“You ladies have been randomly chosen…” Was that man with the balloons talking to me? Was I in a grocery store or at Disney World?
My first visit to the new Stop and Shop was rather disconcerting with the amount of attention lavished upon all of the shoppers as we wandered the brightly shining aisles attempting to find a favorite brand of cocoa or dried apricots. Even before I entered the store, I was greeted not by one or even two friendly employees, but by a veritable cheering line—not much different than the finale of the reality show The Amazing Race without having raced around the world first. And like a race around the world, we had our own Passport—this one issued by Stop and Shop, not the United States government. In lieu of visiting exotic foreign destinations, we stopped by tables laden with carrots and ranch dressing or shrimp with cocktail sauce or fresh rotisserie chicken. At each station our passport was stamped in pursuit of the ultimate prize—a reusable grocery bag. We weren’t going to win a million dollars in this race, but then again we had only come to purchase a few groceries and see the new store.
I had brought in plastic bags to recycle and when I didn’t see a recycle bin by the entrance, I asked one of the freshly scrubbed employees where the plastic bags could be recycled. Before I even finished my question, she had efficiently extracted the bags from my grip and cheerily offered to deposit them for me. Guess I would have to wait for my next visit to find where the bin was hidden.
In every aisle a shining, smiling employee was posted to assist in all manner of needs—finding an item was only the beginning of the magic these grinning employees offered. It was as if I were in a distant country that was working hard to impress the recently arrived tourists. An employee nearly snatched the shopping list from a customer as she gazed across the endless rows of cereal boxes. I honestly thought he was going to fill up her shopping cart for her. As another bent down next to me, I checked to see if my shoe was untied. Turned out she was restocking the bottom shelf.
So it was with a sense of relief of having successfully navigated the gauntlet of supportive employees that I found myself at the checkout line, my purchases being pleasantly scanned by a smiling cashier. Then came the balloon man. Holding one yellow and one purple balloon, he approached us and happily informed us that we had been randomly selected as winners. We would receive $10 for every Stop and Shop brand item purchased. Seeing as I had only run into the store to pick up a handful of groceries, I knew I was not a million dollar winner. Fortunately, though two Stop and Shop brand items had made their way from my short list to the conveyor belt. Balloons aloft, the magical moment guide led us out to the front of the store to present us with Stop and Shop gift cards and gave us the two balloons. It wasn’t a million dollar check, and our balloon man hardly resembled Phil from The Amazing Race, but yet I still felt a sense of victory at having completed my own personal grocery store competition.
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Showing posts with label humor. Show all posts
Racing a Hail Storm
Afternoon thunderstorms, the forecaster had been clear on that point. It was 8 a.m. —definitely not afternoon— why was I hearing the sound of a giant closet door being slid across the sky? And why when I turned the corner was the entire western sky darkening?
Here I was thinking how convenient that I could drop off my car and walk the 2 miles home, getting my exercise in early. Maybe I could out walk the storm; I quickened my pace.
Half way home and subtle, infrequent flecks of rain tapped against my bare arms. Another 100 yards and the taps were not so subtle—more like pellets as they cascaded off the brim of my cap. I started counting the time between lightening and thunder; 1 one thousand, 2 one thousand, 3 one thousand, 4 one – crackle, boom, BOOM! Okay that was getting close. I quickened my pace again; didn’t think that was possible, but clearly the motive was increasing.
Three quarters of the way home and it was ominously dark, yet cars hadn’t turned on their headlights. Option A, stay in the street and take a chance on not being seen by a driver; Option B, step into the poison ivy with my bare legs and endure 2 weeks of a horrendously itchy rash. In essence a life or limb choice. Then I remembered, I was still wearing sunglasses. It wasn’t as dark as I feared. I opted for the pavement.
The rain was coming down in a torrent by this point. On the plus side, I hadn’t worn a thin T and my baseball cap was decent at keeping the rain off my glasses so my vision, other than the darkness, was not obscured by rain drops.
“Ow!” The drops started stinging, and raising a racket. “Who is throwing stones?” I looked around—pea size hail with a few nickel size pieces thrown in for good measure. I thought of my open windows I had left at home and kept hustling.
