Daft Musings

In 2010, Peter and I had managed to get our finances back on track after the great crash of 2008, and mortgage rates were at a (then) historic lows. We figured we could save quite a bit by refinancing, but as we soon discovered, it would be a painful, long-drawn out process that would take months, and more than a few false turns.

I found a list of possible brokers via Lending Tree, and contacted each of them. They were all eager to write up a deal, except that both Peter and I are self-employed, and as such, couldn’t provide a pay stub to prove our employment. We needed to show two years of federal tax returns, and even then, our 2008 tax return wasn’t sufficient. One broker tried to work with me to try to get a refinance rolling before we could put our 2010 tax return together, but it was a stretch.

Then before I knew it, Peter had contacted Amerisave, a brokerage which advertises wildly all over the place, and which had given him a song and dance that they could do what all the other brokers couldn’t do. (They were not one of Lending Tree’s suggestions, by the way.) But as it turns out, they were a massive waste of time, and stressful nightmare as well.

The days of Happy Happy Lenderman, the madness that had every single financial institution handing over gobs of money to anyone who wanted a house and was able to sign a document, were clearly long gone. Every day, the Amerisave agent instructed me to send him more and more financial documents. We send in our 2009 income tax return, with both of our Schedule C (sole proprietor business profit report). We also had to send in our current business licenses, asset depreciation forms, and both of our Schedule A’s (business expense details.) But, wait, there was more! Peter sells software, so they needed to see his 809 sales tax form, too. Even that wasn’t enough. They needed the last 3 months of our bank statements, both business and personal, and asked for Peter’s 401K fund statement. Finally, we completed our 2010 income tax form as soon as we could (much thanks to our new bookkeeper), and waited for the loan to come through. We’d been promised underwriting would take just a few days, given that we’d already submitted all the other data already.

And then our Amerisave agent disappeared. Yup, he just up and went missing. I’m already protective about my financial data and had been suspicious Amerisave needed bank statements, so it really freaked me out. I asked Peter how legitimate Amerisave really is. I tracked down the agent’s boss, who was equally flaky, and after two calls, pooped out on us too. AUGH!

I was hating life. I do not like sending my bank statements to strangers, no way, no how. And for this, we got nothing.

Whereupon Lending Tree called me (as had the other brokers, who were still eager to do business with us.) I was crazed by this point, but Peter talked to the agent, Pat, who guaranteed us she would get us a loan at the rate we wanted. The catch was, Lending Tree wanted $4000 for the process, but we’d never have to pay it again if we did another refinance through them. Personally, I had to get out Excel and do some calculations to figure out if this was worth doing again. It was. But given that just a few years ago, banks couldn’t give their money away fast enough, I was more than a little miffed that we, with more than adequate income and as residents in our home for more than 15 years, were suddenly being treated with more caution than the itinerant gardener who bought 5 houses, and surprise, surprise, couldn’t pay for any of them.

Well, I’d scanned the copious amount of documents we’d sent to Amerisave, so getting it over to Lending Tree was easy enough, if still tedious. But all that still wasn’t enough. On top of it, we had to write a sworn and witnessed document that the closing funds wouldn’t make Peter’s business insolvent. We had to sign forms letting the lender check that the numbers we showed on the tax returns we sent in matched those on the forms the IRS received (as if we’d fake a tax return!!) We had to write a signed and witnessed letter saying we weren’t taking out any new loans, because we had a bunch of credit inquires (from the brokers who were trying to get us a loan, including Lending Tree itself). I had to come up with profit and loss statements for both my business and Peter’s. Oh, and we needed a letter from a CPA confirming our businesses were solvent and would not be affected by the refinance, even though the same business(es) had been perfectly able to pay the current loan for the last 15 years.

I forget what the last straw was, but it was just too much. The agent wanted us to take out $10,000 more than we needed so that the closing costs wouldn’t be taken from the business Peter owns. In short, from being giddy with their funds, the banks are now like Gollum in Lord of the Rings, clinging to their credit lines like they’re the One Ring. It was like they had all been communally on some euphoric drug, and suffered a sudden withdrawal or side effect which left them utterly and completely paranoid. A bank makes money by lending it out, but they couldn’t do it any more because they’d already given it away to people whom anyone rational knew (even without the underwriting that was clearly never done) would never be able to pay it back. And, now, here we were, solvent, sober, and successfully self-employed, getting an underwriting work-over that was just too much.

Agent Pat told us only three banks are still writing any home loans at all: Bank of America, Chase, and Wells Fargo. Everyone else, it seems, may be on the verge of collapse, desperately hoping to turn around their foreclosures and praying there will be no more.

In the end, we got our refinance, at a lower rate, screaming and kicking all the way through, and paying an extra $4000 just to get a broker who wouldn’t do a quick fade a month in. But the bank that has the new loan still can’t get its paranoia under control. They’ve twice sent me letters demanding proof of home insurance, threatening to make me pay for their own overpriced home insurance, and ignored all the information and documentation I’ve sent, proving, that, yes, indeed, we have home insurance, and, yes, indeed, they are listed as the mortgagee. The insurance broker has now promised me they’ve been faxed the information directly to the bank, but we’ll see.

One good thing that came from the mortgage euphoria crash is that friends who used to be priced out of home-ownership can now afford real estate. But if you need a loan, it’s clearly a hassle to get one, especially if you’re self-employed. It’s no wonder more houses than ever are being sold for cash to investors who have enough at hand; and though I love my “slumlord” friends who have rescued decrepit property and fixed it up for rent, I’d rather more people could buy their own homes at prices they can pay. In short, the insanely paranoid underwriters may be almost as bad as the insanely euphoric ones of the recent past.

