SCAM ALERT

SCAM ALERT TO ANYONE WHO SHOPS AT CVS STORES!

CVS (the one in my town, anyway) is randomly charging people for products they do not buy.  The price appears at the end of your receipt, and the management (when called on the carpet) will tell you that it's a "computer glitch" that charges you automatically.  Granted, they will give you a refund ... IF you catch it and can prove that you did not buy the Rave 3-4-2, which is, apparently, hair spray.

Imagine, though.  What a gig.  $2.49 per customer, plus the product never moves.  That's money in the bank for CVS.  That's pure profit, $5 for every two people in their store.

The mere fact that the supervisor admitted the store KNEW that its registers were doing this makes my blood boil.  There are plenty of computer geeks working there (or related to people working there) who could go in and block the item from the register inventory.  It's plain bullshit.  I almost missed it myself, but I arrived home convinced that I had been overcharged by about $3.  (I was.)

Check the cashiers, check your receipt, and don't leave the store if there's a mistake.

Sure, sure, I only got ripped off about $1.90 after discounts but including sales tax.  And, speaking of sales tax, isn't CVS now paying state sales tax on inventory that doesn't exist?  That was NEVER sold? Isn't this some kind of fraudulent activity?

 Honestly.  I was just trying to do something nice for my invalid sister, and you schmoes have to rip me off.  Amazing.  Tactless, devious, underhanded, and probably illegal ... but amazing, just the same.  I suppose that I should be relieved that it's hair spray and not something notable, like hemorrhoid cream or adult diapers or laxatives, although those are all VERY important items; just not the items you want to be calling the managerial staff about being overcharged.

Regardless, it IS a SCAM ALERT.  Pay attention, CVS shoppers; this could happen to you, too.

SUCKER

I'm having a relatively good morning.  I sleep well, my hair is washed and dried at a decent hour, lunch is packed and ready to go, and I only leave the house a few minutes later than I'd hoped.  Traffic on the main road is backed up a bit, so I turn down the side street by the prep school.  With so much traffic on the direct route, the indirect route will take as much time, maybe even less, today.

As soon as I round the corner, I notice the brilliant gold of the morning sky.  The sunrise is exceptionally brilliant today, and I would've missed this sight going to work the other way.  I am so impressed by the colors that my mood shifts from so-so to full-on happiness.

(not my pic)

Yup.  Even though I'm moseying along on my slow but merry way, I'm feeling positive that it's going to be a decent day after all. Until I get to work, that is.

I pull into the back lot, park my car in its usual spot, and listen to the end of a song.  Throwing the car door open, I am not greeted by the fresh air nor the yellow-blue sky nor any of the cheery coworkers I often meet who arrive around the same time.

Nope.  This morning I am greeted by a very loud and obnoxious crow that is perched high on a nearby lamp post.  It caws at me with a voice that clearly screeches, "Awwwwwwwwwwwwwww."  It's a sad sound, a mocking sound.  That sonofabitch bird is making fun of me because I have to go inside to work and it doesn't.

I caw back at it.  What do I care?  No one else is around.

The crow responds quickly.  "Ca-ca-ca-AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW," which clearly translates into, "Suuuuuuuucker.  Have a stupid day at work, you suuuuuuuckawwwwwwwww!"

Bastard.  I caw once more, chuck the bird The Bird, and let myself into the building for a long day of teaching, meetings, and fielding emails, phone calls, and other minutiae.  Clearly the bird is correct.  It's a decent day outside and the temperature is finally (albeit temporarily) hovering around sixty degrees.

What am I doing?  I'm going to work. Oh, man.  Suuuuuuuuuuuuucker.

RECORDER REORDER

Cleaning out my life means coming across some strange and funny items.  Recently I stumble across a box of musical novelties: recorders, metal spoons, wooden castanets...  My daughter is visiting for the morning, and she discovers the box of treasures.

She has not played the recorder in decades, yet she picks up her old recorders (a standard one and an alto one) and plays each (one at a time, of course) perfectly.  I, on the other hand, have never been able to play the damn recorder.  Every time I try, the instrument makes a high-pitched squeak. 

She laughs at me, attempts to teach me how to play, videos me massacring a melody, and giggles so hard that she gets me laughing.  She continues to play perfectly and from memory.  I, on the other hand, turn to the keyboard, an instrument that I can at least partially play, and start accompanying her with such easy tunes as "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" and "Happy Birthday."

We get bolder and activate the pre-set songs already loaded on the keyboard.  Yes, this is muuuuuuuch better.  I pretend to play along, and sometimes I even really do play along ... a little bit.  I'm not squeaking any longer, and I wouldn't even be embarrassed if she videotaped me.

We jam together for about twenty minutes or so, stopping to laugh our butts off at how silly this all is.  Honestly, who'd have thought some plastic recorders and an old electric keyboard could bring back so many memories and cause us to nearly pee our pants.

Funny how cleaning out my life isn't stripping it down at all; it's enriching it.  I almost don't want to part with the recorders now that they have new-found significance and humor, which makes these old-time treasures new-time solid gold.

SUPER TROOPER GIRL

I go to bed relatively early, determined to get at least seven hours of sleep.  This is actually a fallacy since I never sleep through the night anymore.  I am up once, twice ... sometimes six times a night.  But, tonight I sleep reasonably well, even if I am awake early, about fifteen minutes before the alarm.

I am just about to get up when -- boom -- I fall back asleep.

Suddenly I am watching a large group of people wearing outfits that can best be described as 1950's state fair fancy chic.  The women wear colorful dresses with petticoats and ruffles while milling around a bandstand in a park that reminds me of something from Gilmore Girls (which, by the way, has not stood the test of time and actually sucks far worse than I ever remember when I first watched it).