Finally, I ran into the house, quickly shed my shoes, ran for the nearest open window, slid across the floor in my sodden socks, fell down hard, jumped up and slammed the window shut. I continued racing through the house, closing windows until finally I closed the last one and everything was quiet.
“Amazing how sound proof those windows seem,” I thought. Then I looked out. The rain and hail had completely subsided, the cloud had moved on and the sky brightened. Hope the mechanic could achieve better timing with my car.
Here I was thinking how convenient that I could drop off my car and walk the 2 miles home, getting my exercise in early. Maybe I could out walk the storm; I quickened my pace.
Half way home and subtle, infrequent flecks of rain tapped against my bare arms. Another 100 yards and the taps were not so subtle—more like pellets as they cascaded off the brim of my cap. I started counting the time between lightening and thunder; 1 one thousand, 2 one thousand, 3 one thousand, 4 one – crackle, boom, BOOM! Okay that was getting close. I quickened my pace again; didn’t think that was possible, but clearly the motive was increasing.
Three quarters of the way home and it was ominously dark, yet cars hadn’t turned on their headlights. Option A, stay in the street and take a chance on not being seen by a driver; Option B, step into the poison ivy with my bare legs and endure 2 weeks of a horrendously itchy rash. In essence a life or limb choice. Then I remembered, I was still wearing sunglasses. It wasn’t as dark as I feared. I opted for the pavement.
The rain was coming down in a torrent by this point. On the plus side, I hadn’t worn a thin T and my baseball cap was decent at keeping the rain off my glasses so my vision, other than the darkness, was not obscured by rain drops.
“Ow!” The drops started stinging, and raising a racket. “Who is throwing stones?” I looked around—pea size hail with a few nickel size pieces thrown in for good measure. I thought of my open windows I had left at home and kept hustling.
Finally, I ran into the house, quickly shed my shoes, ran for the nearest open window, slid across the floor in my sodden socks, fell down hard, jumped up and slammed the window shut. I continued racing through the house, closing windows until finally I closed the last one and everything was quiet.
“Amazing how sound proof those windows seem,” I thought. Then I looked out. The rain and hail had completely subsided, the cloud had moved on and the sky brightened. Hope the mechanic could achieve better timing with my car.
Improv Mailboxes
Now that the snow banks have solidified and entombed countless mailboxes in a frozen mass, it is too late to modify posts to safely see the mail receptacles through until spring. However, it’s not too early to start making the springtime to do list, especially if yours is one of the mailboxes that succumbed to the weight of snow crushing the box.
Those mailbox posts that extend their housing out toward the street while keeping the support safely back from the incessant onslaught of the 10 ton plows, generally fare well:
 |
| Metal Extender |
 |
| Wooden Extender |
 |
| Hanging Mailbox |
While the standard post, especially along a high traffic road, will often fail to provide a protected perch for its mail container:
 | |
| A Low Reach |
 |
| Gone |
Undaunted, the owners of these mailboxes that have been knocked aside often find duct tape or some other ad hoc means for providing a vessel for their daily mail:
Suture Necessity: Humor
Humor is a great accompaniment to receiving sutures. As the physician assistant sutured my finger laceration, he told me this was his third career (not humorous) and told me about his experience slicing his own finger (very humorous).
I had ended up on the receiving end of the needle and thread by carelessly attempting to slice frozen bread with a very sharp knife and without a cutting board—something I have been told on multiple occasions not to do. Maybe this time the lesson will stick.
As I tightly gripped my pointer finger against my thumb, my daughter ran for a bandage and extolled the virtues of applying pressure and using elevation in such situations. I had no desire to release my finger as I’m not a fan of watching blood pour out of my hands. But when I finally got the nerve to take a peak at the incision, I knew immediately that a Band-aid brand adhesive wasn’t going to cut it so to speak.
I headed to the ER, my husband cleverly picking the older car to drive in case I was dripping blood, although my daughter had thoughtfully handed me an old bath towel to wrap my hand in just to avoid difficult to remove bloodstains.
