It snowed here over the weekend. Well, it snowed in the mountains, and we got a little bit of slush in the valley. So today I caved in and listened to my Home Alone soundtrack. Ah, little anticipatory Christmas tingles down my back!
I’ll be strong after this, though. I’m holding out on my annual Let It Snow, Let It Snow, Let It Snow celebration with Sinatra until at least November when it snows again, and I won’t even THINK about Mannheim Steamroller until after Thanksgiving (maybe). I’ll go along with the grocery stores and the malls and pretend like I’ve waited all year for Halloween.
85 days until Christmas! (About 82 days until we’re all home!)
But who’s counting?
Monday, October 1, 2007
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Airport Western States Mission
Yes, folks, I have now joined that elite set of Church members who have had missionary experiences during airline travel. I was sitting in the airport after one lovely week’s vacation, waiting to board my plane. Of course, since I got there a couple hours early, there were no lines at the security checkpoint and I got to the gates about five minutes after being dropped off. So I had a lot of time to kill. I whipped out a book (big brown monster purse to the rescue!) and settled down to read it.
About half an hour later, a middle-aged man came and sat next to me. He struck up a conversation. (Sam and Brina: reminded me of Randy and Colette.) Since I was reading The Once and Future King, we talked about King Arthur for a bit, but then he asked me if I was a Mormon. I said yes, of course, and a couple hundred little bells went off in my head, reminding me of Sunday school lessons, missionary talks, passalong cards, and all the advice I’d ever heard about planting seeds. This was it! Could I do it? Wait a sec, had I prayed to have a missionary experience recently? (I had!) Images of scenarios in which I royally screwed everything up immediately flickered into life and rolled continuously in the back of my mind. I didn’t want to push too hard, so we got off and on the subject a few times.
Polygamy, of course, was the first topic of conversation, and you know, as much as I roll my eyes at the lingering “curse” of association with the practice, it really does open up conversations, doesn’t it? The harder Satan tries to sow confusion, the more curiosity there is. You can’t kick the Church anywhere but upstairs, I heard once. Anyway, we continued on to temples, Salt Lake, and BYU. I chatted with this guy until it was almost time to board, and then he expressed interest in reading the Book of Mormon. I looked at my purse, wondering how much time it might have taken me to track down an extra copy before I left the house, or at least to grab some passalong cards. I had neither, darn. So I had him write down his address, and I’m going to see if I can send a referral there.
I felt carefully excited as I got in line, reviewing and critiquing the conversation in my head. I’d had this perfect opportunity dumped into my lap, and I wasn’t sure I’d done as well with it as I should—but at least I had done something. Still, I felt comforted when the woman standing in front of me in line turned and said, “I was sitting right behind you and heard the whole thing. I’m a Mormon too, and you did a good job!”
Moral of the story: Live your life so when God tosses you an opportunity, it’s like catching a baby, not like catching a small, slimy fish. And stick passalong cards or an extra Book of Mormon (or both) in your purse/wallet/man-purse/briefcase/backpack. Seriously.
Original Comments
Sofal on 18 Sep 17:12
So now there's an image in my head of me with my hands clasped together with a disappointed look on my face while a small fish bounces around on the ground.
Grandma B on 20 Sep 12:47
I am not sure I am doing this right. The last message I sent went out of the universe. Sarah, I enjoyed very much reading about your experience. I have had a similar experience and it was difficult for me but luckily I had a give away Book of Mormon with me.
Kate The Great on 11 Oct 21:32
Can you give us an example of a man-purse? I want more laughs.
Aye Spy on 12 Oct 15:09
A man-purse is something that (some) men habitually use to carry necessary stuff around with but refuse to call a purse. Denial is key. They'll say it's a backpack, a briefcase, a fanny pack, etc., but they use it all the time, not just at school, for work, or as a tourist. Sorry, sonny jim, that be a man-purse.
About half an hour later, a middle-aged man came and sat next to me. He struck up a conversation. (Sam and Brina: reminded me of Randy and Colette.) Since I was reading The Once and Future King, we talked about King Arthur for a bit, but then he asked me if I was a Mormon. I said yes, of course, and a couple hundred little bells went off in my head, reminding me of Sunday school lessons, missionary talks, passalong cards, and all the advice I’d ever heard about planting seeds. This was it! Could I do it? Wait a sec, had I prayed to have a missionary experience recently? (I had!) Images of scenarios in which I royally screwed everything up immediately flickered into life and rolled continuously in the back of my mind. I didn’t want to push too hard, so we got off and on the subject a few times.
