Maybe something better...

Audrey was running out the door when remembered that she still needed to get her sister-in-law the yearly Neiman Marcus cover snow globe for Christmas – an unbreakable tradition of close to ten years. She went to the kitchen table, lifted the lid of her Mac, and checked her e-mails. She smiled when she found what she wanted: A half-day sale that started at ten central and ended at midnight. She checked her watch and smiled – definitely after ten central. She signed in, searched for the cover globe and found to her amazement that it was on sale – 30% off! It NEVER went on sale; AND there was free shipping. The song by Holu “Perfect Day” went streaming through her mind. She felt like Elle Woods going on her perfect day date. She saw other cute items on sale that her sister might want and called her but had to leave a message.

“Well,” she said to herself, “This sale goes till midnight, so I’ll wait to hear from Monica and finish this when I get back. She began to sing “…It’s a perrrrfect daaaaaay, Nothing's standing in my way, On this perrrrrfect daaaaay, Nothing can go wrong…”

Several easy and fruitful errands later, Monica, who was not interested in the mini snow globe nutcracker salt and paper shakers or anything else, called her back. She was so disgustingly frugal!

“Call me if you change your mind.”

“I won’t”

“Your loss,” said Audrey as she pulled into the garage.

She walked into the house and was greeted noisily by Mable, her ancient tabby cat. She tossed her purse on a chair and picked up Mable placing her in her arms like a baby. Mable demonstrated her appreciation for the scratching and loving by squeezing her eyes shut and purring. In baby talk she apologized to Mable, put her on the ground, woke the computer up with a swish of the mouse, and clicked on her basket. Time to purchase her prize.

“What the…?” she said in disbelief and went back to the search feature. She called up snow globes but there was no discount now.

“That is just not fair. It is not okay for them to say there is a sale and then take it away. What is this?”

She looked at the top of the screen for the 800 number and called. The phone rang too many times before it was picked up by someone rather young sounding with a southern accent.

“Thank you for calling Neiman Marcus. This is Wanda, how may I help you?”

“Wanda,” said Audrey rather sharply, “I was on line this morning a few hours ago, and your cover globe was on sale. I just went to purchase it, and it’s not. Can you please find out what is going on. The ad said that the sale was on till midnight.

“Yes mam, it is. Let me check.” Audrey was left to her frustrated thoughts while a musak version of “Born to Run” by Bruce Springsteen played in the background. This is a travesty she thought to herself. After too much time again, Wanda got back on the phone and apologized but that particular sale had been a very short term special. Even though she begged and cajoled, there was nothing Wanda could do. Audrey said, “Well I’ll just wait. Maybe it’ll come back around.”

Feeling stupid for not taking advantage of good things immediately, Audrey checked Neiman Marcus daily and often several times a day. She did get an e-mail that offered free gift-wrapping. Well, she thought, that, at least is something. This special was valid through the weekend.

When she went on-line on Monday morning and realized that she had lost the free shipping benefit she reverted to her five year old self and screamed to the house at large “Why does this always happen to me?” Mable shot across the floor as Audrey burst into tears. “I hate myself. Why do I do this? It’s not fair!” She went to the site and decided then to purchase it, but changed her mind figuring it wasn’t even December and something else had to come up. At least the free shipping seemed to be on-going.

Life went along more or less normally for her. She cooked, cleaned, played cards with her friends who, for some reason, had a plethora of right/time right/place success stories which made her feel even worse.

Going home after one of these depressing gatherings, she decided she’d just get the snow globe no matter what. She went on line, and her cart was empty. The globe had been in there every time she checked. She typed “snow globe” in the search box and it wasn’t even there. The cover globe was gone. Her heart dropped to her stomach and she picked up the phone to call.

On hold again for a long time, the young man got on the line and said it was sold out. There were no more.

Audrey hung up the phone and began to cry hysterically. One would have thought her child had been killed. She felt like Boris Yellnikoff in Whatever Works and considered jumping out a window to her death, but she figured that like Boris, she would probably just get injured.

