A Very Bad Day ... or Two or Three

Ever have one of those days? You know, the kind where everything goes wrong from the minute the alarm goes off until you finally escape your little black cloud by diving into bed and burying your head under a pillow. Today was definitely a day for the books, or the blogs, as the case may be. It actually began the a couple of days ago when I left my cell phone and Bluetooth earpiece in the pocket of my workout pants and then dumped them into the washing machine. They emerged from their dunking clean but useless.

The phone was insured; the Bluetooth was not. I had a choice between a replacement phone or upgrading the whole soggy mess for $200 and walking out of the Sprint store fully functional. I opted for the replacement, which was promised by overnight mail. The only proof that it had arrived was the UPS sticky note on the ground half way down my stairs. I was home all day, waiting for the UPS guy, who apparently knocked on my door with a feather. He didn’t return on Friday or Saturday or Sunday, so I still have no phone.

People couldn’t call me, and I couldn’t call them if I was out and about. Friday evening, I used my landline phone to confirm my dinner date with a friend. “OMG,” she said, “I completely forgot and have made other plans for the evening. I’m so sorry.” This was not really a tragedy because it was too cold outside to want to go anywhere. She felt terrible; I said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ve done that more than a few times in my life.” We rescheduled.

Saturday disappeared in a flurry of activity — working out, looking at my daughter’s new choice of wedding ring (it looks nothing like the Jared ring, by the way), pursuing our search for the perfect dress, grabbing a bite to eat, grocery shopping, and finally collapsing. It would have been a lovely day except for one little thing: I completely forgot that I had plans to meet another friend for dinner.

I woke up Sunday morning with a sinking feeling that something was amiss. I checked my calendar and there it was — the missed dinner date. I called my friend, overcome with remorse. “What happened to you?” she asked. “OMG,” I said, “I completely forgot. I got all tied up with wedding stuff and just spaced out. I’m so sorry. I feel absolutely terrible.” “Well you should,” she replied. I was devastated.

Still in a cloud of amnesia, I went off to fulfill my greeting duties of the Ethical Society, only to find I was there on the wrong week. I’m a greeter next Sunday, not this one. Eventually, the day ended. Thinking myself safe from further catastrophe, I pulled down the bedspread, and there was an open pen, sitting in the middle of a spreading blue circle of ink. The bedspread, of course, is white. I did a lot of screaming — “Out, out damn spot!” — but to no avail. All attempts to purge it made it ten times worse. I think this is the end of my beautiful bedspread. The ink, of course, soaked through to the duvet cover and the comforter. I went to bed with the washing machine chugging fitfully and the bathtub full of water and bleach.

When I was a little girl, I read all the Mary Poppins books. In every book there was a chapter called Bad Tuesday or Bad Wednesday, in which Jane or Michael had a very bad day where things went wrong left and right. In the end, of course, everything worked out fine, thanks to magical Mary Poppins. Some never-to-be-forgotten lesson was learned by the remorseful culprit, and Mary Poppins put everyone to bed. End of chapter.

Well, this was my bad Sunday — or more accurately Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. As it finally came to a close, I couldn’t help wishing I had a Mary Poppins to set things right, put me to bed, and end this particular chapter.

“He got it at Jared.” A Cautionary Tale

My daughter (T) became engaged over Thanksgiving. She and her fiancé found the perfect ring at Jared, the Galleria of Jewelry. There it was, right in the case, just waiting for them. It was kismet. Rather than purchase a center diamond, they wanted to have their own “sentimental” diamond mounted in the ring. (A little side note: this diamond was guaranteed and upgradable) “Of course, no problem,” said the store manager, who kept the ring to set the diamond.

That’s when the problems started. It is l-o-n-g story, especially if you are the bride to be, but I will try to give you the abbreviated version.

• The Jared technician cracked the diamond while setting it.
• The store manager offered to replace the cracked stone with a “perfect Jared diamond.”
• The ring was sent to headquarters to search for that perfect diamond; the search took weeks.
• In the meantime, T made many phone calls and trips to the store to check on the status of her ring.
• No calls were returned; no one had any information.
• T began to express impatience. Where was her ring?
• Finally, after many behind-the-scenes phone calls, the ring and the perfect diamond arrived, separately. The stone would have to be mounted at the store.
• T finally received her ring the day before Christmas.
• Meanwhile, back in the manager’s office, the news was not good. The diamond, though perfect, was neither guaranteed nor upgradable. ,
• Why? Because it was a “replacement diamond,” and that was Jared’s policy.
• T tried logic, reminding them that she wouldn’t have a replacement diamond if they hadn’t cracked her original one.
• Logic did not prevail; policy was sacrosanct.