I took the time to write reviews on Tripadvisor about the hotels we stayed at in Las Vegas last week, since one was godawful and overpriced (The Sunset Station in Henderson), and another was a bargain and loads of fun to stay in (the Luxor.)

But I couldn’t write about the show we saw, because (as of now) it’s only a temporary attraction, and Tripadvisor won’t list those. But, hey, I have my own blog, so I’ll review it here!

Magician Criss Angel was playing at the Luxor, and we thought it might be fun to see him live. To see if we could get half-price tickets for the show, we went out to the Strip to see what might be available. But before we got there, we were drawn in to the Houdini Magic Shop at the MGM Grand. One of the staff magician showed us a few tricks, and we asked him what he might have heard about the Criss Angel show. As politely as he could, he let us know word was out that it really sucks. For one thing, a large portion of the show is simply videos of Criss Angel performing, rather than him actually doing it. If we wanted to see him on TV, we can do that at home for free! (As it turns out, the Yelp reviews of the show are humorously scathing.)

So we asked what magic shows are out there which are good. Penn & Teller are great, but we’ve seen them once already, and were looking for something new. David Copperfield was getting mixed reviews, and he’s reported also making the audience watch old videos instead of putting on a live show. The Houdini Magic magician asked if we like close-up magic. Do we ever! He suggested we see the Vegas Magic Theatre at the Gold Coast Casino, where he’d be doing close-up magic for an hour before the show itself started, and tickets were only $15 at the door. It was an easy choice: for the price of a single ticket to one of the shows we had considered, the whole family could see the show together.

We arrived a little late, because as it’s easy to do, we underestimated the distance between casinos. But we were still in time to see some of the close-up magic, which was awesome. Our magician twisted a fork into odd positions, while audience members couldn’t bend it at all. Another magician encased Peter’s cell phone into an inflated balloon, and we never quite figured out how he did it.

The stage performance featured 3 acts with an encore. The first act was a whimsical, fun, and original performance by Trigg Watson, the same magician who’d given Peter a balloon case for his phone. Next we saw Matt Marcy, who was big on audience participation which resulted in Peter having his first time on stage with a magician. Marcy had a funny fake tech support call in the middle of his act, and magically made sure we all knew his website, which has its own jingle I can’t forget. After that, we saw juggler Michael Goudeau who opened by juggling…bean bags. Having seen his juggling club attempt similar stunts, Neil knew how hard it is. Goudeau had the, um, most exciting act of all. As he weebled and wobbled on  the edge of the tiny stage atop at 6-foot-unicycle, he juggled flaming pins close to the fabric curtains above. I desperately, desperately hoped he wouldn’t lose his balance or veer off the lip of the stage and flame the theatre. He didn’t, but I think we were all holding our collective breath. Then he did something which made me really glad we hadn’t gotten seats in the front. The show ended with an encore performance by Matt Marcy.

The whole thing was MC’d by the Ben Stone, who is the only regular part of the show, since the performers change each week. Here is a picture of him from Vegas News:

In between the acts, Stone belted out two songs, and did a magic trick himself. He was charming enough, but I can’t quite figure out what bugged me about him. I think it’s that he wore too much make-up for such an intimate venue, so he looked more like an elf than a human. It may have been deliberate to bring up the sense of a cabaret, but this wasn’t that kind of a show. The context here, at least to my American mind, was more like vaudeville or a classic variety show. After all, besides the billed magic, the show included Stone’s singing, the juggler, and an actor portraying an exasperated stage hand.

Well, I’m really glad we caught this show rather than one of the big acts. The close up magic was a real treat, and there wasn’t a single boring or dull moment the entire time. If I lived in Las Vegas, I might even go back and see the new acts another week. Unfortunately, the show is scheduled to end its run in March.

On our most recent trip to Las Vegas, Peter was dismayed to see the Sahara Hotel and Casino had shut down. It was yet another of the older Strip casino-hotels to close, as the town itself becomes nostalgic for the way things were. The relatively new Encore casino had a nightclub named Sinatra, but most of the showrooms in which he performed in Las Vegas no longer exist. Peter went so far to opine that it would be neat to jump in a time machine and visit the Vegas of the past.

I’m not sure I agree. Effectively, I’ve already been in that time machine and the Vegas that was, was an adults-only place. Today’s Vegas is far more mainstream, and fun for people of all ages, tastes, and money.

I first saw Las Vegas in 1980, when my mother and I crossed the country from San Diego to western Massachusetts to visit my cousin (once removed) Louise. On the way back, I convinced my mother to stop over in Las Vegas. I wanted to see Caesars Palace, which was the epitome of glamor to my teenage self, in no small part because it had recently been featured in a TV movie starring my favorite actor, Omar Sharif. (Yeah, that was atypical about me, but it sure beat swooning over Leif Garrett).

There was little I could do in Las Vegas. When I walked into Caesars Palace with my mother, a security guard shooed me out of the casino, directing me to walk on a pathway on the edge that made sure I didn’t go near any of the games. We could and did walk around the front, where I posed with my mother in front of one of the Roman statues:

The drive-up entrance to the casino was far more modest than it is today:

As viewed from Caesars Palace, the rest of the Strip was far smaller and less impressive than it is today. There’s no Venitian, Wynn, or Encore. Tom Jones? Didn’t he do a Prince cover?

My mother and I (always budget travellers) stayed right on the strip in a modest motel called the Tam O’Shanter.