“Well, I hope the chili you made for dinner is bloody good,” my husband commented wryly as we sat waiting in the ER. Doubtful we would get any tonight as the waiting room was mostly full and no one was moving anywhere quickly.
The admitting nurse thoughtfully asked if my finger was still attached (which it was) while my daughter texted me to take the pressure off and get the blood flow going to move up my place in the ER line. As the TV show Chuck was about to start, I was okay sitting in the waiting room for a bit and watching TV. So I kept the pressure applied as my hand began leaking blood onto my towel wrap. Unfortunately halfway through Chuck, someone decided that the assorted menagerie of patients would prefer Monday night football and switched channels. I think we should have taken a vote and raising a bloody hand should have counted extra. In any case, I missed the second half of Chuck and so I have no idea if Chuck and Sarah managed to capture the bad guy or not. Now it was clearly time to remove the pressure and get seen sooner rather than later.
In the examining room, the nurse told me that day old blood stains were as hard to remove from crevices around fingernails as from white Ts. I didn’t believe her, but was glad she thoroughly cleaned my hand in any case.
Then after a lengthy wait with only the sound of a screaming child in the background, a physician’s assistant came in for suturing. Apparently only on Grey’s Anatomy do plastic surgeons hang around the ER.
“So do you know how to sew?” I asked.
“She means can you sew well,” my husband clarified.
He didn’t answer directly but did tell us about the time he cut his finger on a bread knife at a salad bar, tossed the knife and bread behind the salad bar and then while walking over to meet his friends at their table, passed out in the middle of the restaurant where everyone, but his friends saw him go down.
Clearly he had empathy as well as a more entertaining story. Guess I’ll find out if he also can sew when I get these 5 sutures removed.
I had ended up on the receiving end of the needle and thread by carelessly attempting to slice frozen bread with a very sharp knife and without a cutting board—something I have been told on multiple occasions not to do. Maybe this time the lesson will stick.
As I tightly gripped my pointer finger against my thumb, my daughter ran for a bandage and extolled the virtues of applying pressure and using elevation in such situations. I had no desire to release my finger as I’m not a fan of watching blood pour out of my hands. But when I finally got the nerve to take a peak at the incision, I knew immediately that a Band-aid brand adhesive wasn’t going to cut it so to speak.
I headed to the ER, my husband cleverly picking the older car to drive in case I was dripping blood, although my daughter had thoughtfully handed me an old bath towel to wrap my hand in just to avoid difficult to remove bloodstains.
“Well, I hope the chili you made for dinner is bloody good,” my husband commented wryly as we sat waiting in the ER. Doubtful we would get any tonight as the waiting room was mostly full and no one was moving anywhere quickly.
The admitting nurse thoughtfully asked if my finger was still attached (which it was) while my daughter texted me to take the pressure off and get the blood flow going to move up my place in the ER line. As the TV show Chuck was about to start, I was okay sitting in the waiting room for a bit and watching TV. So I kept the pressure applied as my hand began leaking blood onto my towel wrap. Unfortunately halfway through Chuck, someone decided that the assorted menagerie of patients would prefer Monday night football and switched channels. I think we should have taken a vote and raising a bloody hand should have counted extra. In any case, I missed the second half of Chuck and so I have no idea if Chuck and Sarah managed to capture the bad guy or not. Now it was clearly time to remove the pressure and get seen sooner rather than later.
In the examining room, the nurse told me that day old blood stains were as hard to remove from crevices around fingernails as from white Ts. I didn’t believe her, but was glad she thoroughly cleaned my hand in any case.
Then after a lengthy wait with only the sound of a screaming child in the background, a physician’s assistant came in for suturing. Apparently only on Grey’s Anatomy do plastic surgeons hang around the ER.
“So do you know how to sew?” I asked.
“She means can you sew well,” my husband clarified.
He didn’t answer directly but did tell us about the time he cut his finger on a bread knife at a salad bar, tossed the knife and bread behind the salad bar and then while walking over to meet his friends at their table, passed out in the middle of the restaurant where everyone, but his friends saw him go down.
Clearly he had empathy as well as a more entertaining story. Guess I’ll find out if he also can sew when I get these 5 sutures removed.
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