I'm not a big fan of coins. I mean I like money as much as the next guy, but coins in general are a bit cumbersome. And for someone like me who likes to travel with as few items as possible, heavy metallic change is kind of the enemy.
But I have found myself paying a lot closer attention to my change lately. Perhaps I'm becoming more frugal, or maybe it's my fear of a complete economic collapse, either way, I'm not forsaking my coins any more for their dollared brethren. I am taking care of them, nurturing them, and using them. And it's making me realize certain things.
The first thing I've realized is that using change makes me feel like a child. I'm not sure if this is an insecurity of my own creation as much as it is imposed on me by society.
I keep all of my change either in my desk at work, or at home in an empty Gatorade bottle. When that bottle gets full I take it over to my bank and dump that change into the automatic coin counter.
It is a large machine with a touch screen and a tray that sorts and counts your coins. It then prints out a receipt which you can take up to the counter and exchange for paper money, which is my favorite.
You get some pretty interesting characters waiting in line at that machine. Characters including the creepiest looking people in the world with mugs, jugs, and dirty socks full of coins. So many coins that they often break the machine making us all wait a half our for the manager to fix it.
But it's not the machine itself that makes me feel like a child. It is the instructions. These are given loudly by audio in the voice of an 8 year old girl.
Why?
Well I guess they assume, like I do, that the only people trying to buy anything with change must still be in elementary school. They also apparently think I can't read so i have to listen to another smarter elementary school kid tell me what to do.
So as I am shaking my Gatorade bottle full of nickels into the sorting panel, this cartoon brown noser on the screen is shouting to the whole bank;
"DO YOU WANT TO GUESS HOW MUCH YOU HAVE?"
No I don't want to guess how much I have. How about this guess... Not enough!
And when I finish emptying, and she finishes sorting, she shouts with mock excitement;
"WOW YOU SURE SAVED A LOT OF MONEY!"
Shut up you little snot! I know things are different in cartoon world, but in mine $23.86 is not a lot of money. That's not even half my grocery bill. So stop patronizing me. I don't need you telling me I don't have enough money. What do you know?
About 15 years ago, maybe I would have thought a bit differently. Back when I was a kid the only things I bought were baseball cards and candy. And I always used change, piling my silver on the counter of the corner store like I was a pirate and I had just dug up me plunder.
But at my current point in life, piling change on a counter does not make me feel like a pirate. It makes me feel like an incompetent moron. Like when my drawer at work gets too full of change, I take it downstairs to the hole in the wall coffee shop to buy a breakfast sandwich. And even thought the sandwich only costs 2 bucks, I still feel kind of uncomfortable paying for it with 6 quarters, 2 dimes, and a nickel.
I wonder what the guy behind the counter is thinking.
"Oh great. Here comes the man-child with no real money."
Does he wonder if I am extremely cheap? Broke? Maybe I operate a tollbooth on the weekends and I'm skimming the profits?
Perhaps, because I can put myself in his shoes.
I bartend on the weekends at a place that gets pretty busy. Many people pay by credit card but most people pay by cash. Things usually go pretty smoothly, but there is one situation that always trips me up.
When somebody's bill comes to something like $19.95 and they give me a twenty dollar bill and stand there waiting for the nickel while I go and make change, for some reason it leaves me in disbelief. I pause for a moment and then scream, "Do you really need this you cheapskate?"
And then I fling the nickel at their face.
Maybe not.
But when the tables are turned and I am the customer, I don't really know what to do. For instance, if I give someone a twenty for something that costs $19.95, while I stand there waiting for my change I have a small panic attack.
What does the person behind the counter think about me while I stand there waiting for my nickel.
Do they think I am some scrooge hunting after every last cent? Like I wouldn't dare let any of my tremendous net worth out of my sight. So then I contemplate letting them keep the change.
But what am I supposed to say?
"Hey there friend, buy yourself a nice piece of Bazooka Joe."
How does that make me look? Oh yea I'm so wealthy that you can keep that nickel. Or do they think that I think that I am doing them a favor? I don't know! I think the best thing to do is just walk off like I didn't even notice a nickel was involved. That way we both win.
And maybe as I walk off I can add;
"WOW YOU SURE SAVED A LOT OF MONEY!"
Or maybe not.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Sunday, June 28, 2009
May I Touch You?
I imagine living in a puritanical society was pretty simple. Societal rules were pretty clear.
1. Wear black all the time
2. Don’t touch anybody ever
3. Avoid red lettering
Boom, done. No questions asked.
But the society we live in today is full of personal space and public affection, hidden boundaries and broken rules. It can be quite difficult to negotiate the social atmosphere. Especially for a guy like myself who grew up in a particularly affectionate generation.
By the time I got to the 8th grade I was hugging and kissing my female friends on the cheek whenever we would say hello or goodbye. I don’t know if it was us feigning adulthood or just a natural progression in trying to get closer to touching the opposite sex, but either way it became quite common within my social circles.
But that was in New York Arizona Cactus State
One of my first nights in Arizona
But she sat there paralyzed. Like Super Mario in a Tanooki suit, she didn’t move. By the time my lips finally made it to her cheek I felt like I had spent 2 months on the Oregon trail . It was a completely G rated kiss on the cheek, but when I pulled away the look of shock on her face made me think I had accidentally tried to get to third base with her… which had NOT been the case!
Obviously my social customs were a little different than those of some of my new friends in Arizona
Flash forward to current day. I am a working professional (whatever the hell that means). And I spend my days in business environments with people my age that I get along with pretty well.
