Up Sell Me!

This has been happening forever, but for some reason I am recently more "in-tune" to it.  This thing is "up selling".  It seems like it started in the fast food industry many years ago.  At the time you could get a jumbo Coke for 25 cents more.  A bargain at even twice the price, right?  Then it included french fry up sells.  For 59 more cents you could have a jumbo Coke AND jumbo fries with the sandwich.  Why not pack on the pounds with jumbo sized sides, right?

Somewhere along the line up selling began to take over nearly every purchasing opportunity known to man.  I bought a new car some years ago and for $990 more I could have the car rust proofed and the seats stain guarded.  SOLD!

I bought a laptop at a retail store a year or so ago and was asked a minimum of four times between selecting the model and checking out if I wanted to have any number of the offered "protection plans".  They varied in price and of course had varying degrees of protection.  I managed to decline this up sell, but wondered for months afterwards if I did the right thing.

Then when cell phones became the rage it was only a mere $5 more a month for unlimited texting. For $15 more a month you could make your phone Internet accessible.  Why not? You can completely ignore every other living person in your presence so you can "check your email" and check the stock quotes and make a reservation on your mobile phone.  I gladly plunged into the world of technology savvy consumers lock, stock and barrel.  The iPhone was the start of the end for me.

When you go to the car wash you can get the "PRIMO" car wash for $4 more than the "REGULAR" car wash.  It includes an under carriage wash, which every car must have, right?

A few weeks ago I had dinner with a friend at a restaurant where the server attempted to up sell us a half a dozen times.  Did we want bottled or that nasty tap water?  Tap.  Did we want to have a delicious appetizer?  No thank you.  Did we want to have the steak that was 6 ounces larger for only $5 more?  Maybe.  Would you like to change the order from two glasses of wine to a whole bottle of wine for only $12 more?  No thank you.  Would we like to have the lobster tail added to our steak dinners for only $9 more each?  No.  (I claimed to have a seafood allergy which is a sure way to quiet the seafood up sells.)  Would we be interested in a torte for dessert?  Of course!  Would we be interested in each having one.  There was a two for $3 more special.  But of course!

Then today at the optometrist I nearly had a violent reaction when the clerk attempted to up sell me an additional 10 boxes of contacts for only $150.  10 boxes?  I can't remember a year that I have ever used 10 boxes of contact lenses, let alone 10 additional boxes at any price.

In this quest to help people save more by buying in larger quantities there is an element of panic.  More doesn't necessarily mean better.  Or does it?  I am a mass consumer.  I love to consume.  I am a sucker for any new gadget.  So, I can't proclaim to be a minimalist, but I do wonder what these subtle hints of encouragement to consume more mean.

So, why is it so irritating to have someone up sell you....repeatedly in one transaction?  Aren't employees just doing what is asked by their employer?  Aren't they encouraged to generate as much revenue for a company as possible?  Yes, I suppose that is true.  At what cost, I ask? Or is this just guilt for saying, "No."?

Contact Lens Crisis

New contact lenses feel great!  I recognize that I am odd. Yet, I do look forward to the annual eye-exam in which I stomp out of the exam with a new contact lens prescription in hand and several boxes of those magical small pieces of circular concave plastic that cling to your eyeballs.  It is a victorious feeling, I tell you! (As I write this I realize it doesn't seem like it takes much to satisfy me.)

Today was the day!  It has been 14 months since I have had an eye exam and I arrived for my eye appointment with 4 minutes to spare.  I am amazing at planning on time arrivals. If there were an Olympic Sport for such an event I could be considered athletic at something.    I had just phoned my insurance company to be sure I fully understood the realm of benefits and my eligibility.  Good news, people!  I was eligible for the full benefits in my contract.  Woot!  Woot!

