tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-218809542024-03-12T22:45:40.534-05:00Spark of MadnessCombatting the recent outbreak of the sanity epidemic, one post at a timepilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.comBlogger146125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-85371794292655566652013-01-13T11:31:00.001-05:002013-01-13T11:31:14.885-05:00Gordon Ramsey's Pub & Grill: Bollucks!My partner, Stephen, is a big fan of Gordon Ramsey. He watches Gordon's many shows, he downloaded Gordon's massive app for recipes and cooking techniques, and, whenever we visit a restaurant, he references "what Gordon might think" about the experience. Of course, when we visited Las Vegas recently, it was only fitting to visit one of Gordon's two new restaurants there. We had a choice between "Steak," which is in the Paris resort, and "Gordon Ramsey Pub and Grill" in Caesar's Palace. Looking for a more laid back experience, we chose the latter option.
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In Vegas, it is extremely important to make a reservation in advance for ANY place that qualifies as a sit-down restaurant. Although the Pub and Grill was meant to be casual, we took no risks and called in advance for a 9:00 reservation.<br />
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One of the challenges in Vegas is estimating both distance and the time it will take to cover it on foot. Walking is your primary, if not only, method of transportation. The resorts, on the other hand, are so large that you could easily cover nearly a mile and only fully pass two or three of them. Then, there's the pedestrians. Fortunately, Vegas city planners made provisions for walkers, but these narrow corridors are often clogged by slow people strolling in groups, people who stop to take ten pictures of the same thing, and individuals who make sudden, inexplicable decisions to turn around. <br />
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We were staying in the MGM Grand, which is somewhat inconveniently located at the head of the Strip, and we knew it would take about half and hour to walk the mile and a half to Caesar's Palace.
We arrived about a minute or two after 9:00. The Pub and Grill is located just off of the casino floor, which proved to be frustrating as this invited people who had no idea what they wanted to do to walk up to the hostess podium in the sweat pants they woke up in that morning to have a lengthy conversation about whether or not they would honor the place with their patronage that evening. One such group beat us to the podium by milliseconds, their representatives having a three-way conversation between themselves, the hostesses, and the straggling majority of their group that insisted they "weren't hungry." This took about three minutes while we waited behind them. We finally made it to the podium at 9:05.
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I'll pause for a minute--the "ambiance" that whoever the post-modern designers attempted to create bears a comment here. I think "a modern twist on the British Punk Movement" is the best way to describe it. There was lots--way too much--loud British music. The place was somewhat dark, somewhat based on what British pubs look like, and somewhat trying to be upscale. The absolute worst thing about this place (from a visual perspective only) was the "costuming" allotted to the staff. The servers were dressed in what I can only describe as "Steam Punk meets traditional British Pub c. 1900." There was one selection for men in this category, but two for women. The young ladies who had apparently been labeled "attractive" were all wearing short dresses and pumps while those who had sized out of that category were in the same outfit the men were wearing. <br />
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Finally, there were the hostesses. They were all in dresses that were inspired by Punk design, using paper clips to hook their straps to the top. The dresses themselves were about butt length (a generous assessment), styled after British newspapers, and made out of some very cheap cotton-spandex blend materials. On top of that, they had absolutely no idea what they were doing with the computer system. There were five of them. Only one of them had any form of a clue.
When we spoke to the hostess team, we were given a choice between tables--a good thing. The young lady with a clue showed us a platform table raised about 3 feet off the ground that was immediately available, and a traditional table that had two empty glasses and some linens left on it. She said that if we wanted that table, we would have to wait a minute until it was cleared. We opted to do so.
We stood off to the side. We watched approximately 20 additional people get seated. The hostess who spoke to us did not communicate at all with the other hostesses. Every time someone asked for a table, the five of them sat, staring for a good minute or so, at a computer screen that apparently had a seating chart of some kind on it. <br />
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A full twenty minutes later, and we were still standing there. Since only one hostess knew who we were and what we were doing there, the chances we were going to be led to our table was slim. At that point, Stephen and I went back to the podium.
Stephen is a very reasonable, polite person regardless of the situation. I am not. He tried to explain it to the tiny blonde chick who was then-standing at the podium. When she didn't seem to be interested in helping, I stepped in and insisted that first, we had a reservation, unlike everyone else they were sitting, and second, we had been at the restaurant for a full 25 minutes at that point. She gave a little pout--the one I am sure helps get her way with men and her parents--but, fortunately, the first hostess returned and led us to the table. We were sitting at it at 9:30.
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At this point, the hostess uniform became a problem as the hostess attempted to bend over slightly to communicate with us given the loud music. A gentleman who had, I estimate, about 2 or 3 alcoholic beverages too many, started making loud, suggestive commentary behind her (while his ditz of a girlfriend put up with it--seriously?). I saw it, pointed directly at him, and told her what he was saying. She was concerned, a little annoyed, but unable to say anything because of her position. I said, loudly, how ridiculous his behavior was. Stephen, who is a muscular, sizeable guy, stared at him. He turned away. We didn't hear from him again for the rest of the experience.
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Our server appeared about 5 minutes after the young lady left. We ordered drinks, and, about another 7 minutes later, they appeared (without the water we asked for--which we had to ask for again). At no point in our experience did he check on us. He only came by when he had something to drop off or pick up. The fastest thing he ever did--no surprise here--was run our credit card at the end of our meal.
The support staff was actually the most helpful--these people usually run drinks and appetizers, do clean up, etc. There was a young man who brought us the "bread," about 20 minutes into the experience unfortunately, but who took the time to explain everything to us and offered to get us anything else we wanted. This guy, whoever he was, should have been serving.
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The problem was that both entrees and sides were separated on the menu (to make extra money, no doubt) so if you ordered an entree, you only got the entree. Stephen ordered the pork belly, and that was all he got. He thought the portion was a bit small, with or without sides, but he said it was pretty good. I ordered a salad and the sliders (an appetizer) for an entree. The salad, a good sized one, was too tartly dressed. By the time I finished it, I needed Chapstick. The sliders were OK--the fact the beef patties were so thin contributed to their dry texture. The garlic mayo, though, was a good condiment choice on the side, but a lot of it was necessary to make up for the lack of moisture in the meal.
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Unfortunately, in a city that is known for customer service and excellent dining, this left MUCH to be desired. And, I was really surprised that this experience came from a guy who travels from restaurant to restaurant and tears people apart for bad food and bad service.
