Disharmonious Feedback

“You have a disharmonious face.”

“I what?”

I’m sitting in a chair in a doctor’s office, getting prepped for an upcoming surgery to correct my deviated septum. Evidently this preparation is done by trying to sell me an upgrade.

“You have a disharmonious face. If you put a line straight down the center of your face, the sides don’t match.”

“Oh.” I pause. “Is that unusual?”

“Yes, but I can fix it. Since I’m doing surgery on your nose anyway, I can straighten it, put an implant in the tip, give you a chin implant…”

“Give me a what? A chin implant?! So I’ll look like Bruce Campbell?”  

“Who?”

“The guy from the Evil Dead movies. You know, he wrote the book If Chins Could Kill?”

“I’m not familiar with that, but no, it’ll look great.”

“According to who? You?”

“Well yes. But in addition to Ear, Nose, and Throat, I am a plastic surgeon.”

“You’re also wearing Birkenstocks with black socks. Tell you what, I’ll pass for now, thanks.”

I know exactly why the doctor said this. I’d already be in surgery and it would be highly convenient for everyone involved for me to get a few “problem areas” repaired.  For just  few bucks more, not covered by insurance, I could have a brand new harmonious face AND help him finance a new boat or, possibly, a better shoe-sock combination.

The only trouble, of course, is that I’ve always been pretty relaxed with the way I look.  This has less to do with an abundance of self-confidence and more to do with stories of plastic surgery gone horribly wrong.  And don’t misunderstand me, here – I have nothing against plastic surgery, it’s just not for me.

But the seed had been planted.

That night, over dinner, I blurt out, “Do you think I have a disharmonious face?”

My husband looks at me, confused.  “What?”

“Do you think one side doesn’t match the other?”

“Like the front and back?”

I narrow my eyes, “No, like the right side and left side.”

“They don’t match on anyone.”

“How do you know?”

“It just makes sense. And who cares? You look beautiful the way you are.”

I look at him suspiciously. “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

He sighs.

###

A couple of years earlier, I gave a work presentation.  Afterwards, a colleague asked if I minded if she gave me some feedback.

“I’d love feedback,” I replied. “That’s how I’ll learn what worked and what didn’t.”

“Okay. For starters, people our age don’t have long hair. And if they do, they wear it up during a presentation.”

Blink.

“Um, okay.”  I’m wondering whose age she is referring to.  My age, which at the time was early 30s? Her age, which I’d guess was mid-50s?  An average of the two?  I try to tune out another colleague, who is standing just behind the feedback-giver, doubled over in silent laughter.

“Also,” she continues. “You should be wearing make-up.”

“I am wearing make-up,” I reply earnestly. And I was. I’d specifically put some on for a photo taken that morning. I wonder vaguely if I’m going to have to get Laughing Colleague medical attention soon, because now she’s crouched down, almost sitting on the floor, holding her sides and shaking.

“Then you need to wear more make-up. And lipstick. I could barely see your lips when you were speaking.”

She couldn’t see my lips?

“Oh. Well. Um. My lips really aren’t that, er, noticeable, maybe that’s why? But thanks!” I reply sincerely, shaking her hand.  I motion to laughing colleague, who is just able to pull herself together before attention turns to her, “We have a meeting scheduled, so I have to run. So glad you could make it.”

I understand feedback.  I actually appreciate feedback, even when it’s not positive.  I’ve worked, over the years, to not get defensive about it. When it comes to work, especially, I need to know what other people think. I love new ideas, and considering ways to improve or enhance existing programs or to do things that better meet the needs of our clients.

I don’t understand the kind of feedback and insights that are given specifically to make someone else feel bad, especially when it comes to personal appearance. It seems lazy, to me – is the only thing you can think of something negative?  Do you need to give me personal feedback in a professional setting?  Why?  Is there a legitimate reason?

For the record, I adore Bruce Campbell.

It also goes against something my gran taught me long ago:  if you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say it.

On some level, I get it.  People think they’re trying to be helpful.  On the other hand, there are people out there – we’ve all met them – who do this to make themselves feel superior, or people who are less confident who can only gain confidence through putting others down.

What I’d like people to consider is this:  each of us is different. Each of us is unique.