Now business custom dictates that I shake their hand, but that feels cold and informal with female peers of my age that, in any other scenario, would involve a hug or kiss. However neither of those is appropriate in an office environment unless of course;
- They have retired, quit, or been fired
- They are receiving an award
So what I often do is just walk up to said females and stand there with my arms akimbo and uncomfortably lean slowly toward them hoping for some sort of last minute intervention that will make my course of action obvious.
I end up looking like more of a creep than had I just agreed to shake their hand in the first place.
The worst part is if they are leaning slightly in which implies a hug but I’m thinking I’m supposed to give them a polite kiss on the cheek and then next thing you know I have some female in a suit pressed awkwardly up against me and I’m gasping for a breath through a mouth full of hair.
I feel like an awkward award presenter. Like I’m about to give Taylor Swift her next Grammy award and a handshake is too formal, and a high five too juvenile, but a hug makes me seem like I’m one mistaken touch away from hearing those dreaded words…
“I’m Chris Hansen from Dateline NBC.”
I don’t know the rules. I just don’t.
When I first started working after college I was terrified of a sexual harassment suit. I don’t behave inappropriately around women (well…not that much) but I was so aware of having to behave like an adult (whatever that means) that I ended up embracing my German roots and showing no emotion at all.
Companies make such a big deal about explaining their rules and regulations and policies when they hire you that it’s a great way to become paranoid. Based on my last 3 jobs, if those rules had been in place while I was in college… I would be probably serving a life sentence in solitary confinement.
We as a society need to embrace hard and fast rules on this. A name tag system could be used.
“Hello I’m a hugger”
or
“Keep your hands where I can see them”
We just need something clear and concise. But I have an idea. I submit that we all (except for the smelly people) hug all the time. Hear me out on this one.
As long as you are wearing a shirt (which, unless you are Ricky Martin, you probably should be) there would be no skin on skin contact. Just 2 humans embracing in a cottony wonderland and it is done. No weak, dead fish, weird touch, germ filled, hand shakes. No my face touching your face, my lips on your cheek, your ear in my eye etc.
Granted I get excited to see pretty much everybody. And I’m kind of like a koala. If you’re willing to hold me, I’m probably just going to hang on as long as you do.
So the next time you see me, whomever you are, just give me a hug. Don’t even let me go for anything else. Just wrap me up, and hold me, and maybe you could whisper in my ear that I am loved. That would make me feel good to.
Unless of course you’re from Arizona
Sunday, June 21, 2009
I Brake for Shrubs
I have always been a good driver. Both of my parents taught me to drive, but my Dad is the one who spent more time with me in the car. We'd drive around neighborhoods with wide streets on Saturday mornings in my sister's white Ford Tempo, running errands and such.
The Tempo was barely more than a go-cart itself, which suited me well because that was what I had the most experience driving anyway.
I'm not entirely sure why I drove more with my Dad more than my mom. Maybe it was just one of those things, or maybe it was because my Dad and I had bonded over an experience that took place while I was still in the thick of puberty. The event I speak of was both traumatic and hilarious. It is a story my father and I recount often. it is the story of my first "car" accident.
The accident I speak of took place while we were on a family vacation. During family vacations we would usually pair off. My Mom and sister would spend the day shopping or at the pool, and my Dad and I would play golf.
Mom would drop us off at the golf course and my Dad and I would load our clubs onto the back of a white electric golf cart.
Now there are rules about minors driving golf carts. I'm pretty sure I remember it being that you must be 16 years old to drive the golf cart, and in some places you must have a driver's license.
My Dad has always been very trusting of me. And we both thought that rule was ridiculous. Did they honestly believe that maneuvering a 600 pound plastic lawn mower around a park at 9 miles an hour is exactly the same as going 70 down the highway in a 2,000 pound Buick?
But my father believe in my ability to be responsible and handle such a complex task as knowing the difference between the gas pedal and the brake pedal, and the subtle variances between going forwards, and going in reverse. And besides, he was sitting right besides me. There was no traffic. Was there anything that could really go wrong?
The answer of course, was yes.
We had just finished hitting practice balls at the range, and were going to head over to the putting green for a little practice before we teed off. I asked my Dad if I could drive. Sometimes he would wait until we were out past the first tee box but this day he wasn't worried. Either because I was starting to look older, or because he was relaxed being on vacation. The point is, he let me. Way to go Dad!
So we hopped in and I started along the little path to where I thought the putting green was. Humming along at all but a brisk pace we took the turn around the clubhouse and were approaching a fork in the road. Thinking I knew where to go I started to turn the wheel to the left.
"Left?" I asked my dad, already deep into my turn.
And my normally calm and relaxed father realized my error.
"No RIGHT!"
Slightly panicked I yanked the wheel to the right. But golf carts don't come with power steering, so my race car like maneuver was not nearly as sharp as I had hoped it would be. And instead of swerving to the right path we were now set to split the fork and crash into a wooded area.
I would like to take a moment here to tell you a little about my experiences with crashing vehicles up until this point in my life.
While I had driven a golf car before, I had never crashed one. in fact all of my collisions had taken place no on 4 wheels, but on 2. My black 12 speed mountain bike was my primary form of transportation up until I got my license.
I rode that thing with moderate success over potholes, ice patches, and all other manner of obstructions. Once in a while I'd lose control and jump a curb or hit an old lady. But I would brace myself for impact, like all other kids did, by using my hand brakes and taking my feet off the pedals, putting them out in front of me to brace myself for the crash.
So it makes sense that as my father and I headed for a (kind of) high speed collision with a gaggle of shrubs, I didn't step on the brake. No. I instinctively put my legs out in front of me to stop the cart from crashing.
And seeing as I was not Fred Flintstone, this did not work.
Instead we crunched over a plastic bucket which made a horrific sound and we came to a rest firmly embedded in the shrubbery.
