inside out.  I last just over an hour before throwing in the towel (literally) and crawl back into the cool air of the air conditioned house.

Honestly, I suspect I might be dying.

Once my body temperature returns to a near-normal level, I sneak back outside to put away the chair and straighten out the patio, then I quickly retreat back inside to pay bills and make a shopping list.  Anything is better than being out there in the Hell Fires of Hades.

I do have one epiphany -- perhaps a heat-induced hallucination: I don't always love, love, love the snow, but any thoughts of retiring to the South have now vaporized.  I know, I know -- my body can and will adjust to the Southern climate, but right now I feel like a piece of overcooked bacon.  So, if I one day announce that I'm moving to some inland town in Alabama, please remind me of this blog and that I probably don't have enough underwear to change humidity-stretched multiple pairs every single day. 

Remind me that even my sweat has its own sweat in weather like this.  Bring on the storm front!

COLORING NEAR THE LINES

I don't like coloring.

I'll do it, but it's not my passion.  When I was a kid, my sister bought herself those fancy, oversized coloring books with intricate drawings.  She colored perfectly then (and now still).  No matter how careful I am, I cannot stay inside the lines.

I guess this could be the mantra of my life.  I have often been called a Rule Follower, and, in some instances, I am.  But, I'm also a list-maker, a problem-solver, and a fan of creative solutions.  This means that although I try to do things by the book, I often stray outside the intended and appropriate lines.  Apparently, I have been unable to stay inside the proper lines my whole life and just didn't realize the scope of my problem until I tried coloring.

For some reason, I bring home a coloring sheet on the last day of school.  It is in the hallway, hanging from a folder taped to the wall under a sign that says, "Stress Relief -- Take one."  So, I do (Rule Follower).  I start coloring it with pencils and quickly realize that there are too many small spots.  No matter what I do, I know I'm going to wreck it and color out of the lines.  So much for the relaxing, stress relief of the intended picture.


I walk away from the paper several times, but I am determined to finish it.  Damn the lines.  Who cares?  It's not going to be perfect no matter what.

It takes me several attempts and a couple of hours, but I finish the coloring and cut out the circle.  I hang it on the fridge, but I think I might put it on the bulletin board above my personal desk.  It may not be perfect, but it's finished, and that alone relieves some stress.

FOURTH OF JULY CAKE AND THE ICING FIASCO

I'm baking a cake for the Fourth of July.

I'm also parboiling chicken and sausages so they can sit in marinade before going on the grill.  I want the meat to cook quickly because we are in the throes of a horrifying heat wave that probably wouldn't even serve as a blip on the radar to my Southern friends, but to us wimpy New Englanders, it feels like the Fires of Hades have been raging for five straight days.

Back to the cake.  While I'm in the store shopping, I decide that a bakery cake is too expensive.  (It's not really when I add in all the extra costs beyond a cake mix.)  I also decide that it's okay to spend the $2.79 on a tube of icing so I can write something foul and politically inappropriate on the cake.  Honestly, I stand in the aisle and debate (out loud) whether or not I am worth the $2.79 it costs for the icing.  I mean, it's a cake.  Is anyone really going to care?

In the end I decide that I am, indeed, worth $2.79 of icing.

I bake the cake (with every air conditioner I own blasting on high), let it cool, then frost it.  It's a chocolate fudge cake with chocolate fudge frosting, so the icing I buy is white.  Finally, the time comes to write on the cake with the ... icing ...

Damnit.  I go through the receipt.  The tube of icing is the only item that somehow has not made it into the bags and into my house. 

I retrace my steps, check out the trunk of my car, recheck all of the bags, and then repeat the process.  It simply cannot be.  I don't really want to go back to the store because it's going to be mobbed and because it's a few miles further than the small satellite store where I usually shop.

I decide to go to the satellite store and beg them to let me grab a tube of icing.  No problem, the kid at the courtesy counter tells me.  I thank him profusely, leave my original receipt with him, and run to the baking aisle.

Guess what?  No icing tubes.  Not a single one.  I panic.  I find stockers nearby and ask them where the tubes of cake icing are for decorating cakes.  "By the ice cream," they tell me, "there are spray cans." I run toward the ice cream aisle, but my brain is trying to chew on what I've just been told: Spray cans?  Of icing?!

