Belle Weather (16 page)

My husband’s car was totaled recently by a dumbass drunk driver. The silver lining, besides the fact that hubby didn’t get seriously hurt, was that we never knew how many friends we had until this accident happened.

While very few of our actual friends inquired about hubby’s health in the days after the accident, I am happy to report that a caring cadre of lawyers and chiropractors stepped in to fill the void and filled our mailbox with mushy letters of concern and compassion.

The bushel basketful of letters sat in our foyer overflowing with offers of help and advice (with absolutely
no
obligation). It was far too heavy to lift so we just kept tossing the new letters on top. When they reached the ceiling, we planned to just rent a backhoe and a Dumpster (y’all know I’ve missed having one) and start all over again.

Who says the milk of human kindness has curdled? Not so! Personally, I haven’t been this popular since I took cupcakes with gummy worms baked inside to my kid’s kindergarten class.

Some of the more considerate lawyers included little refrigerator magnets as gifts so we would think of them every time we opened the fridge door. (“Hmmm, honey, we’re almost out of Go-Gurt, but boy, oh, boy, something is really making me feel
litigious
today!”)

The lawyer letters were fun to read. One boasted of a huge staff ready to serve us with toll-free phone numbers, private cell numbers, and rental cars delivered at the speed of sound. All we had to do is ask. Plus
hablamos español
, whatever the hell that means.

A no-frills lawyer claimed to have no staff at all and was therefore always ready to work on our case and our case only. This dedication would take place from the front seat of his 1993 Ford Focus and could I please bring my own laptop. Or we could “meet at Kinko’s conference room where sometimes there’s free coffee.” Not a big confidence-instiller, dude.

The chiropractic letters were, unfortunately, not as imaginative. Since they all said the same thing, I think the docs should have offered something more: perhaps the “So You’ve Been Hit by an Asshole Free Pizza” coupon or a bottle opener shaped like a skeleton where the skull snaps off the bottle cap, red eyes light up, and it screams “Drunk drivers
suck
!” Y’all would so have our business.

Most chiropractors included a questionnaire asking if hubby had any “feelings of anxiety” after the wreck. Of course not. There’s nothing about losing your finally-paid-for car, and wondering how you’re going to buy another one for the roughly $53.18 the insurance company is willing to kick in, that would promote feelings of anxiety now is there?

Kidding! We were sure the insurance company would take care of us and do the right and moral thing and that we would be fairly and speedily compensated for the vehicle loss as well as any unexplained pain radiating from the shoulders to the fingertips accompanied by tingling of all extremities heretofore or unmentioned in perpetuity so help us God.

So we met with our insurance guy and that’s when we found out that the drunk asshole was insured by the same company as us.

“But isn’t that like some kind of conflict of interest?” I asked the insurance adjuster assigned to our claim.

“Oh, now, someone has been talking to a lawyer, hasn’t someone? Let’s do this without lawyers, OK? I am prepared to offer you this number (scribbles number on paper and shoves it across the desk to us just like they do in the movies).

We chuckled.

“I believe you left off some digits, dude,” I said. “You expect him to get to work via pogo stick?”

“Pogo stick! Ha! That’s funny. I thought you might say that. So (with a flourish of pen and paper), how about
this
?”

We went through this a few more times and we finally realized that there was no way we’d ever get enough money to replace the car that had been demolished.

It didn’t seem remotely fair, so we decided to get a lawyer to at least scare the monkeyshit out of the insurance company a little bit. In the end, we got double the amount on the first little piece of paper (yes, enough for
two
pogo sticks!) but the whole thing left a bad taste.

Plus, we had to go car-shopping. This is always an agonizing experience because I like cute and blue and hubby likes big and engine that works. Bor-ing. We went to a few car dealerships before we finally found the right deal (and a cute-as-pie salesman who never
once
asked, “Now what’s it gonna take to get you in a car
today
?”)

Along the way, though, we dealt with a few car salesmen that seemed to have taken the touchy-feely thing too far.

One salesman, who had a very thick French-sounding accent, shook hubby’s hand, then leaned in to kiss me on the cheek.

“Whoa, dude,” I said. “That may be how they do it in Europe, but you’re in Amurica now, boy.”

He grinned and then kissed my hand, which was also creep-some.

Have you noticed how people are kissing more and shaking hands less? No less than
The New York Times
says that the kiss is replacing the handshake in some business circles.

I hate this trend because everybody gets the kiss thing wrong. They go for the wrong cheek and collide at the lips (horrors!) or one person goes for the double-cheek Euro kiss while the weary recipient just stands there waiting for it to please stop.