"Back up back up!" My Dad said, more embarrassed than angry.
Terrified that we were about to be in serious trouble, I threw the cart into reverse (which actually means I just flipped a switch). It might not have attracted as much attention if it hadn't made the ear piercing EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE sound when it was put into reverse.
With the cart screaming for attention I punched the gas and we crunched over the bucket again, scraping it along the pavement, the sound even more horrific the second time.
"Go go go!" my Dad said, as I killed the screaming and put it into forward gear. Flooring it, we drove away trying to play it like we had not just crashed a $4,000 machine into a $4 bucket and a beautiful bit of greenery.
We tried to stay out of sight as long as we could, but we had to drive past there to get to the first tee. We passed the scene of the crime shortly thereafter and saw a golf course official inspecting the mutilated bucket and destroyed bush, wondering what moron could have possibly been so incompetent.
My Dad and I both peered over at him raising our eyebrows as if to say, "Oh geez I wonder what could have happened there."
But of course we knew.
My Dad had been my partner in crime. We were both guilty. He would tell me later that he realized the next time I started to make a wrong turn, he would let me continue on instead of trying to correct me halfway through.
And I realized that the real reason they want you to have a license to drive a golf cart is so that you realize the breaks are located inside the cart, and not, as I had thought, in the bottoms of my shoes.
Oh well. Live and learn.
The Tempo was barely more than a go-cart itself, which suited me well because that was what I had the most experience driving anyway.
I'm not entirely sure why I drove more with my Dad more than my mom. Maybe it was just one of those things, or maybe it was because my Dad and I had bonded over an experience that took place while I was still in the thick of puberty. The event I speak of was both traumatic and hilarious. It is a story my father and I recount often. it is the story of my first "car" accident.
The accident I speak of took place while we were on a family vacation. During family vacations we would usually pair off. My Mom and sister would spend the day shopping or at the pool, and my Dad and I would play golf.
Mom would drop us off at the golf course and my Dad and I would load our clubs onto the back of a white electric golf cart.
Now there are rules about minors driving golf carts. I'm pretty sure I remember it being that you must be 16 years old to drive the golf cart, and in some places you must have a driver's license.
My Dad has always been very trusting of me. And we both thought that rule was ridiculous. Did they honestly believe that maneuvering a 600 pound plastic lawn mower around a park at 9 miles an hour is exactly the same as going 70 down the highway in a 2,000 pound Buick?
But my father believe in my ability to be responsible and handle such a complex task as knowing the difference between the gas pedal and the brake pedal, and the subtle variances between going forwards, and going in reverse. And besides, he was sitting right besides me. There was no traffic. Was there anything that could really go wrong?
The answer of course, was yes.
We had just finished hitting practice balls at the range, and were going to head over to the putting green for a little practice before we teed off. I asked my Dad if I could drive. Sometimes he would wait until we were out past the first tee box but this day he wasn't worried. Either because I was starting to look older, or because he was relaxed being on vacation. The point is, he let me. Way to go Dad!
So we hopped in and I started along the little path to where I thought the putting green was. Humming along at all but a brisk pace we took the turn around the clubhouse and were approaching a fork in the road. Thinking I knew where to go I started to turn the wheel to the left.
"Left?" I asked my dad, already deep into my turn.
And my normally calm and relaxed father realized my error.
"No RIGHT!"
Slightly panicked I yanked the wheel to the right. But golf carts don't come with power steering, so my race car like maneuver was not nearly as sharp as I had hoped it would be. And instead of swerving to the right path we were now set to split the fork and crash into a wooded area.
I would like to take a moment here to tell you a little about my experiences with crashing vehicles up until this point in my life.
While I had driven a golf car before, I had never crashed one. in fact all of my collisions had taken place no on 4 wheels, but on 2. My black 12 speed mountain bike was my primary form of transportation up until I got my license.
I rode that thing with moderate success over potholes, ice patches, and all other manner of obstructions. Once in a while I'd lose control and jump a curb or hit an old lady. But I would brace myself for impact, like all other kids did, by using my hand brakes and taking my feet off the pedals, putting them out in front of me to brace myself for the crash.
So it makes sense that as my father and I headed for a (kind of) high speed collision with a gaggle of shrubs, I didn't step on the brake. No. I instinctively put my legs out in front of me to stop the cart from crashing.
And seeing as I was not Fred Flintstone, this did not work.
Instead we crunched over a plastic bucket which made a horrific sound and we came to a rest firmly embedded in the shrubbery.
"Back up back up!" My Dad said, more embarrassed than angry.
Terrified that we were about to be in serious trouble, I threw the cart into reverse (which actually means I just flipped a switch). It might not have attracted as much attention if it hadn't made the ear piercing EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE sound when it was put into reverse.
With the cart screaming for attention I punched the gas and we crunched over the bucket again, scraping it along the pavement, the sound even more horrific the second time.
"Go go go!" my Dad said, as I killed the screaming and put it into forward gear. Flooring it, we drove away trying to play it like we had not just crashed a $4,000 machine into a $4 bucket and a beautiful bit of greenery.
We tried to stay out of sight as long as we could, but we had to drive past there to get to the first tee. We passed the scene of the crime shortly thereafter and saw a golf course official inspecting the mutilated bucket and destroyed bush, wondering what moron could have possibly been so incompetent.
My Dad and I both peered over at him raising our eyebrows as if to say, "Oh geez I wonder what could have happened there."
But of course we knew.
My Dad had been my partner in crime. We were both guilty. He would tell me later that he realized the next time I started to make a wrong turn, he would let me continue on instead of trying to correct me halfway through.
And I realized that the real reason they want you to have a license to drive a golf cart is so that you realize the breaks are located inside the cart, and not, as I had thought, in the bottoms of my shoes.