She felt like a fool and idiot and called herself every name in the book. How could she face Wendy at Christmas without her yearly globe? Wendy would have purchased it herself if she’d known it wasn’t going to be a gift. She was panicked because she didn’t want to disappoint and felt stupid for not taking advantage of things as they appeared.

After calming down and realizing that this really wasn’t the end of the world, Audrey called her local Neiman Marcus store. She prayed that there was one in the back. Just one. She’d even take the floor sample.

Geri answered the phone. Sweet, and giggly, and said they were sold out. Audrey begged her to check their back stock. After waiting a long time on hold, which in this case she didn’t mind, she was told that Geri had not just found one, but an entire crate full. Audrey was saved. She gave her credit card and Geri even said she’d put a bow on it for her.

So she didn’t get her discount and she didn’t get her free shipping, but she did get a bow, and she did get the gift. Life was good.

copyright 2009 Nancy Grossman-Samuel

I Remember

by Susan Cameron

Reader alert: If you hate memoir, stop here. This is some of the material that's going to end up in a much bigger piece.

I remember driving to the cider mill in the fall. Michigan in autumn is one of the most beautiful places on earth. The trees! There are so many, so beautiful; scarlet, gold, orange, yellow, brown, leaves rustling and falling soft as snowflakes. As you walk through them on the pathways they make a soft swooshing sound. When you're a kid, you rake them into piles and jump in them, rolling around with your friends in the leaves, laughing and shrieking and getting leaves in your hair, all wild and tangled. We used to burn them -- that was one of my favorite jobs when I was a kid. I'd rake them into piles, carry the piles to the wire trash-burning basket in the alley, stuff it full and fire it up. The smell of the smoke epitomized fall.

The cider mill was out in the woods next to a stream, of course. You could buy fresh-pressed apple cider, doughnuts hot out of the grease, hunks of smoked cheese and fresh apples. You'd sit under the canopy of red/gold/brown and eat and drink and listen to the rush of water burbling over the rocks in the streambed. The sky would be that bright, fresh blue, and the clouds would be as light and puffy as cotton candy, and the air smelled like trees and cold fruit. Breathing spring air made me feel giddy and light-headed and like dancing in the street (and sometimes I did!), but breathing fall air made me feel calm, content, and hungry. I was ravenous in the fall. Was it the change in seasons? Winter coming? Getting ready to hibernate? Who knows. But I would roll those hunks of smoked cheese around my mouth, and close my eyes and sigh a little from the taste of those doughnuts, and chase it with a few deep slugs of fresh apple cider, and life just couldn't get any better than that.

I remember winter all too well. When I was in grade school, we would all go to bed and snuggle under our blankets and quilts, and the heat would be turned off to save money. When we awoke, the house was icy cold. My grandmother would turn on the heat, there would be a muffled "whoomph" from the basement, and in a while, heat would begin to rise from the registers in the floor. There were wooden grids that sat over the vents leading from the furnace. I would take a deep breath, throw off my warm covers, and leap from my cozy bunkbed to the cold wooden floor. I'd scurry to the register in the hall and squat over it in my flannel nightgown, holding it open like a tent, feeling the delicious heat rising up through my collar. That didn't last long -- my chilly school clothes awaited. At one point they no longer used the furnace and tried just heating the kitchen with the oven (whose bright idea was that? How did they think this would save money?), and it was horrible. My teeth would be chattering like a flamenco dancer's castanets before I could make it to the kitchen.

I remember how cold the basement was in winter. I would grab my schoolbooks, open the kitchen door to the landing and feel the chill by the drafty back door. I'd shut the kitchen door behind me, muffling the sound of the adults yelling at each other. By the time I'd walked down the flight of steps and arrived in my sanctuary, I was already shivering. The cold seeped from the cement floor through my shoes, and the cinderblock walls were freezing to the touch.

