Seminarily speaking

I had a bad experience with seminary. I repeat. I. Had. A. Bad. Experience. Perhaps you would like to hear the tale?

In my freshman year, seminary was offered both in the morning and the afternoon. (I did not grow up in an area where seminary was part of the school day and I resent all you people who had that option. Jerks. (Just kidding) (No wait, yes, jerks.))) Since only a crazy person would get up in the morning earlier than they absolutely had to, I opted to attend the afternoon session. Afternoon seminary was held in the basement of a member's house who lived just down the street from the school and I had the best seminary teacher in the whole world. Brother Watkins. I know that all of you who know him are nodding in agreement. Brother Watkins is an incredible person and he was the best seminary teacher ever. These are the facts and they are undisputed.

My freshman seminary year was great. The classes were uplifting, spiritual, fun, challenging, and inspiring. Seminary was something to be looked forward between the end of a long school day and the beginning of a long night of homework. I can't recall ever not wanting to go to seminary that year. This is entirely Brother Watkins fault, I'm sure. So devoted to him (and to seminary) was I that when a schedule change made it impossible for my brother (who was responsible for driving me around) to attend Brother Watkins afternoon seminary class, I chose to go to Early Morning Seminary.

For the unfamiliar, Early Morning Seminary is even earlier than regular Morning Seminary. It was designed for those weirdos who take zero period classes. It started at oh-dark-thirty in the morning and ended an hour later, which was still pretty much oh-dark-thirty. Did I mention that Early Morning Seminary was not offered for my high school? Well, it wasn't. So I had to drive right past my own high school, which was already 20 minutes from the house, to the Stake Center, another 20 minutes down the road in order to be there at 6:30 am.

Let's do some math. Accounting for the 40 minute drive, to be there at 6:30, we had to leave the house at 5:50. And as a teenage girl, of course it was impossible for me to spend less than an hour getting ready for school. So let's see, carry the one, divide by zero... I was getting up at 4:50 am. Yes. Every school day. As a freshman in high school I was getting up before 5:00 in the morning. Every day.

But, it was totally worth it. Not only was I being edified and uplifted, but I was working toward the coveted Seminary Graduation, which would determine the course of the rest of my life. Okay, not really. But it is looked upon as a grand achievement. At testament to devotion and sacrifice. Bragging rights and something to tell your grandkids about.

Sophomore year. Afternoon seminary was still offered but Brother Watkins was only available 3 days per week. So, the missionaries were co-opted to teach the other 2 days. The missionaries were not as good, not as prepared, and there was a lack of continuity that was distracting. But it was still an enjoyable experience and worth my time. As a bonus, I got my driver license halfway through the year. And as long as I was attending seminary and willing to drive a few kids home, I could drive the car to school and avoid taking the dreaded schoolbus.

Prior to my junior year, it was announced that afternoon seminary has been eliminated. All students would now be required to attend morning seminary which would be held at the church building a couple of miles from the high school. There are some vague reasons given for the change but the feeling is that seminary should be a sacrifice. Kids will build character if they are required to sacrifice. Having to fork over a huge chuck of the afternoon was not sacrifice enough. A real sacrifice comes from getting up early and getting to seminary on time.

I wasn't happy about it, but at least it wasn't Early Morning Seminary. Just regular old Morning Seminary. I think it started around 7:00 am. Taking into account the 20 minute drive and the hour spent primping in the morning, I only had to get up at 5:40. What a bargain! Plus, I got to drive the car to school and avoid the dreaded schoolbus.

I suppose it didn't help that the teacher that year was new. I suppose it also didn't help that we seemed to have a unusually large and rowdy class. I know it didn't help that as the year progressed we seemed to have shorter and shorter lessons followed by longer and longer after-class basketball games. I am positive it did not help when I showed up for class one morning only to be directed to the gym where an overly zealous ward member had decided that seminary students would be perfect to help him stuff envelopes with flyers for his personal political crusade. Eventually, the sacrifice wasn't worth it. I told my mom that I didn't want to go to seminary anymore. I would prefer to sleep in and would be content riding the dreaded schoolbus. I didn't care about graduating from seminary. I just didn't want to waste my time any more.