Then, the girl behind the desk reached over, grabbed my contact lens high and yanked it from my hands!  She said that the doctor of optometry in this office, who replaced my former doctor, has the policy to have the patient pay for the visit up front.  Once she is reimbursed by my insurance company she will then issue me a refund check for today's services.  Come again?  I have never heard of such a thing.  Why would I have insurance if it meant I had to pay up front, wait for the insurance to pay the doctor, and then have the doctor reimburse me?  What is the world coming to?  Is the health care system in such a state of shambles that this is what medical service is coming to?  Maybe, but I quickly jumped to a few other conclusion as I processed this news out loud. 

"Is the doctor broke? Does she need money that bad that this is how she sees patients?"  Well, that wasn't the thing to say.  I was met by a dumbfounded "I can't believe you asked that." look from the girl behind the desk.  I then invited the girl behind the desk to ring up my insurance company.  "They will tell you I have a valid policy and what coverage is included."  She replied, "We have already verified your insurance."  Oh, so what is the problem here, I wondered.

Thinking all of the above was just some misunderstanding I said, "No, I have insurance.  It pays in full for these services.  There is no co-pay, pre-payment or getting reimbursed from the doctor."

The gal behind the desk sang me the "This is the new doctor's policy" speech, which only irritated me more.  So, being as mature as I am I simply said, "Oh, I'll go somewhere else." and with that I turned and headed for the door.

Now, maturity is something I lack.  If you know me then this is no news flash to you.  However, I have to pause here and say how good it felt to stand up for something.  What I was standing up for is still not clear to me.  Was I standing up for the principal of not letting someone else put their needs ahead of mine?  Was I standing up against someone I quickly perceived to be taking advantage of the situation?  I mean, who is to say that a refund check would ever come from this doctor once she was reimbursed by the insurance company?

So, here I am penning this thinking "I showed her!" when in the back of my mind I am poking myself because now I need to round up a new doctor of optometry. 

I keep telling myself that my own stupidity isn't as bad as it comes across.  Yet, as I read this I wonder who I am fooling...

Crash 'Em, Smash 'Em

When I first got out of college I had a Volkswagen Fox, Wolfsburg Edition.  The Wolfsburg Edition was a fancy way of saying that Volkswagen had “fancied” up a regular VW with some shinier emblems and Air Conditioning.  Nonetheless, I was quite satisfied with this car, though I stood 6 feet five inches tall with no head room in the car I managed to drive that car until the end.  (My head was about two millimeters away from the roof when I drove it.  It looked like a clown car when I was inside.)

At that time in my life I had a continual hankering for Wendy’s Old Fashioned Hamburgers and their baked potatoes.  Who knows why?  It wasn’t uncommon to make a midnight run to Wendy’s for these things.  When you are 22 you can eat anything and not regret it.  So, I did.

A new Wendy’s had opened up not too far from where I lived.  It was so new, in fact, that they hadn’t painted the lines on the pavement for parking spaces nor had they painted the curbs yellow.  Ummm Hmmm… You can see where this is headed, can’t you?

I zipped through the Pick Up Window to get my sustenance.  Immediately as I pulled away from the window I reached in the bag for a hand full of fries, released the clutch, turned and shifted, all in one fell swoop (Driving is not a strong suit of mine and driving a manual transmission only exacerbates the problem.) I was barely in second gear when the entire car lurched forward, fries and sandwich flew to the floor and my giant Coke was now taking the shape of a puddle on the passenger side seat.  Well, this was alarming, but nothing that was insurmountable, or so I thought.  There were loud noises similar to what it must sound like when a car goes into the crusher at the junk yard.  As luck would have it, I had managed to get the Wolfsburg Edition hung up on a curb in the middle of the parking lot.  Don’t ask me how.  The front end was up and the back end was down. 

Every attempt to get the car off of the curb was useless.  I had to get out of the car and survey the damage. It wasn’t good.  The bottom of the car was on the curb, and the wheels in the front had some how managed to be airborne and not in contact with the surface beneath it.  Hmmm. What to do?  I sat there for a minute and then stomped inside Wendy’s.  This was before cell phones were all the rage.  I asked to use their phone and I rung up my mother.  Her whole life has been one experience in terror after another and I was sure she would know what to do. 

