Some people are bright and shiny as a new penny. Sometimes I try to act bright and shiny, but truth be told, it comes out as forced. Or childlike. I find that people don't take me seriously when I try to act bright and shiny. I'm at heart a bitch. Sometimes I'm a nicer bitch but usually I'm not. I would like to envision myself as a Oscar Madison type, only in that I'm as neat as Felix Unger. Messy personality, neat living space.
Today I tried to get through to my cable company. It took quite a while to navigate their voice system. Press 1 if you want to speak in English. Press 2 if you'd like Customer Service. Press 3 if you want to discuss a billing issue. You know the drill. Alas, for the days when a real human being, live in the flesh, answered the phone. Alas, for the days when the real live human being actually wanted to help you, and sounded sincere when discussing your problems. Today, when I finally got through to a representative, she was as callous as can be. "Don't worry about those fees", she said, "There'll be no charge." Nice answer, except that she didn't ask me for details about the charge, which involved the company's website inadvertently directing me to an overseas branch. Don't ask. But I'm pretty sure that she'd have to check to see if the company would waive an overseas phone call, before she told me not to worry about being charged for an overseas call. And she called me "My Dear" and "Cutie" to add insult to injury. Her voice sounded very young. At least put me on hold for a minute and pretend to check. I was not, by the end of the call, a ray of sunshine. I had been disconnected three times before I got through to Mrs. Einstein. Mrs. Einstein transferred me to a tech, because that's why I originally called. For a tech issue. And after one hour trying to reach a tech, it turns out that they had no idea what the problem was. I turned off the power box and fixed the issue myself. So much for customer service.
What has happened to our society? I miss old-fashioned manners and old-fashioned service. I miss feeling like I got a bang for my buck. As I get older, I'm starting to feel more and more like my grandparents. I don't quite get today's music. I don't get the kids' fashion. I don't get their piercings or their hair. I'm officially old. It baffles me how the kids randomly hook up, and how girls today see no value in themselves, other than as a plaything for hormonal teenaged boys. Customer service reflects a society's mores, and judging by what I experienced today, we are aflounder.
Sunday, April 2, 2017
Saturday, April 1, 2017
Life with Kids
I read magazines like 'More', which are geared towards women of a certain age. They show lovely women over 50- well-preserved women- on the cover and push high-end anti-wrinkle creams or pricey fashion for the over 50 set. I don't look like the women on the cover. My idea of a fun day out on the town involves Target, so I certainly can't afford the clothes that the magazines for mature women recommend. $200 for a pair of pants? Really? Do the editors ever leave NYC and mingle with the peasants? If I could spend $200 on a pair of pants, then I wouldn't be clipping coupons in my down time. Nor would I be in the community service field. I'd be taking meetings at Morton's Steak House and not asking about the daily specials at Applebee's.
Once I used to read magazines like 'Cosmo'. I used to be interested in the best sexual positions and it was a big deal to know what turned my man on. Then I met Frankenstein's Monster. After a while, I didn't want to turn anyone one, because he became with time repulsive, but like mold, hard to get rid of. He became like Herpes. You don't believe that you picked it up somewhere, maybe you're not even sure how it happened, but there you are stuck with it, for life. Until death do you part, or until you can scrape enough dough together for a good lawyer. Good lawyers dress as if they stepped out of the pages of 'More' magazine. They know their value and they don't come cheaply. Just their highlights look expensive, as if what I spent for an entire month splurging at Target went right onto their roots.
Kids. They are a pricey investment. I love them, of course. They are my universe, and they are my raison d'être . My world changed from the first time that I took my oldest's little finger into mine. Fancy clothes suddenly weren't as important. I stopped putting as much time into my make-up and I stopped putting in my contacts. My world revolved around this helpless yet beautiful treasure that I had nurtured for 9 months inside of myself. Frankenstein had no such sentiments and though he stuck around, like Herpes, and though he refused to leave, he also refused to do anything substantial to help raise this treasure. He had Herpes himself. He had no financial restraints like putting the baby's needs first. I started to feel hate slowly enter my heart, twisting and wringing it like a used-up rag.
Maybe the women who buy into the world envisioned in 'Vogue' or any other high end magazine have something in common. Maybe they know their value, and they were clever enough to run from men like Frankenstein's Monster. They knew that they deserved better. I certainly didn't see my own value. No one should supersede yourself and your needs. Not a husband. Not a child. Not a job. And that in the end is the underlying message in these magazines. Invest in yourself, the most precious commodity.
Once I used to read magazines like 'Cosmo'. I used to be interested in the best sexual positions and it was a big deal to know what turned my man on. Then I met Frankenstein's Monster. After a while, I didn't want to turn anyone one, because he became with time repulsive, but like mold, hard to get rid of. He became like Herpes. You don't believe that you picked it up somewhere, maybe you're not even sure how it happened, but there you are stuck with it, for life. Until death do you part, or until you can scrape enough dough together for a good lawyer. Good lawyers dress as if they stepped out of the pages of 'More' magazine. They know their value and they don't come cheaply. Just their highlights look expensive, as if what I spent for an entire month splurging at Target went right onto their roots.
Kids. They are a pricey investment. I love them, of course. They are my universe, and they are my raison d'être . My world changed from the first time that I took my oldest's little finger into mine. Fancy clothes suddenly weren't as important. I stopped putting as much time into my make-up and I stopped putting in my contacts. My world revolved around this helpless yet beautiful treasure that I had nurtured for 9 months inside of myself. Frankenstein had no such sentiments and though he stuck around, like Herpes, and though he refused to leave, he also refused to do anything substantial to help raise this treasure. He had Herpes himself. He had no financial restraints like putting the baby's needs first. I started to feel hate slowly enter my heart, twisting and wringing it like a used-up rag.
Maybe the women who buy into the world envisioned in 'Vogue' or any other high end magazine have something in common. Maybe they know their value, and they were clever enough to run from men like Frankenstein's Monster. They knew that they deserved better. I certainly didn't see my own value. No one should supersede yourself and your needs. Not a husband. Not a child. Not a job. And that in the end is the underlying message in these magazines. Invest in yourself, the most precious commodity.
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