I think everyone was a little shocked. I was a pretty good kid and mostly did what was expected of me without question or complaint. For me to refuse to go to seminary might have been a little wakeup call for the people involved. So, we struck a deal. If I would just finish out the year (a couple of months), I would get credit for that year. Then for my senior year, I would do home study seminary. I'd still graduate so the almost 3 years I'd already invested wouldn't be wasted.

The summer between my junior and senior year, I got a call from the stake seminary coordinator.

"Sister Ranger, I see you've signed up for 'home study' seminary for the coming year."

"That's correct. I didn't have a good experience last year so I'd prefer to do home study this year."

"Well, you understand that it is important that you graduate, right?"

"Yes. That's why I want to do home study. Otherwise, I don't think I'd attend."

"Alright. You just have to promise me... pinky-swear... that you will absolutely, positively, without excuse will do the home study. You'll have a workbook assignment page every day. Don't get behind because it's really hard to catch up."

"I promise."

So, at the beginning of the year, I got the workbook and faithfully started doing the assignments. It was Old Testament that year, so you can imagine what it was like for a high school girl to slog through the reading and writing assignments on her own. But I had promised that I would take it seriously and finish the year, so on I slogged.

Midway through the year, I had a regularly scheduled bishop's interview. The subject of seminary came up and I told him I was doing home study. He asked how I was doing and I told him I was keeping up and not getting behind. He congratulated me and asked if I needed any help or had any questions.

"Well bishop, actually maybe you can find out something for me. In the workbook, there are only 4 days of assignments per week. Am I supposed to be attending class on Friday or is that just a day off? I just need to know so I can make sure I'm meeting the requirements."

The bishop told me he'd check into it for me. I had no idea that my innocent question would put into motion the chain of events to which I was later subjected.

About a week later, the bishop called me back.

"Well, Sister Ranger, I looked into your seminary question for you."

"Super. I hope that I don't have to start going to class on Fridays. But if I do, I wouldn't mind too much since the home study is working out so well."

"Sister Ranger, I'm afraid I don't have any answer for you. It's very strange... but everyone I've spoken to says there is no such thing as a home study seminary program in our stake."

"Huh. That is weird. But I'm sure there is. I spoke to the stake rep over the summer. He okayed me doing home study and made me pinky swear to finish all the assignments so I could graduate. Did you talk to him? I'm sure he can clear this up."

"Yes. Actually, when I started asking around everyone directed me to him. He's the one who told me there's no such thing as home study seminary. All students who want credit need to be attending class."

I just... didn't even know what to do. I sat there with my mouth open for a while. Then I started blubbering.

"But he tol- tol- told me I could do it! I've spent months working on these stupid pages! We had an arrangement! A de- de- deal! How could he for- for- forget! What is ha- ha- happening here? I don't understaaaaaand!"

The bishop tried to reassure me and said he'd look into it further. The next week he asked me to come and meet with him. When I showed up for my appointment, he was there with a couple of other seminary-related people.

"Sister Ranger," they began gently, "We understand that you've been working this year on a 'home study' seminary program. Such a program does not exist in our stake. We're sorry that you misunderstood. Because there was a misunderstanding, we are going to give you credit for the work that you've done. But, from now on, you need to attend class in order to finish the year and graduate. Can you do that?"

I cannot even begin to express what a shock and betrayal this was to my teenage mind. I didn't imagine the fact that I had talked to the stake rep about it. I didn't misunderstand anything. They were changing the rules of the game, right in the middle and then pretending that I was the one who was confused.

But more important was the message they were sending. They would rather have me park my butt in a chair in a class for credit than actually learn something by working at home. Immediately, the seminary program lost all value in my eyes. The big deal that everyone made about completing four years of seminary, graduating from seminary, what an honor, what an accomplishment, what an achievement! All it means is that you occupied a seat for four years.