While I waited for my mum to arrive I sat in the car eating what was left of the hamburger, which I had careful re-assembled.  The manager of the Wendy's walked out to the car and tapped on my window.  (Insert humiliation here).  He was apologetic for there not being painted lines or curbs yet and wondered what they could do to help me with this UNfortunate situation.  I suppose their real interest was in not having this freak show in their parking lot any longer than necessary.  Who hangs their car up on the curb, sits inside of it and still finishes their meal?  I do.

Luckily it wasn't long before my crazy mother showed up. She zoomed over in her baby blue Cadillac.  What’s more?  She was wearing her bedroom slippers and a full length mink coat. Attractive.  After all, it was late at night.  We decided it would best serve our needs if she pulled the Cadillac up behind the Wolfsburg Edition and slightly accelerated just enough to push me off the curb.  This seemed like a good way to save the $50 charge for a wrecker to come and set me free.  So, I agreed.

Now, you would think that a Cadillac with a V8 would have no trouble getting the 4 cylinder Wolfsburg Edition off the curb, but I was awe struck at how unsuccessful things were turning out to be. (The apple doesn't fall far from the tree.) So, while I was waiting inside the car with the gear shift in neutral I thought I might as well salvage a few fries and began eating the ones that seemed to be resting on top of others and that were not in direct contact with the floor.  Tasty.  This smorgasbord was interrupted as I was violently thrown forward.  Mother Dearest had backed up the Caddy and stomped on her gas pedal.  Mmmm Hmmm.  Not only was the crunching sound of the cars meeting slightly alarming, so was my mother’s thinking on how this would be the best way to solve this situation.

I am pleased to say that the final “smash ‘em” trick did work and the Wolfsburg Edition was free of impairment from the curb, but it had some new damage thanks to the Caddy.  We drove both cars home and decided we wouldn’t tell too many people about this venture too soon.  Well, it’s been fifteen years now and this seems soon enough!

Fender Bender

I was awakened from a slumber by my good neighbor phoning me one afternoon last summer.  “You need to come out front.” – Now, one thing that I am sure of is that mid-day summertime naps are of utmost importance.  The invitation to leave a warm bed to come outside for whatever it was that I “needed” to be a part of fell on less than favorable ears. 

I stumbled around and found some flip flops, tumbled down the stairs and went out front.  A cargo van was parked in front of my car and broken pieces of race car red plastic was strewn around the back end of my car, which was parked on the street.  I’m not a quick study, especially when coming out of a sleepy fog…..So, I wasn’t making the connection between the cargo van and the plastic sprinkles on the street until I rounded the back end of the car and saw a swipe of white paint across the quarter panel and bumper, a dent and what was left of the tail light.  The Hot Tamale had been clipped! – (A friend named my car the Hot Tamale a number of years ago when I two-wheeled it around the corner and she saw it for the first time.)

Luckily for me, my good neighbor had been a witness to the whole incident.  The driver of the cargo van was still sitting inside the van, even after my neighbor had stomped up there to say, “Are you going to get out?  You hit that car.” or something to that effect.  I like living next to a Neighborhood Watch participant who has tenacity and a willingness to face danger head on. I live in fear, and would have probably let the guy drive off.  Thank you, neighbor!

I surmised that the damage was minimal and wasn’t too worried.  The cargo van driver stumbled out of the van.  He was unharmed and his white cargo van had a nice red stripe on the back quarter panel, thanks to the Hot Tamale. 

And so began my multi-week frustration with an automobile insurance company.  As luck would have it, there was some “question” as to whether the driver of the cargo van was currently covered under the policy.  What did that mean exactly?  Surely issuing a policy to a driver didn’t mean they “might” be covered.  They would have to do some “research”, whatever that meant, and get back to me.  After four days pass you can imagine my level of irritation is at an all time high.  Never fear, though. The Hot Tamale was drivable and I zipped all over town in that thing. 