I didn’t see Las Vegas again until 2002 when Peter’s parents moved to nearby Henderson, Nevada. It was dramatically different. Not only was it fresher and glitzier than it had been, all three generations could go out and have a fun time together. We looked at the lions at the MGM Grand, watched the 3D M&M experience in a small mall that had sprung up on the Strip, and watched the pirates fight at Treasure Island. We rode the gondolas at the Venetian and saw street performers put on free shows underneath a video canopy at Fremont Street. Back at Caesar’s Palace, we could go shopping and I had my picture taken with Caesar, Mark Anthony, Hannibal, and Cleopatra. We often had to walk through casinos to get to the entertainment, but it was ok to have children as long as they were moving in a direction.

But I suppose I can see some of the appeal of old Vegas. It was a time when adults had no qualms about segregating some forms of entertainment and their children. These days, even entertainment that ought to be restricted just isn’t. Go into an R-rated movie and you’re more likely than not to find an 8-year-old munching popcorn next to you as the actors on screen simulate a steamy sex scene. My friends threw an adults-only Halloween party, and I walked in to find a couple handing their toddler around for adoration to people in bondage gear. Honestly, people, I love my kids, but I don’t love yours, and I sure as hell don’t want them asking me to help them pull up their pants while I’m trying to play a poker game. Children just weren’t in the scene in 1980 Las Vegas, and while that limited its pull, it almost certainly had its own appeal in just that aspect.

These days there’s very little children may only experience upon reaching a certain age, and that’s only because of legal restrictions, not societal ones. And even then, it’s not necessarily something to look forward to: I don’t even know if my children will smoke, drink, gamble, or watch strippers. But if you want an environment that doesn’t have children in it, you almost always have to choose a place that specializes in one of the above vices.

In any case, thanks to the grandparents willing to do some babysitting, Peter took me to enjoy the glamor of Caesars Palace that I couldn’t experience in 1980. We dressed up, and went to the high-limit area, where I watched him play a few hands of baccarat between a dour Chinese man with a suitcase full of $100 bills, and a young millionaire from Arkansas. It was a lovely sociable experience, and we spent some of Peter’s winnings in a casino bar with silhouetted dancers and showy bartenders. So if you want the adult fun, modern Las Vegas will give it to you, too. But it’s got something for everyone now.

Fujitsu had the only booth at CES (the Consumer Electronics Show) which was exclusively staffed by booth babes. They had no inkling of what the products in the booth were supposed to do, and there was not a single person there who knew. I came away more than a little miffed that all I got was a technology tease without substance.

Along one edge of the booth, Fujitsu was demonstrating waterproof electronic tablets against a picture of people using them in the bathtub and next to a kitchen sink, together with a proud announcement that the tablets had a gesture interface. I used a few known gadget gestures by the tablets, and nothing happened. So I turned to a young woman in a Fujitsu shirt nearby and asked her how the gesture interface worked. She smiled blankly at me, looked at the tablets in puzzlement, and confessed she didn’t know anything, but if I were to go up into the booth, I might find out more.

I found no tablet experts, but I did see the Fujitsu femtocell. I write about femtocell/microcell technology, so I was very interested. I turned to another young woman stationed near the cell and asked her which carrier it worked with. She whirled into a lame explanation of what a femtocell is, boosting cell phone signals. Yeah, I know that, but which carrier does it work with, i.e. AT&T? Verizon? Sprint? Finally someone else (not with the Fujitsu booth) informed me that the Fujitsu femtocell only works in Japan. Um, OK.

I turned the corner to find most of the booth babes clustered around a male booth babe clutching a smart phone to his chest. On the screen in front of him, a cartoon image of Miss Japan was telling him exactly how to hold the smart phone. Between garbled instructions on screens and a bevy of guesses from his fellow booth babes, he leaned right, then left.

What is this, I asked? It was some fitness thing, a booth babe told me. Maybe it would tell him how tight his pects are, or something. How does it work? I asked, hoping for a more coherent answer. Thereupon, one of the brighter booth babes let me know smartphones have a “gyro-thingie” in them which can sense how far you’re leaning. In my world, it’s called an “accelerometer” and it’s nothing new, but I guess Fujitsu has rebranded it as a “gyro-thingie” for booth babes who want to measure how babely they are, by Japanese standards.

Had Zoolander and Hansel appeared and instructed the collective staff to have an “I’m Too Sexy for My Fujitsu Shirt” walk-off, it would have been a better, more effective booth. As it was, Peter and I walked away appalled at the extraordinary waste of space and our time. I have no idea what Fujitsu is doing, but it’s clearly not interested in marketing itself to U.S. tech experts.

I have friends who love Groupon, and buy the coupons and discounts avidly. Personally, I’m leery of getting anything I’m not absolutely, positively sure I’ll use. I’ve used Goldstar and Artsopolis for performing arts, since I like the surprise of seeing a new show at a venue I may or may not have experienced before, and I get to pick the date and time of my choice. But a massage from a place I don’t know, or classes I don’t know will work for my kids, meh.

I did try out Groupon a few times. We bought 4 discounted tickets to Downtown Ice in the Circle of Palms so we could all go ice skating together as a family, and that was fun. This Halloween, while Kelly was a Brownie sleepover, I used half price Groupons so the rest of the family could run through the delightfully cheesy Alien Extreme experience, to which we wouldn’t have gone to otherwise. And a few months ago, I picked up a Groupon for $20-for-$10 at Smoke Eaters, a place we hadn’t visited in years, and which we ended up revisiting after our Groupon use.

So then, when I saw a Groupon to get a car detail, I thought I’d splurge and finally get my Toyota cleaned after its 4 years of hard use as a child receptacle and homeschool bus. I only rarely get a car detail, though I’m well aware of its benefits. Way back in another life, I worked briefly for the used car department of a major auto dealership. All the used cars got a full detail, and it did wonders for their marketability. A car that had come in smelling horribly and fully begrimed inside and out was transformed into near-new within a few hours.