Oh well. Live and learn.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Rich Boehmcke Might Be...
I’ve been questioning my identity as of late. Not so much about what I am doing with my life, but more so who I am. And it isn’t based on my personal insecurities. The factors are more external.
That makes sense. Once in a while I’ll click on the ads. I don’t always pay attention to them though. But recently one caught my eye.
I subscribe to a lot of magazines. Some of these include GQ, Esquire, and Details. These are the kind of monthly publications that define masculinity.
Yay I'm a man. And because those magazines are published by large media conglomerates that publish other magazines, I sometimes get solicited to purchase subscriptions to those other magazines.
Usually I get solicited for other magazines in the same genre.
No big deal.
But then I got a letter from Out Magazine.
Out magazine, for those of you who do not know, and are incapable of deducing, is a gay men’s lifestyle magazine.
I have never read the magazine before. It could be good or it could be bad, I really have no idea. The existence of the magazine has no effect on my life. I really don’t care.
But I myself am not gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that), so why are they soliciting me?
I think 1 of 2 things happened. Either I was accidentally solicited for the magazine, or somebody took a look at the magazines I subscribe to and said, “Hrmmm, ya know… Rich Boehmcke might be gay.”
I kind of laughed it off. It was a funny story for around the water cooler or to tell my friends. I even held onto the envelope for a while so I could remember to laugh about it and tell other people.
I forgot about it. Life went on as usual. All was well and good.
That is, until I received a second solicitation from Out magazine.
It was like after they sent me the first one, they seemed concerned that I had not responded. And they said, “Really Rich? Are you sure you’re not gay?”
I had to sit and ponder. Were they really questioning my sexuality or was somebody there just screwing with me? I turned down my KD Lang CD so I could think about it for a while.
I am a gmail user. I love gmail. One of the more unique features of gmail is the smart ads that appear in a bar at the top of the page. These ads are customizable. But for the most part they solicit you with advertisements from large corporations based on the subjects or content of your emails.
Lets say you are doing a lot of emailing about apartments, you might see an add at the top of the page for “SCOTTSDALE APARTMENTS STARTING 149K.”
That makes sense. Once in a while I’ll click on the ads. I don’t always pay attention to them though. But recently one caught my eye.
ColonCleansingDiaries.com - Read The Reviews On Dual Action Cleanse Before…
My eyebrow raised and I did a double take. I wasn’t really sure what to think. I stared at the advertisement for a moment. I then scanned the 30 or so emails in my inbox to see if I could uncover the reason for the solicitation.
Had someone sent me a poop joke? Did I tell someone I was having a crappy week? Had I mentioned I use a #2 pencil?
No. Nothing. I had no emails of the sort in my inbox. I was left to believe that based on my emailing and internet searching tendencies, somebody at Google was left to think, “Hrmmm, ya know… Rich Boehmcke might be constipated.”
But my relief turned quickly to confusion. What kind of entity found it necessary to put information about colon cleansing into diary form?
Was this somehow more comforting for some people? I can imagine the conversations.
Wife: Hunny come read this.
Husband: Ew I don’t want to read about Colon Cleansing.
Wife: Oh sweetie, you know you’re backed up.
Wife: Oh sweetie, you know you’re backed up.
Husband: That’s true.
Wife: And besides, it’s written in diary form. It’s private and discreet and honest.
Husband: Oh alright, if it’s in diary form.
Wife: And besides, it’s written in diary form. It’s private and discreet and honest.
Husband: Oh alright, if it’s in diary form.
No way dude. Noooo way. I am not clicking on that link.
And then I got piece of spam (it was spam right? Right?) with an offer for a FREE COLON CLEANSE.
Sigh.
I understand that internet spam hooks some people. Trial Viagra, free laptops, and fifty seven million dollars from an African prince seem like great offers.
But why would anyone, based on an email, that came to them out of nowhere, go somewhere and let someone do… THAT to them. I would love to see the response rate for that email. I’m sure the number would shock me.
I also have an email I use just for junk. You know, the kind of email you use for signing up for contests, joining online newsletters, or subscribing to mailing lists for weekly coupon updates.
There was one department store I like that I figured was worth signing up for the coupons. They have great sales and I figured it would be good to get regular coupon updates from them. So I put in my information and I immediately started getting weekly emails.
They were all well and good until I got one with a particularly disturbing headline.
SPANX.
For those unfamiliar (this blog is so informational) Spanx makes "body shaping" undergarments designed to give the wearer a slim and shapely appearance. Many famous people wear them. People like Oprah.
Again I was confused. Hadn’t I checked off my preferences for the email? Coupons for men’s items only! Even if they were soliciting me to buy this as a gift for someone, has any man ever bought a woman control top panty hose? Ever?
But once again I was left with only one possible solution. Based on my shopping and searching, somebody at this department store was probably saying to themselves…“Hrmmm, ya know… Rich Boehmcke might need some body shaping undergarments.”
It has taken me some months now to become comfortable with the fact that I am NOT a constipated homosexual with weight issues.
That is until I check my email again. The sad thing is, I don't even know what I get to be insecure about next.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Discount Happiness
I have a problem. I love coupons.
But it’s not all coupons that I love. No, there is a particular coupon that tickles me unlike any other. A coupon, that upon sight of, I begin to engage in semi-ridiculous and (once again) seemingly irrational behavior.
And that is the coupon for a store called Bed Bath and Beyond. My friends constantly make fun of me for being what they call “obsessed” with Bed Bath and Beyond, or the BB&B as I like to call it. And I suppose it’s only fair because I used to make fun of my mom for the same thing… until I became her.