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This is the best you can do, Gordon? Really?<strike><strike></strike></strike>
pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-73909597706957708152012-04-20T20:42:00.004-05:002012-04-20T20:48:12.370-05:00Charlotte v. Neighbor Kitty<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IZLr1t2AsXs/T5IQ_p2s8xI/AAAAAAAAAXw/GDAtwzYPJ0k/s1600/Winter%2B2010%2B009.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-IZLr1t2AsXs/T5IQ_p2s8xI/AAAAAAAAAXw/GDAtwzYPJ0k/s320/Winter%2B2010%2B009.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733663961349157650" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LbzbH_ALh4w/T5IROuTU5KI/AAAAAAAAAX8/LmoeDWzisNo/s1600/Winter%2B2010%2B017.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LbzbH_ALh4w/T5IROuTU5KI/AAAAAAAAAX8/LmoeDWzisNo/s320/Winter%2B2010%2B017.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733664220240995490" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2EZqWCopKqY/T5IRfqLlc8I/AAAAAAAAAYI/TzPr12SE7PQ/s1600/Winter%2B2010%2B019.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-2EZqWCopKqY/T5IRfqLlc8I/AAAAAAAAAYI/TzPr12SE7PQ/s320/Winter%2B2010%2B019.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5733664511192560578" /></a><br /><br />Neighbor Kitty, in a demonstration of defiance, returned later and was certain to urinate in several strategic locations around the yard.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-7229946299113437302012-04-01T13:31:00.003-05:002012-04-01T13:52:04.372-05:00Gone But Not Forgotten?When I lived in the United Kingdom, I did a lot of walking. If I really think about it, I probably walked about 2 to 3 miles a day to get to class, to the library, or to shop for necessities downtown. There were two notable consequences to all of this walking--first, I had to completely rethink my priorities when I shopped for shoes. Second, a regular build-up of sweat between my skin and my shirt led to a breakout of massive proportions on my upper back. <br /><br />As with any other previous skin emergency, I immediately went to Clinique to find something to help. I already had nearly one of everything in their acne-fighting line. What I really needed was some kind of a treatment for the red, irritated skin that the prolific acne left in its wake. Fortunately, I found it--a cream called "Exceptionally Soothing Cream for Upset Skin" (not the most marketable or catchy choice). It was amazing--within days, most of the redness disappeared. It was such a good product that I, from that point forward, always made sure I had some on hand should a similar problem arise. When my mother was desperate to alleviate some stubborn redness after an injury, I gave her a jar, and it worked its magic and created another convert in the process.<br /><br />Then, Clinique stopped selling the product.<br /><br />I have never understood why companies either stop selling or change popular products. A quick websearch revealed that Clinique's now unavailable cream was equally indispensable to many other clients. I called Clinique. I came away from that phone call with two pieces of information--first, that Clinique always replaces a popular item with a similar item; and second, that I could call their "Gone But Not Forgotten" phone line if I was really interested in buying old products the company no longer manufactured.<br /><br />I've been waiting four years now, and I have yet to see a similar product come up. In fact, I wonder about the logic of this strategy--why do I need to put all that effort into finding that new, replacement product? I was unwilling to make another phone call only to be told they didn't have what I was looking for after half an hour on hold. I used to buy Clinique products all the time. Now, I may invest in some moisturizer now and again, and sometimes I buy the company's cosmetics, but I do not spend nearly as much, nearly as often, at their boutique.<br /><br />The Body Shop recently committed a similar crime. Their Monoi Moisture Balm was the only moisturizer I could find that did not leave a greasy residue that I needed to "wait out" before covering the affected skin with clothing every time I used it. I recently went into a store to find more of it, only to discover that this product had been replaced with yet another greasy moisturizer under the same name. RedKen, often noted for their fabulous hair care products, replaced their popular "All Soft" conditioner with a very watery version of their product that literally drips down your face while it is supposed to be sitting in your hair. <br /><br />What gives? <br /><br />Do companies ALWAYS need revamping or restructuring, or are we really overdoing it? This is yet another example of the alienation of customers in order to somehow bring in more customers...and, if they do that, they'll just need to restructure again.<br /><br />Lesson never quite learned.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-73907687109373731722012-03-24T20:02:00.005-05:002012-03-25T10:20:00.788-05:00Where the Hell are the Breadcrumbs?!Supermarkets offer two main connundra to shoppers. Neither of them make shopping an enjoyable experience.<br /><br />First, supermarkets are constructed to offer absolutely anything and everything to customers, and the varieties and sizes of products have only diversified over the years. Where only different sizes of whole milk were once all you could find in dairy department refrigerators about fifteen years ago, today, milk is available from whole to skim and in sizes ranging from an individual portion to a shelf-sized tank. Pepperidge Farm's original attempt to branch out was to manufacture its famous Milano cookies in mini form. Today, you can get Milano cookies in mint, raspberry, strawberry, double chocolate, in standard packaging or in seasonal colors, and there is even a type of Milano that is more like a Twinkie with a chocolate frosting center.<br /><br />Variety is good, right? Well, yes and no. There is no question that building on successful lines of products is a marketing strategy employed by companies to get you to buy more of their products. And, based on the ever-expanding size of shopping carts available to customers, it is certainly working. Problems arise, however, when you just want to buy one or two important things. When I returned to the store to purchase the potatoes that I forgot recently, I was stuck. Either I could check myself out, which is always a mistake when you buy anything without a bar code, I could stand in a line behind several people, all of whom had chosen the extra-large shopping carts and had stuffed them to full, or hope someone was standing near enough by the "Express" lane to check me out. Oh, and I don't think that 15 items constitutes a "small" order, either.<br /><br />The other problem is product placement in the store. Yes, indeed, the produce, the bread products, and the dairy aisle are all miles apart on purpose. My main problem is the fact that the same item or classification of items will be in completely different places in different supermarkets. Remember the bread crumbs? I'll never forget how hard they were to find in one particular supermarket I went into on what was supposed to be a quick trip. I checked the bread aisle, the Italian food section, the baking needs aisle...nothing. Then, I found them--they were on a shelf over a waist-high freezer across from the processed meats and the yogurt (????).<br /><br />This prompted me to look for breadcrumbs in every supermarket I went into. In addition to those mentioned above, locations include: next to the foil baking pans, under the spices and next to the salt, across from the cookies, and next to the chicken pieces. And, going into the same supermarket chain in different towns didn't help either. Years ago, Stop 'n' Shop used to have computers in the store that would tell you where items were located in relation to where you were standing. Today, I'd have to track down and ask a store employee, and unless you're in the store during restocking hours, you're out of luck before you start there.<br /><br />I don't know anyone who looks forward to a long, leisurely trip to the supermarket. However, between tracking down products, walking half a mile between areas where essentials are placed, and waiting through an inefficient charge-and-pay system, you may as well plan on cashing in some of your obviously abundant extra time.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-39438631321625742592012-03-18T08:47:00.000-05:002012-03-18T08:48:42.673-05:00The Impossible Shoe Dream<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QShyii5X98M/T2Xgi5OOf7I/AAAAAAAAAWc/VDoWxSI7t7Q/s1600/Shoes1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 269px; height: 187px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-QShyii5X98M/T2Xgi5OOf7I/AAAAAAAAAWc/VDoWxSI7t7Q/s320/Shoes1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721225791724748722" /></a><br /><br />Comfortable, yet fashionable, shoes for women do not exist.<br /><br />There is no greater evidence that men have truly held the reigns of women's fashion than the shoes that are generally on offer at shoe stores and department stores alike. The "armadillo shoes," shown above, are the epitome of this trend, however, they are so uncomfortable, and so dangerous to walk in that <a href="http://www.graziadaily.co.uk/fashion/archive/2009/12/22/models-refused-to-wear-those-mcqueen-shoes.htm">these models </a>actually refused to wear them in a fashion show.<br /><br />Now, I'm fairly sure that most of us aren't going to start wearing anything like that, but I would still like to know why women's shoes range from this:<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CaNL-AUHKaM/T2XhvfKRn3I/AAAAAAAAAWo/GedTZGlCaPs/s1600/Shoes2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-CaNL-AUHKaM/T2XhvfKRn3I/AAAAAAAAAWo/GedTZGlCaPs/s320/Shoes2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721227107578781554" /></a><br /><br />To this:<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sqqNPdurnAg/T2XiZEjy55I/AAAAAAAAAW0/8zfCN1AN5mY/s1600/Shoes3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 314px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-sqqNPdurnAg/T2XiZEjy55I/AAAAAAAAAW0/8zfCN1AN5mY/s320/Shoes3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721227821992568722" /></a><br /><br />The latter is an emergency that even Dr. Scholls couldn't fix.<br /><br />It's amazing what we can do these days. The treatment of once-fatal illnesses, like cancer or AIDS, can ensure a long, healthy life. IPads are going where no one has gone before using Star Trek-era technology. Everyone asks what may be coming next. So, I ask you, why is it impossible to make even a practical women's shoe/boot/heel comfortable if she's going to be standing on it for more than five minutes? Why must shoes merely "look good" on a woman's feet, or enhance her physical attributes, such as setting off her legs or making her look (perhaps nearly a foot??!!) taller?