All of a sudden, Zach Galifianakis struts across the "screen" of the dream along with a group of smartly dressed gents, and everyone snaps fingers and begins dancing in perfectly choreographed unison.  It's like watching a cross between Grease and West Side Story.  Someone, I don't know who, starts yelling, "Hey, they're all singing Super Trooper Girl by Brittney Spears!"  And the music continues...

I wake up when my alarm goes off minutes later, classical music on the clock radio today (sometimes the local Spanish station).  Flummoxed is a mild word for my state of mind.  First of all, I am not remotely a fan of Zach Galifianakis, and I never have nor will I ever listen to Brittney Spears music.  I fire up the computer and Google search Super Trooper Girl to see if such a song even exists; to my knowledge, it does not in any way, shape, or form, although, as I recall, the tune is rather catchy.

I have to wonder what the hell I ate last night.  Either that or I have to sleep less than seven hours so I can avoid having ear-worms of songs that don't even exist.  Still though, I suppose a bad Galifianakis-Spears musical number is better than a full-blown nightmare.

Ummmmm, it is ... right?

FOOTING ... JUST THE SAME

Sunday morning my neighborhood is hit by a sneak attack.

No, it's not thieves nor animals nor river rats from down the street nor drunken neighbors nor a train derailment.  It's not even the church-goers who park willy-nilly all over my street and block people's driveways.  It's not a plague nor locusts nor Hitchcock's birds.

Nope.  Those would be mild in comparison.

Sunday morning I wake up, open the shades, look out to the driveway and see ... I see ... damnation, it hurts to say it ... I ... see ....

SNOW.  That's right; snow, all over the cars, the street, the driveway, the walkway, the front steps, the porch...

Yeah, yeah, I know; I'm the one who says winter can still smack us around until late April, but truly, I am not expecting this.  My brain has already shifted to summer mode, so any mention of snow at this point just refuses to register.  I suppose the weather people may have mentioned snow showers for today, but after our most recent "Blizzard Not a Blizzard" rain storm, I kind of just stopped paying attention.

Anyway, it's not a total disaster.  It's a mere dusting, and, despite the icy temperatures, the sun has already started its intense seasonal shift.  By the time I have to move my car, there's nothing left.  Sneak attack ... followed by sneak disappearance. 

I suppose this can be my Passover-Easter anecdote: Flakes finally told to get out of the area, the skies part, and they make their mass exodus.  The flakes rise instead of fall, and people roll the rocks away from their front doors and look to the sun.

Too sacrilegious? Oh well.  I've never been known for my tact, and I'm not overly fond of the icy reception this morning.  I guess that puts me and the "people upstairs" on equal but unlikely footing ... icy footing ... but footing, just the same.

BITE MY ASS, WOMAN'S DAY

WARNING!  WARNING!  FOUL LANGUAGE TO FOLLOW!  COVER YOUR EYES AND EARS AND RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!

Woman's Day magazine and I have been battling for almost a year now.  They keep sending me invoices via snail mail and also via email, demanding payment that is overdue for my subscription to their rag.

Well, in true Heliand fashion, I paid the first invoice in full rather than pay those piddly surcharges on an extended subscription price.  I mean, I probably paid $12 at the most for the whole year.  I know this because there are only two or three magazine I'll spring a little more for, and Woman's Freaking Day is not one of them.

I have responded politely by snail mail.  I have responded politely by email.  I even phoned them.  I sent screenshots and hard copies of the check they cashed (because I still pay with paper when possible).  Then, I started getting nasty.  I wrote unhappy commentary and sad faces on both snail mail and e-mail.

(Four times by email; countless by snail mail.)

Still, these idiots harass me.

Well, here is my most recent and final email exchange with them.  Honestly, I don't give one flying fuck if I ever read this magazine again.  There are four or five magazines of the same genre that have been taking turns printing the same articles by the same writers over and over again, a practice that used to be a huge no-no in the publishing industry.  I mean, kudos to the writers, but it's damn bullshit in the real world.

So, folks, this is my last email to them before putting them into my spam folder.  Publishers of Woman's Day, you can bite my goddamn ass.

LEFT BEHIND BY ITS SIX-PACK MATES

There's a store down the street from me that, despite changing its name to a wine emporium, is really a glorified liquor store.  One way to be sure is the beer. Oh, sure, there are lots of vendors to choose from when purchasing beer.  This place, though, has an entire wall dedicated to single cans and single bottles of craft beer.

Sometimes I like to try different, off-brand craft beers without making a commitment.  Dark beers, light beers, middle of the road beers ... it doesn't matter.  The Mighty Beer Wall lets me be me and, like a loving and effective parent to a curious child, allows me to experiment safely with beers outside of my comfort zone.

While standing at The Mighty Beer Wall today, I strike up a conversation with an older couple.  They're doing out loud what I am doing silently in my brain: oohing and aaaaahhhhhing over the variety of craft beer singles, and narrowing down some fine but unusual choices.

This is when we all see it.

Quietly taking a space amongst the craft beers on the lowest shelf, almost hiding from view, is a bottle of Michelob Ultra -- certainly not an unusual beer and definitely not a craft beer.  A crafty one, perhaps, but not craft.

We chuckle over it, then the couple picks out four cans of varying size and source.  I stand alone in front of The Mighty Beer Wall for an extra moment, wordlessly cheering on the Mich Ultra.  Shine on, little lite beer of mainstream origin.  Show those crazy off-brands how a brand name beer does it, even if your six-pack mates left you behind.

(To be fair, there are several other mainstream beers there, but we spotted the Michelob Ultra first, and it makes a much better story than Heineken.)