It’s not cheap, though theoretically, you can do it yourself in a few hours with a steam cleaner and a few extra supplies you can find at a local auto supply shop. But I don’t even wash my own car, much less set aside 4-5 hours to scrub away at every nook and cranny and do a full waxing. The last time I splurged for a detail, I only paid for the interior detail, which cost $125 at the local car wash. So even for such a detail, the $85 Groupon for a “$225 value” looked to be worthwhile, and I bought it.

Two weeks after I bought it, I called for an appointment, hoping to get my car spick and span before we planned to go visit some friends in Walnut Creek the next weekend. To my surprise, and horror, I was told the very first appointment that was available was 6 weeks later, on December 20. I was appalled at my mistake in purchasing the Groupon. At the car wash, I could get a detail by just stopping in. Here I’d have to wait 6 weeks!? My life is hectic and packed with activities that rush onto my calendar all the time, how could I possibly know if I’d still be free on December 20? As it was, within a few weeks, my December 20 was booked with another event, and I had to reschedule again, this time for January 6. Nine weeks in order to use my purchase? I don’t like that at all. I never book hairstylists or restaurants who tell me their only appointments are weeks in advance. I loathe Comic Con because of the necessity of having to book everything a year in advance. And here I was with a non-refundable purchase for a service I wouldn’t ordinarily have bought, and I was on the hook for leaving that day so far in advance free and clear.

By the time Car Detail Day finally came around, I was way too ramped up about it. I had never heard of this auto detailer before; would they still be there by the time I got there? Would they really let me use my Groupon, or tell me I need to reschedule once again? To my relief, when I arrived, they had me in their calendar. The shop was pleasant, as was the staff diligently toiling away at two other cars, which looked very shiny and clean. In a little over 4 hours, my car was sparkling: the windows de-gunged, every cranny swiped clean, the upholstery and mats steam-cleaned, and the outside not only washed, but also polished with a protective coating to protect the paint underneath. That same level of service would have cost $300 at my local car wash, if not more, so for $85 it was a really, really good deal.

I expressed my delight at the work, but also told the business I wouldn’t be able to deal with another 9-week wait, even though their regular prices are more than competitive. Apparently, long waits are a common side-effect of a Groupon promotion. The pro who had helped me explained that they’d done the Groupon promotion to put the word out about their services, and it had more than exceeded their expectations. In the 3 days they’d had the deal up, they’d sold more than 750 Groupons, and they were now booked solid into April. Looking at Yelp, it’s clear that they’ve received a lot of reviews from people who used their Groupons to go there, so clearly many more people know about their business and are talking about it than would have ever been the case otherwise. He offered me the same amazing price for the same service once again if I came back after April, but honestly, I don’t know.

But I value being in control of my own schedule, and I’m not that hard-core of a bargain hunter. After this, I will never buy a Groupon that requires a booking. There’s very few services or activities I’m willing to wait months for, and I appreciate someplace that lets me just drop in or make an appointment at my convenience, not theirs. Should I desire another car detail, I might call around rather than just dropping in at the car wash, now that I know independent services may offer more for less. But I’ll also book at a business that can get me in quickly, rather than one that is overwhelmed by its own promotion.

So is it worthwhile for a business to use Groupon? I wish this one had perhaps limited its number of offerings more, and/or staggered them in different stages, but I don’t know the logistics and cost involved for a business in setting up a Groupon. I prefer finding new businesses at charity auctions, where the business gets a full tax-deduction and the charity gets money, but I’ll admit the audience is far smaller. And we’re so saturated with advertising everywhere and anywhere, I don’t think local advertising is at all as effective. There is something to be said for getting a potential customer to walk in your door and try you out, but if they have to wait in a long line to do so, you probably lose out on a lot of people like me. And my favorite local businesses are already working hard to keep my loyalty, with frequent promotions, discounts, and exclusive services tailored to me.

So, hopefully, the Groupon promotion will work out for the local auto detailer, and he’ll receive lots of return business from at least some of the customers who had their cars detailed, and understood the value of his service. But I find the Groupon crowd effect unpleasant. Good luck, Groupon groupies, but I’d rather pay more to be somewhere else than where you’re at.

A few years ago, my progressive friends started singing about the glories of taxation, and how much they loved paying taxes, and why, oh why, couldn’t the rest of us understand how important it was to hand over even more of our hard-earned money to the omniscient, wise state. I felt like I was in bizarro land. Never before in my life had I heard anyone demand to be taxed more, and never has it seemed like a good idea to me.

Having been a freelancer, and thus responsible for my own taxes and benefits (like health care and unemployment savings) for most of my working life, I’ve never found the state an effective provider of the services I want. Yes, there is something to be said for pooling our resources for a mutually-needed service, like public safety, cross-country roads, and parkland. But:

1. No matter how much you pay, it is never enough.

I have lived in California most of my life. When I moved here, the sales tax was 5%, the top personal state income tax rate was 7%, and the schools were good, the parks were clean, and the roads drivable. Now it’s 7.75% sales tax (just dropped from 8.75%) and the governor is jonesing for a vote that’ll give us the highest personal state income tax rate in the nation at 12% and most schools are nigh-unusable, the roads are falling apart, and there’s not enough money to lock up car thieves. I hear moans on the injustice of Proposition 13, which had to be voted in as old people were being forced out of homes they could no longer afford to pay the taxes on, without any consideration that shortly thereafter, we instituted a lottery to replace said lost income. Housing has gone up in price, so the amount of money that comes from property tax is similar to that paid by homeowners in other states; the lottery brings in millions, but it’s still not enough.