Polygamy, of course, was the first topic of conversation, and you know, as much as I roll my eyes at the lingering “curse” of association with the practice, it really does open up conversations, doesn’t it? The harder Satan tries to sow confusion, the more curiosity there is. You can’t kick the Church anywhere but upstairs, I heard once. Anyway, we continued on to temples, Salt Lake, and BYU. I chatted with this guy until it was almost time to board, and then he expressed interest in reading the Book of Mormon. I looked at my purse, wondering how much time it might have taken me to track down an extra copy before I left the house, or at least to grab some passalong cards. I had neither, darn. So I had him write down his address, and I’m going to see if I can send a referral there.
I felt carefully excited as I got in line, reviewing and critiquing the conversation in my head. I’d had this perfect opportunity dumped into my lap, and I wasn’t sure I’d done as well with it as I should—but at least I had done something. Still, I felt comforted when the woman standing in front of me in line turned and said, “I was sitting right behind you and heard the whole thing. I’m a Mormon too, and you did a good job!”
Moral of the story: Live your life so when God tosses you an opportunity, it’s like catching a baby, not like catching a small, slimy fish. And stick passalong cards or an extra Book of Mormon (or both) in your purse/wallet/man-purse/briefcase/backpack. Seriously.
Original Comments
Sofal on 18 Sep 17:12
So now there's an image in my head of me with my hands clasped together with a disappointed look on my face while a small fish bounces around on the ground.
Grandma B on 20 Sep 12:47
I am not sure I am doing this right. The last message I sent went out of the universe. Sarah, I enjoyed very much reading about your experience. I have had a similar experience and it was difficult for me but luckily I had a give away Book of Mormon with me.
Kate The Great on 11 Oct 21:32
Can you give us an example of a man-purse? I want more laughs.
Aye Spy on 12 Oct 15:09
A man-purse is something that (some) men habitually use to carry necessary stuff around with but refuse to call a purse. Denial is key. They'll say it's a backpack, a briefcase, a fanny pack, etc., but they use it all the time, not just at school, for work, or as a tourist. Sorry, sonny jim, that be a man-purse.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
A Pox upon the USPS!!
I’m in desperate need of a rant and ensuing sympathy. I’m so mad I could . . . I dunno, actually yell at someone in person. Tear something valuable into pieces. Spit in someone’s eye.
Toward the end of March, I realized that I hadn’t gotten any of my usual mail. It’s easy for me to lose track, because it’s not like I get a ton, mostly just the regular bills. I paid them all online and wondered what was up. I waited a while longer, hoping they just got mixed up in the mail or something, but when April was winding down and I still hadn’t gotten anything, I called the post office.
“I’ll leave a note for the carrier,” said the woman on the line, sounding bored.
Meanwhile, all my creditors and the payroll office got the last month’s bills sent back to them and went into FULL PANIC MODE, contacting me with urgent inquiries for my new address. Oh, except the credit card company. They just blocked my account without telling me, which caused at least one rather humiliating experience at a restaurant. I made the rounds of phone calls and emails, telling everyone to calm down, I hadn’t moved.
So I waited eagerly for the mail to come. The weeks passed. I got some mail back, the stuff that had been returned to sender and then forwarded again, so I figured that meant we were back in business. I waited some more. I allowed plenty of time for all the stupid snail-mail to sort itself out.
Then one lovely morning, about the end of May, I got another email from the payroll office telling me they’d gotten MORE pay stubs sent back. Ten minutes later, I was on the phone with the post office, talking to a slightly-more-awake-sounding guy. He looked up my address and told me that I had moved without leaving a forwarding address. How thoughtless of me. I managed to persuade him that the computer was wrong, and I hung up satisfied that my troubles were over. I congratulated myself for not saying most of what I’d intended to. (I didn’t even ask about the promised “note” from the last call—they probably tried to mail it.)
BUT WAIT! There’s More!
My credit card got blocked again last week. Before today I still hadn’t received a single piece of mail (my roommates have gotten plenty), but today I got a green piece of cardstock, with “CARRIER ALERT!” and “DO NOT DELIVER THIS CARD” on it. It has my name, address, and the instruction “Fwd ind” on it, with “Special Services” beginning on March 19, 2007. I just got off the phone with the post office again.
“Oh,” said the lady on the line (“Please let this be a new, smarter person,” I thought), “that’s not for you, it’s supposed to be just for the letter carriers. Just put it back in the mailbox and they’ll get it.”
