Loyalty vanquished

I’m very sad to report that my local Kmart lost a loyal customer yesterday. For decades the store served as a haven from the noisy, stressful environment of Walmart, whose constant blaring of music and shrieking announcement of staff members always left me in a sour mood. My dislike of my local Walmart even begins at the parking lot, the design of which is like navigating through the various circles of hell. I believe firmly that a happy couple could enter Walmart’s automatic doors, but be on the verge of divorce by the time they reach aisle 6.

My local Kmart always rose above the impossibly narrow parking spaces, suspicious-looking greeters, loud music, and blaring announcements from the service desk. That was…until yesterday.

I had a migraine by the time I left and I was hovering close to the edge of becoming one of those mothers you see screaming at her children for what appears to be no apparent reason.

While searching through the bins of school supplies for paper and glue that is actually made in USA (grumbling with failure), I was trying to instruct my oldest with the task of walking around the corner for another brand of gluestick when the shrieking voice of someone needing “Tracy” at her register blared from the speaker somewhere above me. The announcement was so loud that it robbed me of my ability to speak, as if all the air in the store were taken into the lungs of the customer service girl, who used it to her full advantage.

Just when I thought it was safe to speak, another announcement sounded above me, this one even longer than the first. I held my tongue and waited for it to end, holding up my index finger in a signal for my son to wait for the moment when I wouldn’t have to shout my request.

Minutes seemed to tick by while I waited for the ringing in my ears to stop. A song that I’ve never heard before began somewhere after the beginning, the music swelling as the male singer voiced his longing for a woman he couldn’t wait to have in his arms again. From the pinched, yet raspy sound of his voice, I’d say he must have waited too long already, either that or he frightened the woman off (and perhaps she shot him before she left, hence the long guttural groans).

Gathering my, now limited, patience (see previous posts), I made it to checkout 12, where the girl behind the counter rolls her eyes and announces to the long line of ready-to-goers that it will be a while before her computer comes online again. 7, the only other lane open, is already curved into the center aisle. Another announcement is blared from overhead that there is no waiting at the service desk.

With two people in front of me and four behind me, there is no way I’m getting to the service desk before they are. So I hang tight.

After a minute or two, the computer comes up and my checkout girl is back in business. She rings me up and gives me the total. She watches while I write my check and then she takes it, runs it through the register and asks me to sign a slip of paper. Since I just wrote a check and didn’t use a credit card, I look at her. She smiles and cheerily states that they now have “electronic check.” I of course know what electronic check is. I hate electronic check. I don’t want my check back after I took the time to write it. To me, this is just one more thing I have to put through the shredder. And who came up with electronic check in the first place? (grumbling)

Up until this point my local Kmart did not have it. So, I stare at my smiling checkout girl and wonder why she didn’t tell me about the electronic check feature while she watched me write out the check. After all, if I’d have known I would have used my debit card instead. Yet stupidly I was trying to keep better track of my purchases by writing a check instead of using my debit card, then stuffing my receipt into my checkbook and hoping to remember to write it down later. Because when I use a debit card, I feel the need to rush. I feel that there isn’t a grace period at the checkout counter for me to write the amount in my check register. Most of the time, the cashier is already ringing up the next customer’s items before I’ve zipped my purse.

Not that any of it matters any more. I’m well out of Kmart. My heart rate has long since slowed to a calmer, albeit sadder, beat. I will miss my local Kmart. For a long while it stood out as quiet reprieve from the demonic labyrinth across the street. But no more. Sadly, no more.

Commercial appeal

First of all, in regards to my last post, I think patience is highly overrated. Waiting just prolongs the agony.

Now to the main point of this entry… I completely understand what commercial appeal is. In writing, there are numerous authors who have this treasure: Nora Roberts, Julia Quinn, Lisa Kleypas, and many others. These authors have something– a certain way to tell a story, a way to tap into the perfect alpha male psyche, a way to get a reader to connect to the heroine on a personal level. It’s an art form.

And as an art form, it’s subjective. Most readers have their list of favorite “keeper” authors. I know I have mine. While this is true, so is the opposite. There are authors that I haven’t read simply because their storylines or writing style didn’t appeal to whatever I was looking for at that particular moment.

A reader like me develops brand loyalty, like a preference for A&W Root Beer over IBC. As an author, I want to have the commercial appeal that draws brand loyalty from my readers. But how do I do that?

Patience

Yes, we all know patience is a virtue.

But really…does this apply to every situation?

And can’t we simply tally up the moments when we exhibit incredible patience and get the “virtue” credit?

A day in the life

Sometimes the moments in your life bleed into all the others. And soon all you’re left with is a huge, pulsating clot. You ask yourself, “Am I better off leaving the clot alone, or should I use a sewing needle on it?” Either way you’re looking at the possibility of infection, or continuing the flow that led you to this point in the first place. There really isn’t a whole lot of hope once the bleeding starts, unless you can somehow stop it before it festers.

Mine has festered for far too long. The moments of my life have circled each other, wrapped in a barbed sort of twine that never unravels without taking part of me with it. There is no way to separate the good and incredible times, from the life-sucking and completely horrible. Even my memories are tainted.