As luck would have it, I learned that the cargo van driver was not covered by the policy via my cell phone as I was at the airport ready to board a flight to the desert to soak up the sun once again.  (It is all about R&R, people) A slight glitch in things, which were to be compounded by being 1,000 miles from home.  Apparently the cargo van driver was insured, but by another company.  More days of waiting for a response from the driver to learn who the lucky insurance company was that was about to hear from me regarding the slight fender bender.

After several phone calls with escalated tones, mostly mine, an insurance adjuster stopped by my house to examine the vehicle and write up a claim once I swooped back in from being in the desert for a week.  Good, good!  We were getting somewhere.   During this time I had been in consultation with a few of my neighbors to ascertain what their thoughts were about just pocketing the cash and leaving the car with its new signature for all of eternity.  There were mixed reviews to the proposal, but in the end I did just that.  I stuffed that check in my pocket and stomped to the bank.  Five months later I was on a plane to sunny Cancun with the cargo van driver’s insurance money.  The good news?  I can always tell which red car is mine in a parking lot.  I just look for the white swipe of paint and the smashed tail light.  See, things always work out.

Babies are a lot of WORK!

Yesterday was entertaining in Kindergarten.  - A female student plopped down next to the boy I was working with.  The conversation went like this...

Boy Student: "This is my lucky day!" (Gesturing toward the girl student) "She is my girlfriend!"

Me: "Does she know she is your girlfriend?"

Boy Student: (puzzled look on his face) "Oh! I don't know." (Now tapping the girl on the arm) "Did you know I am your girlfriend?"

Girl Student: "You mean boyfriend."

Boy Student: "Yeah, Did you know I am your boyfriend?"

Girl Student: "No. I never heard of such a thing." (Never taking her eyes off of the project she was working on and never making eye contact with her male suitor.)

Boy Student: "Oh.  Well, I am!"

Me: "What does that mean to be a girlfriend or a boyfriend?" -(I always like to do some investigative research and see what adult labels mean to young kids.)

A girl student who was passing by comments, "It means you kiss on the lips!"

Boy Student: "No!  No!  No Kissing!."

Me: "Well, what does it mean to be a boyfriend?"

Boy Student: "I don't really remember."

 A second Boy Student who was nearby comments,  "You have to go on dates and stuff."      (It was the "and stuff" that I personally was most curious about.)

Me: "What does that mean?"

Second Boy: "They go out to dinner with each other."

Me: "Oh."

The girl who breezed by earlier was back and said, "AND they go out to breakfast together and kiss each other in the lips!"  (SO much kissing talk.  Sometimes I think young kids try and throw in statements that will hopefully get a rise out of the adults, but yet they think there must be some safety to talk about such topics because the teacher is engaged in the conversation too.)

Me: (Wishing they would stop all the kissing talk because there are two sure ways to get five and six years old wound up.  One is to talk about using the bathroom and the other is kissing talk.)

The Boyfriend Student: "They get married after that!"

Me: "Why do they want to get married?" - (Trying not to project too much of my own pre-conceived notions about marriage on the kids, but I am curious... Why DO they think people want to get married...)

The Boyfriend Student: "Because they are in love."

Me: "Do you have to be in love to get married?"

The Boyfriend Student: (Thinking hard......I may have puzzled him...) "Hmmmm....No."

Me: "When can people get married?"

This question evoked lots of responses from 16 or 17 to 20's, 27 and 70's from a variety of people who were now involved in this conversation.

A Girl Student: "Yeah, once you are married you make babies."

I was grimacing and wondering why in the world I had let this conversation go on this long.  Before I could bring it to a halt I hear..."And they cry!"

Me: "Who cries?  The baby or the people who got married?"

The reply: "Everyone.  Babies are a lot of work."

And so there you have it, people.  Babies are a lot of work.

8 Days

Student: "Hey, That kid celebrates eight days. What kind of special is he?" (said while pointing to a peer at the next table over.)

I have to chuckle when a five year old says to me "Hey!" as their opener to a sentence.  Further, it cracks me up that this late in the year a student is still referring to a peer as "that kid" because they haven't committed the peer's name to memory.