I enjoyed reading. I was an "A" and "B" student in high school, though I think my study habits were peculiar in retrospect. The basement's ambiance left something to be desired, but it was easier to concentrate in the quiet freezing gloom than it was upstairs.

There was only one 60-watt bulb hanging from the ceiling for the right side of the basement, but there was also an old lamp on my grandfather's desk. I had enough light to read by. I would wrap myself up in some dead relative's heavy drapes that had been stored in plastic and hung on the clothesline. They held in body heat really well. I would wrap myself in my long ivory robes, push my glasses up on my nose, and fire up the turntable. It wasn't exactly a record player any more, since the speakers were shot to hell, but I'd put on an album anyway and listen to Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young whispering "teach your children well" in a sort of ghost song.

I'd spread out my books and papers, switch on the desk lamp, push my glasses up again, and start reading my homework assignment. Breathing correctly was extremely important. It was necessary to breathe through the nose, especially when exhaling, because the basement was so cold that a breath exhaled through the mouth would fog up my glasses. They would remain fogged unless I took them off, slid them under the drapes and wiped them on my shirt. (I couldn't use the drapes; they didn't absorb moisture and left the glasses smeary). Anyhow, I'd have to open the drapes and let out some of my heat in order to clean the glasses, so I learned to be more careful. As I read, I would tuck one foot under myself to warm it, then switch to the other one. ("...Your children's hell...will slowly go by...")

Writing was harder than reading. Gloves were too clumsy so I had to write bare-handed. I'd write until my fingers got too cold to hold the pen, then I'd tuck the right hand in until it was warm and flexible again. It had a mind of its own -- once it was warm, it didn't really want to go back out there, but like a good soldier it did what it had to do. Reading was easier on it -- it only had to zip outside to turn a page, then scurry back into the warm shelter of the drapes. Forearms and elbows could keep the book open while draped in the material.

I could barely hear the arguing and screaming from my little nook. I'd just tuck the drapes around me nice and snug, crank up the broken record player to maximum volume (barely audible Graham Nash -- "don't you ever ask them why...if they told you, you would cry...") and settle in for as long as I could hold out.

Piece of cake.

Susan Cameron, copyright 2009

The Cassie Chronicles - She's Back

Cassie’s learning a new way to talk to her customers - and to Skinny Bitch. It’s all about love and semantics. Do you feel it?

Vocabulary Test

A few weeks ago we had a seminar for sales and customer service. Three days of a man named Chuck with slicked back hair, pungent cologne and loud ties, telling us how to interact with customers. It seems we’ve been doing things all wrong.

First was the vocabulary lesson. Chuck’s handout showed two columns. Column A listed words we currently use. Column B proposed better choices. I studied my handout.

Column A said “Project”. Column B said “Community”.

“Never say project,” Chuck told us. “The word has no heart. People can’t feel attached to a project. They’re looking for a community to belong to, a comfortable home environment.”

Column A said “Tract”. Column B said “Neighborhood”.

“Same principle here,” Chuck said. “Tract equals a lifeless plot of dirt. Who wants to live in a tract?” He waited for a response and seemed pleased to receive none. “That’s right!” Chuck exclaimed. “It’s a neighborhood people want. In a neighborhood, people look out for one another. Everyone wants that.”

“Are we supposed to use these words in Customer Service, too?” someone asked.

“Oh, yes,” Chuck replied. “This is a whole new company vocabulary. Put Column A behind you. Embrace Column B. Soon you’ll feel the love coming from everyone, buyers and co-workers alike.”

Skinny Bitch was beaming, eating up everything Chuck said. So was Art Baker, the head of customer service. The rest of us squirmed in our straight-backed chairs.

Since then there has been a steady stream of emails from Skinny Bitch reminding us of our new jargon. Replacement price sheets have arrived listing “Home Sites” instead of “Lots”. It’s not Tract 16632, but the Neighborhood of Bella Vista in the Community of Cantata del Mar. A new sign out front announces the Sales Gallery, not the Sales Office, and we don’t sell houses, we offer homes. People don’t go to the Design Center anymore to pick their upgrades, it’s the Design Studio. Oops, they aren’t upgrades, they’re customizing options. Standard items are now included features. And according to my new business card I’m a sales counselor, not a sales representative.