There is feedback I’d give in private to a close friend. There is feedback I’d give to  work acquaintance, but very little of it (aside from “You have something stuck in your teeth, thought you’d want to know.”) would be personal.

I tend to judge people on their merits and on the job they do and the kind of person they are, not on how they look.  I won’t pretend to be an angel, here – certainly I make mistakes, I judge people for the wrong reasons from time to time because I’m human (at least, that’s the current theory).  But I try not to, and that’s what I’m asking here.

You see, there are days when I still wonder if I have a disharmonious face.  Up until that fateful day in that doctor’s office, it had never crossed my mind. Not once. I wonder if my make-up is good enough for a presentation, or whether I should put my hair up (I generally wear it down in an act of absurdly placed defiance coupled with the fact I’m still learning how to do up-dos that don’t look like a failed hair experiment).  In a way, I’m haunted by these foolish, well-intentioned people even while recognizing how silly it is to worry about what they say.

Let’s try to be a little kinder to each other. When we find ourselves about to make a disparaging remark to someone – ESPECIALLY about their appearance – stop and consider your goal.  Is it to help them, truly help them, or for other, less noble reasons?  Can you think of something nice to say, instead?

I’d like to write more, but I have to go buy some new lipstick.

You know, just in case.

###

Photos from Flickr Creative Commons:  Sand sculpture by Erix; Ponytails by Andrec; Bruce Campbell by Florida Supercon; Lipstick by OliviaP C

This Celebrity Bartender

I’ve been invited to serve as a celebrity bartender for this year’s Evening in the Stacks, which benefits the Howard County Library System. Before I forget to mention it, the event is on Saturday, February 25th from 7:30 – 11:30 pm at the brand new Miller Branch, which is really quite spectacular. The photo to the left is of the reading froggies just outside the front entrance – completely adorable, but then I’ve been a frog fan-girl since Kermit.

Let’s go ahead and start with the celebrity part.  Whaaaa? I was about 99.9% sure the invitation came to the wrong person (I’m still not entirely sure I won’t be turned away on the evening of the event – “Icky WHO? Not on the list, sorry!”). To be included with the folks serving as celebrity bartenders this year is humbling, to say the very least.  The list includes Mary Kay Sigaty, Dennis Lane, Candace Dodson Reed, Dick Story and Vic Broccolino.  In other words, I am way, WAY out of my depth.

And if you know me, surely you’re saying to yourself, “Self? Are they crazy?! What on earth does Mickey know about bartending?!” And you’d be right to ask that.  Very right, indeed.

You could fit my total knowledge of bartending on the head of a pin and still have plenty of room left over for countless enthusiastic angels swing dancing their little wings off.  But that’s the fun, right?  (Not the swing-dancing-angels-part, the not-having-any-idea-how-on-earth-I’m-going-to-NOT-embarrass-myself-bartending-part.)

The theme this year is Masquerade, based loosely on the Venetian concept of masques and celebration.  Here is a photo of Venice to get you in the mood, so to speak:

And had I not just attended a masquerade party this past weekend, this is the mask you might’ve seen on the evening of the event:

It’s pretty. It’s from Venice. It’s also a pain in the wazoo to carry around, and I almost took out the eyes of several guests when I wasn’t paying attention.  So that’s out.  As they say, it’s all fun and games until you poke someone’s eyes out with a Venetian mask when you’re trying to raise money for a favorite cause.

Here’s the fun part – I’d love for you to join us.  It’s going to be a LOT of fun – amazing food, music, silent auction and dancing.  Even better?  The bartenders will be competing for tips.  And THE BEST part? You can add to my electronic tip jar ANY celebrity bartender’s electronic tip jar before the event even starts if you won’t be able to attend in person!  It’s super easy, and you can use PayPal.

Just visit the webpage for Evening in the Stacks and scroll down until you see this:

Click on the giant yellow Donate button and you’re off!  You can use PayPal (Did I mention that? So easy!) and simply enter the name of the bartender you’d like to support into the Tip Field.

Just in case you can’t see it, here’s a slightly modified version to help you decide which name you should HIGHLY CONSIDER typing into the “Tip Field” section for your donation:

And please note, electronic tips will be accepted until noon on February 25th. 

Seriously, I do hope you’ll consider supporting me.

