In any case, yesterday they gave me this paper and told me to go online to sign up for a new deal program called Just 4 U. It tracks what you buy with your reward card, and offers you special deals on things you buy anyway. I know people who freak about the privacy invasion that these programs involve, but not me. I don’t care if the grocery knows I buy Coke not Pepsi or whatever.

In any case, today I went online to subscribe. I entered everything, but then they asked for my “referral” number.

Hmm.

On my grocery receipt there was a number in bold by my name. Could that be it?

No. Error message.

There was another long number next to the letters REF. Could that be it?

No. Error message.

Finally, I called and spoke to the store manager. She had no clue. She gave me the toll free number for the program.

“That,” the man said. “I wish they’d take that off the page.”

Excuse me?

“You don’t need a referral number. It’s a mistake. Just leave it blank.”

So I did, and it worked.

But seriously, how dumb is that? And don’t you think the store manager should know?

Maybe I will call her and tell her what I know.

I resist the use of that term to describe what I do, preferring journalist to blogger and online news site to blog.

Now, many of you might call me a blogger, or this site a blog. That doesn’t really bother me, because it’s not used insultingly or demeaningly.

However, when a major media player calls me a blogger, I usually correct them. And this time, I did. I emailed the news director and asked that he please call me a journalist in the future.

I expected a nice response, perhaps apologizing and promising to make that change if it ever came up again. Instead, I received a snippy duo of emails, and in the end, I was told that if I have a Ranter and Raver page, then I’ll never be more than a blogger. And they would never quote me again. Because I’m not reliable. I’m a blogger, meaning I rant and rave and am illegitimate somehow in my reporting, I guess is what he meant.

I did not respond — why bother? But then another reporter in town, who also doesn’t want to be called a blogger by the way — said he agreed. That this very page, on which I express opinions, keeps me in blogger-label-land instead of in serious-journalism-land.

I gathered from his comments left on the CdM Today Facebook page that if I label this page “Opinion” or “Editorial” instead of Amy the Ranter/Amy the Raver, that it would somehow be OK.

I reject all of that.

First of all, I rarely rant or rave about anything that is a news item. I don’t rant about animal rights. I don’t rave about chickens. I don’t rant or rave about political candidates, the superintendent, the airport noise — none of it. I typically rant about bad parkers and stupid things I find myself doing. And I really think that you, my readers, are intelligent enough to know that anything on my Rant/Rave page is an opinion, not fact, not a news article.

Sometimes, I think I manage to be a little funny.

In any case, I tried very hard since this entire incident went down to forget it, to move onward and upward, not to let the haters bring me down.

Yet, I’ve realized that I have had very little desire to Rant/Rave since then. I wonder if I’d be better off losing this page. Would you all take me more seriously? Would the other professionals out there?

I don’t think I’ll be making any changes — but maybe I should. Maybe I should call this page “Opinion.”

Maybe Frank’s column on Saturdays should say, “Cycling Safety: An Opinion Column.”

I don’t ever want you to be fooled. Most of my work on this site is news or news features. I’ve been told I should be lighter in my tone, breezier. But I want to write in a way that conveys accuracy, sincerity, truth.

I regularly re-read the Journalist’s Creed — and I check myself against it and try always to measure up.

I’m hoping that this will blow over, and soon I’ll be ranting again about trash cans and loud talkers and pushy parents and people who jog shirtless.

Just wanted, in the meantime, to let you know why the long break.

The car had a little plastic bag attached to the center console that said, “Keep your car tidy!” Next to that was a dirty cereal bowl.

Now, I’m a reporter and everyone knows that means I’m a natural nosy person. But I don’t really snoop through people’s mail or listen to their phone calls or try to break into their emails. But somehow, text messages, even when they aren’t intended for me, seem to attract me like a moth to a flame.

I’ve actually had to apologize and say, “I’m really sorry. I have this terrible habit of thinking every text message is for me.” This draws laughs, but still.

Why do I automatically want to know what people are texting? I honestly don’t care about their reminders to get milk or that their spouse is running late or that little in joke with a friend, but I have to stop my eyes from wandering nonetheless.

I grew up watching Lou Brock steal bases and Ozzie Smith do backflips and never found a team to love when I moved to Kansas City and then San Francisco. Then I moved to Orange County, where the Angels were poised to win their first World Series and the team played the kind of small ball that I grew up with. I became an instant fan, with a horse in the AL as well as the NL.

What’s funny is how easy it’s been for me to love the Cards and the Angels. The connection between the teams has been great. For example, once I went to Cardinals spring training and watched batting practice with Jim Edmonds, Scott Spiezio and David Eckstein. That year, the Cardinals won the World Series, with me cheering while eating mail-ordered toasted ravioli and Imo’s Pizza.