Fine. If that's what is required, I can do it.

For the rest of the year, I went to seminary every morning. I sat in the back. I slept. I did my homework. I didn't listen. I didn't participate. I didn't learn.

At one point, the teacher took me aside and said he noticed that I didn't seem to be participating in his class. He could sense something was the matter. He had heard that I might be unhappy about something. Did I want to talk about it? Could he help in any way?

I explained the situation. Remarkably, he understood completely. He said if I ever felt differently I would be welcome at any time to participate. I told him that it was nothing personal and that I'd probably really be enjoying his class if I didn't have to stage this protest to prove my point. He wasn't offended. He smiled and shook my hand and left me alone for the rest of the year.

So, I graduated from seminary. Four years. Big deal.

Not that I'm still bitter or anything.

Discovering a new fee

Yesterday when I opened my Discover Card statement I was shocked to discover they had charged me a $19 late fee. Since I hadn't made any late payments I called them forthwith. The following conversation ensued: (let's listen, shall we)

Me: I'm calling about the $19 late fee on my statement.

DC: Yes. What do you need to know?

Me: I need to know what I was charged a $19 late fee on my statement.

DC: Well, our system shows that you didn't make a payment last month.

Me: I didn't make a payment? How odd. What was my balance last month?

DC: Let's see. It looks like you had a zero balance last month.

Me: ...

DC: Is there anything else I can help you with?

Me: ...

DC: Ma'am?

Me: ...

DC: Oh! I see your point! Let me take care of that for you right away...


I was glad I didn't have to spell it out for her.

I got something to say...

Yesterday, while we were sitting in church, Brookey hollered out in her best big-girl voice:

"GOU!"

Brett tapped her lightly on the mouth and murmured, "Shhhh..."

She looked questioningly up at him and then whispered:

"Gou?"

Mr. Smith goes shopping

I visited coolest-sister-in-law-ever last month to celebrate coolest-nephew-ever's first birthday. Toward the end of my stay, I ran out of baby formula and Shauna and I went to the store to get some more for the journey home. Shauna totally hooked me up with a coupon for Enfamil which stated "Buy one, get one free (up to $13.85 value)." If anyone has bought anything baby-related lately, you know that it is a TOTAL RACKET. Anything baby-related costs at least 3 times a much as it should. So, I really wanted to use the coupon. And besides, getting $13.85 off of anything is enough to make me sit up and take notice.

We used the self-service checkout lane at Smith's. (I love how stores are doing this self-service things now. It's like they are admitting defeat. "Yes, noble consumer, you can do just as good a job at checking yourself out as our professionally trained checkers. Have at it!") It works well enough, unless you have a problem and then you have to wait and wait for someone to help you. We expected no problems, however.

We scanned all the items in the basket and then tried to scan the coupon. No go. The scanner wouldn't accept it. So we flagged down the clerk in charge of overseeing the self-service lanes. He was a youngish fellow and looked bored so we were happy to give him something to do. He diddled around at his register and then gave us the "you're all set" wave.

Eagle-eyed Shauna noticed, however, that we were not, in fact, "all set." The coupon had only registered $10.00 off, instead of the $13.85 to which we were entitled.

"Excuse me," I beckoned to the clerk. "The coupon didn't ring up correctly. It's only giving us $10.00 off."

He plodded over to our scanner and made a show of looking at the read-out. "Uhhh, yeah. That's all it would let me do."

"I don't understand. All what would what let you do?"

"The system won't let me put it in. The $10.00 was all I could do."

"But we're supposed to get $13.85 off."

"Yeah. But that was all the system would let me do. Sorry."

He didn't seem sorry. He didn't seem like he cared at all actually. Nor did he seem competent. So we asked for the manager. Surely a manager would be able to a) understand what the problem was b) why it was a problem for us and c) fix it.