For a long dark time in my family’s life, there was no Bed, Bath, and Beyond. I don’t know where we got our toiletries. Maybe we borrowed them, perhaps we stole them. But I remember BB&B suddenly bursting on to the scene later in my teen years. Before the arrival of the BB&B, all bed and bath stores were alike, there was no beyond. But once the Beyond came into play, there was no turning back.
If I needed deodorant, toothpaste, or hair gel, my mom would say to me. “Go to Bed Bath and Beyond, it’s cheaper.”
What made it cheaper was Bed, Bath, and Beyond’s infinite stream of never expiring 20% off coupons. They send them out nearly every week, they are good for any item in the whole store, and they never expire.
And back when their competitor Linens and Things was still in business, BB&B accepted their coupons as well.
What also makes the coupons unique is the fact that they aren’t normal sized, they are giant. Their coupons are large, half page sized, so you can’t even put them in your pocket. You need like, a man purse (also known as a murse) or wagon to transport them all so that when you get up to the counter with your 6 items, you can save $2.50.
It is kind of like trying to buy something with one of those giant celebrity checks they give out at golf tournaments. Every time I use them I expect the cashier to ask me to smile for the camera.
Now back when I was 19 years old walking through BB&B, the store itself was a little overwhelming. A whole section for towels? How many aisles of bedding sets were really needed? And pots, Jesus how many pots and pans could one person use? (Answer here)
But nonetheless every time I needed toiletries, I would end up at that store. It was a pretty basic trip, grab my necessities and then split.
But then again I was the only 19 year old male in Bed Bath and Beyond during the summer trying to get 20 percent off Crest white strips with a 2 year old Christmas coupon from Linen’s and Things.
However, now that I am a homeowner with an apartment full of needs, guess where I go for nearly everything?
And it’s not even just a normal enjoyment I get from the BB&B, its kind of an obsession. When I tell my friends I have to go to Bed Bath and Beyond to buy deodorant, they make fun of me. But you know what, if you had to pay 8 dollars for the fancy deodorant your dry cleaner got you hooked on like a crack junkie, and you could get a buck sixty off the price with a coupon that came in Sunday’s flyer, you’d be no different than me.
I don’t just collect the coupons, I horde them. I have a little place where I stash them in my apartment and then after several weeks I examine my stash to see what a collection I have, and then I skip merrily to BB&B.
And yes I admit, if my neighbors don’t take their coupons when they get home, and they just leave them sitting on top of the mailbox, well… I take those too.
Plus the fact that BB&B coupons get mailed out with the name of the resident on them. The woman at the register is scanning coupons in which every other one has a different persons name and apartment number on them, all while I stand at the register and try to pretend I didn’t steal, ahem, save those coupons.
It’s exactly the same as when I would go to parties as a kid. Right when everyone was going home I’d run around the banquet hall collecting all the left behind favors, ultimately confusing my mother when I’d come home with 11 mugs that said “Melissa’s Bat Mitzvah.”
I know this really is obsessive but I even took a day off in the fall to do some of my shopping. It was fantastic, and quiet. I bought all the things I need. And just so you know, the best day to go is Friday morning because that’s when they replenish all the stock.
Honestly they work really hard on that Beyond part. They should really call it Bed Bath Above & Beyond. I mean sure we are all susceptible to the impulse items by the register, but the whole damn Bed Bath and Beyond is impulse items!
Everything seems like a really good idea. Cedar shoe trees? Sounds good. Shower curtain liner (which I didn’t even know I needed)? Check! Arm and Hammer refrigerator baking soda with color indicator strip? Don’t mind if I do!
Recently I went in with a list for these 5 things:
Toothpaste
Toothbrush
Toilet Paper
Dish scrubber
Belt Rack
Here is what I bought
Sun block
Mesh dish scrubber
Arm and Hammer Refrigerator Baking Soda
Belt Rack
2 cedar shoe trees
Extra long sponge dish scrubber
Soap
Tissues
Tooth paste
3 tooth brushes
Toilet paper
2 allergen free pillow covers
What was supposed to be a simple shopping trip had me walking out with a receipt that looked like the Declaration of Independence.
So how did I go in with the intent to spend 20 dollars and come out spending 96? Well obviously… I have a problem.
I think it’s fair to say that some months I spend more money at BB&B than I do on alcohol. But you know what, the day that they switch the daiquiri mix they sell from virgin to loaded; you can guess where I’ll be.
God I love coupons.
But it’s not all coupons that I love. No, there is a particular coupon that tickles me unlike any other. A coupon, that upon sight of, I begin to engage in semi-ridiculous and (once again) seemingly irrational behavior.
And that is the coupon for a store called Bed Bath and Beyond. My friends constantly make fun of me for being what they call “obsessed” with Bed Bath and Beyond, or the BB&B as I like to call it. And I suppose it’s only fair because I used to make fun of my mom for the same thing… until I became her.
For a long dark time in my family’s life, there was no Bed, Bath, and Beyond. I don’t know where we got our toiletries. Maybe we borrowed them, perhaps we stole them. But I remember BB&B suddenly bursting on to the scene later in my teen years. Before the arrival of the BB&B, all bed and bath stores were alike, there was no beyond. But once the Beyond came into play, there was no turning back.
If I needed deodorant, toothpaste, or hair gel, my mom would say to me. “Go to Bed Bath and Beyond, it’s cheaper.”
What made it cheaper was Bed, Bath, and Beyond’s infinite stream of never expiring 20% off coupons. They send them out nearly every week, they are good for any item in the whole store, and they never expire.
And back when their competitor Linens and Things was still in business, BB&B accepted their coupons as well.