People, no matter how much you give the state, it will never be enough for all the things the politicians want to spend it on. Feel free to speculate and debate amongst yourselves on how this money is being mis-spent, or why those greedy people who do have money run away with it rather than keep watching it flow into Sacramento and disappear. But the more you give the government, the more it’ll spend, and once you’ve started spending on one thing or another, it’s impossible to stop.

It might hurt a little less if it weren’t also for the fact that:

2. No one ever says thank you

When someone pays me, I am grateful. But when I fill out a form and send the required funds (which are coerced, not asked for) to the appropriate agency, more often than not, I am punished for it. The EDD and the IRS constantly lose forms, which I then have to recreate and send to them again and again, not that my time is worth anything to them. Peter moved his business to San Jose, but rather than receiving a welcome from the Chamber of Commerce, as soon as he paid for his $300 business license, he received a demand for 2 years’ worth of fees and penalties just ‘cuz. A string of incompetent accountants resulted in me doing the back taxes for a small corporation for several years, and the State promptly cashed, but did not credit, the exorbitant (one of the highest in the nation) $800 franchise tax fee for one of the years, and sent us a nasty, incorrect bill. When I called, I was connected to a snotty, imperious agent who insisted she would not deign to talk to me, the mere mortal whose signature and name were at the bottom of each form, but only to one of the members of the board. Really, honey, only the CEO will do for you? When you’re going to be treated like tax-evading scum whether you’re honest or not (and more often when you are honest), is it any wonder some people prefer to hide their income instead of having to deal with the lords of the state?

and

3. If they’re right, you pay. If they’re wrong, you pay.

The first year I paid my income tax, I received a nasty little letter from the IRS demanding thousands for back taxes my mother had said she’d paid on my trust, but hadn’t, since the IRS had taken the liberties to simply suck taxes off it themselves. I had to pay a forensic accountant to recreate years of investments, returns, and tax rates, and in the end, they owed me $1, and took their sweet time paying up. Another year, I sent in my state income tax, and whoever processed the form, threw away the check. I had the check stub and registered proof of delivery, but I had to pay late payment penalties on a payment I made in time.

When they make a mistake, they don’t have to do right by you, and in fact, they can do all sorts of harm to you, seizing your assets and payments until you finally manage to get it corrected. If you make a mistake, the penalties appear the second you’re even a penny short of what you should have paid, and keep snowballing: and they’ll take their sweet time applying your correction to your record. Even my favorite tax lawyer has trouble dealing with them, because an auditor is free to interpret the laws on the books more freely than he or a judge may.

So don’t get me wrong. I’m not an anarchist or a libertarian. I don’t mind tithing some of my income to libraries and schools, to parades and police pensions. I doubt I’ll receive Social Security, at least not in any amount I could ever expect to live on, and also think it’s stupid to drop expensive bombs on Libya for no clear reason. Beyond that, I don’t care to debate how much should go where, and what is more important that other things. But I. Have. Paid. Enough. So don’t self-righteously go about telling me I need to pay even more than I already am, because taxes suck.

A few weeks ago, I received a postcard in the mail telling me I could have groceries delivered from Walmart. It seemed almost too good to be true. I love grocery delivery — at least in concept — and whenever we can, we’ve been driving 30 miles to Gilroy just to go grocery shopping at the Super Walmart there, because their prices are so excellent.

My first experience with grocery delivery in the internet age was fantastic. During the dot.com boom, a company called Webvan appeared, and quickly plastered the area with promotions that offered not only free delivery of groceries, but credits (sometimes as much as $20) for doing so. Free delivery and free groceries?! It was a no-brainer to try them.

I still remember marveling at the clearly quality-obsessed picker they used for my area. When produce arrived, it was always the crispest and freshest I could have expected. They also seemed to do some sort of customer service/driver matching, based on my comments on each delivery. I had two women deliver my groceries when I said I was recommending the service to my girlfriends; perhaps I should have said my husband the dancer loved it, and seen who came by. But alas, like most dot.com schemes, it didn’t make sense to pay people to use your service (as nice as it was while it lasted.) Without even having the chance to try a more commercially viable tactic, like having people pay a modest price for delivery, Webvan folded.

Around that time, a Schwann’s van showed up in our neighborhood. I had no idea what it was, but Peter knew of them from the Midwest as someplace with good ice cream. We talked to the driver who was canvassing the neighborhood for interest and found out they sold a variety of frozen meals as well. I was a new mom to Neil at the time, and grateful for anything that could make my life easier, so we became regular customers on the route.

But suddenly, the driver disappeared. We called, and found out our area had a new driver. He finally appeared, surly and complaining that our record had disappeared from his device, but grouchily filled our order. He showed up one more time, and then disappeared again, despite my repeated calls to the regional area dispatcher, who kept swearing the driver had indeed shown up, or so he’d said. I finally ended up getting all the way through to the headquarters in Minnesota, whereupon the driver showed up once more, and then did a fade again. I’d see the Schwann’s van parked for hours at the local Weinerschnitzel; eventually the service disappeared. If Schwann’s wanted to know why they failed in San Jose, I could have told them, but they obviously cared less than me.

