Sending you to Cancun

I come home from some heavy duty shopping on Saturday. Birthday presents for my niece and a paper bag from the liquor store, stocked with stuff for an end of summer barbecue we were having that night for about 15 of our friends. As I'm struggling from the car, I hear a voice yelling from behind.

Do you need help with that?

I turn around and see a cute young girl heading my way from down the street. She had to be maybe 18.

"No, I've got it thanks." I've never seen her before. I head into the house and Ken asks if she stopped me, too. He tell me she is selling magazines for a trip and he told her he wasn't interested. I subscribe to a few magazines so if she was offering a better deal on a renewal rate, then sure, I'll contribute to her cause. I head outside to get more bags from my car when I see her walking in my direction.

This girl is dressed like she is on her way to Mexico. Just give her an umbrella drink and a tiki hut and she is the poster child for why students want to spend Spring Break south of the border.

She starts in on her cause, about a point system and how she needs 20,000 points for a free trip. So far she has 19, 460. Or was that 640? Anyway, she is almost there. Or atleast she tells me she was almost there so that I'll think that my subscription will send her over the 20,000. She is very outgoing. Talkative, friendly, a little flirty with Ken (who eats it up COMPLETELY).

I look at all the forms and lists she has and the only one on the list I subscribe to is Woman's Day. I tell her that the renewal rate I get through the magazine is a lot better than the rate on her card. She tells me that it's through another company, unafflliated with the magazine, which is why it's a little more. I look at the card again and notice that the number of issues listed doesn't match the number of issues I would be receiving if I subscribe for that period of time. I ask about it. She concludes that I'll probably miss the first issue depending on when during the month the subscription starts. And the remaining number of lost issues she's not sure about. I sort of feel bad that I'm not her ticket to paradise, but I decline and tell her I'll stick to renewing when my subscription is up. She then hands me a form that has a few carbon sheets attached, and asks me to fill it out. I question it, since I'm not going to be renewing through her. She has to get a name from everyone she comes in contact with so that the Director of whatever club she's a part of knows she's being productive and not slacking off. I don't have to use my real name and address if I don't want to. I take back the form and think of a fabulous pseudonym.

I start writing and she asks me to include my phone number so that her Director can call and make sure she was professional. Um.. what's the point of being Regina Felangie if I have to give out my real phone number? She doesn't understand the big deal and tells me so. I tell her that I don't want my name or information sold to other companies and put on a mailing list. And that there is no fine print anywhere that indicates that my information is kept private. She has no idea what I'm talking about. Mailing list? Information sold? Apparently, she either welcomes junk mail or isn't old enough to be approved for a credit card. She says, That's okay, once you fill it out, I'll give it to my boss and he'll rip it up. She doesn't get it. And my patience for her selling tactics is wearing thin.

I tell her Good Luck, but I'm not interested. Then she starts to whine. But I'm almost at 20,000 points. So what if you spend a little more on the renewal, don't you want to help me out? When she realizes it is a losing battle, she asks for referrals. I tell her I couldn't think of anyone at the moment.

I would never wish junk mail on anyone.

Extreme Home Makeover: Doberman Edition

One of the neighbors from up the street told Ken that the Doberman's have received their building permit. Ken excitedly told me. I wasn't as excited as he was. Color me skeptical.

And so I put a call into the town this morning.

"Building Department."

Me: Good morning. Is the status of a resident's building permit public knowledge?

BD: Yes it is. What's the address?

I tell her the address that I think it is. Because the house is on the main street, and not the street I live on, I'm not sure what their exact address is. Before the phone call, I went onto the Building Assessor's page on the town website. It lists every house in the town by address and lists the type of house it is. I found their house number by the street, then finding their last name.

BD: There is no permit for that address. Are you sure that's the correct address?

Me: Um.. I thought so. Do you have a second? I might have been off by a number.

I feel like an idiot. I hope she sees through my disorganization and realizes she's my only hope for relief.

BD: Sure. I'll put you on hold.

I go back online and find the address again. I am pretty sure that's their last name. She comes back and asks if I had any luck.

Me: Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's it. I'll tell you why I'm asking.

I tell her the street I live on, and how they live on the corner of that street so their backyard faces my side yard.

Me: They had a house fire there in July 2004 and .....

She cuts me off.

BD: They did receive their permit. You had the wrong street number.

I notice how she, along when several other town officials I've spoken to, know the house I'm talking about without looking. I'm sure I could have started the conversation with the fire and she would have known right away instead of having me guess at house numbers.