What also makes the coupons unique is the fact that they aren’t normal sized, they are giant. Their coupons are large, half page sized, so you can’t even put them in your pocket. You need like, a man purse (also known as a murse) or wagon to transport them all so that when you get up to the counter with your 6 items, you can save $2.50.
It is kind of like trying to buy something with one of those giant celebrity checks they give out at golf tournaments. Every time I use them I expect the cashier to ask me to smile for the camera.
Now back when I was 19 years old walking through BB&B, the store itself was a little overwhelming. A whole section for towels? How many aisles of bedding sets were really needed? And pots, Jesus how many pots and pans could one person use? (Answer here)
But nonetheless every time I needed toiletries, I would end up at that store. It was a pretty basic trip, grab my necessities and then split.
But then again I was the only 19 year old male in Bed Bath and Beyond during the summer trying to get 20 percent off Crest white strips with a 2 year old Christmas coupon from Linen’s and Things.
However, now that I am a homeowner with an apartment full of needs, guess where I go for nearly everything?
And it’s not even just a normal enjoyment I get from the BB&B, its kind of an obsession. When I tell my friends I have to go to Bed Bath and Beyond to buy deodorant, they make fun of me. But you know what, if you had to pay 8 dollars for the fancy deodorant your dry cleaner got you hooked on like a crack junkie, and you could get a buck sixty off the price with a coupon that came in Sunday’s flyer, you’d be no different than me.
I don’t just collect the coupons, I horde them. I have a little place where I stash them in my apartment and then after several weeks I examine my stash to see what a collection I have, and then I skip merrily to BB&B.
And yes I admit, if my neighbors don’t take their coupons when they get home, and they just leave them sitting on top of the mailbox, well… I take those too.
Plus the fact that BB&B coupons get mailed out with the name of the resident on them. The woman at the register is scanning coupons in which every other one has a different persons name and apartment number on them, all while I stand at the register and try to pretend I didn’t steal, ahem, save those coupons.
It’s exactly the same as when I would go to parties as a kid. Right when everyone was going home I’d run around the banquet hall collecting all the left behind favors, ultimately confusing my mother when I’d come home with 11 mugs that said “Melissa’s Bat Mitzvah.”
I know this really is obsessive but I even took a day off in the fall to do some of my shopping. It was fantastic, and quiet. I bought all the things I need. And just so you know, the best day to go is Friday morning because that’s when they replenish all the stock.
Honestly they work really hard on that Beyond part. They should really call it Bed Bath Above & Beyond. I mean sure we are all susceptible to the impulse items by the register, but the whole damn Bed Bath and Beyond is impulse items!
Everything seems like a really good idea. Cedar shoe trees? Sounds good. Shower curtain liner (which I didn’t even know I needed)? Check! Arm and Hammer refrigerator baking soda with color indicator strip? Don’t mind if I do!
Recently I went in with a list for these 5 things:
Toothpaste
Toothbrush
Toilet Paper
Dish scrubber
Belt Rack
Here is what I bought
Sun block
Mesh dish scrubber
Arm and Hammer Refrigerator Baking Soda
Belt Rack
2 cedar shoe trees
Extra long sponge dish scrubber
Soap
Tissues
Tooth paste
3 tooth brushes
Toilet paper
2 allergen free pillow covers
What was supposed to be a simple shopping trip had me walking out with a receipt that looked like the Declaration of Independence.
So how did I go in with the intent to spend 20 dollars and come out spending 96? Well obviously… I have a problem.
I think it’s fair to say that some months I spend more money at BB&B than I do on alcohol. But you know what, the day that they switch the daiquiri mix they sell from virgin to loaded; you can guess where I’ll be.
God I love coupons.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
FREE WAFFLES!
People love free. It doesn’t matter what the free thing is. When presented with the concept of “free,” seemingly rational humans will turn into raving lunatics, crowding into fire hazards and acting like flailing 4 year olds for stuff they are not even sure they need.
It’s no better in New York where you need a home equity loan just to afford a decent martini. There are plenty of free things in this city, but there are 8 million people here trying to take advantage of them so the competition is intense and frankly, chaotic.
So you can imagine how surprised I was to find myself hustling across 13 blocks and 3 avenues to stand on line for 20 minutes to get half a free waffle.
Bear with me on this one.
I love waffles. They are in my top 3 favorite foods along with donuts and my mother's Chicken Parmigian. I have quite the discerning waffle pallet. I’ve made my own, I’ve eaten at Waffle Houses, and I’ve done waffle hopping in Belgium. I am a connoisseur.
So you can imagine my elation when I heard about a waffle truck that journeyed around Manhattan selling happiness to eager patrons. It is a simple concept; a beautiful yellow truck complete with a waffle making kitchen and chock a block with all the toppings you could hope for.
The truck makes stops in different areas, and rotates semi regularly. My first and so far only encounter was last summer when my boss and I emerged from a meeting on Park Avenue and happened upon the truck.
It was like a DHL truck filled with awesome. We pooled our cash to purchase some light and crispy quadranted happiness. Walking with a briefcase and a waffle covered in strawberries and Nutella turned out to be dangerous. And my boss had to save me from getting hit by a car twice as I couldn’t bring myself to concentrate on anything but this Midas touched breakfast treat.
The waffle truck and I had not seen each other again until last week. My sister knows of my obsession with the mighty waffle and sent me an email that said.
“Waffle truck giving away free waffles from 12 to 1pm at 45th and 6th.”
This was at 11 am.
Now remember I am the guy who shows up 20 minutes early for movies nobody wants to see. So you can imagine the instant anxiety I felt about a waffle giveaway.
My heart started pounding. How many people had heard about this phenomenal occurrence? Was it worth the trip up there?
When engaging in ridiculous activities you usually want somebody to accompany you so the two of you can laugh about how ridiculous it is.