T is what we call a “consumer vigilante” (a phrase coined by Faith Popcorn in The Popcorn Report, 1991). She swung into action.
• She wrote to the president of Jared and the district manager, explaining the sequence of events and the problem. No one responded.
• She called the president, who apparently does not speak to customers, and the head of customer service, who apparently doesn’t either.
• By this time, it was mid-January.
• In the meantime, T made many phone calls and trips to the store to check on the status of her request.
• No calls were returned; no one had any information.
• Meanwhile, back in the manger’s office, the news was not good. The manager had a copy of the letter to the president, but no decision. She would have to call her district manager to resolve this matter.
• Finally, after many behind-the-scenes phone calls, Jared issued its verdict: it declined to guarantee its own diamond but agreed to upgrade it.
• T said no thank you; she wanted to return the ring. That, unfortunately, was no longer an option.
• Why? Because it had been purchased more than 30 days ago, and that was Jared’s policy.
• T tried logic, reminding them that the ring had not been in her possession for 30 days because Jared had sent it back to headquarters; that when she tried to resolve the issue through letters, phone calls, and visits to the store, no calls were returned, and no one had any information; that these delay tactics had effectively “run out the clock.”
• Once again, logic did not prevail; policy was sacrosanct.

It is a maxim of customer service that when a person has a bad experience, he or she will tell at least 11 people, who in turn may each tell 11 other people, and so on. In today’s world, telling only 11 people is a pretty obsolete approach. As the mother of the now-distraught bride to be; a blogger; and member of Facebook, twitter, and several other widely read social networking sites, I thought it would be more effective to tell 11 million people.

So the next time someone tells you he’s going to Jared, you might want to share this story.

Addendum to story: After all of the above, Jared agreed to take the ring back. Lots of bad PR for no good reason. That's why corporations should not have "personhood" status. They don't behave like people.

Closing Out the Year

This is my least favorite time of the year because it is time to get my finances in order to send to my accountant. While I am under the impression I have worked hard all year to keep track of income and expenses, file receipts in the right folders, and regularly add the figures to my Excel spreadsheet, I have been kidding myself. What should be a fairly straightforward task turns into an annual nightmare as I realize I have done none of the above.

First, let me say I am not a numbers person. I don’t particularly like numbers, and anything with dollar signs and decimal points gives me a stomachache. This doesn’t augur well for the task at hand. Where to start is always a problem. I guess the best place is with the pile of paid but still unfiled bills, scattered receipts, and check stubs that seem to have no discernible organization.

Then, there is trying to figure out to whom I paid what during each month of the year, so I can put the figures in the right cells of my empty spreadsheet. It’s not pretty. This year, in desperation, I called my bank and begged for a listing of 2008’s online business payments, all the time thinking, Right. Like that’s going to happen. Miracle of miracles, the lovely woman on the phone said, “Sure. I can do that. I’ll print it out and put it in the mail today.” And she did.

My income is divided into three parts: writing fees, book sales, and social security. That doesn’t sound too complicated, but fighting my way through PayPal and Amazon to see how many books I sold and how much I actually made, after the fees and humongous discounts have been deducted, almost drives me to tears.

Of course, there are the mountains of forms I get every month from Medicare, Blue cross/Blue Shield, and my Medicare Part D insurer. I guess I never look at them before I stuff them into file folders, but now I must. It’s pretty scary reading material. Insurance is it’s own private hell. When you’re self-employed, there seem to be 50 kinds, all out of pocket or deducted from something. And taxes. I never realized how many kinds of taxes there are, none of which are deducted from anything, so they are all out of pocket.

Finally, it is time to add up all these numbers (I swear I’ll eat out less, cut down on hair cuts, and find a cheaper grocery store), attach W9s (or whatever they’re called), and bundle up last year's proof of what is going on my tax return … just in case.

I do this every year, but, somehow, it never gets any easier. This is when I swear once again to hire a virtual assistant (VA). But if she’s virtual, as in — simulated, artificial, imitation, make-believe, computer-generated, online — will she come here and do all of this for me next year?

