Those Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad Women

This week, I've been listening to an audio book called "Mad Women," written by Jane Maas. I have the book, but when I saw the audio at the library, I decided that I was finally in the mood to read it, and that I would be more likely to do so in this format.

As it turns out, the book is entertaining and enlightening.

I'm nearing the end, but it has been a fun romp through the world of advertising in its prime. Lots of creative people behaving badly, but also so much groundbreaking advertising that was the result.

I enjoyed the fact that, although the book clearly points up the differences in pay and in the way men and women were treated, it still portrays the people involved as individuals, not in an "us versus them" scenario. It doesn't engage in revisionist history or moralizing, it simply presents the way it was.

Groundbreakers, by their very nature, have to put up with a lot of crap, but they also have the kind of experiences that those who come after never enjoy. The challenges and the exhileration that come with being the first.

Today, I'd like to raise my glass (or, in this case, my mug of coffee) to the Mad Women who paved the way for the rest of us.

Sláinte!

May I Help You?

When I was but a wee lass, I remember seeing a TV commercial for Texaco. These days, it is often cited when folks talk about how customer service has gone down the tubes. The commercial featured a fleet of snappy male service station attendants, armed with rags and a smile, who cheerfully offered to fill your tank, check your oil and clean your windows.

Ah, them was the days.

I was reminded of this ad last week, when, on my lunch hour, I stopped in at a local department store to use a gift card I had received. While I was shopping, my cell phone rang, and I began a conversation with Mr. Ginley. I was wandering around the store, a pair of sweat pants over my arm, reading the "clearance" tags to see if I could find a bargain. My better half was making suggestive suggestions on how to spend my gift card, while I perused a rack of men's polo shirts and dismissed them as not-ready-for-the-clearance-rack (at $30 a pop).

Several minutes later, I ended the conversation and continued to stroll around, looking for a way to use the remainder of the gift card. The store was populated with dozens of salespeople but only a handful of shoppers, and I was wondering how one could stay in business with this kind of model, when someone shouted at me from halfway across the store, "Can I help you find something?"

At first, I wasn't sure she was talking to me. But I turned around, and there she was, a spec on the horizon, staring right at me. I shouted back, "I'm shopping. Is that okay?" She replied in the affirmative, but I was instantly done, and paid for my purchase at the next service desk I saw.

Leaving the store, I thought maybe it was just me. I'm not a snappy dresser, and while I don't look like a bag lady, I don't look like I have a lot of discretionary income, either. Usually it's the perfume counter ladies who snub me. The well-dressed woman ahead of me will be fawned over like she's just discovered a new shade of lip gloss, while I pass unassailed. On the one hand, I don't want to be accosted, on the other, no one likes being treated like chopped liver. Or, in my case this week, like a common thief.

On the plus side, I could see the person who was disparaging me at the department store. The other customer service experience I had this week was on the phone with my cable company.

I called twice last month to resolve a problem with billing. Silly me, they gave me a credit, told me what I should pay, and I thought that was that. This month, the credit appeared, but so did a new charge for the amount I had disputed last month.

Their call center is obviously "off shore."  "Mary" was difficult to understand and ultimately told me to call back in 20 minutes, that the folks who could help me wouldn't be in until 8:00 am. When I pointed out it was one minute till, she blustered something that I translated as "they need time to chat about last night's episode of whatever and grab a cup of java before they get to the phones." On my second attempt, "George" was more helpful, but he spoiled it by promising to save me money on the same services I currently have. It was going to take him five minutes to sort it all out, though, and he'd have to call me back. Half an hour later, he returned my call and said he was signing me up for phone and internet service. Whoa, hold on there, said I, I don't want any of that, I told you I only wanted the stuff I have now. He began to whine that I wouldn't be able to save any money, and I assured him I was fine with that. (I'm afraid to see what shows up in next month's bill.)

Everyone has stories like these. Customer service is a lost art. The trouble is, in these days of mega conglomerates, it's hard to say you're going somewhere else. Whenever possible, I shop at Mom and Pop places, but they are getting harder to find. So, I guess I'll just have to thicken my skin and get on with it.

Have a nice day!

Battling the Blues

I've been pondering the age old question of how to get back up when you're down. Here are some of my favorite ways to combat the shadows that oft make their unwelcome appearance:

1. Hug the one you're with. Mr. G. is that one person in my life who knows me better than anyone when darkness falls.

2. Tune in. Put Patsy Cline in the CD player and sing "Crazy" at the top of my lungs. This works well in the car, where I'm not risking anyone's eardrums but my own.