We are all trying very hard to embrace this change, because times are tough in real estate and we’re afraid we’ll be caught using the wrong word and be out on our keesters.

So, Skinny Bitch’s call today surprised me.

“Cassie,” she said, “We’re reviewing your project and need to know if the buyers of Lot 52 in Tract 16632 have gone to the Design Center yet to pick the upgrades for their house.”

Hmmm. Was this a test? I wasn’t taking any chances.

“Let me check the paperwork for my community, Tina,” I said. “Yes, the Wilsons went to the Design Studio on November 3^rd to select customizing options for their home on Home Site 52 in our neighborhood, just like I counseled them to do.”

I figure I aced it. And yes, Chuck, I do feel the love.

Copyright 2009, Liz Zuercher

The Autumn of My Life

The last week in October, during which I was on the east coast, was filled with many activities, but my favorite, even including my birthday, was my unplanned viewings of nature’s magnificent seasonal changes. Her comforting, shade giving leaves were changing from a pleasing, vibrant green to spectacular and awe inspiring pinks, reds, oranges, and yellows. I probably shouldn’t have even been allowed to drive because the shapes of the trees and the colors which were often almost translucent or florescent as the chilly fall sun sprinkled her magical light upon this changing spectacle caught my attention like nothing else has. I think I might have even made my passenger nervous from time to time or at least unsure of the age of her driver when I would blurt out with youthful exuberance regarding some tree or other.

The once leaf-filled trees were thinning out leaving bare and exciting looking branches whose various shapes and sizes reached out in multiple directions. It was like a tasteful and alivening strip tease! From one day to the next things were changing. It was very like remembering life with my baby daughter who is now almost twenty-one. When she was an infant and into her toddler years, she was often delightfully different from one day to the next; my experience with these magnificent trees was almost an emotional match as I watched things become slightly different and always more beautiful from day to day until the day I was leaving.

The day I left the east was the day I decided to take pictures, but many of my beautiful trees were now filled with brown, crinkly, and uninteresting foliage, and it hit me…

this was all just a death knoll. I had watched this beautiful, exciting season move from vibrancy to death. The leaves had gone from a beautiful extravaganza of color to dull yellows and browns. Supple, soft leaves splattered with color had become stiff and dull. Squishy, silent paths filled with newly fallen leaves had become walkways that announced one’s coming with a noisy crunching sound. And then I wondered: what judgment am I making about going from one state to the other. Perhaps, I thought, this was just a vibrational shift from one state to another.

Though it might appear that death is upon them, it is temporary. In six or seven months a new cycle will begin, and I would very much enjoy being there to watch as buds begin to appear, and the sexy, exciting branches begin to fill with a new kind of life.

And then I began to think about what this means for us as humans. I wonder why we can’t just live this way? Why is it that old age is considered an unpleasant, hated movement directly from green to crumbly brown? What about all the colorful possibilities and excitement that can exist in the middle from green to brown, supple to crunchy?

I have decided that I want my waning years to be colorful and bright. I want to shimmer and glow and be translucent and extravagant. I want to use the time I have left to explore and learn and grow and develop and sing and dance and play and have more fun than I’ve had, maybe ever. I imagine that a leaf has a wonderful time growing from bud to leaf, but then it just hangs out for the next six or so months; I would be willing to bet that the most fun it has is the change from green to vibrant and exciting colors, and it makes me wonder where the life of the leaf goes just as I wonder where the life of me will go when my body changes from red and pink and yellow and orange to the soft grey stuff that the Nautilus Society will hand back to whomever wants it when I’m done with it.

Time marches on, and rather than regret it, I intend to embrace it, and to find the joy and playfulness in it, and I invite you to enjoy this journey with me.

copyright 2009 by Nancy Grossman