Saturday, February 28, 2009
Friday, February 27, 2009
Customer Service Is Dead
Yeah, I know, it died awhile back. I just wasn't ready for the flaming reminder when I called to book a hotel reservation this morning. Sure, I'm as Gen-X as the next gal but the slacker on the other end of the line just put my laid-back attitude to shame. The guy was CHEWING GUM when he picked up my call. (Anyone else flashing back to Letterman's Joaquin Phoenix interview?) This is pretty much how the call went down:
Hi. I'd like to speak with a reservations agent, please.
Yeah, I can talk to you.
Great. Well, I'd like to book a reservation at your hotel for next week - arriving March 2, departing March 6.
(in between chews) Yeah, hang on.
You with a local company? (more chewing)
Yes, I usually book reservations at the Company X corporate rate.
'K. Smoking or non?
Non smoking please.
Arriving when?
March 2nd
Leaving when?
March 6th
Name?
Beau Flamingo
Honors number?
Excuse me?
You a Hilton Honors Member?
Oh. Yes.
Leaving when?
March 6th
Here's your confirmation number
(silence while I wait for it, pen in hand thinking we've missed a step...)
I need your credit card number (That's the step. I recite my card number and exp. date)
Here's your confirmation number
(Silence interspersed with chewing while I imagine he is staring at a frozen computer screen. Aaaaand we wait. Paper crinkling. Another packet of Big League Chew is opened.)
Is your computer giving you a hard time? It must know it's Friday... haha.
Nope. Number's 12333764
Great, thanks for your
(CLICK. silence. I stare at the phone, awestruck. Oh no he DIDN'T. )
Another Nine Minutes
This morning I was awakened by the ringing of my alarm clock– a highly unusual occurrence since my alarm clock is of the Moonbeam variety. For those of you unfamiliar with the Moonbeam, its claim to fame is that it is designed to awaken you with the peaceful glow of simulated sunshine, thus allowing you to attain consciousness slowly and calmly - instead of assaulting you with the usual beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep SLAM-CRASH-CRUNCH-SNOOZE experience offered by most traditional alarm clocks.
On most mornings however, the real experience of waking up to the Moonbeam can be likened to having an ambulance and 10 cop cars drive into your bedroom, sirens silenced, all lights flashing incessantly like the pulsing strobe of a techno dance club. I half expect to open my eyes one day and see a federal drug bust going down at the foot of my bed.
Not today though! This morning was just the pleasant little brrrring brrring brrrring of a normal alarm bell – the one that kicks in after the Moonbeam gives up on all the armageddon flashing because you’re still COMPLETELY UNCONSCIOUS and the only thing it can think to do is make some sort of tentative little noise at you. So this morning as I was running down my list of everything and everyone that I was grateful for in my life, (yes, I do this every morning – stop the mocking) I sent a very special shout out to my good buddy Southern Comfort who apparently nudged me into just enough of a coma last night that I was able to entirely skip the horrible flashy light part of today. Thanks bourbon gods, you rock!
On most mornings however, the real experience of waking up to the Moonbeam can be likened to having an ambulance and 10 cop cars drive into your bedroom, sirens silenced, all lights flashing incessantly like the pulsing strobe of a techno dance club. I half expect to open my eyes one day and see a federal drug bust going down at the foot of my bed.
Not today though! This morning was just the pleasant little brrrring brrring brrrring of a normal alarm bell – the one that kicks in after the Moonbeam gives up on all the armageddon flashing because you’re still COMPLETELY UNCONSCIOUS and the only thing it can think to do is make some sort of tentative little noise at you. So this morning as I was running down my list of everything and everyone that I was grateful for in my life, (yes, I do this every morning – stop the mocking) I sent a very special shout out to my good buddy Southern Comfort who apparently nudged me into just enough of a coma last night that I was able to entirely skip the horrible flashy light part of today. Thanks bourbon gods, you rock!
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Correction
In a previous post I mentioned my 6 foot tall, blonde-haired, blue-eyed gal pal and in doing so I erred. Her eyes are actually brown. And as I type this I'm thinking of that Crystal Gayle song, Don't It Make My Brown Eyes Blue? Welcome to cheesy 70's music week, folks. The hits just keep on comin'!
You have my apologies, Brown-Eyed Girl. (song credit: Van Morrison)
You have my apologies, Brown-Eyed Girl. (song credit: Van Morrison)
(Maybe) The Bermuda Triangle Ate My Homework
It was my intention to upload a couple of photos for your viewing pleasure today but I realized that I have misplaced the software required to transfer said photos from my camera to my computer. Ironically, I have owned this camera for 2 or 3 years now and have only recently shown it any attention. (In truth, digital cameras intimidate me. I'm all about simple and digital is all about complicated.)