According to
The Times,
the Swiss routinely kiss a minimum of three times on each cheek, leaving very little time to actually make chocolate or obnoxious clocks, it seems to me.

The phenomenon is being discussed and debated with etiquette experts telling us how to properly kiss and be kissed in a business setting. And while I have been accused of kissing the boss’ ass in the workplace, I can assure you it was purely metaphorical and, by the way, sir, may I say that your new haircut makes you look at least ten years younger?

Car salesmen kissing my hand? Wrong location, dude.

But you can’t blame him for trying.

Even the insurance adjuster seemed flustered by whether he should shake hands or offer me a quick peck on the cheek when it came time to pick up the check.

A handshake, etiquette experts say, is just considered too stodgy these days. Oh yeah? Why stop at just a kiss? Why not just
get a room
?

I live in the South, y’all, where men have the whole handshake, polite nod, and manly hug with backslap combo thing down. They don’t need to learn anything new because they’ve just gotten comfy with the high-five-turned-into-bear-hug-with-arms-between-stomachs maneuver.

I don’t want to belabor the point, but it’s scary when real etiquette experts say that kisses can be useful if you work in sales.

Note to Best Buy salesman: Kissing isn’t going to make me buy that extended warranty so back the hell off.

Today it’s kissing, tomorrow it’s lap dances with the controller. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Because hubby had been hit by two dumbass drunk drivers in the past, he was determined to get a really big car and, although I could hear Sheryl Crowe silently sobbing in the background, I was totally down with it.

Sadly, because it was so big, and pricey, we had a car payment again, or to be precise, seventy-two of ’em.

Meanwhile, drunk asshole was probably on the road again. He had been too drunk to actually get injured, though his car had also been demolished. As he crawled out of the wreckage, hubby said his first words were vintage redneck: “Dude, help me get these beer bottles outta here before the cops come.”

“Yeah,” said hubby, while he counted his extremities. “I’ll get right on that.”

I’m hopeful for fewer wrecks in the future though. Toyota is rolling out a new car that detects if you’ve had too much to drink. This “smart car” works by analyzing the amount of booze in your palm sweat so if your drunk ass tries to drive, the car will simply refuse to start. And while Mel Gibson and half the cast of
Lost
are saying, “About damn time,” there might be some kinks.

Like, how does it work if you’re wearing gloves? No problem, engineers say. The system also kicks in if it detects abnormal steering. There’s even a camera that can determine if your eyes are glazed over, as if intoxicated or as if watching any episode of
According to Jim
.

If the smart car decides you’re too drunk to drive, it will slowly come to a stop, refuse to start again, and (I’d like to see this little feature added) systematically call everyone you know on your cell phone and inform them what a big wasted loser you are, including your mama and your boss.

Cars are getting way smarter than people; that’s not news. But the car becoming the authority figure is taking it to the next level. I’m counting on the Japanese automakers to develop a backseat outfitted with sensors that can tell whether or not your kid is lying when he says he’s finished his homework.

Let’s say Little Bubba wants to play soccer, so you’re on the way to the field to meet his buddies when you casually ask him, “Billy Bob, are you sure you finished all your homework?”

If he says, “Yes,” millions of tiny sweat sensors inside the seat will activate and the car will automatically steer itself to the nearest public library for an impromptu study session.

Of course, the car could be programmed to save us from things besides drunk driving and lying young’uns.

Say you’re craving a foot-long hot dog and some tater tots from your favorite fast-food joint. You slow down on approach, flip the turn signal and, whoa, what’s this? The car inexplicably refuses to turn and delivers you, instead, to (horrors!) the nearest YMCA, seat sensors having detected that your ass appears to be roughly the size of Poland.

I’m depending on car manufacturers to save us from ourselves, y’all. And I don’t mind kissing up to them, a little bit anyway.

It’s time now to update the latest examples of what I like to call Customer Dis-Service. What’s that you say? Define Customer Dis-Service; give three examples? Fine, no problem.

Example No. 1

I recently ordered an item from one of those “as seen on TV” places. I won’t tell you the name because I don’t want to be sued or have a shadowy figure in a hot pink velour sweat suit hold me down and staple my skull with a million tiny little decorative rhinestones and beads “guaranteed to add excitement to any outfit!”

I realized that ordering this ’80s gizmo was pure nostalgia. Perhaps I longed for simpler times, when Olivia Newton-John just wanted to know if I’d ever been mellow, had I ever trrrrriiiiieeed…. I was seized with an irrational desire to, uh, dazzle up, “an array of sweaters, hats, dresses, slacks, even school book covers!” with these little multicolored beads, brads, and jewels.