The Year That Got Away

While I wasn’t paying attention, another year slipped away. No sense asking how it happened or where it went, the annual cliché questions. In reality, all we did was flip a page on a man-made calendar, which informed us that 2008 was over and 2009 had begun. In truth, geologically speaking, at midnight on December 31, we are actually celebrating 4,600,000,001 (or in that neighborhood), since that’s how old our little planet is. Whatever the real date may be, it feels to me that time is speeding up as I get older. That isn’t such a bizarre notion. Time really does fly or drag, according to Einstein. Sometimes, it even stands still. When I was young, it moved very slowly, and I thought I had forever. Now, I know I don’t.

I find it puzzling that we in the West don’t believe we’re ever going to die. Of course, that isn’t rational. Intellectually, we know everyone dies. We hear about death every day. We see it on the news. We lose loved ones. Yet, until we come face to face with death through illness or accident, we just refuse to accept it will ever happen to us. Because we think we are immortal, many of us sail through our days in a daze. We don’t pay attention to the here and now because we’re busy doing other things.

Our minds are elsewhere — in the past, which seems better than it may have been when we were there; in the future, where we plan or worry about events that may never happen; or nowhere in particular, where we just wander and float. It seems very difficult to stay put, right here, right now. I’d say it’s the human condition, but there are humans on the planet who actually do pay attention to what is going on in their lives at the very moment it is happening. And they’re not all Buddhist monks.

In 1970, a Harvard professor who experimented with LSD, studied with a guru, and changed his name to Baba Ram Das, wrote a book called Be Here Now. Hippies loved it; personal development experts loved it; those in search of a new way to be loved it. Now, some 40 years later, the idea is back in fashion. "Mindfullness" is all the rage. Old concept (way older than Baba Ram Das); new packaging. The idea, however, still has merit.

If we were really here, now, right this minute, at the end of 2009 (or 4,600, 000,001), would we all be asking what happened to last year? I doubt it.

Shadow Stories Revisited

Part of this blog appeared on The Writing Life last April. I have been thinking about “the stories behind the stories” ever since I wrote it and have decided it's time to tell a few, just to see where they might lead.

What do writers do with their published work? Well, I keep mine. In fact, I have kept every article and book I've ever written. Over the years, I’ve done my best to consolidate, organize, and even purge; but I still have a lot of printed material. Why do I cling to more than 40 years of writing? One reason is that, behind every story I’ve written there is another story, a shadow story, of the real people behind the carefully phrased quotes and of what I learned or experienced that never made it into print.

Here is one of my favorites. It was called “St. Louis’s Modern Medicis,” and it was about 10 corporate and civic leaders who put their time, energy, enthusiasm, and influence behind "the arts" in all its varied forms. Without them, I wrote in 1978, St. Louis would not have enjoyed the richness of cultural life that made it such a wonderful place to live and work. At the time, I was the assistant editor of St. Louis Commerce magazine, the official publication of the St. Louis Regional Commerce & Growth Association. The RCGA’s board of directors comprised the most powerful corporate executives in our nine-county region, and those were the very men, who, along with their wives, supported the arts.

I had no illusions about the importance of my position when I called to ask for appointments and received timely return calls. It was the magic words “Commerce magazine” that opened the doors. Each of these executives had a pet civic project and was only too happy to see it get some free publicity. Maybe there was a little healthy competition there, as well. Who knows? What I did know was that they were willing to talk to me and were, for the most part, quite charming and down to earth. In one case, we shared coffee in bone china cups; in another, I saw pictures of grandchildren. In every interview, I heard real passion for the arts and how important they were the viability of our region.

At the time, I was so immersed in trying to tell their stories, I don’t think I realized that I was talking to the true giants of our community. Thirty years later, it seems quite obvious. I remember feeling comfortable with most of them. Only one was what I would call a “snob” (he shall remain nameless). The rest seemed to take me quite seriously, which was a mark of their professionalism, not mine. And one got my vote as the nicest person I had ever interviewed. (He still holds that designation.)

His name was Pete Love, and he was between jobs, in a manner of speaking — leaving Granite City Steel to become president of National Steel Corporation. He flew into St. Louis in a blizzard for the interview and photo shoot, which took place in the airport. I met Pete Love once and have never forgotten what a warm, unassuming gentlemen he was. Over the years, I have contacted him several times for different reasons, and he has always responded or had someone on his staff call me back.

At a time when corporate CEOs are known more for their greed and arrogance than for good manners and civic responsibility, I like to remember a time when the business world seemed a very different place.