The manager arrives. She's a biscuit older than the clerk but has a more interested and competent demeanor about her. She assesses the situation and then agrees with the clerk. "Well, yeah, sometimes the system won't let us put these things in. Sorry."

It seemed like an appropriate time for Shauna to spell out exactly what we expected from Smith's that night.

"Look here, lady. The coupon says we are entitled to $13.85 off. We are not leaving until that happens. I don't care how you have to make it happen. Just do it. We'll wait. It's not like this is a manufacturer coupon. It's a Smith's coupon. From your store. I refuse to believe that your store would issue a coupon and then have absolutely no way to honor it. Figure it out. Call your supervisor. Get creative. We are not leaving until you honor the full face-value of this coupon."

The manager looked surprisingly unfazed. "Well, if the system won't let us put it in, it won't let us. There's nothing we can do. You can call customer service in the morning and maybe they can work something out for you. I'm the only manager here tonight."

"You're the only manager here and you have no power to honor your own store's coupons?"

"That's right. My supervisor left at 8:00. Calling customer service in the morning is the only thing I can recommend." (Apparently, she had already forgotten Shauna's warning that we would not be leaving until the problem was fixed. Or she thought she could outlast us. Foolish, foolish girl.)

Since she didn't seem to have her mind open to all the possibilities of what could be done, but rather wanted to focus on what she couldn't do for us, Shauna and I began to brainstorm for her.

"Well, how about you just refund the additional $3.85 in cash to us. That would be fine."

"No. Can't do that."

"Your system won't let you?"

"No. The till would be off by $3.85. You don't want his till to be off, do you?" She gestured to the hapless clerk sitting dejectedly by his register.

"Honestly, we don't care. That's not our problem if his till is off. Our problem is getting another $3.85 off our total."

"He could get fired. I could get in trouble."

"Aren't you the manager? I find it hard to believe that a clerk would be subject to disciplinary action over $3.85. And even is he was, you could just explain the situation. You know, making the customer happy, honoring your store's coupon, that kind of apparently meaningless-to-Smith's crap. Even the most craven disciplinary board would understand that."

"No. We can't have the till off."

"Alright, working within the constraints of your system, which you've indicated will not allow a discount greater than $10.00... why don't you just put in an additional miscellaneous coupon for $3.85. That would balance the till and you'd have a paper trail."

"No. The system won't let us do that either. And the till would be off."

Shauna and I began to wrack our brains. Then suddenly, a flash of genius... inspiration!

"How about this... You charge us for one can of formula, forget about the coupon, but let us take two home. We get two cans of formula for the price of one and your till stays in balance. I'll even give you a dime, since the formula is $13.95 and we are really only entitled to get $13.85 off. Or I can keep the dime, if that will throw off your till."

"No."

"NO? Why not?"

"Then our inventory would be off. We'd be missing a can of formula that was never rung out."

"For crying out loud! Are you trying to tell me that you have such high standards here at Smith's that you expect to balance to the penny every night and your inventory is always perfectly accounted for?"

"I can't just let you walk out with a can of formula that you didn't pay for. It's too much money."

"Okay. Then I'll gather up $3.85 worth of candy and other stuff and you can let me walk out with that."

"No. I can't do that either. Inventory matters."

We had presented her with four viable options and she had matter-of-factly rejected each of them. There was only one thing left to do. If the floor had been clean and one of us had not been 7-months pregnant, we would have parked our butts on the ground to drive the point home. Instead, Shauna fixed her with a stare designed to leave no doubt as to the seriousness of our intentions and hissed, "We are not leaving. Figure. It. Out."

The manager scrittered off and grabbed the next person in a Smith's vest that she saw. Together, the manager, the original clerk, and the random Smith's employee huddled around the register. They whispered, conspired, poked buttons, frantically flailed their arms, mopped their sweaty brows and stole glances at the two stubborn ladies who refused to leave without another $3.85.