This would be fun for the whole family! I knew it would because the nice lady on TV said so. And how could you not trust a woman with her name stud-set in artificial gemstones across her bosom? I imagined what I could put across my own bosom. Perhaps, “Yeah, they’re real” on my 34As. I love irony in fake topaz, don’t y’all?

So I called the toll-free number for Customer Dis-Service to order the very reasonably priced ($19.95) dazzling jewelry clothing enhancer.

Things were going OK, except for the fact that one of us was a recording, but at least she sounded pleasant, like the kind of woman who would happily and mindlessly spend an afternoon affixing tiny bits of fake shinies to her jeans pockets, her kids’ jackets, her cat’s ears, all while watching Michael Ontkean strangle his wife for the bazillionth time on the Oxygen channel.

After a couple of minutes, though, the pleasant-voiced woman started getting whiny and demanding.

She would place my order, perhaps even during my lifetime, but first she wanted to share some information about “fabulous offers that are just too good to pass up!”

The minutes ticked by, with me pressing “2” for “No” to offer after offer. Didn’t I want the fifteen extra sets of beads and brads, the “free” Target card and gas card, the dining discounts card, or the super-expensive overnight shipping because what sane human could wait for the lumbering wagon-train approach of standard shipping to get started?

“No!” I finally screamed. “Just place the order you bejeweled bee-atch!”

Pause.

“I’m sorry,” said the recorded voice. “I didn’t quite understand that last answer. Could you repeat it?”

Oh, most assuredly. She wasn’t real, after all. I laid her out and each time she came back for more, always calm: “I didn’t quite understand that last answer. Could you repeat it?”

After a while it wasn’t fun anymore. I pressed a few more “2”s to decline a “spectacular one-time-only” time-share offer. Of course they don’t call it “time-share” anymore. That word is about as popular as the phrase “convicted child molester” so they call it “shared ownership” these days.

Minutes ticked by and it was over. The way I’d been treated, I felt like I should roll over and light a cigarette.

No matter. It’s done now and all I have to do is watch my mailbox. Which would be much improved with a few sparkly doo-dads by the way.

Example No. 2 (which is really worse)

This may be the best definition of Customer Dis-Service in the history of the airlines.

It seems that a first-class passenger who was taking a nap on a recent British Airways flight from New Delhi to London awoke to find the body of an elderly woman, who had died on the flight while in economy class, strapped into the seat beside him.

Which just goes to show that apparently some people will do anything for an upgrade.

As flight attendants wedged the body into the seat with pillows, because of turbulence, the horrified passenger complained about having to complete the nine-hour flight with a corpse beside him. Granted, the corpse wouldn’t be nagging him for the rest of his roasted peanuts, but still.

And here’s where the Customer Dis-Service comes in. When he complained, the flight attendants responded, and I quote, “Get over it.”

Oh? How exactly?

While some people have said the passenger was insensitive and shallow to complain, you must remember that this was a very long flight. No amount of steaming hot towels, eye shades, courtesy pajamas, and real china and crystal could make up for the fact that there was a body rapidly decomposing in stuffy, recirculated airplane air beside this poor bastard.

Talk about ruining your foie gras. Sitting beside the recently dead can’t be soothed by a choice of herbal teas and a nice hot breakfast whilst watching
Wedding Crashers II
in slipperettes.

I don’t think the airline handled this very well because they didn’t even offer the guy a free ticket. Hell, I got one of those just for agreeing to wait an hour for the next flight to New York one time. You stick a dead person beside me for nine hours and I’ll freakin’
own
your airline.

And, not to be mean about it but, really, since the poor thing was dead, did it really matter whether she flew in first class or economy? How ironic that she probably never got to fly first class in her life and, when she finally did, she was too dead to enjoy it. The fancy noise-blocking headphones, the fabulous choice of individual movies and music channels, the “done been paid for” single-malt Scotch…I’m just saying.

Perhaps British Airways should take a cue from Singapore Airlines, which, I swear, has installed “corpse cupboards” on its airliners.

Is it just me or should we all be thinking that flying must be way more dangerous than we thought?

I imagine even the corpse cupboards are different depending on the price of your ticket: a roomy armoire for first-class corpses, a metal school locker for business-class fliers and, for the economy-class corpse, a vacant overhead bin if available or, if not, just a ride up and down the aisles on the bottom tray of the beverage cart for the remainder of the flight.

Which, if you think about it, would give new meaning to the phrase “stiff drink.”

Customer Dis-Service is just evidence of a growing culture of crappy behavior that hangs around like a fart in a hot shower.

