57 Years

I’m blunt.  I’ll admit it.  I say what’s on my mind, kind of like a female John-&-Ken-Show.  And, it’s easier for me when people are forthright with me, as well.  Many times, a “yes” or “no” answer (without the long explanation) will do just fine.

Recently, I was at the doctor’s office.  I had some lower GI pain and was concerned about a possible bladder infection. (Turns out it was a pulled muscle; got a little too enthusiastic with an ab machine).  The new assistant asked me, “Do you have frequent urination?”  I answered yes, and she said, “How long have you had it?”  I replied, “All my life.”

I don’t think she was satisfied with my response.  She continued asking questions, then made her way back around to it:  “Do you have frequent urination?”  Again, I answered, “yes,” and she said, again, “How long have you had it?”  I replied with a little more emphasis, “All my life,” to make sure she understood my answer.

Have you ever noticed that when some people ask you a question and they don’t like the answer, they keep asking you the same question?  Why is that?  Do they think that if they ask you the same question enough times, the answer will change?

She worked her way back around to it a third time.  “Do you have frequent urination?”   “YES” (me, getting testy).  “How long have you had it?”  This time I said loudly, “57 years.”

She stopped asking the question. Wish she could have listened to my answer the first two times.


(c) 2013, Elena E. Smith

Mis-spoken

Strange things can happen in the early morning, while waiting for the day’s caffeine to kick in.  I guess it can happen at other times of day, too, like years ago when I needed to set-up service at my new apartment and called the local electric company, saying, “Hi, I’d like to request a turn-on, please.”  Of course, the minute I realized what I'd said, I started laughing so hard I had to hang up the phone.

But that was my mouth, which is different from my ears, and the ears of others who’d had less than the necessary amount of coffee at LAX earlier in the week.  As we stood in the tunnel about to board the plane, a number of us noticed that a man was bringing his dog on board in its pet carrier, and one man asked the question we all wanted to know about flying with your dog: how much was the airline charging for this perk?  The pet owner cheerfully explained that - even though it was expensive - it was worth it to have Poochie with him.  To bring your pet on board, the airline charged $95 per leg.  I quickly did the math in my head --- that would be $380 for the dog to ride along!  Passengers exchanged looks, and, of course, many of us began thinking that it would be cheaper to have a dog with three legs.  One man even remarked that, perhaps you could tie back one of the legs and pay only $285.  Finally, the dog owner realized what we were all thinking, and explained that it was a $95 charge for each “leg” of the flight.

And then there was the early morning in Greeley, CO., when Nancy and George and I sat around, not yet through our first cup of coffee.  I was wearing some comfortable fur slippers that Nancy had loaned me, and stuck my leg up in the air, letting the rim of my pajama bottom fall back.  “What kind of fur is this?” I wanted to know.  Both of them looked at me in horror and informed me it was time to shave.  Friends, that’s not the “fur” I meant!

“Who Are You? (Who-who-who-who)….”

Readers, you all know how I feel compelled to rant about the current state of our abilities to communicate effectively – or not.

The other day I had to make a business call of a somewhat confidential nature. I dialed the phone number saved in my cell – the number from which the professional had called me the day before – and began my call by using the other professional’s name (Let’s just pretend his name is “Mike,” to keep this entirely confidential.  You never know, he may decide to read my blog some day).

I began my conversation with, “Hi, Mike?” and went on to give my spiel.  The person answering the phone discussed the business with me for almost 5 minutes, when I had to ask a sensitive question, intended only for “Mike’s” ears.  Then, the man said, “Oh, I’m not Mike, I’m --- [someone else.]” 

People, how is it that you are in a conversation with someone for 5 minutes before you realize that the phone call is not for you?

1 –When you answer the phone, and I ask if you are Mike, you ---

     (a) pretend to be Mike, because his calls are more interesting than yours.

     (b) say you are Mike because it’s going to yank my chain and there’s not much
            I can do about it.

      (c) are not sure if you are Mike or someone else, so you take the call anyway.

2 – And, why would any professional use a client’s cell phone instead of their own?
      (a)  To remain incognito?

       (b) Their client's phone has better upgrades than theirs does?

       (c)  Who the “f” cares, anyway, right, it’s casual…

© Elena E Smith, November 2012

The Over-Communicator: Tell Me Everything I Didn’t Need to Know

I am uneasy when I encounter the lack of basic-level skills in those from the generation(s) that follow mine, those who will set the tone for, and become responsible for, the future of American life, politics, history, etc.  Although my observations may be more relevant in Southern California, I see some frightening trends regarding an inability to communicate at a basic level --- if you’ve read my other blog posts, you’ve seen me document this trend with specific examples (and, hopefully, with humor).