Eventually, Random Smith stepped back with a sigh of relief. The manager came over and announced that, against all odds, they had managed to input a coupon for $13.85. The total was now correct and Shauna and I could leave with no ill will toward Smith's or its good-natured and helpful employees. How happy they were that they could help!

Ironically, as we left the building, the security gate began to wail in protest. Apparently, cans formula are fitted with magnetic security tags which need to be desensitized. Ours were not.

But Shauna and I just kept walking and never looked back.

Jiffy-suck, a three-part tragedy

Let me tell you about my ongoing saga with Jiffy-Lube. It began 2 years ago when we purchased our new car. Eager to keep it in tip-top shape, I was excited to take it in for the first oil change at 3,000 miles. I was especially excited because the tires were getting low and I hate hate hate to take the car to the gas station to pump up the tires. Most of the gas stations around here require you to pay for air, or have a token to turn on the air machine. Then there's the frantic scrambling around to get to all four tires before the machine shuts off. There's the heavy, heavy hose which wants to retract without warning and drag itself across my shiny new paintjob. There's the squatting down and gravel and dirty fingers and all the other un-pleasantries which come with putting air in the tires. Needless to say, I am more than happy to let Jiffy-Lube take care of it.

Part 1

The service at the Jiffy-Lube on this day was particularly speedy. I was in and out before I could really delve into which spices Martha Stewart felt would make my cooking unforgettable. As I pulled back onto the road, I checked the dashboard display, fully expecting my tire pressure to read at 32 psi in all four tires. Wrong. Three tires were at 32, but the rear passenger tire was still at 27.

I sighed a heavy sigh. Was it worth it to turn around and take the car back? I'd have to make a u-turn, and then wait at 2 left-turn lights. But given my previously discussed hatred of filling my own tires, I decided it was definitely worth it.

I pulled back in and someone came running out to meet me.

"I'm sorry," I began. "I was just here and it looks like one of my tires didn't get filled up. Can you check it for me again?"

"How do you know that?" the guy asked, a little defensively.

"I have a display on my dash that tells me what the tire pressure is. It looks like all the other tires got filled, just not the rear passenger-side. Will you check it for me?"

"Well, we pump up all four tires when we do the service. That's our policy. I'm sure we did all of yours."

"It doesn't look like it, but whatever. Can you put some more air in it for me anyway? I'd like to have it at 32 like all my other tires. I see there's no one in the service bay. I'd be happy to pull it right in. Your guys can just fill it up really quick and I'll be on my way."

He pondered this for a moment. "You know what it is? It's your display. Those sensors take a little bit to reset. I'm sure yours just hasn't reset itself yet. You just need to drive it around."

"I think it has reset. I mean, all the other tires are showing that they are full and they weren't when I came in here. I just don't think that 3 out of 4 sensors would reset. I think someone just forgot to fill that tire."

"No. That's not it. You just need to drive it around."

"I did. I drove it out of here, down the street and back again when I realized that my tire was still low."

"You need to drive it some more. If it's still showing low when you get home, then bring it back and we'll be happy to fill it for you."

I knew he was full of it. So I did drive home and promptly logged a complaint on Jiffy-Lube's website. It wasn't that big of a deal, but I thought if I made enough noise I might get a free oil change out of it. I laid it on thick, too. "I KNOW that he was patronizing me because I'm a WOMAN and he didn't think I would understand about tire pressure because I'm just a GIRL... blah blah blah..." It was over the top, but not too far from the truth.

That evening, I got a call from Jiffy-Lube. At first I though they were responding to my e-mail. You know, because I had checked the box indicating I would like someone to contact me about my concern. No, it turned out that they were just having a major customer service push or evaluating the dealer's franchise or something and they were calling everyone that had work done at that location.

The nice lady seemed very concerned and I told her exactly what I had e-mailed earlier. She apologized again and again and asked if I would like to have someone contact me. "Well, if you aren't the person who can give me a free oil change, then yes. Have someone contact me." (I may or may not have actually said this to her.)