When I careen around the corner and find the display, there are no tubes of icing.  But, I'll be damned, there are spray canisters of icing.  Of course, they're more expensive than the tubes.  At this point, I don't even care.  I grab a canister of white icing and head toward the courtesy counter.


"I'll gladly pay the difference," I say, and hand over the fifty cents I owe the store that saves my cake.  Oh well, I guess I'm worth $3.29 now.  I figure it's still a good deal, although a pre-made store-bought cake would've been infinitely easier and more cost-effective at this point.

Happy Fourth of July, everyone.  Enjoy your independence ... for as long as it lasts.  (Insert smart-ass face here.)

BEST $80 EVER FOUND

On a road trip with my daughter, I realize one huge similarity and one huge difference between the two of us.

The similarity between us is that we both drive the same way.  This should instill absolute terror into the hearts and minds of all other drivers on the road.  We are the epitome of The Massachusetts Driver: aggressive, adept, lead-footed, and ruthless in traffic.  I'm not going to lie.  I gripped the arm rests and slammed against the suddenly taut seat belt more than once (or twice or a dozen times).  To these antics, my daughter simply replied with the truth: "YOU taught me to drive, Mom." 

Yes; yes, I did. 

The huge difference between us, though, is that I keep my car relatively junk-free, and my daughter's car resembles an episode of "Hoarders."  I'm not a neat-freak by any means.  I haven't washed my car since the winter (hey, it rains, right?), and I haven't vacuumed it since the previous presidential administration.  But, I cannot tolerate clutter under my feet when I'm driving.  Since I may be driving home, or, at the very least, taking a turn driving home, I decide to spend some time clearing clutter out of her car.

There is something, I'm not sure what, dried and crusted and stinking up the center console cup holder.  I'm afraid to even wager a guess what it might be, but I clean it up anyway.  Underneath the mystery powdery stinky stuff, there is money.  I peel the one dollar bill up, and it breaks in half.  I suppose the government will forgive me for throwing out money, or perhaps I could send it to the government and let their technicians deal with it. 

That's the worst of the unexpected surprises, though.  In a little over an hour, I manage to put some change into the console, hide loose tampons in the glove box rather than out in the open on the dashboard, fold the bra and put it back with the laundry bag where it belongs, clear out a dozen plastic bottles and almost as many empty and semi-empty coffee cups, and relocate things to make sense (medicine together, lone earrings in a pile to hopefully be reunited with their mates, and gather all the unopened mail in a bag).

Please don't get the wrong idea about my daughter.  She is very busy.  She's a nurse and often works double shifts.  She also goes in during storms when others cannot make it to the hospital.  She has a busy social life and is on the go every single waking moment.  Still, though, driving in her car is a little like squishing into a Smart Car because the rest of the space has been swallowed into the Black Hole of Useless Paraphernalia.  And, to be frank, she is teeny bit of a slob (as am I).

It's not all bad news.  In addition to finding errant earrings, I also find cash hidden.  Like me, my daughter likes to stash money places in case she needs it, and, like me, she often forgets where those "safe spaces" are.  Unlike the dried up, crusty dollar that found its way to a trash can, I find four neatly folded twenty dollar bills tucked alongside an emergency CPR mask. 

I am thrilled to report that my daughter and I are also similar in our joy over finding a stash of cash.  I'm not so sure she is thrilled with my cleaning and invasion of her vehicular privacy, but what's done is done.  The best part is that I don't even drive on the way home, so I didn't really need to clean the car, after all.  But, it's the best $80 we ever found, and that is totally worth an hour of my time.

NY (OR NOT) MEMORABILIA

I am hanging around in East Greenbush, NY, an area sandwiched between Albany and Schenectady.  Killing time, I'm enjoying the local Cracker Barrel.  I have a lovely breakfast of eggs, bacon, and biscuits, sitting at a table by myself, sipping unlimited tea refills.  I even get extra honey, which makes me ridiculously happy for some reason.