More importantly, I hope you’ll consider supporting the Howard County Library.  If you love books or reading or learning you know that you simply can’t beat a good library.

This event is being held at the branch where I grew up – where I first discovered reading, where I used to sit right down in the aisles to read a favorite book, and where I donated most of my allowance for decades of late fees.

Hope to see you there, but if you can’t make it, I hope you’ll consider a small donation to support a favorite cause.  Thanks!

Proceeds benefit the Library’s educational initiatives, including A+ Partners in Education and Project Literacy.

Pinster

I remember months and months (possibly years) ago, I noticed a couple of friends using Pinterest.  I casually clicked through, saw a picture, and had no idea what was going on.  Like any truly curious soul, I completely ignored it.  I had enough going on just trying to keep up with random Facebook changes.

A couple of weeks ago, Pinterest shows up again, this time with friends.  Lots of friends.  I’d requested an invitation months back and received a thoughtful and sincere automated e-mail saying that one day I’d be worthy, but not anytime soon.  Since I have no pride, I begged an invite from a friend who was already registered.  I logged in, saw more pictures, and still had no idea what was going on.

Hmmm.

Thankfully Joe Waters  (http://selfishgiving.com/) decided to host a Pinterest-based contest:  create a board called “Causes I Love Contest”, add whatever you like, however you like.  He would judge them and the winners would get valuable cash, prizes, and puppies.  I’m kidding about the puppies. Maybe.

“I can do this!” I thought to myself.  I’ve always been an optimist.  I’ll spare you the torment of rising tension and suspense and tell you that I didn’t win (I didn’t even place. Not that I’m bitter.), but I DID learn a lot.  The most important lesson appears to be if you want me to learn something quickly, your best bet is a contest.  I also learned that I have the self-awareness of a spatula, since until now I’ve always considered myself to be very anti-competition.

Anyway, off I went, pinning my little heart out.  I pinned recipes and craft ideas and hair styles and beauty tips and books and music and geeky stuff.  It’s addicting, I’m not going to lie.  I’m sure there are a zillion posts about the mechanics of how to do it without being socially awkward, but it’s always nice to have someone to laugh at.  I mean with.  Look, sometimes you just have to jump in and give it a try.

A friend of mine who really doesn’t care for Facebook took to Pinterest like a duck to water.  Only she calls it Pinster, and now I’ll bet you will, too.

I’ve tried several recipes with mixed success.  The smoothie was the best, but it blew up my blender, so that was kind of a good news, bad news scenario.  The bread wasn’t bad.  The “no-heat-curl” tutorial ended in complete disaster, but did make me laugh until I cried.  And while my hair wasn’t going in the intended direction (nor was it technically “curly”), I can’t deny that it achieved the kind of volume I’d only ever dreamed of previously.

So far the most popular pins I’ve posted:

• 10 Canine Commandments
• Neil Gaiman’s “The Day the Saucers Came”
• “He wishes for the Cloths of Heaven” by Yeats
• A picture of The Tick
• “The Bark Side” VW commercial
• Allan Rickman’s “Always” quote from Harry Potter
• A recipe for skillet macaroni and cheese
• Shawshank Redemption film poster (accompanied by Red’s opera quote)
• Anything from houzz.com (trust me on this one)
• A photo of Bruce Campbell’s Cream of Darkness Soup

I’d love to draw some deep, insightful conclusions from this extensive data set, but let’s be serious: of far greater concern is that fact that one person pinned this wildly erratic array of images. Ah, Pinterest!

So if you want to experience the awesomeness of my boards (or more accurately, witness firsthand the evidence of a deeply confused mind), you can find me at http://pinterest.com/mickeygomez/.

###

Photo credits:  Vintage Spatula by GranniesKitchen on Flickr, Creative Commons Attribution License; Bruce Campbell’s Soup from Blastr 

Eye of who?!

In light of recent political events, it occurred to me that a certain type of small aquatic amphibian might need a bit of a PR boost.

Newts already have it tough.  Ever since Shakespeare, folks have been trying to use their eyeballs in potions.  They shared their name with a doomed character in the movie Aliens.  J.K.Rowling used the letters to stand for “Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Test”, and who likes tests?  Really, they’ve been in need of some positive public relations for quite some time.