When the news broke last week about Albert Pujols leaving the Cardinals to join the Angels, I ran to put on my Got Pujols? shirt that my St. Louis sister sent as a gift five years ago. “Take care of our boy,” she said in an email. “At least he’s staying in the family…”

My other St. Louis friends, however, have been profoundly disappointing to me.

I would have expected some sadness at Albert’s departure, but the venom I’ve seen on Facebook and on newspaper comment sections has been crazy. I’ve heard of people burning his jersey, that guards needed to be hired to watch over his statue outside his restaurant in West County. One person I know wished him a serious injury. They have forgotten that he spent 11 years with the Cards, it seems, and taken them to the World Series three times with two victories. It seems that if he didn’t take whatever he was offered and remain a Cardinal forever, that he is a demon.

St. Louisans have made fun of Orange County, saying we have terrible schools and smog and are bad baseball fans who will boo Albert if he makes mistakes or hits a slump.

They seem to be in denial that this is a great place to live, and that Angels fans are actually excellent fans. In fact, we usually cheer former Angels when they return playing on an opposing team. I’ve heard cheers for Vlady, for Figgins. The only boos are for Tiexiera and Lackey, who more or less were rude on their way out of town. But even then, no one wished them harm.

I will admit, I wanted Pujols to stay in St. Louis. In this day an age, a player spending a stellar career with a single team is amazing. I remember my dad making me watch his at-bats, telling me “this rookie is something special.” It was a nice dream.

But the ambivalence lasted only a few seconds. If he had to leave St. Louis, how great that he came to Anaheim?

My real ambivalence honestly comes from figuring out how my “best fans in baseball” roots jibe with the reality I’ve seen in the past several days.

Yesterday, I was at Bristol Farms and there were several butchers available, and just me at the counter. I needed three things, starting with pork belly. While the butcher helping me went to look for it, two other butchers asked me if I needed help.

“Well, the guy helping me is in the back looking for something, but you could help me with the other things on my list,” I said. My thinking was that, while it was not busy, the other free butchers could get my pound of bacon and ribs — we are recipe testing, not pork freaks by the way.

But that logic doesn’t hold with butchers, it seems.

“When he’s back, he’ll help you,” both butchers informed me, and they went back to cutting and hacking and trimming. Real work, but not helpful to me at the moment.

I’ve had the same thing happen at other stores, where I’m the only customer with a long list of items, but instead of dividing the work and making it go quickly for me, the other workers let the original person do it all. One item at a time. Slowly.

If I ran things, it would be all hands on deck in situations like these, helping the customer fill an order and helping her get on her way.

I’ve tried to think through what possible problem there could be from that policy, but I don’t see it.

But this bugged me. Today, I was reading a friend’s report on Yahoo about how he made his Heisman pick, and there was a Burger King ad. The ad said something about a Burger King Christmas gift to me. And the gift was — if I buy a whopper, I get a second one free.

Is that a gift? I’m not being snarky about whoppers. I mean, is it a gift if I have to buy something and give them money first?

I think not. But thanks for sharing the holiday spirit, BK.

When this came to my attention at a November CdMHS PTA meeting, it seemed dumb. Back then, the superintendent explained that the scheduling mistake occurred a few years ago, when the district used a county calendar to set up years’ worth of school breaks. By the time people realized the mistake, it was too late, so everyone will have to struggle through it.

Now, I’m realizing how dumb this is indeed.

One parent at that meeting complained that she’s damned if she sends her kids to school, and damned if she does not. It’s a real school day, so what if her kids skip and a teacher gives a quiz or goes over important material? Or worse, what if she makes her kids go, and they all sit around and discuss winter break and watch movies and waste time?

Our schools will be in session while the Rose Bowl game is played to a national audience, all on a national vacation. Banks, City Hall, libraries and post offices will be closed. The city’s cycling safety committee will not be meeting, even though it is the first Monday of the month. They will meet a week later. Because of the national holiday.

I realize that now, it’s too late to do anything. I’ll send my kids to school; our travel plans will get us back to SoCal in plenty of time.

What do you want to bet that campuses are ghost towns? And that they don’t make the mistake again?

Is it just me or are others bothered by those unsightly police trailer signs placed at key gateways into our city that read “Lock You Vehicle?” These signs are embarrassing and offensive as I enter my hometown. For those that leave valuables in their unlocked car, perhaps there are lessons that need to be learned. But for those of us that don’t expose ourselves to such fate, these signs are wholly unnecessary. These flashing trailer signs are a form of public sanctioned graffiti placed at the very entrance to our city. Newport Beach has expended substantial funds to attract tourist and visitors to our city. We’ve installed monument signs that greet returning residents, visitors and tourists. Just this year the city approved and installed several decorative direction signs meant to assist the visitor find their way to the great attractions of our city. All these efforts are compromised by the presence of these eyesores at the major arterials entering our city. For a city that has spent dearly to create a world class image, placing trailer warning signs at the gateway to our city is counter productive, offensive and embarrassing to this resident.