Once I've finished my breakfast, I decide to do some indoor "window" shopping in the main store part of Cracker Barrel.  I am not going to lie: I love Cracker Barrel stores.  They smell good, and they have lots of cool booty.  The stores are set up with little themes everywhere: Americana, holiday, cowboy, peacocks, beach, kids' stuff, and candy, among others.  It's amazing how they can fit all these different mini-shops within the limited store space they have.

I am tempted to buy Turkish Taffy just for the heck of it, but I know it won't taste the same as I remember.  Or, perhaps it will, and I will have forgotten that I don't actually like Turkish Taffy.  Either way, I pass it by.  I do end up with a Reese's peanut butter cup and a peppermint patty, so I do not escape the candy unscathed.

As I'm leaving the store, I spot the discount sports stuff.  There are a bunch of Syracuse hats, which is weird since I'm actually in Saint Rose country, but I suppose Saint Rose memorabilia doesn't really sell as hotly as does 'Cuse junk.  There is a bunch of NY Rangers stuff (key chains, glasses, shirts), which I don't mind.  I'm a Rangers fan, anyway, when I'm not rooting for the Bruins.  Well, not necessarily just the Rangers.  I'm a huge fan of the NHL Original Six -- even Montreal has finally grown on me enough to be tolerable.

Thankfully, there isn't a single NY Yankees item in the entire store.  That's right: not one Yankees insignia to assault my senses.  It's all Mets stuff.  My dad, a Western Massachusetts guy, used to say that most of his neighbors had been Mets fans, not Red Sox fans.  Since I'm just over the Massachusetts border, I guess it's safe to make a mock cheer of "Go, Mets" and still return home with my skin on when I encounter my rabid Red Sox friends and family.

Also, there is not one single NY Jets item in the store, either.  Nope, not even on the huge discounted sale rack (what a surprise).  There is only Giants gear.  I guess in addition to being Mets country, it must be Giants country, too, which is comforting in a weird way.  I need a new team, anyway.  My NE Patriots are starting to sound like a soap opera, and I don't tolerate that shit at all.

No matter.  It's still a huge relief when I cross the border on the way home and stop at a rest area.  Outside the building is a kiosk of all Boston-based items: sports stuff, Boston-themed handbags, Boston t-shirts...  I breathe a sigh of relief.  It's good to get away, but it's good to get home again, too.  It's even better when NY can be done without a single need to spit on the ground and mumble, "Damn Yankees.  Damn Jets.  Yankees and Jets suck."

TRAVEL COMPATABILITY

My daughter and I travel together from time to time.  So far we haven't killed each other, which is a Herculean feat when one considers how different we are.

We do have some commonalities, like packing a cooler.  Doesn't matter if we're going up the street; let's pack a cooler in case we get thirsty/hungry/hangry. So, for an overnight trek that will require about eight hours of total travel time to and from, we pack waters, juices, sandwiches, and lots and lots of snacks.

Halfway to our destination, we stop to take a break.  We both want something, but we don't know what.  We do know, however, that nothing in the cooler will suffice.  There isn't a Dunkins nor a Starbucks at this rest area, but there is a McDonalds.  Here's where we are totally different.  My daughter orders a blueberry iced coffee; I order a hot fudge sundae with extra fudge sauce.  We are both deliriously happy with our choices.

Once we reach our destination, we check into the hotel and start jockeying for beds.  Turns out it's not even a battle: she chooses the bed near the window; I want the bed near the wall.  She spreads her stuff out on the window ledge; I take over the tiny closet area.  Thank goodness we are different in this respect because there will be no fighting or Rock-Paper-Scissors for space.

Finally settled in, we hit the cooler: turkey sandwiches with cheese and tomatoes, some crackers, and some grapes.  My daughter surprises me with red wine in a small boxed container.  It's a red wine - cabernet sauvignon. I surprise her with two small bottles (as in a four-pack) of red wine: one cabernet sauvignon and one red blend.  Ah, yes, perfect, because "grape" minds think alike.  We open her wine and put mine away for another road trip.

Thank goodness we are different enough and similar enough to survive the overnight trek.  Apparently we really are compatible travel companions after all.  Now, if I could just get her to ease up on the snoring ...