I happen to like newts.  So while people can be forgiven for confusing them with the man of the same name running for the GOP candidacy, I thought I’d give them a little help:

“I am a small aquatic amphibian, and I approve of this message.”

Remembering Indy

Please be advised that this is a self-indulgent post, meant to chronicle the life of a good dog. It is long. It contains many pictures. You have been warned.

We had to say goodbye to Indy, Adventure Dog last Friday morning.  He was 8 years old, and we’d only had him for 16 months or so.  It’s hard to believe he’s gone – I don’t want to believe he’s gone.  For such a little guy, he sure left a mighty hole in my heart.

His previous owner couldn’t keep him, and the day that we first learned about him is the same day that we welcomed him into our house and our hearts. Our dog Sophie, who we’ve had since she was a puppy, is also a rescue dog.  She’s about to turn 11, and we’d wanted to get her a companion for quite awhile, but the “right” dog never came along. Until Indy.

He was the sweetest dog I’ve ever known.  He was patient, and quiet, and content to be in the background until you had time to acknowledge him. I’d often look up from doing something to find him silently watching me with his gentle eyes.  Although he didn’t love loud noises, he’d often “help” me vacuum by following me through the house and simply being present as I cleaned.  I referred to him as my silent Greek chorus of one.  Sophie (who, let’s be honest, can be a little on the jealous side) often barked at him as a not-so-subtle reminder of who was the boss.  And Indy didn’t care at all.  He’d just sit there, content to be nearby.  I’d often remind Sophie, “You know, there’s enough love for both of you.”  And there was.

We often referred to him as spatially challenged.  He’d try to give you a paw and accidentally swat you in the nose, or the eye.  When you’d toss him a gummy bear (his favorite snack), he’d invariably open his mouth (or close it) at exactly the wrong time.  Peanuts, crackers, biscuits would bounce off of his head.  If you gave him a treat from your hand, though, he take it so gently you barely felt it.  He could be a restless sleeper.  His paws would race, and when he snored he sounded like Curly from the Three Stooges – whoop whoop whoop whoo whoo.

I miss the feeling of him curled behind my legs when I’m sleeping.  When we first got him, he didn’t want to get up on the bed.  We’d wake up in the middle of the night looking for him, only to find him all alone on his dog bed in the office.  We’d entice him back up to the bedroom – happily he figured it out quickly.  After that, he’d always be on the bed, whether it was time to sleep or just keeping one of us company.  He’d lay there quietly, watching or snoozing in the sunshine.

He’d often wake me up by just staring into my face, softly breathing.  I’d wake up, and he’d look hopeful – is it time to get up yet?  Sometimes it wasn’t, and he’d wander back down to the foot of the bed.  Sometimes he simply couldn’t contain himself, and I’d feel his tail wagging through the mattress.  I’d look at him, he’d stop, and then whump whump whump it would start again.  When the time came to get up, he’d jump from the bed and bounce into the hallway, front end down, back end up, tail wagging so hard you could barely see it, then zoom down the stairs like he just couldn’t WAIT for the day to start.

He rarely barked, but when he did, he’d give his gruff little woof, look back over his shoulder, tail wagging with delight as if to say, “Did you hear THAT?!”

He was the happiest dog I’ve ever known.  Just being around him filled me with a simple joy.  He could amuse himself playing with a favorite toy, shaking it and flinging it only to pounce on it then shake it some more.  Indy LOVED sticks, could reduce even a big one into tiny pieces in a matter of minutes.  Sophie enjoyed barking at Indy while he was playing, so much so that she earned herself the nickname of “the fun police”.

Indy was a talker.  When he yawned, sometimes, he’d make a noise halfway through and end up sounding like Axl Rose – AH-oooh! He’d make little grunts and groans.  He loved to wiggle – there were times when we had to moderate his wiggling, in fact.  He’d stretch out on the carpet and drag himself forward with his front paws – a position that we laughingly referred to as “junk rubbing”.  He’d often put his front right paw on your arm, just set it there and look at you.

He loved rolling in the grass in the backyard.  When we first got him, he’d go outside, do his business as fast as possible then race back to the door.  As he got to know us, he’d spend time rolling in the grass, zipping around in dizzying laps or just laying in the sunshine.