<br /><br />One of the most difficult things is finding shoes when I'm about to go on a vacation. I tend to visit places that I want to explore, and I often have to accomplish that exploration on foot. A walk of one mile or more completely eliminates the use of my ankle-high boots, so I am forced to find an alternative. On my last trip to the UK, I actually ended up stuffing shoe inserts into a pair of shoes made by Merrell. Merrell is well-known for making comfortable shoes, but even their sophisticated models wouldn't make the cut on their own. The shoe inserts only managed to shove my foot up against the top of the shoe without making the journey any easier. Socks can be as much a hindrance as a help. Fortunately, I have discovered that feet are incredibly resilient--one solid night's sleep and, bingo! Back out on an equally long walk as if the overindulgence of the previous day never happened.<br /><br />Every designer wants to create the next big trend that will send women running to the stores. I'll let you guys in on a secret--design a pair of great-looking shoes I can walk 5+ miles in without my needing a foot soak at the end of the day, and you'll never have to work another day in your life.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-57919085644833070362012-03-10T19:40:00.002-05:002012-03-10T20:14:44.562-05:00Leave Me Alone, Loyalty CardsI don't know what it is today with the "loyalty card" trend. When I go shopping, which is rare beyond necessary bathroom items and food, I always know exactly what I'm looking for. I've usually thought it out in advance, counted the cost of the items against my budget, and I want to get in and out as quickly as possible.<br /><br />Of course, I expect that whomever is on the opposite side of the counter is going to try to sell me something in addition to my planned purchase. For example, I recently visited a Clinique counter to buy a moisturizer I really like, but I can rarely afford. I selected the moisturizer, made every sign I could that I was ready to cash out, and:<br /><br />"Are you interested in any eye creams?"<br /><br />"No, thank you."<br /><br />"Would you like to try any make-up colors today?"<br /><br />One question I can take, but two questions when I'm standing there, wallet out and debit card in hand? Seriously?<br /><br />Or in GNC where I wanted to buy two boxes of probiotics: First, a store employee made a move to open up a second register so I could cash out faster, and, for some reason, she couldn't get the other check-out guy's attention to help her unlock the register. Then, after the other customers had long since left, she finally started to check me out.<br /><br />"Are you interested in signing up for a loyalty card today?"<br /><br />"No, thank you."<br /><br />"Do you know about our loyalty card program?"<br /><br />"Yes, it has been mentioned to me before."<br /><br />"I mean, if you sign up, the next time you buy these, it will be X dollars off from that purchase."<br /><br />*Sigh*<br /><br />I visited seven stores of varying kinds today. Of these, in five stores I was either offered some kind of a customer loyalty card or some kind of a special credit card specifically for that store. Of the remaining two, I already possessed a credit card for the store in one case, and the other does not offer either loyalty cards or credit cards of any kind.<br /><br />When I select my items and get up to the register, I don't appreciate being detained for an extra two minutes while I am offered all kinds of cards and coupons or while I am being solicited for personal information like my e-mail address, home zip code, or phone number. In an attempt to capture customers and keep them coming back, companies are sending some of their more loyal customers running into the nearest alternative. I return to many of the same stores already without loyalty cards upon which I can rack up points. I go there because they have a product I like, for example, which is really what it is all about. However, I am more than willing to find a similar product I like just about as much--maybe even significantly less--in another store where I know for sure that I can cash out quickly and reliably. If Walgreens is closest to me, I'm going to go to Walgreens. I'm not going to take a detour miles away to a CVS simply because of a point-gathering piece of plastic.<br /><br />So, for heaven's sake, leave me alone. If you do, I may be inclined to return to your store.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-50916614819437774352011-09-24T10:23:00.002-05:002011-09-24T10:55:41.944-05:00The Fliers? Not the ProblemWe've all been there--the security line at the airport. I'd be willing to venture that NO line is more dreaded than this one. The lines to get on rides at large amusement parks, like Six Flags or Disney World, are infinitely longer than the airport security line, but I'm not sure any of us ever remember the line--we remember the ride. It is quite the opposite at the airport. At least in my case, I have a much more difficult time remembering the details of the ride--a ride I paid hundreds of dollars for the privilege of traveling on--than I do recalling the security process and the line that process ultimately creates.<br /><br />I've done far less traveling in recent years, but I've seen the progression of ever-more-ridiculous steps in the security system to where we are today. I remember when we had to start taking our shoes off because of ONE GUY, who never should have been allowed to fly in the first place. I remember when those massively controversial body scanners appeared in airports for the first time because of....gasp...ONE GUY WHO NEVER SHOULD HAVE BEEN ALLOWED ON A PLANE. Honestly, if our American tax dollars are disappearing in large quantities to fund Intelligence, the least that department can do is keep high risk people off of airplanes. Thus far, their "Do Not Fly" list has only prevented Ted Kennedy from getting from one destination to another. <br /><br />My heart goes out to <a href="http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/44599441">this woman</a> because obviously her recent experience with security personnel in an airport caused her a great deal of stress. As annoyed as I am with the screening process as it currently stands, what drives me crazy about this situation isn't the fact that they pat down her hair. There's a big part of me that feels that is pretty ridiculous, but not necessarily a personal violation. The issue is how the security team addressed her: <br /><br />'Hey you, hey you, ma'am, stop. Stop -- the lady with the hair, you," <br /><br />The "lady with the hair?" Seriously? What would you say to anyone else who ever addressed you anywhere like that? Imagine this happened in...a restaurant, a coffee place and a sales associate, who wanted to get your attention, addressed you like that. What would you say?<br /><br />I'd be absolutely pissed off. And, I think we should be more pissed off about the attitude than the regulation. None of us, at this point, can argue directly with the people who are telling TSA what to screen and how to screen. However, all of us can take issue with how someone is treated, when it is entirely unwarranted, by these so-called security professionals. A lot of people who work on all ends of the airline industry tend to "boo-hoo" it about how customers treat them. I don't know about you, but I've been in customer service for a long time in various ways, and I don't have it any better. What I can say is that as long as I try and treat a customer well, no one can reproach me, and often, a bad customer attitude is gradually muted in the exchange. When I act like a jackass, and we all have our days, that's when I offend a customer and really raise their ire.<br /><br />If TSA were more customer-service oriented, as opposed to acting like a sector of former-DMV bullies, parents who had their six-year-olds patted down may not have gone to the press and medical patients who pointed out various necessities wouldn't have been embarrassed. <br /><br />The TSA could probably reduce their appearance in the news by 50% or more if they taught their employees how to behave like human beings working with human beings. I'm not holding out hope for my next trip to the airport.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-63314966349048344522011-06-26T09:54:00.002-05:002011-06-26T10:49:18.786-05:00"Hello, welcome to McDonald's...."<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UyCkSF9oi3Y/TgdIVm1AooI/AAAAAAAAASg/wZ__aFtfwRg/s1600/McDonalds.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 217px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-UyCkSF9oi3Y/TgdIVm1AooI/AAAAAAAAASg/wZ__aFtfwRg/s320/McDonalds.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622542195832693378" /></a> I once read a statistic that claimed 33% of all Americans have worked, at least at one point, at a McDonald's. Given the prevalence of the restaurant throughout the country, I can certainly believe that without taking a leap of faith.<br /><br />In fact, I am one of them.<br /><br />Working at McDonald's was my first job. My mother decided that getting a job would be "good for me" when I was about 17 years old. In retrospect, she was probably right. The application process fourteen years ago is probably the best indicator of how the job market has changed--I picked up probably about two-dozen applications from as many chain stores and restaurants as a suburban town can generally offer. In one or two cases, I sat down right away with managers who were all too eager to sign me up for their shop's patented variety of menial labor. I can't say what made me settle on McDonalds exactly, but I am sure my experience would have been about the same, if less grease covered, anywhere else.<br /><br />I worked there for a year, and overall, it wasn't terrible. I spent a lot of time relegated to the drive-thru window, which was connected to the kitchen via conveyor belt. There were a lot of really great people there, actually, but there was a drawback--the later afternoon and evening shifts were entirely staffed by kids, none of whom had yet reached the ripe old age of 20.