It is possible that the software was missing from the package when I first opened the camera a few Christmases ago – and I just didn’t notice because I was technologically illiterate at the time. (Some would say I still am. And they would be correct.)
It is also possible that the last person to whom I loaned my camera has misplaced the software I seek. My fault, not hers - unless she was using the CD-ROM as a coaster for her bottle of pinot noir while she was on that little bender in Bermuda a few months ago.
Bottom line: I am temporarily photographically incapacitated. This should not be confused with pathologically intoxicated which was the diagnosis for Kim Basinger’s character in Final Analysis. Remember that movie? Uma Thurman played her clinically depressed sister and Richard Gere played the therapist she was alternately screwing, framing for murder, then actually attempting to murder. Oh and don't forget the ever-so-sinister Eric Roberts who played her abusive, Mafioso husband whom she offed with a dumbbell. Netflix, baby. Gotta love it!
So yes, no photos today. Amuse yourself with this Kim Basinger-free video instead:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FtX8nswnUKU
It is possible that the software was missing from the package when I first opened the camera a few Christmases ago – and I just didn’t notice because I was technologically illiterate at the time. (Some would say I still am. And they would be correct.)
It is also possible that the last person to whom I loaned my camera has misplaced the software I seek. My fault, not hers - unless she was using the CD-ROM as a coaster for her bottle of pinot noir while she was on that little bender in Bermuda a few months ago.
Bottom line: I am temporarily photographically incapacitated. This should not be confused with pathologically intoxicated which was the diagnosis for Kim Basinger’s character in Final Analysis. Remember that movie? Uma Thurman played her clinically depressed sister and Richard Gere played the therapist she was alternately screwing, framing for murder, then actually attempting to murder. Oh and don't forget the ever-so-sinister Eric Roberts who played her abusive, Mafioso husband whom she offed with a dumbbell. Netflix, baby. Gotta love it!
So yes, no photos today. Amuse yourself with this Kim Basinger-free video instead:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FtX8nswnUKU
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Reunited (and it feels so good)
Peaches and Herb stuck in your head too? You're welcome!
I have 3 days to decide whether I’m going to my 20th high school reunion. Unfortunately, my ass is on the fence and it refuses to budge. Why the 3 day deadline? Because Alec promised me a year ago (Yes I called dibs a year in advance. I am a Virgo whose planning switch is constantly flipped in the on position. You got a problem with that?) that he would accompany me to said event even if it conflicted with his annual camping trip. Which, as it turns out, it does. Did I mention that both his camping trip and my reunion fall on Mother's Day weekend. (Yup, he's screwed no matter which trip he takes.) Plans must be made though and they must be made by this weekend - I'm feeling the pressure.
Why am I on the fence? Because a year ago I had not discovered Facebook (or as I like to call it the 9th wonder of the world) which in recent months has enabled me to reconnect with most of the people I've ever had the desire to reconnect with. Hell, I reconnected with people I didn't even know I knew. And then I discovered privacy settings and unfriended half of my new Facebook friends. But I digress...
The point is that reunions are all about catching up with folks you haven't talked with in a long time and snickering about who is aging poorly. I've already caught up with most of the people I would have wanted to see at this reunion. And I almost never snicker anymore (except on rare occasions like tonight when I stood next to a lady on the train who has been growing her fingernails since Nixon was in office. 10th wonder of the world. I couldn't help it - I mentally snickered.) So yeah, now there's a big part of me that feels like dragging Alec to this reunion could be a waste of time for both of us. But there's still a little part of me that would like to roam the campus again and breathe in the crisp Quaker ambiance of it all. (Yes, I went to a Quaker boarding school. Problem? Nope? Good.)
I know what's gonna happen. I will feel bad about keeping Alec from his man-weekend and succumb to my self-imposed guilt. So I'll send him off into the wilderness with his college chums while, several states away, I will drag my 6 foot tall, blonde-haired, blue-eyed gal pal with me to the reunion in his stead and we'll spend the entire weekend introducing her to everyone as my lesbian lover, thus simultaneously horrifying & intriguing my ex-boyfriends and their wives.
Hmm.
On second thought....I may have just hopped off the fence.
I have 3 days to decide whether I’m going to my 20th high school reunion. Unfortunately, my ass is on the fence and it refuses to budge. Why the 3 day deadline? Because Alec promised me a year ago (Yes I called dibs a year in advance. I am a Virgo whose planning switch is constantly flipped in the on position. You got a problem with that?) that he would accompany me to said event even if it conflicted with his annual camping trip. Which, as it turns out, it does. Did I mention that both his camping trip and my reunion fall on Mother's Day weekend. (Yup, he's screwed no matter which trip he takes.) Plans must be made though and they must be made by this weekend - I'm feeling the pressure.
