04/19/04’s illustrious band:

Swing Time

Brought to you by a weekend that put spring in my step.

I hit the Mall of America last Friday before the crowds arrived and finally, several weeks late, found a suitable birthday gift for Sister-san. I knew which store I wanted to go to, so the shopping part only took about 10 minutes. I even found a small trinket for Mother Media during that time. However, checkout took over 20 minutes. Gah! I felt very sorry for the young women running the cash register.

The trouble arose because I wanted the two items mailed to separate addresses -- one to Mother, one to Sister. The first cashier swiped my card, took down the mailing addresses, and prepared to send me on my way. Just then, however, she realized that because she was mailing the stuff out of state, she had to do something different with the sales tax. So she had to swipe my card to delete the first transaction, then reswipe it to run it with the correct tax. I also had to fill out a "return" form and sign the receipts.

But then the store manager (who appeared to be about 22 years old and to have spent 19 of those years in a tanning booth) happened by, and when my cashier asked for confirmation of the mail/tax policy, she got yet another story: Because I had purchased the items in the store, rather than over the phone, a third procedure was required.

By now my chickie was embarrassed and flustered, and her co-cashier was trying to help by redirecting other customers to the next cash register. Since the next register was not visible from where we were, these other customers wandered away but came right back, unable to find it, adding to the confusion. The first cashier again unswiped and reswiped my card and produced another set of receipts and forms. She also had to change the card machine's paper roll during this transaction because we'd used up several yards' worth.

I just stood there reading a coffee table book. What else could I do? After a full 20 minutes, measured out second by second on the clock behind the counter, I left the store -- and left empty-handed, since I'd had my purchases mailed away. But I had a pocket full of receipts to keep me company.

Anyway. Saturday was a fine, fine day. I went to classes as usual, then came home and read a book -- by which I mean that I picked up a new novel and, completely absorbed, finished it before bedtime. Purple Hibiscus, in case you're wondering. READ IT! The author's name is Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, and the story is set in Nigeria. It's brilliant.

And then it was Sunday, and I realized I had some work to do. Grocery shopping, laundry, yard work, cat play, cooking, bills. Beside the deck, I planted a couple day lilies given to me by a friend at work. I also raked 7 more bags' worth of leaves from the perimeter of the yard. Then break time came, and [insert trumpet fanfare] I set up the hammock! Whee!

Really -- whee! The winds were strong enough to keep me rocking as I lay reading, and one gust tipped hammock and stand over entirely while I was inside getting a drink. It was the wind, not the 80-degree weather, that finally drove me and the cats back inside.

Then the storm hit. I knew there was a storm because there was nothing but weather reports on TV for the next 3 hours, including my weekend treat, The Simpsons. Was that really necessary? I don't think so. Those colorful radar graphics didn't do me a damn bit of good anyway, because every time I glanced at the screen, my area of the map was completely obscured by the weather lady's elegantly clad butt. Me, I could tell there was a storm on simply by looking out the window. But I'm not a professional meteorologist, so what the heck do I know? Wind and rain pummeled my property for about an hour. Total damage: my garbage can blew over.

Still, we needed the rain, and I got my first chance of the year to chase aluminum chairs across the deck barefooted. That’s no small thing. I capped off the week with a traditional ice cream/Oreo dinner, so I know this week will be a good one.

Today around the world: April 19 is Administrative Professionals’ Week -- not Secretaries’ Day -- in the U.S.

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