A few years later, Safeway started offering grocery delivery, and given my experience with Webvan, I decided to try them out. They didn’t have the give-it-all away model Webvan had, but delivery was only $5, and with a rare coupon or an order for more than $150, it was free as well. But they had the customer service from hell. I inquired if I could get deli cuts in the quantity of my choice, as would be the case if I were to go in in person, and was told that was far too much of a bother, as if the deli workers couldn’t receive the orders electronically and set them aside in advance. I received moldy vegetables and expired yogurt, and when I called was told I’d have to take the rotten products back to the store in person for exchange or refund. But the entire purpose of grocery delivery is to not have to go to the grocery store! Oh, and any delivery date had to be made two days in advance. It could have been great, but I was better off shopping in person. And, oh, Safeway, the groceries are cheaper now at the Super Smart and Final down the street, so I shop there now.

So I was worried about what I would get with Walmart. But I recently started trying out Once a Month Cooking, which means I usually have at least one big, well-planned grocery trip. And like I said, the Walmart prices are great, so why not give Walmart a chance to come to me? Plus, for my initial order they’d deliver for free (given a minimum order) and give me $10 off as well.

Ordering was about as easy as it had been with any of the other grocery delivery services. The search engine is stupid, so it can’t find, say french fries, unless you say fried potatoes. I couldn’t find mango chutney, though it’s possible Walmart does carry it. But Safeway’s system was every bit as bad. And I could find some Walmart exclusives like their delicious frozen Chicken Cordon Bleu. Scheduling a delivery was also a breeze. There were lots of times available: you could choose a more expensive slot for $10, or one less expensive for $8. I suspect the more deliveries in a time slot, the lower the delivery cost may be, which is a smart way to use value shopper’s incentives for economic efficiency.

The driver came right on time, not too early, not too late, within the slot, and even gave me a call to let me know he was on his way and would arrive in approximately 15 minutes. The groceries were fresh and uncrushed, much to my delight, and I signed. The amount didn’t reflect my discounts, but the customer service number I called said the discounts would be applied to my charge correctly (and they were.) Unfortunately, I didn’t piece count the order (and years of watching Hell’s Kitchen should have taught me to do so.) As I was preparing my next few week’s worth of family dinners, I discovered I didn’t have the Monterey Jack cheese I ordered. Not having done the piece count, I can’t say I will someday find that cheese, but I did have to make a run to Smart and Final to get some. It cost less than the $10 discount I received, so I let it go, but I’ll be more careful in the future.

Oh, did I say I’d be using Walmart to Go again? I probably will. It’s as good as it gets, given that I at least received satisfactory groceries, and they do say they guarantee their stuff, so if I do receive expired milk, the driver will just take it back and give me a refund, instead of me having to drive to Gilroy*. Peter pointed out that $8 or $10 is a good value, given the cost of driving and my time, as well as how much we save just buying from Walmart. I do miss Webvan, but a business that is actually making money will last longer and continue to be there when I need it.

*I asked the driver which Walmart the groceries came from, and he said there was a Walmart on Story Road. It took me two questions to parse that. I can’t understand Story Road, though I know it’s somewhere in East San Jose — I never go there, whereas we pass the Gilroy Walmart by 101 and 152 fairly frequently. In any case, I don’t care where the groceries come from, as long as they come to my door.

Update: Walmart To Go asked for my feedback, and I told them about the mystery of the missing cheese. The next day, they sent a driver out to delivery the missing cheese to me, even though I hadn’t done the piece count I should have! He also assured me their pickers are properly picky. Yup, my next big grocery order will be through Walmart to Go again!

In 1985, the bicycle I’d used to commute to and from school was stolen off a Greyhound bus and my mother and I went to the local bike shop to get me a new one.

The bicycle which caught my eye and my heart was a KHS racing bike with a light aluminum frame, 12 gears, and the skinniest tires I’d ever seen. To emphasize its purpose as a racer, it came with toe clips and lacked a kick stand. I wasn’t sure I was worthy, but we splurged and it ended up being mine for 26 years.

The first year I had it, I put it to its intended use and won a bicycle race with it. It never formally raced again, but I can attest it was faster than any bike I ever had, and faster than most of my friend’s bikes. I could speed past Peter on his steel-frame Schwinn bike (which he still owns, BTW) despite his muscular advantage. I could quickly catch up to kids who had a 10 minute start on me, and if I wanted to, blow past them. Yes, indeed, this bike was fast.

As the years passed, and I needed it more as a form of recreational transportation, I weighed it down. I took away the toe clips. I put on a kick stand. I bought a heavy lock and attached a rear basket to hold the lock, picnic baskets, and/or groceries. I put on a big cushy gel seat. Neil gave me a sensor so I could see how many miles I’d covered and at what speed. With that bike, I commuted to work, or provided myself with transportation while my car was being fixed. With that bike, Peter and I went riding together (which included Neil on a bike seat on Peter’s bicycle for a few years.) With that bike, I did grocery runs and sped up and down the bike path to downtown to go the library or watch movies. With that bike, I rode alongside my son as he himself learned to ride.

I had Kelly, and it soon became clear that as a toddler she needed fresh air and loved speed. I wanted exercise and adventure. The basket came off temporarily and  a bicycle child seat took its place. I remember our years of biking together most fondly. I’d bike with Kelly to parks and to storytimes at a library and two different bookstores. When gas prices spiked, I’d bike with her to Neil’s school, from whence Neil would scooter home with us by his side.

The beginning of the end for the racing bike appeared at Christmas 2007, when Peter gave me a Mongoose mountain bike. The Mongoose could take me on rides the KHS couldn’t, like up the Rancho del Oso trail to the spectacular waterfalls in the middle of Big Basin park, and onto the rollercoaster dip at the far end of Arastradero Park. The Mongoose is slower than the KHS, but it’s a much more comfortable bike to ride, and it will do roads as well as trails. It’s no exaggeration to say it’s the SUV of bicycles, with its suspension frame, 21 easy-to-switch gears, and its ability to drive and jump over small obstacles.