Whenever Sophie would race outside after a squirrel, Indy would fly after her.  Since he was faster than she was, he’d invariably crash right into her butt, at which point she’d whirl around and bark at him.  He was just learning what a squirrel was, and that it was “the enemy”.  Whenever he came back inside – rain or shine – he’d sit on his little rug by his favorite book shelf and wait for you to dry his paws.  He LOVED having his paws dried.  We’d fuss over his paws even if they were dry as dust, asking, “Whoa, Indy, were you swimming out there or what? How did your paws get so wet?” And he’d sit there, grinning and wagging.

When you were sitting on the couch, he’d come up and lean his head on your knee, even though most of the time it meant that his head was bent almost sideways.  Sometimes he’d lay down at your feet and, often as not, lay his head across a foot, or simply lay there touching you.

We’d often think he was going to break his tail with his wagging, or that his butt was going to lift off the ground. Thump thump thump thump.  You could feel it through the house.

His favorite spots were his dog beds in the office, under my desk, the living room by the bookshelf, the sofa or the window, and the bedroom upstairs.  He’d just learned to get up on the couch, earning him the new nickname Mister Couch.  Prior to that he’d pull this hysterical move where he’d jump up with front legs only, back legs firmly on the ground.  Once he jumped into the back of the mini-van – he was so worried we were going to leave him home – slammed into the back of the rear seat and collapsed into a boneless heap on top of a cooler, tail wagging feebly to reassure us that he was okay.  Indy dog made me smile each and every day, and laugh out loud in delight more times than I can count.  There will never be another Indy.

###

When his end came, it came FAST.  We’d expected to have years with him, you see.  He was only 8, we took great care of him, and we loved him beyond all reason.  But he got cancer, a horrible, ugly, malignant sarcoma that took him from us so fast that it’s almost a blur.

I don’t like to think about how long he might’ve lived with symptoms that we couldn’t see.  He was the bravest dog, and so courageous that it wouldn’t surprise me to know that it was for longer than I can even imagine.  And that breaks my heart.

This is a dog, mind you, who once shredded the skin off the top of his own nose trying to get outside to go to the bathroom one day when we were at work.  He ALWAYS wanted to be a good dog, and you know what? He was. He was the best dog.

We took him to the vet’s two weeks ago because he’d been throwing up.  Our vet gave us medicine to help his digestion and relax his tummy, and it worked for a few days.  That Thursday I took him back in because he’d thrown up twice the night before, and gave the vet permission to do exploratory surgery because the x-rays still looked strange.  The vet found telescoping bowels, and in the section he was forced to remove, he found a gigantic, tennis ball sized mass.  He told us how lucky we were – the mass was contained, there were no tumors in the area, and the mass had sealed his bowel, so waiting even a short time would’ve meant necrotic death for his bowels and thus death for him.  Our vet sent it to be biopsied.

Indy looked like he was completely on the mend, all the way up until Tuesday, when he didn’t want to eat again.  I figured maybe it was a little set-back – I mean, up until then he’d been doing amazingly well, even bouncing around a little (although we tried to limit that because we were afraid of him messing up his stitches).

Wednesday morning I woke up to find him staring at me in bed.  It would be the last time he was able to be on the bed.

I fussed over him – I was always fussing over him, calling him a Silly Old Man, or Mister Bounce, or Indy Dog, or Littlest Man and petting him or hugging him or giving him kisses.  You have no idea how thankful I am for that, although, of course, you always feel like you could have done more.

How could I possibly know that we had to fit that much love into such a short time?

I let him out back, and he tried to go to the bathroom then staggered to the side, collapsing in his favorite spot in the yard, right in the middle of three trees.  He lay there, head high, a thousand yard stare gazing into the forest behind the house.  I thought he was dying – it turned out he was dying – and somehow I managed to get him into the car and to the vet’s.

They opened him up a second time.  You see, sometimes when they remove a mass that large – one that we discovered on that day was so incredibly malignant – it opens the floodgates and let’s the cancer take off.  My husband and I made the difficult decision that if the vet found Indy riddled with cancer when he went back in, we didn’t want to wake poor Indy back up.  We spent every second in that room with him – from the time we got there until they took him into surgery again – telling him want a good dog he was, how much we loved him, and that if it was his time to go, he should go and not worry about us.