3. Hit the water. I fill up the bathtub, scent it with my favorite bubble bath, light a candle, and soak. Some New Age tinkly music in the background is a plus.

4. Pressed for Time. I know, this one is going to raise a lot of eyebrows, but there is something cathartic about smoothing out the wrinkles in a cotton blend. Maybe it's the steam, or the smell of the fabric.

5. We all scream. I walk up to the Baskin Robbins at the corner of my street. I know, I know, they say you shouldn't drown your sorrows in food, but honestly, how can you stay low when that chocolately cool taste hits your tongue?

6. Red Roses for a Blue Lady. I go to the supermarket and buy a dozen of anything that appeals, then put them someplace where I will see them throughout the day. If they have a scent, I stick my nose in there and get myself a snootful. Ahhh.

7. Back to my Roots. I hug a tree. Stare at the sky. Try to decide if that cloud looks like Charlie Brown's head or an Easter egg. Mother Nature is a great healer.

8. Turn to the stars. I watch an old Katharine Hepburn-Spencer Tracey movie. Or maybe Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers as they sway and tappety tap their way hither and yon to the music of Cole Porter.

9. Daydream the blues away. At work, Rose occasionally asks, "Where are we today, Barb?" I might answer, "In an outdoor bistro in Paris, nibbling a croissant and sipping a cafe au lait." Or "On the beach, with a local who's fanning me and feeding me grapes." Painting a place in my mind never fails to make me smile.

10. Take cover. A friend of mine has this saying etched on a rock: "Time you enjoy wasting is not wasted time." This is my justification for reading formulaic fiction and mysteries. It is great escapist fare.

11. Walk it off. A good stretch of the legs gets the muscles moving and releases tension. And I can say I exercised that day, an extra bonus because I always feel bad about not exercising enough.

12. Write it off. I was working on some of this in the wee hours of the morning when I couldn't sleep. Now I'm about worn out. Think I'll head back to rack to tack on some more zzzz's.

Driving Mrs. Ginley

If I ever hit the lottery, the first thing I'm going to do is hire a chauffeur.

I hate driving. This feeling has only been exacerbated by the awful winter we've had, followed by the stadium-sized potholes that pepper every local roadway in this berg. Rides across town with my husband are accompanied by his warnings of "watch out, that's a big one" and "be careful here," followed by a general grousing about poorly constructed roadways. We noticed on a recent trip to New Jersey that, in spite of the lousy weather they've also had, their streets were in much better condition than ours.

The name of the road should be "Minefield, not "Chatfield."

I do all I can to help ease the stress of my commute to work, which takes about 40 minutes (in good weather and traffic). About six months ago I obtained an "Easy Pass" for use on the turnpike. It has been a godsend. No longer do I need to wait in line behind clueless travelers, trying to pay their toll with $50 bills. Now I sail right by the tollgate, confident that my credit card will be duly charged. It's money well-spent.

I listen to a lot of audio books to pass the time. And it does help, although there have been days when I've been compelled to sit in my car and listen to the end of a chapter. I can't tell you the number of times when I've pulled into the parking lot, and the hero of our story was about to be bludgeoned by some Dick Dastardly type, and I just couldn't wait to find out what happened next.

On the weekends, my husband and I wrangle for who has to drive. He's not any more enthusiastic about it than I am. He usually winds up yelling at the other drivers for tailgating, sailing through a stop sign, or cutting us off ("they KNOW the lane ends there and they just HAVE to get in front of me").

There's no doubt that driving brings out the worst side of people's natures. Road rage has become so common, I find that I'd rather sit back and let someone cut me off, quietly curse them, and move on with my life, rather than flipping them off. It's just not worth it. I don't want to get shot or run off the road because some a-hole is in a hurry to get to the 7-11. One of Mr. G's favorite quips is, "America's the greatest country in the world, my ass." I always say that the country's okay, but a lot of the people in it are suspect. Honestly, I think people are just people the world over. We're no better or worse than folks in any other country.

I worked with a guy who was from Israel, and he said when people there drove, they had rubber penises that they would shake at drivers who pissed them off. Looking back, I'm not sure if this was a common practice or just something that he did. He was always an angry driver.

All of this goes back to my original thought, that I'd love to have someone at my beck and call to drive me wherever I wanted to go. It wouldn't have to be in a Rolls Royce (although that would be okay with me). A Prius would be just fine. As long as I could put on my headphones, close my eyes, and listen to music or an audio book, I'm good with that.

Best of all, I could just tell him to drive around the block a few times if I wasn't quite finished with the chapter.

You see? My needs are simple. Now, all I have to do is win the lottery...