I still stuck to my racing bike for most of my street riding. But increasingly, I’d ask myself whenever I was going on a bike ride whether the Mongoose might not be just as good. And Peter openly wondered if we really have enough room for me to have two bicycles at once.

It finally came to a head on Monday. I want more reasons to go bike riding, and decided to see how long it would take me to go to Kelly’s school and back on a bicycle — a route that’s particularly appealing since half of it is on an off-road bike path that starts near our home.

The KHS had been sadly neglected, since I haven’t had much time to ride in years. I reinflated the back tire, which had gone flat. The brakes squeaked and creaked for want of lubrication, and quite frankly, the entire bicycle badly needs a full tune-up, again. By the time I got to Kelly’s school, the back tire had gone flat again, and I had to walk home. I looked it over, and the frame could use repainting, and the handle bars some retaping, or foam covering. Would the repairs really be worthwhile, given that I have another road-ready bike? I’d seen bicycles like my once state-of-the-art bicycle for sale at Goodwill for $10, and they don’t even have those any more. And, frankly, I might really like to put those funds towards a child’s tandem trailer bike so Kelly can once again go riding with me, without me waiting for her to catch up with her little legs on a low-gear bike.

It’s still hard to let go of a friend, but it might have a better fate than I worried it would. At Christmastime, Joe had located a “beater” bike like mine, and modded, repainted, and revamped it into a new stylish bike for his girlfriend. I asked him if he’d be willing to take my old KHS, and gave him my blessing to dismantle and discard it however he sees fit. I don’t know where it will go from there. But I will remember that speedy bike and our many rides together forever.

To say it has been quite the year is an understatement. Its conclusion (as well as the beginning of this tale) started on Wednesday with Peter receiving a job offer from a great company where he’s well-suited for the job, and the team is smart, ambitious and likeable. But we’ve both been insouciant entrepreneurial freelancers for so long, it’s still a bit boggling.

With the offer swimming before his eyes, Peter stopped in that day to the House of Bagels on California Street in Palo Alto to get a late breakfast. Still dazed, he thinks he left his iPad at the cash register when he paid for a bagel. Within 1/2 hour, he realized it was gone, and activated its built-in GPS tracking which has helped him find it whenever else it’s gone missing.

But this time, the iPad didn’t respond. Peter contacted the House of Bagels, which didn’t recall seeing it. Nonetheless, on the chance the thief had simply turned off the iPad, Peter sent a message which would flash when it was turned on asking for the iPad’s return, and continued checking in. On Friday morning, we received notification that the message had been delivered, indicating the iPad had been turned on again, even if just briefly.

Then, on Friday afternoon, the iPad popped back up with its location. Peter instantly got into his car to go to its location, and to his surprise, while he himself was still enroute, watched it move from Mountain View to a location near Kifer and Lawrence Expressway in Sunnyvale. When he arrived, the GPS had gone off again, but as it turns out, the thief had been found.

The last signal for the iPad came from within a business called Sami ePhone, which, among other services, offers iPhone unlocking. The person on staff then, Masood, told Peter he’d just missed the iPad by 15 minutes. It had been brought in by a chubby 20-something Hispanic dude, who gave a sob story about how he’d had the iPad for years,  but had forgotten his code. Masood told him he could unlock it, but if in that process, he discovered the iPad was stolen (as he would have given the messages Peter had sent), he’d have to report it to the police. Thereupon, the thief essentially said “nevermind” and left.

However, Massood had gotten the thief’s phone number, and furthermore, could describe the thief; he also had security video with the thief on it, as well as the thief’s car license number. And, so the chase was on.

Peter called the thief and told him he wanted his iPad back, whereupon the thief hung up and turned off his phone. Peter called back, telling him that he’d been made, and it would only be in his interest to turn over the stolen goods. Then Peter called the Palo Alto police, who told him a policeman would be calling him soon.

That evening, the Palo Alto policeman called, and just as Peter was speaking to him, the thief called back!! I overheard Peter telling the thief that this was his last opportunity to return the iPad before we’d have to press charges. Proving for the umpteenth time that thieves are typically complete freakin’ idiots, the thief then asked Peter for $500 for the iPad. His new story (quite different from the one he’d given Masood) was that he’d bought it from a “big black guy.” I’m sorry, but I have to admit sometimes I understand the jury in the O.J. Simpson case. It’s always a big black guy who’s name no one can remember who commits all the crimes scumbags don’t want to take responsibility for, isn’t it? Peter warned the thief of all the criminal charges he was facing by these actions, which now not only included theft, possession of stolen property, attempt to sell stolen property, but  extortion as well. The thief hung up on Peter, who recounted the entire conversation plus the copious information we’d already gathered to the policeman. Then I went to Maureen’s housewarming party, while Peter and the policeman worked on detective-y things.

On a hunch that the thief worked at the House of Bagels, Peter went there this morning, and give the manager the description and phone number of the thief. It turned out to be one of the employees, a new one who’d only been hired 2 weeks earlier, named Juan. The manager insisted Juan go home immediately and return the iPad; Juan tried to yet another new story, equally absurd, about how he’d gotten the iPad. After taking more than an hour to fetch the iPad (now without its leather cover), Juan returned and asked Peter to step outside to talk to a “friend” of his who was holding the iPad for him. Peter retorted he’d better bring the iPad in now, or we’d be siccing the police on him and his (undoubtedly also extortionist) “friend.” Juan relented, came back with his “friend” and the iPad, but still without any glimmer of comprehension on how very screwed he is, and what an idiot he was to steal the iPad and then try to extort money for it.