<br /><br />Giving any measure of power to someone under 18 years old is a drastic mistake, and one that the owner of this McDonald's made many times over. None of the managers had yet graduated from the local high school, and good judgement under most circumstances was suspect at best. By far, the worst offender was this guy Sean who was conveniently dating the owner's daughter at the time. Sean would take any and all available opportunities to increase his self-esteem by making other staff members' lives as miserable as possible. At one point, five minutes before my shift ended, he demanded that I mop the floor of the entire restaurant, even though my mother had to come across town to pick me up. Sean quickly recanted this order, realizing that a frustrated, delayed parent could probably curb his power-high pretty quickly. He was also the worst offender when it came to unlocking register drawers and moving money around for no apparent reason--the result of this behavior pattern was my being "sanctioned," which basically meant being closely watched and relegated to the grill, because money had "disappeared" too often from my drawer.<br /><br />Customers filled in the general bell-curve of cooperative-ness. One guy, a guy I recognized from the local church my family attended, faithfully came to the restaurant and sat in viewing range of the main counter, eerily eyeing the male employees and often offering consistently refused rides home from work. Tuesday night was kids night, with a corresponding reduction on happy meal prices, and the restaurant and outdoor play area would be swarmed with poorly supervised, young children. I'll never forget the one time I hosted a McDonald's birthday party. The staff member originally assigned to the task hadn't showed up that day, so I took the job, and it was a disaster. I'll never forget the general disapproval from the lower-class parental clientele at this event. One of the oddest requests I ever got from anyone was a "cheeseburger happy meal without the meat." Although I applaud a mindful parent, I have to ask why he/she came to McDonalds, of all places, if the main ingredient in all meals is well known to be meat-based protein.<br /><br />I only worked at McDonalds for a year. The following summer, I opted for a more civilized and higher paying position as a hostess at an Olive Garden. <br /><br />Recently, the McDonalds of my memory was closed, which surprised me a great deal. How ANY McDonalds can close baffles me, but the owner perhaps decided to focus on the more lucrative, and less crowded by rivals, restaurant he purchased in a neighboring town. Sad to see this staple of the local strip mall boarded up, and I often wonder what happened to the many people with whom I worked and did not stay in touch. One thing is true--when I start talking about working at McDonalds wherever I am and whenever I need to break the ice, at least one or two other people have similar stories.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-9260546068761812842011-05-29T08:03:00.002-05:002011-05-29T08:27:11.124-05:00Remember this Gap commercial?:<br /><br /><iframe width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/knW1hGwmEXQ" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />Or this one?:<br /><br /><iframe width="425" height="349" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/d4Hu6up9Xng" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe><br /><br />They're both from Gap's heyday in the late-1990s/early 2000s. Now, here's the question--does ANYONE buy Gap clothing anymore?<br /><br />When I was in college, I always made the obligatory stop at Gap in the mall whenever I went clothes shopping. Sometimes, it was a blockbuster experience--flattering fits, great colors, and practical styles would ensure that I walked out of the store with at least one bag stuffed to full capacity. Occasionally, it would be more of a bust. At one point, for example, the Gap designers were suddenly inspired by the 1960s hippie era, and stores were filled with racks and racks of long, patterned cotton skirts and linen tank tops. I must not have been the only person with reservations about looking like a throwback from 40 years ago because within two months, all evidence of this fashion moment in time had disappeared. <br /><br />In recent years, my purchases at Gap were pared down to a certain fit of jeans and their Favorite-T line of shirts (which unfortunately only come in grey, white, and black). Only one or two styles of their clothing caught my attention. I passed most racks by without a glance.<br /><br />Recently, I noticed <a href="http://nymag.com/daily/fashion/2011/05/patrick_robinson_fired_from_ga.html">this article</a>. First off, I had no idea that any of these mall brands actually HAD their own designers to fire. Second, I realized that the last time I made any significant purchase was in 2007, presumably before either this guy got hired or before his impact could be felt on Gap stores nationwide.<br /><br />Why wasn't this guy successful? I mean, he did come with quite a resume. <br /><br />Here's my theory:<br /><br />He designed clothes for the models in the photos on the walls happily skipping around in Gap's latest styles. He didn't design one pair of pants or one shirt that would look good on anyone who wasn't, at most, a size 2. <br /><br />And, Gap's empty stores and lagging sales are direct evidence of just how few women in the world ARE 5' 10" and 115lbs. Not only does Gap now have such a small demographic to draw from, but, even if every single skinny tall chick spent $200 at Gap for its overpriced clothing, the profits still wouldn't hold a candle to Gap's more successful satellite, Old Navy.<br /><br />There's a part of me that can't entirely blame him for making this mistake. I am sure that while working at Giorgio Armani, his delusional world of one-size-fits-all women was probably born. <br /><br />I'll still buy the T-shirts, though. They don't seem to be subject to the same laws of the recent Gap universe.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-50684390054323325172011-05-21T10:44:00.003-05:002011-05-21T11:13:09.924-05:00<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H44mtcJhe5g/TdfeL2tniYI/AAAAAAAAASU/T6iHgwJt3b4/s1600/amtrakquietcar.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-H44mtcJhe5g/TdfeL2tniYI/AAAAAAAAASU/T6iHgwJt3b4/s320/amtrakquietcar.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609196156160018818" /></a><br /><br />I have to admit that I was one of the many people who released a boisterous, inner cheer when I read <a href="http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/43078616/ns/today-today_tech/t/cops-kick-cellphone-blabbermouth-train/">this article</a>.<br /><br />I became aware of the "quiet car" phenomenon when I lived in the United Kingdom. I spent the entire year without a car, which, to an American, is completely shocking. Fortunately, public transportation was a more than adequate option, and I visited many attractions, cities, and villages by train. Into the late spring and early summer months, I realized that timing was truly everything. Wandering bands of undergraduate students, newly released from university, traveled by train in groups of 8 or more with an outlandish quantity of luggage, to visit a variety of seaside locations. Although it wasn't a guarantee, the best option by far was to retreat to the quiet car under these circumstances. You had about a 50/50 chance that the overworked conductor would actually enforce the rule, and those odds were enough to keep younger travelers from venturing in and taking a seat.<br /><br />The United States train system, as underused as it is, actually did catch on to this trend, and Amtrak started designating one car on its longer trains with multiple stops as the quiet car. On a recent train trip south, my boyfriend and I thought this was a brilliant innovation, and we immediately claimed seats. We realized, however, that the success of the quiet car was entirely dependant on whether the assigned conductor actually enforced the rules.<br /><br />Scenario 1: My boyfriend and I got on a train to return from my parents' house, and it was a lot busier than either of us anticipated for a late-morning trip on Saturday. We chose seats in the quiet car after observing a traveling group of 30 poorly supervised students, and, when the train proceeded forward, we thought that we had escaped the danger of a long, loud trip. Unfortunately, we failed to notice that a woman sitting in front of us, seemingly having traveled from New York, was watching a film on her laptop computer in front of us. Now, even by the standards of the quiet car, this isn't problematic in principal. Two things made this a straightforward violation--first, she refused to use headphones, so everyone within a ten-seat radius could hear every line of dialogue with perfect clarity. Second, she, of course, chose some ridiculous, mind-numbing "shoot-'em-up" film, complete with automatic weapons and a massive quantity of shattering glass. The conductor walked by many times, and probably had many more times before we boarded the train, but he never said a word to her for the entire remainder of the ride.<br /><br />Scenario 2: I was on my way south on the same train line a few months later. Again, I selected the quiet car for the trip. After the trains started moving from the station, the conductor began his rounds to clip tickets. As he made his way up the aisle, he became aware of a woman who was still on her cell phone long after the "emergency situation" time frame had expired. He told her to turn it off. She had a fit. And, this was his response:<br /> <br /><em>"Look, there are seven more cars on this train where you can talk<br /> however long you want, however loud you want. This is the ONE CAR<br /> where the people sitting in it do not want to hear you blab on for <br /> hours at a time. This is the QUIET CAR. There are signs everywhere, <br /> and I presume you can read them. Now, either you can turn off the cell<br /> phone and sit quietly like everyone else is here or you can move <br /> somewhere else--your choice, but in this car one of your choices is<br /> NOT talking on your cell phone."</em><br /><br />I think everyone in the car came close to a cheer, but we stifled it in fear that we would be the next travelers spoken to on the quiet car rules. <br /><br />I am sure it comes as no surprise that the lady was livid. She was more pissed off about being called out in front of everyone than about being retold the very clearly stated rules. However, NO ONE thought she was treated unfairly. She was being unfair to everyone else, and she got what she deserved.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-60710997785703381752011-05-14T19:30:00.002-05:002011-05-14T20:17:20.945-05:00<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8UEOCPfzs_o/Tc8feJ9f7XI/AAAAAAAAASM/un5w_foNGiU/s1600/gym.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8UEOCPfzs_o/Tc8feJ9f7XI/AAAAAAAAASM/un5w_foNGiU/s320/gym.