Meek, mild-mannered me might have said, “Okaaay,” if a little doubtfully, and put it back. It’s the USPS, whom neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night, nor the winds of change, nor a nation challenged, will stay from the swift completion of their appointed rounds. Ever. But I admit that my faith in this area has lapsed. In very small, non-confusing words, I explained that I did not want my mail to be “fwd ind.” I didn’t want it to even resemble “fwd ind.” From now on, my mail and “fwd ind” must be strangers forever. (And if “fwd ind” keeps me for any reason from the prompt receipt of Harry Potter 7, someone’s really going to suffer.) I think she grasped my feelings on the subject.
Or at least I did until she said, “I’ll leave a note for the carrier, okay?” (I told her that the scream she heard wasn’t me, it was just static on the line or something.) I stayed on the line and made sure this note was at least accompanied by dire warnings and my phone number. I also decided to write a note of my own, which should raise my chances, however slight, of someone of minute intelligence actually reading it.
So that’s where it is now. Of course, I’ve been faithfully paying my bills online, and whenever available, I’ve asked to have all documents and statements sent through email. Let this be a warning to all of you: never trust someone who leaves a note instead of fixing the problem, never assume that your concern has been accurately addressed, and never overestimate the intelligence of Happy Valley postal workers.
Toward the end of March, I realized that I hadn’t gotten any of my usual mail. It’s easy for me to lose track, because it’s not like I get a ton, mostly just the regular bills. I paid them all online and wondered what was up. I waited a while longer, hoping they just got mixed up in the mail or something, but when April was winding down and I still hadn’t gotten anything, I called the post office.
“I’ll leave a note for the carrier,” said the woman on the line, sounding bored.
Meanwhile, all my creditors and the payroll office got the last month’s bills sent back to them and went into FULL PANIC MODE, contacting me with urgent inquiries for my new address. Oh, except the credit card company. They just blocked my account without telling me, which caused at least one rather humiliating experience at a restaurant. I made the rounds of phone calls and emails, telling everyone to calm down, I hadn’t moved.
So I waited eagerly for the mail to come. The weeks passed. I got some mail back, the stuff that had been returned to sender and then forwarded again, so I figured that meant we were back in business. I waited some more. I allowed plenty of time for all the stupid snail-mail to sort itself out.
Then one lovely morning, about the end of May, I got another email from the payroll office telling me they’d gotten MORE pay stubs sent back. Ten minutes later, I was on the phone with the post office, talking to a slightly-more-awake-sounding guy. He looked up my address and told me that I had moved without leaving a forwarding address. How thoughtless of me. I managed to persuade him that the computer was wrong, and I hung up satisfied that my troubles were over. I congratulated myself for not saying most of what I’d intended to. (I didn’t even ask about the promised “note” from the last call—they probably tried to mail it.)
BUT WAIT! There’s More!
My credit card got blocked again last week. Before today I still hadn’t received a single piece of mail (my roommates have gotten plenty), but today I got a green piece of cardstock, with “CARRIER ALERT!” and “DO NOT DELIVER THIS CARD” on it. It has my name, address, and the instruction “Fwd ind” on it, with “Special Services” beginning on March 19, 2007. I just got off the phone with the post office again.
“Oh,” said the lady on the line (“Please let this be a new, smarter person,” I thought), “that’s not for you, it’s supposed to be just for the letter carriers. Just put it back in the mailbox and they’ll get it.”
Meek, mild-mannered me might have said, “Okaaay,” if a little doubtfully, and put it back. It’s the USPS, whom neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night, nor the winds of change, nor a nation challenged, will stay from the swift completion of their appointed rounds. Ever. But I admit that my faith in this area has lapsed. In very small, non-confusing words, I explained that I did not want my mail to be “fwd ind.” I didn’t want it to even resemble “fwd ind.” From now on, my mail and “fwd ind” must be strangers forever. (And if “fwd ind” keeps me for any reason from the prompt receipt of Harry Potter 7, someone’s really going to suffer.) I think she grasped my feelings on the subject.
Or at least I did until she said, “I’ll leave a note for the carrier, okay?” (I told her that the scream she heard wasn’t me, it was just static on the line or something.) I stayed on the line and made sure this note was at least accompanied by dire warnings and my phone number. I also decided to write a note of my own, which should raise my chances, however slight, of someone of minute intelligence actually reading it.
So that’s where it is now. Of course, I’ve been faithfully paying my bills online, and whenever available, I’ve asked to have all documents and statements sent through email. Let this be a warning to all of you: never trust someone who leaves a note instead of fixing the problem, never assume that your concern has been accurately addressed, and never overestimate the intelligence of Happy Valley postal workers.
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