I am sure the look on my face was crinkled up as I processed what I was being asked for a minute.  I answer, "Do you mean Jewish?"

Student:  "Yeah, and I know what the Jewish star looks like."

Me: I nod to acknowledge that we had success in deciphering what the student was referring to when asking "What kind of special is he?"

Student: "Look at me."

Me: (I look over)

Student: Making wildly large gestures with his hands he is pointing up and down and sideways and going on and on about triangles.  (This is his explanation and visual representation of a Star of David I assume)

Student: "Plus you know what else?  I only celebrate one."

Me: "One what?"

Student: "One day.  He does eight and I only do one."

(I assume he is just now coming to grips with his religion and only celebrating one winter holiday, Christmas, and his friend has somehow managed to find a loophole in religion that allows for eight days of celebrations. (a.k.a. - 8 days of presents)

He's Ablaze!

“86 the Chicken Fried Steak!” & “4 Top at table A-4.” –I love restaurant lingo!

 Working in a restaurant during college was one of the most entertaining jobs I’ve ever known.  If you have ever worked as a food server you know the rush that comes when your section is full, the bus person didn’t show up, one of your co-servers has come to work hung over and you are down to one coffee maker.  It is nothing short of a miracle what you can do when your resources are limited in a restaurant.  You suddenly emerge into a plate stacking/balancing wizard who whisks through the dining room with trays of food, empty glasses, towels, milkshakes, and side orders of fries, bacon and hash browns.  You pour coffee with such speed and skill that they named the dance move “The Waiter” after you.  Yes, a restaurant job can be fun.  That is, unless you work with a few unsafe clowns. 

Take into consideration the following scenario…

…I was in the break room sucking down a crispy Coca-Cola one evening while shooting the breeze with one of the chefs.  This was in the early 90’s when restaurants allowed people to smoke inside.  The chef was a smoker.  So, the break room was like a mysterious land with a haze of smoke billowing up and around those who were on break.  This particular chef was taking canned hair spray and spraying it into the open flame of his lighter.  Mmmm Hmmmm.. I worked with some very safe and intelligent people back then. Oddly enough this behavior was mild compared to other things I had witnesses.

I left the break room, walked down the hallway, around the corner through the server station and onto the dining room floor to an awaiting table of patrons.  It wasn’t long before one of the guests in the booth said, “You are on fire!”  Sure enough, I was ablaze.  The apron strings were on fire as they hung down past my rear end, which had caught the back side of my shirt on fire- creating gaping holes in my back.  Funny how I could have made it down the hall, through the server station and onto the dining room floor and not realized that I was ablaze, but I didn’t.  So, in a gesture that can only be seen as helpful as I reflect back, the guest in the booth threw his glass of water onto me to douse the flame.  There was much hubbub on the dining room floor that evening, people.  Patrons from other tables stomped over to see if the tower of inferno was now OK. I was.  The real miracle here, people, is how my head of hair didn’t become engulfed in flames.  It was the early 90’s. You may recall that people lubed up their hair with all kinds of hairspray, gels and other hair holders.  I was no different. 

Through careful research I learned that this cigarette smoking, hairspray/fire playing chef thought it might be a gas to spray the back of my uniform with hairspray and set a flame to it with his lighter.  – Not too terribly funny I thought as I stood there, uniform smoldering, but alas he gets an A for effort.  Back then I didn’t assert myself as much as I do now, which I know is going to be a huge shock to those of you who know me- the one who ALWAYS demands what I want nowadays.  Instead I was granted permission to leave work early.  After all, my uniform was newly redesigned and my backless shirt top didn’t seem to so appropriate in a family dining restaurant. 

It’s funny how you romanticize past jobs, past loves, your first apartment, etc. when you are feeling overwhelmed with your current job, love, house, or (insert whatever here).  After thinking this story through I am reminded that my job isn’t so bad after all.  In fifteen years of teaching I have yet to be set on fire...