Me: Oh, they did! Can you let me know if they have a time limit? Does the permit expire after a certain time?

This was the reasoning behind my initial skepticism. I never doubted that they received the permit. My concern was that they would sit on it for a while.

BD: Because it was a fire issue the fire department and insurance company will be overseeing them. There was a dispute between the insurance company and the homeowner, which is why it took this long. This should move pretty quickly.

Meet The Desordems

The Desordems are my neighbors to my right. No pictures yet, since the one picture I would LOVE to take is being blocked by a deflated swimming pool. More on that later.

I'm not sure of their last name, or actually their first name come to think of it, since they don't speak English too well. They're Portuguese. The Portuguese word for 'clutter' is "desordem". And so that is what they shall be called.

Before the Desordems moved next door, the landscaping of the house next door was immaculate. Even ants took their shoes off before walking into their yard. Carol, the previous owner, was outside routinely to mulch, plant new flowers, and trim the bushes. Carol was a great person and a great neighbor. Last year, her mother passed away and so she put her house on the market and moved in with her father. Ken and I were sorry to see her go, but anxious to see who would move next door.

When the house was sold, one of our other neighbors "in the know" told us it was a young couple, the husband's father, and their baby girl. We didn't see when they moved in, sometime in the winter. We had a horrible snow-filled and bone-chilling winter, and so we figured we'd meet them in the springtime.

If we were outside, we saw them a few times, but they were extremely antisocial. They never waved back or glanced our way. We noticed they gutted the basement because old carpet and wood paneling were thrown into their backyard. And to this day it has not been cleaned up. We were frustrated. At one point I hated this neighborhood. The rest of the lawns on the street are well-managed. I just happen to live between the two houses that aren't. It really depressed me.

When the summer hit, they installed a huge inflatable pool on our side of their house. No big deal, I knew there was a little girl there so I thought it was cute. One day Ken and I came home to find her in the pool with who we assume is her grandfather (Papi). We walked over to him and introduced ourselves. He didn't understand a word of it. Everything we said was responded to in the universal sign of "I have no idea what you're saying": the smile and nod. He told us in broken English that he was Portuguese and told us what his name was. We smiled and nodded.

They left the pool up for a few weeks before deflating it and leaving it there still in its somewhat round shape, with just enough water to cover the bottom of the pool. Just enough water to turn green and still be ignored a few days later. I came home from work at the end of the week and the pool was gone (YAY) but where it stood was a pool-shaped round patch of dead grass. It looked like a crop circle. This is the picture I would love to take but I imagine they're somewhat embarrassed by it because they threw the deflated pool over it to cover it up. And to this day it has not been cleaned up.

What is bizarre is that they do take care of their grass. The father (the little girl's father (Papa), not Papi) is out there every week watering the lawn and mowing. Go figure.

Que Sera Sera. What ever will be, will be.

Stepping into Adulthood

I have my moments where I take a moment and realize that I'm an adult with responsibilities and a life of my own. Going to the drugstore and leaving with a bag of Charmin, Tide, and Windex. Being stuck in rush hour traffic. Turning the car radio on for the news/traffic/weather, not the music. Going to the bank or post office on Saturday morning before food shopping. Any others?

Then there is our yard sale this weekend. Saturday and Sunday. We've advertised a million places so we're hoping for success. This site is fantastic if you're planning a sale. Chris (I think that's her name) is a fanatic.

Ken has taken the last three days off from work because of his company's "use them or lose them" policy. You'd think that would mean that he would help me out and organize our mess of a downstairs. Bags from my parents, boxes from his. But of course not. Apparently, meeting his mother for lunch and going to Town Hall is exhausting because both days I have come home from work, he is asleep in front of the TV. I give him a kiss to wake him up and he opens his sleepy eyes and smiles and tells me he missed me all day. Then in the same breath, he asks, "What's for dinner?"

My parents are coming to help us with the sale this weekend, as we did for their moving sale in May. Then they're sleeping over, which is huge since they'll be our first overnight guests.

Earlier this week, I walked out of the house I grew up in for the last time. Seeing it filled with boxes and clutter one day, and the very next day seeing it EMPTY.


When did I become a grown-up?

Truth in Advertising

Going through the circulars in the Sunday paper, I came across the Kohl's ads. I almost choked on my coffee when I came across this little nugget.

Look at the model on the right. Now follow his gaze. You think that's why he's smiling?