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5606734664029957490" /></a><br /><br />Deciding to go to the gym is the ultimate battle of mental and physical wits. I am sure there are people out there who love the gym. I've honestly never met one, but I can imagine they exist. I have to believe, for example, that the huge guy with the perfectly sculpted biceps and abs or that little chick with the 24" waist in the tiny, spandex outfit either is evidence that God exists and does indeed grant wishes or that going to the gym 8 hours a day does produce an idealized result somewhere other than in an Angelina Jolie film.<br /><br />Recently, I moved from an all-women's gym with terrible hours (seriously, a closing time of 6:00 p.m.?) to a more standard version. I started out just doing the cardio thing--it was safe, it was somewhat convenient, I kinda knew how to work the equipment, and if I missed a good TV show, I could watch it to distract myself. I always knew that I would have to branch out into the weights section eventually--not because I was really that desperate to shrink the size of my backside, but because I needed to preserve my sanity. Fifty-five minutes on an elliptial machine actually makes it possible to identify not with the boredom that an assembly-line worker must experience, but the insatiable grinding that the assembly-line itself goes through 12 hours a day for the sake of the American economy.<br /><br />Unfortunately, there are a few phenomena that characterize a gym's weightlifting section:<br /><br />Groups of college students, newly released from academic bonds, that visit the gym in herds. These are generally single-sex units that congregate around a piece of machinery or a lifting apparatus. They will assign roles as follows--one lifts, one spots, and two or three more will giggle incessantly, tell ridiculous jokes, or discuss how much more weight they can lift than the one actually doing the lifting, never to prove their claims.<br /><br />Texters who use "down time" on lifting machines as an opportunity to catch up with friends and family on their unlimited phone plans. Of course, a series of reps on any machine requires a short recovery, but a 20 to 30 second count often is not enough time to reflect upon what that girl was wearing or what he did last night in the appropriate OMG language. This results in a lot of bench-sitters, maximizing machines they aren't using, and they generally come away claiming they had a full one-hour workout when that workout was actually disproportionally divided between actually working out and making sure their Droids and iPhones live up to their warrantees.<br /><br />Non-sprayers, who use machines in sweat-splotched clothing, but because they weren't on those machines for more than 5 minutes, they feel no need to spray it off for the next person.<br /><br />Members of the opposite sex who insist upon staring at you when you're in a compromising position. I can only reflect on this from a woman's perspective, and I can honestly say that there is nothing more ridiculous than a guy taking a peek when you're on one of those thigh machines. Seriously, guy? You're that curious about how boys and girls are different down there, STILL? <br /><br />On the other hand, watching all of this happening does distract one from the workout that me, among so many others, can't stand in the first place. I suppose there is always a trade off.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-56002339796053123602011-01-30T19:22:00.004-05:002011-01-30T19:47:39.126-05:00His Story, My EditOne of the biggest stories in the news today is the weather. No matter where you live, something notable or unusual has happened lately. <br /><br />Here in New England, snow (in the winter) is nothing to speak of. Whether you're in the more temperate bands along the coastline or farther inland, in higher elevations, snow happens. We cope. That's about all we can do. We buy vehicles that can shift into 4-wheel drive at a moment's notice. We put tires on our cars with deep treads, studs, and even chains for better traction. Our weatherpeople know better than to sensationalize an upcoming storm unless they KNOW for SURE what's going to happen, how much precipitation we can expect, and what the timeline is. Administrators cancel school, and they even have calling systems that will alert every single parent in a school district in five minutes.<br /><br />Last week, we experienced an unfortunate combination of weather circumstances that truly made travel, no matter what you were driving or how you were driving it, dangerous. It was below 10 degrees outside; it started snowing that powdery, sticky snow that was impervious to any treatment other than physically plowing it off the road. Of course, this all happened during rush hour, and I refused to drive on the highways under these circumstances. I made a one hour trip to work (20 miles between two "major" cities) on the regional bypass road. It was a white-knuckled journey, but, as long as I drove slowly and no one else did anything stupid (a tall order at times), I knew I would make it there safely.<br /><br />I turned on the news when I returned home that evening. The top story was the morning commute--38 accidents were reported on major interstate roads, and the trip from Manchester, NH to Boston, MA had increased from 90 minutes to four hours at one point. Television crews from the local news station managed to get out to the site of one of these accidents to speak with the victim. <br /><br />Here's the story he told the reporters:<br /><br />"I was driving on (insert main in-town one-lane road name here) on my way to a job interview. I felt that I was getting too close to the car in front of me. I know they tell you not to hit the brakes hard, but I did. The car veered into a snowbank and flipped over. I'm Ok, though."<br /><br />Here's what we know really happened:<br /><br />"I left for that stupid job interview at a time I figured would get me there 15 minutes early. Once I hit the road, I realized how long it was going to take. If I were late, even in these driving conditions, I may not get that job. I started on my way, watching the clock on my dashboard like a hawk. I knew it would be tough with the front-wheel-drive only sedan and those cheap tires, but hey, I live here--this is what we deal with. First couple of turns resulted in classic car fishtailing--whew! Then, I got on the main stretch of road. I was going along just fine until I wound up behind one of those slow people. I mean, come on! I had somewhere to go! How dare this guy drive the recommended 30 miles-and-hour speed limit! I tailgated him hard at first--yeah, maybe that will make him think about pulling over. Humph...no such luck. I backed off a little, but I was still frustrated. I looked at that clock again--10 minutes! When I looked up again, the guy in front of me was slowing down. I hit the brakes hard to avoid a rear-end job that would cost me....and I flipped my car. I got off easy--more than the prime asshole I am deserved."<br /><br />Listen, guy, you don't ever have to hit the brakes hard unless you're either not paying attention, you're tailgating someone, or both. And, if you do have to hit them like that under those conditions, you must have really been incredibly far up the ass of the guy in front of you to actually FLIP YOUR CAR.<br /><br />Did I buy this guy's sob story? No friggin' way. My only hope is that perhaps this gave one guy pause for thought whenever he decides to act like a jackass on the road again, no matter what the conditions are.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-75086350011039325072010-12-18T11:25:00.003-05:002010-12-18T12:19:18.252-05:00Going Postal and the Unfortunately UnforgettableOne of the worst places to be forced to spend any time in at this time of year is the post office. You know that no matter when you go or how prepared you are, you're going to wind up in a line that extends out the door. People, unfamiliar with the extended mailing process, will stand up at the painfully few open counter spaces, unable to decide between express or priority shipping. Although your transaction takes the 31 seconds you planned that it would, the guy in front of you with a dolly loaded up with poorly labeled cardboard boxes is going to ensure that any post office visit you make will require that you pack sustenance in advance should you face a choice between starvation and cannibalism.<br /><br />All I needed was six international stamps--and the price of this excursion was $5.88 and 30 minutes of my time. As I finally approached the counter, I noticed many familiar faces among the overwhelmed post office staff--and one in particular. A young lady was one of these staff members. I recognized her right away--I knew she couldn't tell me from a crowd of a thousand people she had ever served in the post office. . .<br /><br />But I would never forget her.<br /><br />It was the Friday before Labor Day weekend over a year ago. I had put together a mailing for another organization that, through my place of employment, I am affiliated with. The day before, at around 5 p.m., I had used the postal meter machine to mark all of the letters. I organized them all in a box, and I figured it would be easier for postal employees to take them directly from me, so I drove over to the post office with them. After a short wait in line, I walked up to the counter where this same young lady was standing.<br /><br />It was clear to me that this was a new employee. She seemed entirely baffled why I brought her these already prepared letters, and entirely unable to understand that all she need do with them is bring them to the sorting facility behind the public space. In her bewilderment, she happened to examine the meter stamp on one of them.<br /><br />"We can't take these," she said curtly.<br /><br />"Why exactly?"<br /><br />"They're postmarked yesterday," she replied, equally curtly.<br /><br />I narrowed my eyes at her.<br /><br />"And why is that a problem?"<br /><br />"We can only take mail that is postmarked the day we take it through the office."<br /><br />I had a feeling I was dealing with a new employee here who was desperate to get it right in front of two or three longer-serving colleagues. I felt bad for her upon this revelation, but certainly not bad enough to ask:<br /><br />"These were not postmarked until after 5 p.m. How could I have gotten them to you?"<br /><br />Her answer: "Well, we're open until 6; you could have brought them then."<br /><br />I was starting to get irritated: "My work day ends at 5 p.m, ma'am."<br /><br />She was starting to get irritated: "That's not my problem. I can't take these letters."<br /><br />Ok, now I'm getting angry: "So, explain to me why I can postmark a letter anytime AFTER the mailman comes through to pick up mail at 11 a.m., and he takes it the next day without a struggle."<br /><br />She clearly didn't like being cornered on that one.<br /><br />I sighed: "OK, since you're really intent on this, tell me what I can do. The postal meter debits our account when we mark letters. I can't just run them through twice because we will be charged twice."