Every inclination to branch out, to break away, is somehow pulled back onto the barbs. Each time I try, I’m cut anew. And then the bleeding starts all over again.

And yet, the funny thing is, I still have hope.

Add another “want” to the list

I want a summer place in Grand Haven, Michigan. It’s absolutely beautiful. The town is so clean and quaint. The houses are beautiful, the lawns perfectly manicured. Of course, if I lived there, I’d need to abandon my “no gardening” method of gardening. On Saturday evening, nautically attired crowds gathered to hear the musical fountain and to walk the long pier toward the lighthouse. (Note to self: shop at Nautica)

We watched the gulls fly through the mist that rose from the waves hitting the breaker wall and then up to the cottonball clouds that hung beneath a summer blue sky. The sun dropped to the mast tips of the sailboats on the horizon before we left.

A place like that is incredibly inspiring. My fingers itch just thinking about it and all I want to do is sit on beach with a pad of paper (my laptop would probably get sand in it), a few choice Uniball pens, and write. Water has always been a great source of inspiration for me and that particular spot on the planet simply spoke to me.

I’m already looking forward to going back (I’m mentally packing my beach chair, umbrella, floppy hat, notebook, and pens). In the meantime, I will bathe in the waters of inspiration that I’ve taken with me.

My family visit to Dairy Queen

“Welcome to Dairy Queen. What can I make for you today?”

–”A small hot fudge sundae with extra peanuts.”

“A small hot fudge sundae with extra hot fudge?”

–”No. Extra peanuts.”

“Excuse me?”

–”I want extra peanuts.”

Pause…”Honey, don’t we all.”

Wrong number

Early Friday evening, as I pulled into the Target parking lot, I heard the subtle bleep of my cellphone letting me know I had a voicemail. The number on the display was unfamiliar. Excited (because I rarely get calls, let alone voicemails), I typed in my launch code. :)

The moment I heard the name “Christy” in the salutation, my excitement deflated. However, the more I listened to the message, I became concerned for Christy. It was the bank calling to inform her of a problem they’d found in her paperwork. It was imperative that Christy call back within in a certain timeframe.

Of course, I have no idea who Christy is. Nor do I know how to make contact with her (although the idea of dialing several variations of my own cell phone number in order to find her did spring to mind). Yet, I feel like I can’t simply do nothing for Christy. Perhaps if I call the bank and explain to them that they did not, in actuality, leave a message on Christy’s phone…then perhaps they would give Christy a little leeway.

On the other hand, I feel crazy for giving this wrong number as much thought as I have. I mean, who does this?!

Conspiracy theory

I’ve come to the conclusion that paper towels come from Afghanistan.

I can find no other reason for the jump in price over the last year. One day, I’m buying a two pack of paper towels for $1.89. Now, I can’t even buy a single roll for that price. And the bargain multi-pack that used to be $8.99 on sale is now “on sale” for $12.69.

What has happened? I’ve heard nothing on the nightly news. There aren’t distressed shoppers standing in front of the grocery store bewildered at this strange turn of events. But there should be. I know I’m not the only one who’s noticed.

I don’t know why, but we must be shipping our paper pulp to the Middle East to make paper towels. Probably some government funded program to help their economy. “Paper towels!” they say. “The American public will never notice. They’ll be too outraged by the price of gas to complain.” (insert evil government official laugh)

In addition to the fact that we have to pay more for paper towels, they’ve sent the reams of paper towels off to a perforating company that purposely dulls their cutters. So when the consumer grabs a single paper towel from the marble holder on the countertop, they get two instead.

Tell me, when you have a spill and need a paper towel to clean it up instantly, before the liquid spreads beneath the toaster or microwave oven, how many of you will take the time to peel those two paper towels apart saying, “Wait a minute. I only need one paper towel to clean up this mess”?

That’s another part of the conspiracy. First “they” have you paying more for the product. Even the sale price is twice what it used to be a year ago. Then, they make it so that you can’t tear off a single sheet. You are forced to use more of the product, increasing your need to buy more, increasing the amount of money you pay…

See? Now I have you wondering, don’t I?

I’m just not that kind of girl

Every month, I post a new recipe on my website. Since July is my birthday month (as well as the birthday month for some pretty phenomenal people), I wanted to post a birthday cake recipe.

But try as I might…I couldn’t come up with one. I’m just not a cake kinda gal. Well, unless it just happens to be a Maggie Moos ice cream cake with a brownie at the bottom of a mountain of chocolate peanut butter cup ice cream. Oh, yeah. It’s okay to drool, I won’t tell a soul. :)

Yet while I’m not a cake kinda gal, I am a scone kinda gal. Scones, tea, a rainy morning and a really good book is my idea of heaven. So instead of a birthday cake recipe, I’ve revamped my Blueberry Scones recipe. They’re not your usual, crumbly scones. These are truly decadent with a hint of lemon in the sinful icing. You’re definitely going to want to try these. And of course, don’t forget the tea. My favorite is Tazo Zen–green tea with spearmint and lemongrass.