That package just cannot be possible. Sweetie, when Kohl's told you to model underwear and socks, they meant that the socks should be worn on the outside.

Meet the Dobermans

This is what I look at everyday from my front yard.
Actually here. Let me give you a better idea.








This is the view from my bedroom window. Lovely, isn't it?





It really is frustrating. I've started to use their house as a landmark in directions. "We're the third street down on the left, right after the charred house with the boarded up windows."

Would it really take over a year to get this house fixed again? Insurance reimbursement aside. Over a year?! And counting!

If they were nice, and if I didn't already know they would automatically decline any help from anyone, I would volunteer to help them out. Because I am a good neighbor and because I would benefit from the effort. But they're not. And knowing that they wouldn't appreciate any of our efforts and say thank you... it's not worth it to me.

During the second week of July, their windows were open for the first time in years. Old furniture was sitting on the curbside waiting for trash pick-up. But what I didn't know, was that it meant nothing. I imagined they would be outside every weekend doing a little bit of this, a little bit of that. Cleaning up the mess they call a yard. Preparing to go back to a life in a home without wheels. Alas, no. They're taking their sweet damn time. Even this weekend, when I saw their front door open, I had a glimmer of hope. But I know it will be short-lived.

They're like a tease. Every now and then they doing something that will get my hopes up, make me optimistic for a well-kept neighborhood. And then just like that I realize that they're like the pre-2004 Red Sox. They do so well that you envision a different end of season, then just like that they ruin it and kill your hopes. Maybe next year.

There Goes The Little Man

Alan Jackson has a song about "The Little Man." The mom and pop stores and independents that are taken over by corporate conglomerates. Money talks. It happens.

It's sad, but it happens.

But this is ridiculous.

Two boys in Salem, Massachusetts operated a lemonade stand in the town Square to make a little money for themselves. They are, after all, kids. Kids who know that Salem is a popular tourist spot during the summer months.

Crowds + hot summer weather + icy cold lemonade = $$$

Smart, right?

A sausage vendor who also sells lemonade at his sausage stand in the same area complained to authorities because the kids were hurting his sales and stealing his customers. They don't have a vendor's license, he wrote in his complaint.

Are you kidding me? No, dear readers, I'm afraid I'm not.

So the local authorities acted on his complaint and shut the boys down. I wonder if the person who made this decision, to close a child's lemonade stand, had kids of his own. And one day he would have to tell them that instead of wanting to be productive and starting on their college funds a little early, they can't because they need a license, and unfortunately, also too young to apply for said license.

Once word got out that the Sausage Guy closed the kids down, no one wanted to buy from him anymore.

Sausage Guy - Lemonade stand + Local news media = NO business for Sausage Guy

So the Sausage Guy, seeing how his business was suffering, called the boys and asked for a merger. What if, he asked, we combine our stands. You can sell your lemonade and I can sell my sausages together. And I'll let you work under my vendor license.

Greedy Sausage Guy + Innocent lemonade stand = satisfied customers.

Long live the Little Man.

Onions and Orchids

In the recent issue of Good Housekeeping Magazine, there was an article written by a former TWA employee on the issue of filing complaints with companies she has had to deal with.

She writes about how the airline always received negative letters - my luggage was lost, my plane was delayed, so-and-so was rude to me - but never anything positive. Where were her letters about how planes were on time, smooth flights without turbulence, wonderful flight attendants? (Possibly because those instances are pretty slim, but not the point....)

When she left TWA, she made it a point to write those letters. She takes a notepad with her everywhere she goes and writes down names and dates of every customer service contact she has had. And then she writes letters. Good letters are called Orchids. Bad letters are called Onions. She receives handwritten apologies in the mail, coupons for services, and overall she is happy that her letters are being read and that some action is being taken to correct the negative experiences. I thought that was such a great idea and I started to contribute to her cause by writing my own letters.

I was a supervising manager for a CVS throughout college and on occasion I play secret shopper. I know what good service is supposed to be, and what can be improved in certain stores. CVS has forms available at the door to every store with the location stamped on the top and a request for customers to fill out and send in their positive and negative experiences. And they did. I think it's a great way for stores to improve and a way for those in customer service to stand out when they do something remarkable, like prompting a customer to take the time and write something positive about them.

