In response to yesterday’s blog about bad sales service, an excellent friend of mine, marketing specialist extraordinaire, wrote me that she and her boyfriend make it a mission to interrupt a sales pitch, whenever they see someone who’s uninformed about technology, being taken advantage of by a savvy salesperson.

Now, the nature of this mission, or indeed how seriously or not they take it, isn’t really my point here. My point is, I think it’s great to have a superhero-like mission, to get involved and do something about some annoyance that particularly gets to you.

I gotta get me such a mission. What should it be?

What’s yours?

Finally got another roll of pictures processed and scanned (Belgium, New Orleans, more Alberta).

That’s me freezing my butt off in Calgary, trying hard not to puke.

The rest are in the photo album section.

I’ve had this one brewing in me for a while, but Visa just sent me over the top.

I travel a lot. Sometimes, when I charge for things in strange places, the credit card company calls to make sure someone didn’t steal my card. “Yes, we have a 217$ charge to spankme.com, in Vegas. Was that you? Thanks, just checking.” This is a great service, but then again I wouldn’t expect anything less from them.

Well, Visa just called me to “announce” they have this “revolutionary new service”, where they’ll call me when I make a purchase that’s out of the ordinary, to make sure I’m not being defrauded. I can adhere to this for 49$ a year.

Now, I’ve been getting this service for free, for like, ever. They know it and I know it. Can’t they just come out and say they are now charging for it? Do I look that stupid? Besides, this is something I get for free from their competitors, and it’s definitely in their interest to provide such a service.

Still, this episode wasn’t so bad.

A while back, T went to La Maison Sony to buy a CD player. When he asked if he could hear how the thing sounded, the salesguy said, very vaguely, “uh… no, no… I uh… don’t think so”. Translation: I don’t feel like plugging it in. Then he added unconvincingly, “…but you know, it really does sound good”. So T crossed the street, went to Future Shop, tried the same model to his heart’s content, and bought it there.

Not that Future Shop’s that much better. I feel like a T-Bone in a piranha tank every time I go there. We were actually once caught in a fight between two salespeople, and had to decide (in front of them) who had provided the most help, to determine who would get the commission. Talk about a pressure-free shopping environment.

How many times have you asked for extra information about a scanner or something, and the kid there grabs the box, and reads it to you. “Uh, well, this one’s got more DPUs than this one, but it’s more expensive”. Well, DUH!!!

Maybe I’m the only one who thinks this, but I’m willing to pay slightly more, and I’ll definitely return if I get some semblance of useful service. You don’t have to serve me tea on a doily, but earn my business.

As a post-scriptum to this, I guess I should relate one example of outstanding service. This happened to me at the Tristan boutique in the Eaton center. I’d just bought a skirt there, and couldn’t find any top in the store to go with it. The salesgirl says to me, “there’s a boutique right around the corner, that has just the thing. Hang on, I’ll go on break now and go with you”.

Then again, it’s entirely possible I’m just being grouchy…

Meow TV. No, seriously.

Last night, A and I were talking about how when we were seventeen, we had absolutely no money, no cars, not even a place of our own, but we weren’t any less happy than we are now.

I know it’s cliché as hell to say this, but we so don’t need most of the crap we surround ourselves with.

In Indonesia, I ate nothing but fruit and rice for months. Most of the time, the rice had ants in it. The average amount of money I spent daily was 13$ Canadian, for three meals, a private room and a rental motorcycle (including gas). I remember being awed when I set foot in Vancouver airport on my way back. There were so many different restaurants and boutiques, each with so many offerings. I didn’t think it was amazing, I thought it was grotesque.

I’ve somewhat calmed down since then. Truth is, I enjoy living in the city and driving a cool car. But still, when I feel the squeeze of the cubicle, I think about those people over there who lived off the sea and land, and spent the evening playing with their kids because there weren’t any TVs around. At those times, the fact that my life as a cubicle rat allows me to buy shades that match my car doesn’t provide much consolation.

Still, balance in all things. I’m not about to go Amish or anything. I remind myself that those people would probably trade places with me in a wink, and the fact that I didn’t get those Lord of the Rings fridge magnets doesn’t seem so bad.

Besides, the package doesn’t even include a Pippin magnet.

Tonight I’m having dinner with my very first boyfriend ever, from my teenage years. It’s been eight years since we last saw each other. Should be a mildly surreal experience, as I’m sure both of us expect to meet with the person the other one was, over ten years ago. Back then, I lived at home, studied filmmaking, didn’t have a driver’s license, and listened to Roxette. Believe it.

Still, I had a kickass time at my elementary school reunion a while ago. Perhaps this will be somewhat like that. Ever done something similar?

Anyway. To be continued.

Most people know that Peter Pan never grew up, because he decided not to. But do you know why none of the lost boys ever grew up either? Because when they did, Peter would kill them off.

Now I’m not saying I’d have such an extreme reaction with my own friends if this happened, but still, if they ever grew up, I’d probably get new, younger ones. This weekend, like a lot of weekends, we brunched, went to the toy store, bought toys and comic books, went to my place and played with them. Pretty much the same Saturday as when I was nine years old, but without parents.

I used to be afraid that not marrying, not having kids would mean I’d be a lonely old broad someday. However, I eventually realized that there now are so many of us who don’t mate for life, that when I’m a childless old maid, I’ll be in good company. So many of our generation are making this choice.

In much the same way, while I’m happy about being young at heart, I’ve worried that not growing up would mean I’d someday be the only dried-up forty-year-old shopping at Valet de Coeur games and hobbies. This too, however, is wrong. I hope I’m right in saying that many of us choose to remain “retarded adolescents”; that in old age, there’ll still be lots of crusty old geeks to hang with.

Be-bop: a new swing club in Montreal.
Alula: a bird’s thumb.

(oh, give me a break. It’s Friday afternoon. I gotta get out of here).

Here’s another great site for feeling good about yourself, as in, in that “I’m not him” sort of way. Unless of course, you are.

Need validation? Try this. Use as needed.

Your friend in the fight against everyday productivity…