(Just for the record, St. Louis's Modern Medicis were: Howard Bear, retired president of Aloe Company; W. L. Hadley Griffin, chairman of the board of Brown Group; Charles F. Knight, chairman and CEO of Emerson Electric Co.; Howard K. (Pete) Love, president of National Steel Corporation; Morton D. (Buster) May, retired CEO of the May Department Stores Company; Joseph Pulitzer, publisher, St. Louis Post Dispatch; George S. Rosborough, president of The Measuregraph Co.; Homer Sayad, managing senior partner at Haskins & Sells; Tom K. Smith, senior vice president, marketing of Monsanto Company; and Ben Wells, chairman of the board of The Seven-Up Company.)

Breaking Blogging Rules

I receive a great many e-mails filled with advice on how to make the most of my blog, or Facebook, or Twitter, or some other social networking site I belong to. The advice is all good, and I wouldn’t be getting it if I hadn’t subscribed to the newsletters or blogs that are dispensing it. The most important piece of wisdom is to have a purpose for your blog and stay focused. People will read it if it is giving them what they have come to expect. If you wonder all over the place with subject matter, blog directories will have a tough time finding you.

It makes perfect sense, and it is a rule I observe quite strictly on my other blog, “The Writing Life,” which is full of musings, observations, and reflections on the craft of writing. “PRISM,” on the other hand, has a less focused raison d’être. Its tag line is “reflections on the many colors of life,” which allows my thoughts to roam in all directions. In other words, I am breaking all the rules here. Why? Because I don’t really expect the blog directories to find my little philosophical musings on life. Let’s face it; life is a pretty broad topic.

It takes discipline to stick to the subject, and, though I’d like to think of myself as a disciplined writer, there are times when I want to wander off the path and see where my meanderings will take me. This is one of those times. I’m a bit embarrassed to admit, I didn’t start off with a subject in mind. I just put fingers to keyboard and wrote a sentence.

I don’t teach creative writing, but I suspect that those who do may give such an assignment to their students: Just start. Write a word, then another. Write the first thing that enters you mind, no matter how foolish or irrelevant it may seem. Keep going, and see what happens. For those of us who don’t allow ourselves that total lack of discipline, it is both scary and liberating.

So, now I have written an entire blog with no discernable direction, no adherence to the accepted rules of blogging, no real purpose except to write. I apologize to anyone who stumbles across it expecting to find some piece of wisdom on life. I owe you a conclusion. If there is one, it would be this:

If you always walk straight down the road of life, you probably won’t get too lost. On the other hand, you may miss a lot. Every once in a while, why not take an unexpected turn? Why not walk down some unmarked path and see where it takes you? You may just be amazed at what you find.

The Reading Gene

It’s funny the things our parents leave us, often without realizing they are doing it. My mother bequeathed to me an enduring love of reading. When I think of her, my mental pictures almost always involve books. She read constantly, especially in her later years. In her nineties, I think she was consuming a book a day, though she sometimes forgot she had just read a particular book, read it again, and enjoyed it just as much the second time. When we visited each other in Phoenix or St. Louis, people often asked me what in the world we did to pass the time. We read. We sat on opposite ends of my couch or hers with our feet up and our noses buried in our respective books, and we read together. It was our ritual.

My mother belonged to the Literary Guild and Book of the Month Club for years. She hung out at public libraries and gave advice to people perusing the shelves at local bookstores. She read fiction — mysteries, espionage, historical, and romance. She had to keep recycling books because, even though she seemed to be constantly installing bookshelves, they always overflowed. When she died, her daughters and granddaughters felt like we had won the lottery as we packed up many of her most precious titles.

If there is a reading gene, she definitely passed it down to us. We read, compulsively. We buy books; we trade books; we borrow books; we own multiple library cards. We are addicts. We read different kinds of books for different reasons. I read to escape, to relax and unwind, to learn, and, sometimes, just to be doing something. Some people crash in front of the TV; I curl up with a book.

My fondest memory of childhood was of the annual book sales at my school, P.S. 51, in New York. Every year, the newest and best children’s books — later to become classics — were displayed like jewels on long tables in the library. My mother and I would examine each one and then thoughtfully order our selections. The titles and covers are vivid, even today, some six decades later: Anne of Green Gables. Heidi. Misty of Chincoteague. The Happy Prince. Geraldine Belinda. Mary Poppins. Lad of Sunnybank. The Crystal Locket.

Alas, too many of these treasures have disappeared over the years, but some remain as testament to my mother's precious gift.