Why am I on the fence? Because a year ago I had not discovered Facebook (or as I like to call it the 9th wonder of the world) which in recent months has enabled me to reconnect with most of the people I've ever had the desire to reconnect with. Hell, I reconnected with people I didn't even know I knew. And then I discovered privacy settings and unfriended half of my new Facebook friends. But I digress...
The point is that reunions are all about catching up with folks you haven't talked with in a long time and snickering about who is aging poorly. I've already caught up with most of the people I would have wanted to see at this reunion. And I almost never snicker anymore (except on rare occasions like tonight when I stood next to a lady on the train who has been growing her fingernails since Nixon was in office. 10th wonder of the world. I couldn't help it - I mentally snickered.) So yeah, now there's a big part of me that feels like dragging Alec to this reunion could be a waste of time for both of us. But there's still a little part of me that would like to roam the campus again and breathe in the crisp Quaker ambiance of it all. (Yes, I went to a Quaker boarding school. Problem? Nope? Good.)
I know what's gonna happen. I will feel bad about keeping Alec from his man-weekend and succumb to my self-imposed guilt. So I'll send him off into the wilderness with his college chums while, several states away, I will drag my 6 foot tall, blonde-haired, blue-eyed gal pal with me to the reunion in his stead and we'll spend the entire weekend introducing her to everyone as my lesbian lover, thus simultaneously horrifying & intriguing my ex-boyfriends and their wives.
Hmm.
On second thought....I may have just hopped off the fence.
Minty Fresh
I heard an odd bit of pregnancy trivia on the radio this morning. (Thank goodness they don’t broadcast pregnancy trivia every day or I would certainly be switching radio stations.) Apparently the most common “strange craving” for pregnant women is toothpaste. They didn’t get specific about brands or flavors (I’m a Tom’s of Maine Fennel w/Propolis & Myrrh girl myself) but the general gist is that many women actually CRAVE toothpaste during their pregnancy. Weird, huh?
Of course, that’s not quite as weird as the caller who rang up the radio station moments before the toothpaste answer was revealed and guessed that sand is the strangest common craving among the expectant set. SAND? Are you SERious? Here’s a bit of trivia: 4 out of 5 dentists surveyed think you’re an idiot.
Of course, that’s not quite as weird as the caller who rang up the radio station moments before the toothpaste answer was revealed and guessed that sand is the strangest common craving among the expectant set. SAND? Are you SERious? Here’s a bit of trivia: 4 out of 5 dentists surveyed think you’re an idiot.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Technical Difficulties
Ok, for some reason people (all two of us) who are trying to post comments can't seem to make it happen. I've waved my magic wand over the dashboard and am hopeful that once this post is published we will be able to make comments on it. If we can comment easily on this particular post, it means I have the settings fixed but that no one can make any comments on any previous posts (thank goodness this blog is still a fetus). If we still can't post a comment to this entry then the blog is broken and I need a mechanic. This thing better come with a powertrain warranty.....
And if the above makes no sense to you, fear not. I'm sure you're not alone.
And if the above makes no sense to you, fear not. I'm sure you're not alone.
The Eight
I’ve been thinking about the octuplets story that’s been in the news recently - not because I consider it any of my business and certainly not because I think it qualifies as news a month after the birth. In fact, I don’t think it’s my business or anyone else’s and at this point it has become simply another source of gossip – more fodder for Y.A.W.N. (your average watcher of news) to chew on. I pointed this out at dinner on Sunday night – a statement which prompted at least 3 of my fellow diners to look at me like I had 3 heads. I have neither the time nor energy to explore the potential numerological implications of that observation so if you happen to be a numerologist, knock yourself out. Just leave your interpretation in the comments section.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Public Service Announcement / Parfait Recipe
When a personal trainer offers you a complementary session and your gut tells you to run screaming in the opposite direction (say, towards the ice cream section of your local Stop & Shop which happens to be running a 2 for $5 special on 1/2 gallons of Beyer's Ice Cream), listen to it. Because you can either spend the next few weeks leisurely grabbing a dish of velvety vanilla ice cream when the mood strikes, or you can put your life on hold for 6 days in order to treat your sparkly new herniated disc with Manhattans and muscle relaxers.
OK, so maybe it was only a soft tissue injury - not spinal cord damage. And maybe I only had ibuprofen and creme de menthe on hand. Still, both go great with french vanilla.
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