I waited for the opportunity to share my tale of discrimination and woe with a corporate executive. Surprisingly, no one ever called.

Part 2

Jiffy-Lube keeps sending us coupons which is why I keep patronizing them. I decided I would NEVER EVER go back to the shop in Elk Grove (serious injury inflicted) but that I'd try the shop just down the street from my office. I had a satisfactory experience there and for some reason that convinced me that I would have a satisfactory experience if I would just give the Elk Grove shop another try. I'm so stupid.

This time when I went in, I requested that all four tires be inflated to 35 psi, instead of the manufacturer recommended 32 psi. No problem, he assured me. It'll be done in a jiffy.

I honestly don't know WHAT the problem is with those people and inflating tires, but when I drove away, the tires on the left side at 32 psi and the tires on the right side at 45 psi.

Bless their poor, dense, dumber-than-dirt hearts.

Part 3

After deciding that I would NEVER EVER EVER AND I MEAN IT THIS TIME go to the Elk Grove shop again, my next oil change was at the Jiffy-Lube near my office. They got the tires right the last time, they can do it again. High score for the Florin Jiffy-Lube!

But when I pulled out of the driveway the next morning, there was a fair amount of oil underneath where my car had been parked. I inspected it closely. It was fresh and there was enough of it that I was concerned. So, back to the Jiffy-Lube I went.

The manager happened to be working at the counter when I arrived, so I was saved the trouble of asking for him. I asked if they would take a look and verify that everything had been properly tightened. Without even looking at my car, he said, "Yeah, that's just condensation from the air conditioner. It's just water. You see, the way the a/c works is that..."

I interrupted him. "I know how an a/c works. And this wasn't water. It was oil. I know what oil looks like when it's on my driveway. I put my finger in it. It wasn't leaking yesterday morning. Now it's leaking. You guys worked on it. Something didn't get tightened properly. You need to fix it."

He was a little taken aback. "Well, I can assure you that everyone involved in servicing your car yesterday is a trained professional. There's no way they would have made a mistake like that."

I was going to say, "Yeah, just like there's no way they'd inflate two of my tires to 45 psi." But then I remembered that I was at the wrong Jiffy-Lube, so instead I said, "It's leaking. You need to check it out."

"Well, of course we're going to check it out," he said in a tone that implied that he was offended that I had implied they weren't going to look at it, even though he'd been arguing with me since I walked in the door. "We want all our customers to be satisfied.*"

*even the delusional weirdos who can't tell the difference between water and oil on the driveway his tone implied

I watched them check it out of the corner of my eye. I can't be sure, but it certainly looked like the manager went under the car, inspected it, came up out of the pit, grabbed a technician who was dressed for getting dirty and who had a wrench in hand, made him climb under the car, tighten something, all the while guiltily looking around to see if anyone was watching.

The manager returned and triumphantly exclaimed to the whole shop, "Well, we checked it out and everything looks fine! There's no problem here! Nope! Everything is all tightened! No leaks! Yup! Everyone did what they were supposed to yesterday! It's all perfect!"

I wondered who he was trying to convince, since I was the only one present.

I'm running out of conveniently located Jiffy-Lubes to whom I can take my car to have them screw it up in a new and completely original way.

Missing person

Have you seen this woman?




Last seen leaving California to attend Education Week in Utah. Has not been seen or heard from since. Devoted wife and mother. Doting grandmother. Exceptionally talented painter, sculptor, and potter. Distinguishing characteristics: high cheekbones, sparkling smile, cleavage. World traveler, including Chitzen Itza (see prior distinguishing characteristic). Limitless enthusiasm for life. Laughs at (all my) jokes. Loved by all, especially Sunbeams and grandkids. Hobbies include playing Catan, playing Catan, playing Catan, cheating at Catan, and playing Catan.

If you see this woman, be sure to give her a cookie for me.

The world is still full of serious injury...

And this baby disapproves.

But here are some pictures, for you non-facebooking-types. (*ahem* Grandpa Fox, I'm looking at you.)