<br /><br />"You have to set the meter to zero. Then, put the letters through so they have a mark with today's date on them."<br /><br />My thought: Have YOU ever received a letter that was marked TWICE in this manner? I don't think so.<br /><br />My parting comment involved the words "ridiculous" and "irrational."<br /><br />I called one of my colleagues at work to ask about what I should do after both I and the box of letters were in the car. Was it even possible to set the meter to zero? <br /><br />Her suggestion: "Well, here's what I think: just put them in a mailbox somewhere. Make sure it isn't one of the ones right outside the post office. Just pick one somewhere in the city. I'm sure there won't be a problem."<br /><br />Brilliant.<br /><br />I had no idea that a quest for a discretely located blue mailbox was going to be such a trek. I needed to find one with a listed final pick-up time scheduled around 5 p.m.--it was already around 3, and I was sufficiently put on-guard by the postal worker to believe that the letters had to be carried that day if they displayed yesterday's date on them. As I drove around, checking times listed on each box, I found that it was gradually becoming more and more difficult to steer the car. As I pushed harder and harder on the steering wheel, I felt the pull of the elastic belt more and more taughtly. After about half an hour of driving around, I gave up and parked the car in one of the downtown spaces in front of a fully visible mailbox--one of the only ones with a pick-up time of 5 p.m. on it. I dumped all of the letters in the mailbox and got back into the car with the empty box.<br /><br />Now, it was nearly impossible to drive--something was definitely wrong. I was about a block away from my regular mechanic's shop, so I forced the car in that direction, slowly driving it into the lot and parking it in an available space. After checking in at the front desk, the mechanic came out of the garage and popped the hood of my car.<br /><br />"Oh, wow. Look at that."<br /><br />He and I were looking at the same thing. The main difference was that I could have been looking at a car about to explode, and I wouldn't have any idea.<br /><br />I asked.<br /><br />"Do you see that there," he pointed to one of the belts, "that is the steering belt. See how the end is all torn up? And look, this distributes fluid to the belt, and it looks like all of the fluid has leaked out of it. This is definitely not a drivable car. You're going to have to leave it here."<br /><br />If anything, this whole debacle gave me a greater appreciation for this mechanic--because it was Labor Day weekend, and he was concerned that I wouldn't be able to rent a car, he offered me the use of the shop's truck for the weekend. I very much appreciated it--I told him that I would let him know if nothing was available. Fortunately, I was able to get a small car for the weekend without inconveniencing him.<br /><br />To be fair to the postal worker, had I not embarked on an exodus to find a mailbox, I may not have discovered this potentially dangerous car problem until I was well on my way home that evening. Or, on the other hand, it could have been that very trip that damaged the car somehow. Or, given our exchange at the counter, she could have called upon a legion of equally-disgruntled postal workers to compromise my car while we were speaking at the counter.<br /><br />Whatever the case, one thing is true--<br /><br />I will NEVER forget her.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-221184615635636182010-09-04T23:24:00.000-05:002010-09-04T23:24:14.766-05:00Simon's Cat<object style="background-image:url(http://i4.ytimg.com/vi/w0ffwDYo00Q/hqdefault.jpg)" width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/w0ffwDYo00Q?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/w0ffwDYo00Q?fs=1&hl=en_US" width="425" height="344" allowScriptAccess="never" allowFullScreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object><br /><br />If you've ever owned a cat, you know this scenario.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-24143124585229262732010-08-21T10:06:00.004-05:002010-08-21T11:04:30.884-05:00Emily's Unknown Adventure<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GwiVepR6Hzg/TG_3AH-tCWI/AAAAAAAAAMM/DlAjtdQWg18/s1600/Flume+001.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GwiVepR6Hzg/TG_3AH-tCWI/AAAAAAAAAMM/DlAjtdQWg18/s320/Flume+001.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507892450811513186" /></a><br /><br /><br />Of the three cats that count themselves permanent residents of my house (a fourth is temporarily residing as a consequence of my boyfriend being away at sea at the moment), Emily is NOT my adventurer. It's surprising to me that it turned out that way because the circumstances were exactly the opposite when I "met" her and her two sisters in the curator's apartment of a historic home in RI seven years ago. The moment the young lady who found and captured them opened the door to the kitchen where they were sequestered, Emily dashed out first, only followed tentatively behind by Charlotte. Anne refused to leave her little corner and had to be physically carried into the living room to join her more eager sisters. What I hadn't told her before I came over that day was that I intended to take all three of them home with me. And, home with me, with only a short interruption during the year of my education abroad, is where they have been ever since.<br /><br />Until last Saturday.<br /><br />It doesn't surprise me when I hear gunshots in the distance living in this area--too many locals are marksmen and buy sizable pieces of property in order to exercise their right to bear arms. The bigger problem is a guy who lives on the other side of the neighborhood who insists upon setting off fireworks, without much skill if the sound is any indication. The area is covered from one side of the town to the other in tall pine trees, and signs on the lawns of every local fire department constantly warn against the danger of forest fires whether it is sunny and dry or cold and wet outside. Last Saturday once it had grown completely dark, off the fireworks went for about an hour. About that same time, I started calling the cats into the house. In came Anne and Oscar without a struggle, but I couldn't see Charlotte or Emily. I wasn't alarmed--they usually made their way back as soon as they heard the first call, and even if they chose to be stubborn, they would stay outside, just out of reach, close to the house for as long as possible.<br /><br />As the evening went on, Emily still didn't come back. The sound of worry entered my calls to the point that Charlotte, my most outdoor-oriented cat, came back to the house, and let me pick her up and bring her indoors. This wasn't a good sign, and its ill omen was only reinforced by the glimpse of a grey fox crossing the road from the woods and wandering through my yard.<br /><br />The next morning, Emily was not waiting on the doorstep to come in. Calls throughout the day did not bring her home. A walk around the neighborhood raised no hopes.<br /><br />On Monday, I returned to work, emotions in limbo. A local shop printed color fliers with her picture on it, and that evening, I put one in every mailbox in the 3 mile circle that encompasses the neighborhood. The next day, I visited vets' offices and animal shelters to the west of where I live, stopping in nearly ten places over a distance of about 25 miles. When I returned home, I had a message from a local gentleman who thought he saw her walking the direction of the other side of the neighborhood earlier. Although a ways away from my house, I drove over there and called her. There was no sign of her anywhere, but I did meet the son of the man who called me, and the next day, on another sojourn, this time to the east, he called me believing he saw her in his neighbor's yard. By the time I arrived there, he had discovered, after enlisting the help of this neighbor, that the cat belonged to someone nearby.<br /><br />By Thursday, Emily hadn't come home and no fresh leads had been brought to my attention. After work, I decided to make one more attempt at finding her. Focusing on the gentleman's lead from days before, I took the remaining fliers and brought them to another street on the the side of the neighborhood he had supposedly seen her. I walked up and around a high hill, I walked down every side street I had originally dismissed. I exhausted my supply of fliers in the process. I called every so often, listening for a rustle of leaves, a cry--anything. Two hours, five miles, and two huge blisters later, I returned to the house. At that point, I realized that I couldn't do anything more--if no one called, if she didn't materialize in a local shelter, if no one brought her to a vet's office, she was gone. Emily, the sweetest cat, who took care of everyone sick or sad, who followed her sisters dutifully around the house and the yard, who everyone had praise for her wonderful disposition, had fallen to some unknown, horrible fate that was stomach-turning to imagine. <br /><br />That was when I heard it--a mew getting louder as its source moved closer and closer to the house.<br /><br />I opened the door--there she was, covered head to toe in copper-brown dirt without a scratch on her. She wasn't even hungry. She settled in a spot on the kitchen floor and looked up at me with a "what?" expression while her sisters examined and sniffed her from a safe distance, baffled at the combination of her absence and her sudden reappearance. Where was she? Still a mystery, but the experience has transformed all of them into indoor cats for some time, if not permanently. <br /><br />Objections, there are many. Peace of mind, in this case, is just too priceless to sacrifice to make even these cats happy at the moment.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-91843559166053708122010-07-17T20:45:00.003-05:002010-07-17T20:56:21.706-05:00Redemption: Northern New England<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GwiVepR6Hzg/TEJedR93mcI/AAAAAAAAAME/bLcVmzhy61U/s1600/Flume+062.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GwiVepR6Hzg/TEJedR93mcI/AAAAAAAAAME/bLcVmzhy61U/s320/Flume+062.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495058352477542850" /></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GwiVepR6Hzg/TEJec2SHCdI/AAAAAAAAAL8/WPD2FP6-bYE/s1600/Flume+042.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_GwiVepR6Hzg/TEJec2SHCdI/AAAAAAAAAL8/WPD2FP6-bYE/s320/Flume+042.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5495058345046247890" /></a><br /><br />Awesome visit to The Flume in Franconia Notch, New Hampshire. If northern New England, with its 7 months of unrelenting winter, has anything redeeming, this is certainly it.