But sometimes, an activity is so ridiculous that you want to engage in it by yourself so nobody will see just how incredibly excited you are.
I thought this activity was the former… as it turns out, it was the latter.
I called a couple friends that worked where the waffle truck was making its magical appearance but they were unable to attend. So, unable to attract a cohort, and with my pulse approaching record speed as the clock struck 11:36, I fled my office on a crusade for waffles.
I was so excited I actually ran out without my umbrella even though the forecast called for a 173% chance of rain.
No time for worries!
It struck me as I was practically jogging down the street that maybe my love of waffles and my quest for a life of frugality had led me to what an uneducated bystander might refer to as “desperate” or “pathetic.”
So as I speed walked 3 avenues to take a train one stop so I could walk 4 blocks to a giant yellow truck that sold waffles out the side… I thought to myself, am I going to be late? Will this place will be mobbed? Will people wait until 12 on the dot to get on line? What about the guy who bought one at 11:59? Was he going to be pissed off that if he had waited 38 more seconds he could have saved $4.50?
And was he terrified at the strangely large group of people that were just encircling the van like a bunch of breakfast hyenas? As though they would jump him as soon as he bought his waffle.
“He’s got the waffle…. LET’S GET EM!”
But I got my answer as soon as I arrived. The truck was parked near the corner and there was already a feeling of excitement in the air. Or maybe it was poverty. Either way, at 11:45 there were already 25 people on line. I was kind of surprised but I felt relieved. I would probably be guaranteed a waffle while still not appearing to be a super dork by being first in line.
I helped pass the time by talking to the “King of Belgium” who had flown in for the occasion.
By 12:02 there were 30 more people on line behind me. And as more people walked past me to get on the line my feeling of pride devolved into that of dork. I went from feeling like I was online for a free tasty treat to feeling like I was waiting for the pocket protector store to open.
I averted my eyes as everyone passed, and not having anyone with me, and unable to strike up a decent conversation with the people behind me I was forced to kind of look up at the sky with a constipated smile on my face while the line moved slowly along.
Eventually I got my waffle with blueberries and Nutella (because nothing says “healthy” like covering your fruit in spreadable heart attack) but it was only half a waffle. Pitifully sized at that. But I wasn’t totally upset. After all it was the only way they’d be able to serve such an excited crowd.
And besides the waffle was delicious, I passed on the knife and fork opting, small as it was, to eat it like a slice of pizza. I probably looked like I had just come back from the state fair eating a waffle covered in nonsense, but hey I was happy. Plus I got to meet the founder, the waffle king, and I got a story out of it.
So it was totally worth it. Kind of. Not entirely. But the good news is I learned a little something about waffles, and a little something about myself. But I know I’ll never do that again.
Unless of course somebody opens up a donut truck…
It’s no better in New York where you need a home equity loan just to afford a decent martini. There are plenty of free things in this city, but there are 8 million people here trying to take advantage of them so the competition is intense and frankly, chaotic.
So you can imagine how surprised I was to find myself hustling across 13 blocks and 3 avenues to stand on line for 20 minutes to get half a free waffle.
Bear with me on this one.
I love waffles. They are in my top 3 favorite foods along with donuts and my mother's Chicken Parmigian. I have quite the discerning waffle pallet. I’ve made my own, I’ve eaten at Waffle Houses, and I’ve done waffle hopping in Belgium. I am a connoisseur.
So you can imagine my elation when I heard about a waffle truck that journeyed around Manhattan selling happiness to eager patrons. It is a simple concept; a beautiful yellow truck complete with a waffle making kitchen and chock a block with all the toppings you could hope for.
The truck makes stops in different areas, and rotates semi regularly. My first and so far only encounter was last summer when my boss and I emerged from a meeting on Park Avenue and happened upon the truck.It was like a DHL truck filled with awesome. We pooled our cash to purchase some light and crispy quadranted happiness. Walking with a briefcase and a waffle covered in strawberries and Nutella turned out to be dangerous. And my boss had to save me from getting hit by a car twice as I couldn’t bring myself to concentrate on anything but this Midas touched breakfast treat.
The waffle truck and I had not seen each other again until last week. My sister knows of my obsession with the mighty waffle and sent me an email that said.
“Waffle truck giving away free waffles from 12 to 1pm at 45th and 6th.”
This was at 11 am.
Now remember I am the guy who shows up 20 minutes early for movies nobody wants to see. So you can imagine the instant anxiety I felt about a waffle giveaway.
My heart started pounding. How many people had heard about this phenomenal occurrence? Was it worth the trip up there?
When engaging in ridiculous activities you usually want somebody to accompany you so the two of you can laugh about how ridiculous it is.
But sometimes, an activity is so ridiculous that you want to engage in it by yourself so nobody will see just how incredibly excited you are.
I thought this activity was the former… as it turns out, it was the latter.
I called a couple friends that worked where the waffle truck was making its magical appearance but they were unable to attend. So, unable to attract a cohort, and with my pulse approaching record speed as the clock struck 11:36, I fled my office on a crusade for waffles.
I was so excited I actually ran out without my umbrella even though the forecast called for a 173% chance of rain.
No time for worries!
It struck me as I was practically jogging down the street that maybe my love of waffles and my quest for a life of frugality had led me to what an uneducated bystander might refer to as “desperate” or “pathetic.”
So as I speed walked 3 avenues to take a train one stop so I could walk 4 blocks to a giant yellow truck that sold waffles out the side… I thought to myself, am I going to be late? Will this place will be mobbed? Will people wait until 12 on the dot to get on line? What about the guy who bought one at 11:59? Was he going to be pissed off that if he had waited 38 more seconds he could have saved $4.50?