You can’t get rid of it, and the most maddening part of it is when they act like they’re doing you a favor.

Which brings me to

Customer Dis-Service No. 3: The Rewards Card Racket.

When the perky clerk at the drugstore asked if I had a “rewards card” I said, “No.”

Big mistake. They are trained to shove that rewards card at you as proof how much they value you as a customer. Oh, and if you wouldn’t mind signing here, here, here and, yes, right here because we need your phone number, e-mail address, home address, preference in fat-free salad dressings and any damn thing else we can think of.

“Would you like to fill out a rewards card application?” she asked.

“No thanks,” I said. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.”

“You know,” she said (oh, here it comes, the beginnings of a sales-pout), “If you had used a reward card today you could have saved ten percent.”

“It was a 3 Musketeers bar and a
National Enquirer,
hon. What would I have saved? Like, four cents?”

“Don’t you want to save on future purchases?” (I swear this chick was relentless.)

“Yes,” I said, “but I know how this works. Aren’t you going to clutter my mailbox and my e-mail with a bunch of useless offers and junk I don’t want and sell my personal information to every idiot on the street?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. Just a very few select idiots will get your personal information.”

Right.

Look, I’m sick of these “rewards.” I don’t want the stupid free taco “reward” if I remember to get the card stamped for the first twenty visits. I don’t want to work that damn hard for a free taco or seven cents off mouthwash or whatever. Quit giving me stuff to keep me coming back and pretending you’re doing me a favor.

If you want to thank me for my business, don’t give me one more punchable card, magnetized strip card, or laminated key chain fob that has everything but my damn DNA encoded in it.

Admittedly, my reaction has gotten a bit, uh, animated.

The clerk at the big-box electronics store only gets so far as “Would you…” before I scream, “No!”

Sometimes they just flat-out lie to you. At a music store they promised that if I joined their “rewards” program they wouldn’t bug me, just send the occasional mailing of sales for “preferred customers.” They didn’t mention the weekly automated calls to pitch new products, which began almost as soon as I foolishly signed up.

Besides, one would hope that
all
customers are preferred, right?

At my favorite clothing store, they always ask to see my preferred customer card when I check out.

“Does this give me a discount?” I ask.

“Well, no.”

“Then, what good is it?”

“It tracks how many times you come in the store.”

“So why is this useful to me?”

“Well, sometimes we mail out early notices that we’re having a sale.”

“Is there a discount?”

“Well, no. But you get to know about the sale before the other customers.”

“You mean the unpreferred customers?”

“Well, all of our customers are preferred. We don’t want to say that any of them are ‘unpreferred.’”

“I prefer not to have to look for a card that doesn’t do anything for me but does a lot for you.”

“You’re weird.”

“But I’m the customer! The customer is always right!”

“Who told you that?”

I dunno. Methusaleh?

My theory is that the Customer Dis-Service folks have left us so frustrated that we’re all getting more and more hateful.

The other night I went to the movies with duh-hubby and the Princess. It was a decent movie about eight dogs left behind during an Antarctic expedition gone bad. The dogs had a sucky time of it waiting for their human to come back with his gorgeous on-again/off-again girlfriend and rescue them.

Smack in the middle of the movie, a man and woman walked into the theater and loudly asked the woman at the end of our row “How long’s this been going?”

She whispered a quick answer and then, to our astonishment, they stood there and weighed their options out loud. Should they sneak into this movie or perhaps another one? Oh, to be a moron and have so many choices.

While the dogs survived on screen by eating frozen whale innards and snagging birds out of the air like Frisbees, Mr. and Mrs. Bonehead chatted and even took time to sit down and call home to check on the kids, who, I’m guessing, weren’t nearly as smart as those poor blue-eyed Huskies.

All I’m saying is that we live in an unfair world where perfectly nice dogs have to survive on iced-over gull entrails and rude, noisy moviegoers get to gorge on suitcases of popcorn whenever they like. Opposable thumbs are
so
overrated.

Finally, mercifully, they stood up, dropped their popcorn suitcases loudly on the floor (“I ain’t cleaning up, much as they charge for these here movies”), wiped their hands on their sweat pants and announced, “Let’s go check out
The Ring Two
’cause ain’t nothing happening here except a buncha snow and shit.”

Oh, sadness. Leaving so soon? Don’t forget to get your rewards card stamped. For every ten moviegoers you annoy, you get a free trip on British Airways in the Rotting Corpse section. And, if you act before midnight tomorrow, we’ll toss in a free bejeweling gizmo to give those sweats some zing!