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-87712846650554983252010-07-03T09:20:00.000-05:002010-07-03T09:20:16.782-05:00Six Minutes to Renew Faith in Humanity<object style="background-image:url(http://i2.ytimg.com/vi/yXEuEUQIP3Q/hqdefault.jpg)" width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/yXEuEUQIP3Q&hl=en_US&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/yXEuEUQIP3Q&hl=en_US&fs=1" width="425" height="344" allowScriptAccess="never" allowFullScreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object><br /><br />Years before the widespread availability of cable TV, there were dial TV sets, antennae termed "rabbit ears," and the Corporation for Public Brodcasting. TV shows like Sesame Street, Nova, and Masterpiece Theater were hallmarks on local public broadcasating channels. It would be difficult to find someone who wasn't watching at least one of those shows thirty years ago.<br /><br />I'm not sure where this comes from, but, from one impatient person to (potentially) another, it is worth watching the whole clip. I promise you that if you take the time, you won't regret it.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-82109737997292183392010-06-19T12:16:00.005-05:002010-06-19T12:57:25.421-05:00Father Nasty: An Amusing Interlude, Dream Inspired and RecalledI think dreams are amazing, but my philosophy about them is the opposite of most who try to interpret them. Generally, my perception of dreams is to figure out what aspect of my life--what event, person, conflict, etc.--inspired them, and consequently, how I really feel about that aspect of my life through what I dream about in relation to it. <br /><br />I had a dream last night about telling a story about my experience working as an altar server at my local church. I'm not sure what inspired it, but it did remind me of a great story from years and years back.<br /><br />I come from a Catholic family, and when my siblings and I were growing up, every Sunday, we went to mass in the morning. Although this was not quite our favorite activity, I recall that we were pretty well behaved overall, mostly because we knew what the consequences would be should we step out of line. When I was around 10 or 11years old, I decided to become what our church called a "cross bearer." Basically, it was a way to get kids, particularly girls, involved in the mass. There was a legion of alter boys who directly assisted the priest, but at the time, girls were banned from that position. Our church thought it would be a nice to let girls lead the procession in and out of the church instead. A cross bearer would dress in the same robes as alter boys and would carry a large, brass cross in front of the priest, the alter boys, and the readers on the way up and down the aisle before and after mass. Cross bearers would sit, segregated off to the side of the altar with the readers, while the priest and the alter boys settled directly in front of the altar for the duration.<br /><br />In 1992, Pope John Paul II changed this policy--girls could now serve on the altar with the priests. In response to this, and in order to include more young people in the mass, the altar servers were divided into groups of five. In each group of five, there were two altar servers, one cross bearer, and two candle bearers to accompany the cross bearer. The participants would rotate between jobs every week they were assigned, so everyone got a chance to serve in each of the available positions. The two priests that served our church were at the forefront of initiating these changes and training the female former-cross bearers for new responsibilities.<br /><br />Fairly soon after the turnover, one of the priests was notified of a family emergency back home in Ireland, and he returned there for a few months to attend to it. To make up for the loss, the diocese rotated in other priests from other local communities. <br /><br />One of these gained the nickname "Father Nasty."<br /><br />Father Nasty was a short man, in his mid-sixties, who, at first, seemed to be a nice guy. My group of altar servers was the first to work with him. We all dressed in the same place, so he got to see the small band of five people, made up of two young men, one very young lady, and two older girls--myself and my friend, Cathy. After dressing, we saw to the general responsibilities before the mass, and it became apparent to Father Nasty that he wouldn't be working directly with the two boys on the team. Instead, Cathy and I were assigned to be his direct altar servers, and it was clear as soon as he realized this that he wasn't a big fan of his Holy Father's decision.<br /><br />We processed in, and once we got to the altar, his dissatisfaction was clear not only to us, but also to the congregation as a whole. On top of it all, Cathy and I were both about four inches taller than Father Nasty, and I am sure this only contributed to his negative attitude. Nothing we did was right--nothing. When we set up the altar for the second half of the mass--the part focusing on the bread and wine--he literally rearranged everything we did. He took the Bible and literally plunked it down on the other side of the sacred service with a scowl. The worst part, though, came soon after. At one point, the altar servers must wash the priest's hands with holy water stored in a cruet on the side of the altar space. Cathy went to retrieve this item, and I met her where the priest was standing at the left side of the altar with a plate, to catch the water, and a napkin. Just as she started to tip the cruet to pour the water, Father Nasty hissed,<br /><br />"GO get more holy water. There isn't enough."<br /><br />Now, how he could have possibly known this was beyond both of us. Cathy and I had set the altar up before the mass started, and he hadn't lifted, let alone tread near, the holy water cruet at any point before or during the mass.<br /><br />Cathy's face registered a combination of shock, surprise, and fear.<br />"Now?"<br /><br />The subsequent look on his face was all the answer she needed, and she rushed down the side aisle and back to the dressing room to obey his instructions. <br /><br />The mass was "on hold" for about two and a half minutes, and it felt like a lifetime. Needless to say, the mass couldn't end soon enough for Cathy and me. Fortunately for us, though, Father Nasty made no friends in our congregation by his actions. Somehow, this may have gotten back to him--or perhaps, he had some kind of divine revelation--because the next time we worked with him, although we were holding our collective breath the whole time, he was much more pleasant and even thanked us in the end.<br /><br />Why did I dream about telling this story? I have no idea, but I woke up thrilled to have recollected it.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-46592061004880375542010-06-12T15:47:00.003-05:002010-06-12T16:34:51.951-05:00Betrayed By LunchWhen I lived in the city, I walked home, spending my lunch hour there. I'm sure it is a common case to have a full hour for lunch but to be unable to spend the whole of it actually lunching, and I made use of the time by preparing a meal that required more than the simple open-Ziploc-bag step. Then, I would usually sit for a little while, relax, play with the cats--it was a nice change from the work place environment. Then, with ten minutes to spare, I would make my way back to work. <br /><br />My last laptop was an HP, and it experienced innumerable problems. I remained continually thankful for having purchased one of their warranty programs that allowed me to send it back to them, free of charge, to be repaired. One afternoon, an empty box arrived on my apartment doorstep just in time for my arrival home for lunch. I eagerly carried it inside. Two days prior, my laptop had suddenly shut down without explanation, and to add insult to injury, a blue notice on the screen indicated that the hard drive was somehow unreadable. Although it was after 11, I called the HP hotline and asked for a box. All I had to do, which I had done many times before in tried and true fashion, was put the laptop in the box as instructed and drop it off at a FedEx location.<br /><br />I built a quesadilla by layers in a pan on the stove--tortilla, cheese, grilled chicken, veggies, tortilla. I turned the heat on medium and I went into the bedroom to pack the computer. I opened the box, fit the packing, and....<br /><br />My concentration was destroyed by a burst of pulsing noise from the front hallway. I dashed into the kitchen--the bottom tortilla was entirely black, there was smoke pouring up from the pan, and the fire alarm had responded in kind. I switched off the burner, but the tortilla continued to cook from the residual heat. What to do? I picked up the pan and put it down on the nearby countertop--big mistake. The counter was lined with plastic, and after lifting it up in acknowledgement of the error, the surface had responded by producing a round, brown spot and a raised boil. Oven mit on hand, I held the pan, desperate to find somewhere to put it. I opened the kitchen window and set the pan on the sil. Then, I opened the door by the alarm, calming the sound.<br /><br />Quiet descended for two minutes. Then, the doorbell rang.<br /><br />At the door were two firemen, both dressed in full grey and yellow gear, helmets included. I caught a glimpse of the firetruck, lights ablaze, behind them. <br /><br />"Hi, we got a call."<br /><br />Until that moment, I thought my series of mishaps was a form of private suffering. Annoying as it all was, the parking lot behind the house was conveniently empty. I doubted that anyone in the nearest houses could hear the alarm. The truck in front of my house changed the game entirely. Neighbors came to their windows, pedestrians slowed down on their walks and runs to observe the action. Now, everyone knew I had done something stupid--and it didn't matter what.<br /><br />A little reassurance and the firemen left, and they couldn't have moved the truck away too soon.<br /><br />I went back to the pan, which had cooled with the combination of time and air from the open window. When I lifted it up, about half of the top layer of paint on the window sil came off with the bottom of the pan.<br /><br />Suddenly, the pre-packed sandwich looked like a much better option.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-28993014789869715552010-06-02T18:19:00.005-05:002010-06-02T18:37:10.820-05:00Hazardous Ads on WheelsA nameless carpet cleaning business has a new commercial featuring a distraught employee weeping over a discarded, soiled carpet he could have "saved." I will never use this nameless carpet cleaning business for any of my upholstery-cleaning needs, and it isn't because the commercial is ridiculous.