He made it through this second surgery.  It turned out the sutures had torn and a small amount of toxins had been seeping out.  What great news!  We could recover from this, although it wouldn’t be easy.  We were over the moon!  No sign of cancer.

Indy looked tired but happy when we picked him up Wednesday night.  His tail was wagging, he went into his favorite bed in the office and slept peacefully.  He wouldn’t eat, though.

I slept downstairs with him, me on the couch, him on the floor next to the couch.  My hand was resting on his back each time I woke up.

I took him into the vet on Thursday for monitoring, and we were told we could pick him up at 7.  He didn’t look as great, but I thought, you know, he’s been through a LOT, poor little guy.  You’ve gotta be patient.

I don’t want to write much about Thursday night, except to say that even though it was sheerest torment to see what my poor dog was enduring, his ears were alert and he wagged his tail every time he saw one of us.

He wagged his tail.  Do you have any idea what kind of unconditional love makes you wag your tail when you are going through that kind of pain?  It was like he knew the end was racing towards him, and he was happy just to be spending his final moments with us.

He couldn’t walk, in the end.  We had to carry him on a folding table to the van to get him back to the vet’s.  They could barely stabilize him long enough for us to say goodbye.  The cancer had gotten him, you see.  It was killing him from the inside out.  His systems were failing.  When the vet told us – and I’d been hoping against hope that there was something he could do, anything – I felt like someone had reached into my chest and ripped out my heart.  Then they’d crushed it, and set it on fire and scattered the ashes into a strong, cold wind.

Saying goodbye to my littlest guy, holding him and hugging him and kissing him and petting him while he slipped away, was agonizing, but something we had to do.  We HAD to be there with him at the end.

He was a loyal dog, a sweet dog, a gentle dog.  Indy was full of love – he was overflowing with unconditional love, no strings attached.  He existed to be near you, and to love you, and to be happy.

###

We could all learn a lot from Indy dog.  Keep wagging until the very end.  Be happy.  Live in the moment.  Give love with no strings attached.  Be optimistic.  Try new things.  Have fun.  Race around the yard.  Be open to love, because you never know where you’re going to find it.

I had a hard time dealing with losing him.  I know that life isn’t fair – I’ve known this for a long time – but watching a sweet, innocent, loving dog meet such a fast and nasty end shook me to my core.  We were so unbelievably lucky to have him in our lives – far, far luckier than I ever deserved – but I can’t help but feel that we were robbed.  That we should’ve had more time with him – that we deserved it and he deserved it.

I look around this home and I realize how empty it feels without Indy here.  I look for him in his favorite places.  I think that he’s just out of sight, that if I call his name, he’ll come racing to my side to cheer me or comfort me or just be there.  I see his muddy pawprints on the folding table we used as a ramp for him to get into the car without straining his stitches.  I see the padded basket that we used just once to raise him into the car.  I see his soccer ball sitting, abandoned, in the middle of the backyard and it makes me cry, every single time.  I stumble on his favorite toy, or glimpse his empty bowls.  I look up at dinner time, straining to see his one eye peeking at me from the other side of my husband’s chair.  I walk out of the bathroom and swear that I see him, just for a moment, laying on the bed, patiently waiting for a look, or a word, or a pat.  I refuse to wash a sweater covered with his hair.  I carefully listen, hoping to hear his tail thumping against the wall just outside the kitchen doorway, waiting for a gummy bear.

It took about a day for Sophie to realize that her little brother wasn’t coming home.  They were never really peas and carrots, but I can tell that Sophie misses the hell out of him.  She has far too much yard to patrol now, and the squirrels are getting bold.  There’s no back up to help remind us that it’s food time.  There’s no one to bark at during playtime.  She’s stuck trying to cheer us up all alone.

I don’t know that I’ll ever entirely get over the loss, but then I think, you know what?  That’s okay.  He deserves to be remembered, and you have to take the good with the bad, right?  There’s one thing I do know.  There are so many dogs out there – sad, lonely, abandoned, scared – that need a forever home, just like our Indy dog did.  I also know that I’m going to miss out big time if I let this stop me from getting another dog.  It would be the worst insult to Indy’s memory that I can think of if I didn’t share my life and love with another dog in need.  It will take time, though, for the pain to pass and the healing to start.

There will never be another Indy, Adventure Dog.