It’s not that I am saying ‘my generation’ is better at communicating than any other… after all, we brought you the phrases ‘Let it all hang out,’ and ‘Whatever.’ But I do remember that, in my grammar school years, the art of communication was blended in with our other studies.  We were taught how to answer a phone correctly (these days, some people don’t even murmur ‘Good-bye’ before hanging up in your ear); learning how to give simple directions (I have met numerous store clerks who are unable to describe where to find something, so instead they escort me to it); and the very delicate art of knowing when you may have said too much (I can verify it takes years to learn this one). 

The younger generation(s) of today seem to be on the horns of a dilemma --- they have access to more information and technology than my generation dreamed of, but there don’t seem to be many protocols in place regarding how to use the information and how to discern when enough is enough and too much is too much.

At times, it seem that technology controls them, rather than the other way around --- using technology to manage/ organize their lives.

I recently posted an item for sale on Craig’s List, and had more contact from the Buyer than I have on a weekly basis with my BFFs, and the constant contact just about drove me up a wall.  She continually e-mailed, called or texted to: get directions, confirm directions, change direction, change the time, change the date… all over a $30 purchase.  She was unable to keep track of our communications, so if she e-mailed me a question and I e-mailed her back, she would forget where the question and information were stored and would call or text me wondering why she didn’t hear from me. 

When she bought the product, I was so happy to know that I wouldn’t be hearing from her again, until… she asked me if I had the CD-ROM that went with it.  Unfortunately, I DID have it, but not with me, so the routine continued for another week-and-a-half of over-connectedness and missed appointments.

I tried to organize her by letting her know that I would be at a specific location during a specific time frame on a specific date --- I don’t know, that just seemed logical to me.  Still, she called or texted me 4-5 times that day to confirm/ re-confirm/ double-confirm… only to text me at the end of the day that her plans had changed and she couldn’t show up.  The constant interruptions during my day ---  responding to her phone calls and text messages --- was annoying.  By now I was getting so much contact from her that I felt like I was being e-stalked!

(I know, if you’re “over-29” like I am, you’re probably asking, “Why didn’t you just mail it to her?”  I made that suggestion several times, but for whatever reason she did not want me to know her address.)

Twice, I gave her detailed directions on how to find me, then she called or texted to ask me how to get there (I was at an intersection of two well-known streets).  It became apparent that this poor gal had absolutely no sense of how to organize her thought process or any of her electronic communication tools.  I wanted to scream every time I saw her phone number pop up. 

When we finally connected and I placed the CD-ROM in her hand, I internally breathed a sigh of relief… perhaps I would finally be able to disengage from this short, intense, mundane relationship.  But that was not to be.  Within 20 minutes of leaving me, a text message appeared: ‘I am so cold right now…’ I didn’t answer back, as I wondered how long it would take her to realize she had not texted her husband.

© Elena E. Smith, 2011

“The Bar” Has Been Lowered

I was in my favorite local market a few weeks ago, and I have to say that with all of my Customer Service complaints, this one is rarely an offender.  But on this particular day, I got into a line with a fairly young female checker who was definitely not focused on her job.

I had only 4 items --- a Cliff bar, a jug of milk, an onion, and a box of muffins, and as she started to ring them up, I said, “I’ll take the candy bar.”

Since it is customary in many stores for clerks to hand over a small item that looks like something I am about to eat, I did not think there was anything confusing about my request.

But I could tell by the way she was not looking at me that she was also not hearing me, so I repeated it.  After the second time, just to check, I said,” Did you hear me?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered, but she then bagged all 4 items without handing me the Clfif bar.

I couldn’t let it go.  “I thought you said you heard me, when I told you I would take the candy bar.”

Busted, she looked at me indignantly and said that she didn’t know what I meant.  (Then why didn’t she ask me to clarify it?)  As she handed me the Cliff bar, she felt it necessary to scold me by telling me that a “Cliff bar” is not a “candy bar.”

All I can say is --- so which of the other items did she think looked more like a candy bar – the carton of milk, the box of muffins, or the onion?  Be serious!

Or, as my friend George explained, “Many of these young people are busy sending a text in their head.”  Touche, George!

©  Elena E. Smith, 2011