Anyway, the iPad’s back; the P.A. police will soon have Juan’s full name and address (as he last gave it to his employer, who I suspect is his employer no more.) There’s a lot of good guys keeping Juan from being the thorough scumbag he could be, which include the manager of the bagel shop, Masood at Sami ePhone, the Palo Alto police, and the scientists who built security and tracking into iPads and iPhones. I thank those heroes.

And 2012 will be, well, another exciting year, I expect.

This year it was Peter’s turn to put together our annual Christmas treasure hunt, and he had to come up with one that would require me, Neil, and Kelly to work together to solve.

Instead of finding a gift in his stocking, Neil found a piece of paper telling us we’d just been squirrel-mailed:

The squirrel in the picture (Buzz, not my arch-enemy Fiend Squirrel) told us “The Agents of G.N.O.M.E. are out striking against the other 99% or something, so it’s up to us squirrels to ruin your Christmas for you! We’ve stolen some very tasty presents from each of you, and the only way you’ll ever get them back is if you can solve our riddle before we manage to gnaw through the wrapping paper. And we love wrapping paper. Clue time! “From where you see me, I can see thee.”

From that we figured the clue was hidden in our frosty backyard, which was overrun this summer with squirrels. Kelly found the clue taped to a gopher target behind the rosemary bush.

The new squirrel mail told us “For every step forward, you’ll go back two! But you big hairless apes will never solve this clue! JEC UVQTA VWF PQ “NKPI”

Neil and I sussed it was simple substitution cipher, but Neil tried to use the internet to solve it. I find the internet hopeless for solving ciphers, because computers just push through the cipher with rigid algorithms, rather than thinking about possibilities and deliberate misleads. Proving my philosophy, I looked for a pattern I could use, and noticed PQ are next to each other in the alphabet, and so if I could find a two-letter word made of adjacent letters in the alphabet, like, er, “no.” Plus, each letter is simply two steps back from its cipher equivalent. From that I solved the cipher to get the rather obscure answer: HCA STORY TUC NO “LING”

Peter was absolutely sure Kelly would recognize it, but really? After some strong hinting from Peter, we learned that either or both HCA and TUC stood for a story Kelly should recognize (from her myriad stories). I just tried thinking on stories that had a word ending in -ling in them. Dumpling? Duckling? The Ugly Duckling? The Ugly Duckling by HCA, aka Hans Christian Anderson!

Peter got an ugly duck painting at a white elephant gift exchange, and it happens to double as a box. Inside the painting,we found the penguin USB drive which should have been in Neil’s stocking. On it was this file from the squirrels:

From the Squirrels!

Neil manipulated the pitch down so we could try to figure it out. Peter said the kids should be able to make out the lyrics, which were at a higher frequency, but neither Neil nor I could figure it out. Finally, though guessing and more hints from Peter that it was an 80′s song from Rock Band 2, I guessed that it would be by some Billy Idol memorabilia we have.

I was right, and the next piece of Squirrel Mail said: I need this to make a bottle. http://www.tinyurl.com/78tu6ny (7:00)

At the 7 minute mark, the actress is a colleague of Peter’s known for her spectacular mispronunciations and misunderstandings, which include insisting “bagel” is pronounced “baggle,” and thinking a “fiasco” is a Mexican party. But what? Make a bottle? I only found out now that Peter had thought we could know “fiasco” is Italian for “make a bottle.” We spent at least half an hour looking through my stash of little plastic bags, to no avail. Out of desperation, I looked at Neil’s At-At Pinata, which had been too cool to break, and found the next squirrel mail next to my Feed the Domo box, which looks like a pinata itself.

The squirrel mail said “Something’s different. I can figure it out without breaking any….”

Well, that was easy! I reached into the refrigerator, where almost 2 dozen eggs were stacked in two trays on top of each other. In between the trays, we found Buzz’s Maniacal Math Test! It was 24 questions with the hint “Because being different is what matters….”

The questions included two which break Mathematica (but which Neil still tried to solve via computer, rather than by taking the tedious step-by-step process to work them out. Once again, I rest my case that human beings are still smarter at solving problems than computers.) They included questions like “the 32,156th digit of Pi,”  “Date of the start 4th Crusade – Date of  Battle of Hastings” and “Q# + Q# x 1 x 2 x 3.” We solved them all (except for the ones that would break Mathematica.) As it turns out, we also had to examine the eggs, put the egg trays together, and orient them so that the marker 1 was at the top left hand corner, and the marker 24 at the bottom right hand corner, and then figure out which of the eggs were hard boiled. I showed Neil and Kelly the trick for identifying hard boiled eggs without having to crack them, and marked egg numbers 2, 3, 9, 18, and 20. The corresponded to specific question numbers, giving us a series of numbers. Peter had to tell us to put them in a sequence to create a 7-digit number.

It could be a phone number, or it could not be. With the possible mortification of randomly dialing a stranger on Christmas morning, I punched the number into my cell phone. I was relieved to find out it connected to our friend (and my webmaster), Keith. I brusquely told him “You have a clue for us!” Amused, he grilled me and Neil on our identity and then asked us for the passcode to the question: “What is yellow and dangerous?” Neil, being a Hitchhiker fan, knew the answer as “42.” Keith agreed, but pointed out that a banana with a machine gun would have also have been an acceptable answer. (Keith is a Discworld fan, BTW.) Thereupon, he gave us the clue we needed, which combined with the clue 42 led us to our presents, hidden in the garage.

And so for another year, the agents of G.N.O.M.E., as well as the nefarious squirrel horde, have been thwarted, and our presents have been found. We’ll see what they try to do next year….