But we have to keep on wagging, just the same.

Objects in Mailbox Larger than they Appear

We’re not great at checking our mail.  It’s delivered in one of those boxes on the corner – you know, the kind intended to ‘build community’ by encouraging everyone to chat while gathering the latest appeals to change wireless providers?  In the six plus years we’ve lived here, I’ve run into neighbors at the mailbox exactly twice.

Ours is conveniently located in a low area that attracts water, which provides the added recreational challenge of navigating a swamp-in-training for the privilege of recycling the latest Pennysaver.

One of my favorite features of these mailboxes is the determination of the occasional mail delivery person, in direct defiance of the laws of physics, to wedge any package smaller than a washing machine into a space about the size of a shoebox.  They could teach Chris Angel a thing or two about technique.

Today I went to the mailbox to discover what I thought was a JC Penney catalogue, circa 1980. I wrestled it out, quite literally wedging a foot against the front of the box for leverage.  Were they mailing phone books now?

It was a catalog.  A 615 page catalog.

I couldn’t imagine what company, in this day and age, would think that a 615 page mailer would be a lucrative and successful marketing decision.

The answer?  Restoration Hardware.

I’ve been in the store several times.  I don’t know when I lost my mind and decided that it would be a good idea to give them my mailing address – I went through a mailing purge several years ago that only left a handful of retailers standing, after all.  Maybe once a year I’d receive a reasonably-sized catalog from them – never enough to set off any alarms.

Until today.

I wasn’t in the house for 5 minutes before I was on the phone, speaking with a customer service representative.

“How can I help you?”

“I’d like to be removed from your mailing list.”

“May I ask if you’ve decided to use a different company?”

“No, but I certainly don’t need 615 pages of soon-to-be-recycled catalog.”

Now, I am by no means Captain Sustainability, but I do try.  This mailing offended me on several levels.  First, the sheer waste.  Second, who can afford to produce and mail a catalog that large?  And if they can afford that, can I afford their products?  Third, I generally prefer to shop online, so if you want to appeal to me, send me a small mailing featuring select products that might tempt me onto your website.  Finally, I happen to enjoy reading, but even my mind boggles at the thought of leafing through 615 pages of merchandise.

The customer service representative, who was very kind and understanding, did say, “You know, you might want to stay on the list. You aren’t the first person we’ve heard this from, and I suspect there might be changes on the way.”

“I appreciate that,” I said, “but excess like this demands a response.”  I’m such an activist.

So there you go.

Am I a marketing professional?  Nope.  But I also don’t think my perspective is that unique.  Then again, maybe it is. You could argue that I’m clearly not their target audience, and you’d be right.

The good news is that next time I go to the mailbox to get my latest invitation to switch to Comcast, it won’t require a degree in spatial mathematics, a lever and a small black hole.  It most likely will, however, still require wading boots.

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Photo credit:  Some rights reserved by The Rocketeer

 

Driving While Driving

It’s a gorgeous sunny day, not too hot. I get in my car, roll the windows down and back out of the driveway.

I make it almost four houses up the street when a boy on a bike zips out into the road from between two cars.

This isn’t going to be one of those dramatic “I managed to stand on the brakes and squeal to a stop with a centimeter left to spare” stories, just so you know. 

I saw him in plenty of time, mainly because I was paying attention.  I wasn’t on my cell phone, or texting anyone, or checking Facebook.  I wasn’t doing my nails or reading a book or ironing my clothes or playing the trombone, which are all evidently perfectly acceptable things to do while driving as long as you don’t get caught.

I also go pretty slowly on our street, because of Exhibit A above.  So I stop, and I watch him peddle away, totally oblivious in his Helmet of Indestructibility.

I wait.

A tiny head peeks around the end of one of the cars.  I can see one eyeball and part of a what I have to assume is the Helmet of Much-Smarter-than-the-Other-Kid, because this one isn’t taking any chances.  A little hand extends in the universal sign of “Go ahead.”   I motion back, “No, you.”

He wobbles out, gaining confidence with each pedal stroke.  He carefully raises one hand to wave his thanks and shoots me a grin, turning his attention back to the road just in time to narrowly avoid crashing into a mailbox.

I still think the odds are in his favor.

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Flickr Photo credit: Some rights reserved by Stephen Mitchell.