Maybe I need to relax more, but when someone is rude to me as a customer, it pisses me off to some extent. I'm pretty laid back and understanding if someone is new and doesn't know, or just not as personable. But when someone is outright rude, it gets to me. And so to make it better, per se, I figure I'll let the boss know what's up. I wrote two letters so far. One to Stop and Shop complaining about a cashier, and one to a restaurant commending their great service and food again and again, and naming the server of my most recent visit. I'm not doing it to get rewarded by the company (though I am a little curious...), but mostly because I like knowing that my comments will be read and (I assume) action will be taken to prevent another negative experience from happening.

I just want to be appreciated, dammit! Is that too much to ask?

Bring Out Your Inner Wildchild

I met a very cool woman a few days ago. I was sitting at a restaurant eating dinner with the family when a woman was seated at the table next to us. The details of how we came to interact are fuzzy, but her accent stuck out like a sore thumb in this part of New England. As did her cowboy hat and black leather boots.

She's a truckdriver, or "trucker" as she called it, because the term 'truckdriver' is too PC. "And truckers are anything but PC," she twanged. She hailed from Alabama and before we knew it, our dinners had taken a backseat to learning about her and her life on the road.

This leg of her trip, she was delivering meat to the 99 Restaurants in Massachusetts and Rhode Island, then was off to Connecticut to pick up some Peter Paul Candies (Almond Joy, Mounds, Cadbury, etc.) and head west. She drives on her own, never wanting a partner or other company. Her only source of communication is CB radio. We asked what her handle was. "Wildchild."

Wildchild has been driving trucks for 3 years. Her husband was killed in a car accident 10 years ago and her only child is married. She doesn't have anyone to depend on her and so this is her new life. And she loves it.

There have been so many times I have wanted to be Wildchild. Not to the point of leaving my husband and taking off for points unknown (it wouldn't be the same if he wasn't with me), but to get up and go. We would take turns driving and travel the country. See the sights. Meet people. Experience adventure. The hotel we end up staying at the end of the day depends on where we are on our trip. No itinerary, no known destination.

She said that she loves her job and I do believe her. I believe that the truckers she meets along the way are like her family now. But I couldn't imagine a family not waiting for me when I got back. Not having someone in the passenger's seat along for the ride with me. I envy Wildchild because she is doing what I would love to do. But the difference is that to her it is life. To me, a vacation.

Pictures

I did something yesterday that almost pushed me to the verge of tears. I went through family photos.

My father is officially retired. His last day of work was technically Thursday, but since yesterday was the last day of the month, he would always say Sunday when you asked him when is his last day of work. "I'm on the payroll until Sunday and therefore, I will be working until Sunday." He had been looking forward to this day for over a year when the company dynamics changed. He was in sales, so he had built lasting relationships with his clients over the past 40 years. Then little by little some of his accounts were transferred to those younger than him, so that they could build the same longevity and trust that they had with my father. They had to have known that he was nearing the time, seeing as how so many of his colleagues who were with him from the beginning had thinned out and said their goodbyes as they headed to reserve their daily 8am tee times.

Over the past few months, his eagerness to retire turned into nerves. He wasn't ready to let go just yet. He never showed it. He would get excited over the retirement party his company is throwing him and his plans for what he wants to do next. Wake up early, relax, play golf, take walks, go to the beach, enjoy friends, eat, and sleep.That would be his daily routine. The past few weeks it hot him that it was soon going to be final. He listened to his voicemails over and over, knowing that those who depended on him and needed him wouldn't be leaving him messages anymore.

Ken and I took my parents out for dinner last night and the running comment came from dad who kept saying, "No need to rush, I don't have to get up early. I have nothing to do."

Hours before this dinner, I headed to my parents house to find pictures while they were out. They're moving in a week from today to Cape Cod and their house is a mess with boxes. Most of their furniture is gone, but not the memories. My brother and I decided to make a photo DVD - like a photo slideshow - and include music of our choice for them.

[Insert music to In My Life by The Beatles]

I thought they'd be packed and moved already. I thought I'd have to head to the Cape this week (Plan B) to find them there. But I thought I'd look anyway and sure enough, in the bureau they were always in, I found them. I grabbed the pictures I could find and ran out of the house, but not before doing a quick walkthrough to see the evolving emptiness that has become the house I grew up in.

When I got home, I dumped the envelopes on my couch and started to reminisce. The majority of the pictures were from trips they've taken without us. My father used to mention that those pictures he could do without since 5 years after those trips, he wouldn't even remember what they were standing next to or what country they were in. Which is why of course they were still in the house.

He already took with him the pictures that mattered.

Good thing there is a Plan B.