And was he terrified at the strangely large group of people that were just encircling the van like a bunch of breakfast hyenas? As though they would jump him as soon as he bought his waffle.
“He’s got the waffle…. LET’S GET EM!”
But I got my answer as soon as I arrived. The truck was parked near the corner and there was already a feeling of excitement in the air. Or maybe it was poverty. Either way, at 11:45 there were already 25 people on line. I was kind of surprised but I felt relieved. I would probably be guaranteed a waffle while still not appearing to be a super dork by being first in line.
I helped pass the time by talking to the “King of Belgium” who had flown in for the occasion.
By 12:02 there were 30 more people on line behind me. And as more people walked past me to get on the line my feeling of pride devolved into that of dork. I went from feeling like I was online for a free tasty treat to feeling like I was waiting for the pocket protector store to open.I averted my eyes as everyone passed, and not having anyone with me, and unable to strike up a decent conversation with the people behind me I was forced to kind of look up at the sky with a constipated smile on my face while the line moved slowly along.
Eventually I got my waffle with blueberries and Nutella (because nothing says “healthy” like covering your fruit in spreadable heart attack) but it was only half a waffle. Pitifully sized at that. But I wasn’t totally upset. After all it was the only way they’d be able to serve such an excited crowd.
And besides the waffle was delicious, I passed on the knife and fork opting, small as it was, to eat it like a slice of pizza. I probably looked like I had just come back from the state fair eating a waffle covered in nonsense, but hey I was happy. Plus I got to meet the founder, the waffle king, and I got a story out of it.
So it was totally worth it. Kind of. Not entirely. But the good news is I learned a little something about waffles, and a little something about myself. But I know I’ll never do that again.
Unless of course somebody opens up a donut truck…
Sunday, May 24, 2009
I Quit the Gym
Several years ago I read a fantastic book called "Letters from a Nut." The premise was this gentlemen would send letters to establishments and services of all kinds stating he needed special accommodations for his "14th century sword" or his "giant butter costume."
The letters were hilarious. I decided to channel him while writing the official letter I needed to write to get out of my gym membership. I get tired of the same old communication so I decided to take some... creative license with the truth. The following letter will be mailed tomorrow.
Dear ***** Fitness,
I am writing to cancel my membership to your facility at *************
I am also not sure why I am supposed to send this letter to you by certified mail. Why can't I just quit the gym... AT the gym. Are they not competent enough to handle such transactions?
Or better yet why can't I quit over the phone? I can open and close credit cards, check my bank balance, and pay the mortgage on my APARTMENT all over the phone, so how come I can't just tell you I don't want to get fitness at your establishment via telephone? Frankly it seems a bit 19th century.
I must say that while I was happy with the gym when I first started there (those full length windows are great) I believe the quality of the facility has decreased dramatically over the last 6 months. I understand that tough times require cut backs and certain sacrifices must be made, but I felt some of those made at ***** were unwarranted and saddening.
My first complaint is the lack of Zen grass in the bathroom. All of the promotional pictures and advertisements for ***** show a delightful tuft of Zen grass next to the sink. I have been thinking about becoming a practicing 2nd Tier Zen Buddhist for some time now, and I was excited at the opportunity for a moment of Zen before and after my workout.
I never saw said grass. You have towel dispensers and toilet paper that must be constantly refilled. Why not a palate of Zen grass that you can leave and let flourish? I believe this is false advertising.
My second complaint is the removal of the Q-Tips. While I understand that you cannot provide your patrons with all the necessary toiletries, and the medical research on the effectiveness of cotton swabs is divided, I believe the Q-Tip to be the most important toiletry, and I was bemused as to why I wasn’t even given notice of its impending removal.
My third complaint is the “day” lockers. These are supposed to be for use only during your workout, yet there are very few that are ever available. There are dozens of lockers and yet I have been in the gym with a handful of other people and there was nary a free locker in sight. This means that you are not enforcing your own policy. I say shame to you!
I have a better chance of getting swine flu than I do of getting a locker in your gym. This makes me sad. I am in great need of a locker during my workout as I wear several supportive undergarments during my work day which I am really not comfortable discussing here.
My fourth complaint is your towels. As an aspiring practicing 2nd Tier Zen Buddhist I maintain a hygiene of the highest order, the robes I am supposed to wear would never be dirty or soiled. I would dry clean them weekly, and my home is the picture of immaculate cleanliness.
I recently acquired a rather unsightly rash after using one of your towels. I am positive it was due to the towel because the rash appeared immediately following use. Thankfully it was treatable and no permanent damage occurred to my lily white skin. But who is to know what other diseases have manifested themselves on your towels?
My fifth complaint is about the dress code. While you maintain a code of apparel for what people may wear while they work out, it seems some of your trainers decide to ignore this dress code. While I understand dungarees provide a comfortable style of panting, they have no place in a place of fitness.
And also this same trainer consistently changes the workout music to a station that nobody likes. I've even heard people in the gym say, "Hey, this is a station nobody likes!"
My sixth point is actually not a complaint. Your desk attendant George is a citizen of the highest moral fortitude. He is both kind and friendly, never anything but professional and I appreciate his contribution to the ***** brand. When I think ****, I think George.
For all my misgivings, my time at ***** has been worth it. I have been able to lose weight, gain muscle, and when I finally start wearing my robes, I know they will fit in a way that is appropriate and calming. I actually will probably need a smaller rope belt!
I do hope that you will make the necessary changes to provide the kind of excellent customer satisfaction that your promotional materials say you strive for. I hope one day to return to your gym and be pleasantly surprised (as well as possibly a 3rd tier Zen Buddhist).
Sincerely,
Richard Boehmcke
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