<br /><br />About three years ago, I was on my way to work. I was nearly there, driving in the right of two lanes. I put on my directional, indicating that I would be taking a right onto the next exit. As I turned the wheel in the direction of the ramp, a yellow blur whizzed by me, obviously eager to get to the exit before I did. I slammed on my brakes. Hard. I could feel the brake pad desperately grasp the axle, unable to stop my car immediately. The car swerved with the sudden shock. I was terrified--the guardrail was about a meter away. <br /><br />The culprit? A van from this carpet cleaning business.<br /><br />From that point forward, I decided that if that business was going to hire that kind of an idiot, I didn't want that same brand of idiot with the fate of my carpets in his hands. <br /><br />I don't think that businesses realize just how badly their incompetent drivers may actually hurt their bottom lines, especially local businesses. If you were run down on a local road by a jerk in a truck with a logo on it, I'll bet you made a note of that logo and that company. You may not have remembered it right away, but when a job came up, like mowing your lawn, taking care of your hot water heater, or hauling away an old car, if that same logo came up as one of the possible businesses that could help you, I'd bet you didn't call them.<br /><br />Perhaps businesses should realize that their cars and trucks, proudly painted with their names and contact information, are an advertisement--good or bad. And assholes shouldn't be in control of those ads.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-8036689369529946142010-05-28T21:42:00.003-05:002010-05-28T22:25:52.949-05:00Lethal DressingsOne of the complete impossibilities of life is keeping track of the condiments in the fridge. I mean, do you really know when you purchased that salad dressing, or the ketchup? Apparently, I hadn't a clue, and I discovered that this evening.<br /><br />When I moved in up here, I immediately suspected that trash collection was going to be an issue that would have to be resolved quickly. The city I came from had a weekly pick-up schedule that included recycling, and every Thursday night, I would dutifully clean the litter boxes, empty out anything in the fridge that needed to be tossed, and lug a receptacle that had the building number spray-painted on its side to the curb. The level of difficulty varied depending upon the weather--lots of snow meant lots of plowing, which would transform into a lot of creatively-placed plastic bags hanging all over the accumulated piles of snow and ice. If I was really intent upon recycling under these circumstances, I had to chop the bin free as it was encased in run-off ice and then, carve a rectangular shape into the snow by the curb to place it. <br /><br />I asked the landlord about trash pick-up after resigning myself to the nearly absolute possibility that for the first time in my life, I would have to purchase a dump sticker for a nearby facility. Fortunately, he mentioned a local guy who charged a modest fee to do the pick up once a week, and I didn't hesitate to call him. He agreed to add me to his regular route, and he started right away.<br /><br />When the weekly rotation came up this time, I thought I had a smooth ride--I had cleaned the litter boxes two days earlier, so heavy lifting of poop-filled bags of gravel was unnecessary. I knew I had a small Tupperware container of salad that had to be tossed, so I opened up the fridge to take it out. In the process, a bottle of mayonnaise fell on the floor. I stooped to pick it up, the expiration date clearly visible.<br /><br />The mayo expired in January. Yikes.<br /><br />This inspired me to go through all of my condiments--everything from mustard to teriyaki sauce to pickles was inspected. About 80% of it was thrown out, some with expiration dates as distant as last summer. The winner was the ketchup, having expired in May, 2009. <br /><br />At least it didn't end up like <a href="http://www.winslam.com/rlaramee/salad/index.html">this</a>.<br /><br /><strong>Phone number update:</strong> My phone rang this morning at 7 a.m. I lumbered into the living room to pick it up in a semi-awake state. After a half-hearted "hello?," a man explained to me that he had the package I was waiting for, and that he was there to deliver it. I asked who he was looking for. His answer? The infamous George. I made sure to ask him to express my frustration to George, should he ever get a hold of him, and request that he make sure he spreads the word about his NEW phone number, whatever that may be, to service providers, doctors, and friends.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-3268407549102422652010-05-06T19:22:00.002-05:002010-05-06T19:41:01.819-05:00<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GwiVepR6Hzg/S-NfAY3199I/AAAAAAAAAKw/w30FtDuJBAI/s1600/Carribean+Cruise+2010+124.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_GwiVepR6Hzg/S-NfAY3199I/AAAAAAAAAKw/w30FtDuJBAI/s320/Carribean+Cruise+2010+124.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468318832839227346" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GwiVepR6Hzg/S-Ne_C7naKI/AAAAAAAAAKo/7ayh9kpvIw4/s1600/Carribean+Cruise+2010+123.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_GwiVepR6Hzg/S-Ne_C7naKI/AAAAAAAAAKo/7ayh9kpvIw4/s320/Carribean+Cruise+2010+123.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468318809769601186" /></a><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_GwiVepR6Hzg/S-Ne-bh35FI/AAAAAAAAAKg/_bSwgBb4xXQ/s1600/Carribean+Cruise+2010+119.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_GwiVepR6Hzg/S-Ne-bh35FI/AAAAAAAAAKg/_bSwgBb4xXQ/s320/Carribean+Cruise+2010+119.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5468318799192646738" /></a><br /><br />I haven't put up any photos in a long time--mostly because my traveling has been rather limited. However, some kind generosity gave me the opportunity to visit the Caribbean in February, and this is the Brimstone Hill Fortress National Park on St. Kitts. <br /><br />The one thing I missed getting a photo of? "Karl with a K," the cruise director. You CANNOT beat this guy's flourescent pink shirt. <br /><br />What didn't I attend? The Hairy Chest competition on the pool deck. I don't consider that to be a missed opportunity.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-53785611810510440012010-04-18T18:13:00.001-05:002010-04-18T18:15:53.563-05:00InterludeLocation: A Dunkin' Donuts drive-thru<br /><br />Speaker: Hello! How can I help you?<br /><br />Me: Hi. I'd like a medium hazelnut iced coffee with regular cream and no sugar.<br /><br />Speaker: Ok, that's a medium hazelnut iced coffee with regular cream and extra-extra sugar.<br /><br />Me: You've got everything right except the sugar--no sugar.<br /><br />Speaker: Melt the sugar?<br /><br />Me: Regular cream ONLY.<br /><br />Ugh.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-71897127737552944132010-03-31T20:42:00.003-05:002010-03-31T21:08:38.168-05:00The Worst Phone Number in the WorldI have the worst phone number in the world. Here's why.<br /><br /><em>Once upon a time, Ida and George led a happy life somewhere in New Hampshire. They rented movies, they had the tires on their car fixed, they gave money to worthy charities. They were card-carrying members of the NRA. When Ida ended up contracting cancer, she chose a diligent treatment facility that eagerly updated her on her progress. <br /><br />Then, Ida and George decided that their home phone service was too expensive. After years with the same home number, they switched carriers and gave up their well known, much used and shared phone number.</em><br /><br />And, now, I have that number.<br /><br />The reason I know all of this information about "Ida" and "George" is because I receive more phone calls for either one or both of them than I do for myself. Contrary to much recent advice, they gave their number out to everyone--companies, neighbors, doctors and hospitals. The only problem is that they neglected to inform these organizations and individuals that their home number was no longer the same.<br /><br />There are three levels of annoying phone calls I receive for Ida and George:<br /><br />First, there are the straight, run-of-the-mill telemarketers. There is no chance that Ida and George even considered putting their number on a "no-call" list. However, the only good thing about these calls is my response--I'm not Ida, I'm not George; sorry you have the wrong number, click.<br /><br />Second, there are what I will call "service" calls. Apparently, Ida and George's tires were ready for their car. And, they had some rented movies out a little too long. Do Ida and George know about this? No, I do.<br /><br />The worst--and I mean this in all seriousness--were the calls relating to Ida's health. Ida has some form of cancer, and there is no way I should know that. In fact, since I do know that, the doctor's office should take heed to handing out too much information while leaving a voice message on a machine that doesn't reference an Ida in its instructions. I received so many phone messages about this, the tone of the caller increasing in urgency with every unreturned message, that I actually called the office myself and explained that they not only had the wrong number, but that I didn't even know who Ida is.<br /><br />If this weren't enough, a local man's home phone number must be a digit or two off of my own, as I've spoken to many of his friends lately. Unfortunately for me, this gentleman is a rather early riser, and his buddies tend to give him a ring between 5 and 6 in the morning. <br /><br />His friends, though, are extremely nice people and have only been apologetic about the disturbance. The video store guy--now that is another story.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21880954.post-59262833884058511712010-03-06T13:40:00.003-05:002010-03-06T14:03:47.085-05:00The Soup and Grilled Cheese Sandwich DietAfter catching a stomach bug two weeks ago, I ended up in one of those terrible connundra where one has to choose between alleviating hunger and winding up feeling miserable. And yes, did I choose wrong many times...many times...ugh.<br /><br />Upon coming out of it, I thought I would bounce back really quickly. I also thought that vegetables had to be OK--I mean, what could be easier to digest? I was wrong on both fronts. Ugh (yet again).<br /><br />So, I am introducing The Soup and Grilled Cheese Sandwich Diet. For some unexplained reason, ever since I semi-regained my ability to eat, I have been able to eat canned soup (not vegetable, of course) and grilled cheese sandwiches. Coupled with the bug, I dropped about 8 pounds.<br /><br />Oprah, eat your heart out.pilgrimchickhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13808106043964544413noreply@blogger.com12