Go out and shop

It was time for a new desk chair. I wanted something ergonomic, economic, and exciting. No small order. But I had all of the Internet at my fingers, and I could cybershop in any store anywhere, which is what I often do.

I browsed and searched and followed links. Finally, something caught my eye. I did some comparison shopping to find the best price and was all set. I was just about to click “add to cart” when I got a nagging feeling.

Maybe I should sit in this chair before I place the order. This wasn’t like a sweater or socks that I could easily pop back in the mail if things didn’t work out. This was a relatively bulky and heavy piece of furniture that required a thoughtful purchase. And that idea started another round of searching and following links to find the nearest showroom.   

I thought I would walk in, have a seat, make a decision – and then go home and order the chair online. To get the best price.

Instead, I entered a small product display area, met with a sales rep, had a good conversation about options, and found I could configure the chair exactly the way I wanted.

And still get the best price.  

I also got something else: unexpected value in the overall experience – in seeing, touching, and hearing about the object I wanted to buy. I had forgotten how nice it was to talk with a knowledgeable, friendly sales rep.

The lesson learned? I need to get out of the house more. 

62,391 emails

I have become a very orderly person. By necessity. When you're a one-woman office, you get all the perks and all the work. Multitasking is my middle name. Laundry and research. Vacuuming and conceptualizing. Emails and teleconferences.

So the first thing I do every morning is check for emails and clean out my inbox. If more than a dozen have collected overnight, I start to hyperventilate, thinking something has gone seriously wrong with a project.

So when I used my father's computer recently and saw an inbox stuffed with 62,391 emails, I was gobsmacked. I didn't think that large an accumulation was even possible.

Now, I do a lot of online ordering, and every order automatically subscribes me to one or more newsletters or emails or other customer-relationship vehicles. This makes me religious about hunting down and clicking the teeny tiny "unsubscribe" links at the bottom of the page. Just about every time I get the immediate response: "Please tell us why you want to unsubscribe."

I never have because I don't know exactly what to say. "You and thousands of others send me too many emails." "I find your constant messages a distraction while I'm working." "I just wanted a pair of jeans, not a relationship."

Now I have the perfect response: "I don't want to follow in my father's footsteps."

Writing (still) matters

 I’m not one of those writers who go looking for typos. I don’t point and giggle when I find them. But find them I do, everywhere I go.

You would think that computers wouldn’t allow typos, or misuse of grammar, or bad punctuation. Would Siri? I don’t know; I don’t have an iPhone, much less an iPhone 4S, but she seems like a benevolent computer interface who might let things slide.

Others—real people who live and breathe—aren’t always so forgiving. Twitter, Tumblr, and other social media sites have several “Poorly Proofed” accounts. It seems there’s no shortage of signs, posters, brochures, menus, and other printed material that need a sharp red pencil taken to them. Or the spotlight of public ridicule.

My own recent run-in came after visiting a new bakery in the area. Thank goodness I wasn’t greeted by the aroma being touted. "Step through our doors and be/ greeted by the aromas of our chefs/ custom cakes..." Without an apostrophe, this could easily be just a bunch of smelly cooks.

And, while we're at it, I’d like a single word or a hyphen for “mouth watering desserts” and to move the comma to the other side of “using.”

So, what did I say to the owner after skimming her brochure?

I’ll have a cruller, please.

It was delicious.

Shiny side up, pointy end forward

I’m aware of the irony in going to the Philadelphia Auto Show. We get in our own perfectly wonderful car. We navigate city traffic, where it’s stop-and-go because of all the cars. We jockey for parking, surrounded by a garage facility packed with cars. Then we pay an admission price so we can see more cars.

Ah, but these are shiny, new cars. And my husband is an autoholic. Here, we can touch all the buttons, sit in the seats, and breathe in that heady new-car smell. The Auto Show is even advertised as "a giant metal petting zoo."

My 2011 GTI is now last year’s model. It’s old news, even though there’s only 5,000 miles on it. Already my husband is on to the next new thing, and I think those Mini Coopers are awfully cute. But if past performance is any indicator of future buying patterns, I’m sticking with the GTI for the long haul. I held onto my last car, my beloved BMW 3 Series, for 13 years (and only 80,000 miles).

Considering that my husband just got his dream car last month – a sports car he’s been drooling over since he was a teenager – we’ve got our wheels for the foreseeable driving future. We just have to keep them on the road and safe from wacky, distracted drivers who have cell phones in one hand and hot coffee in the other.

As my husband promises every time he climbs into his 2005 Porche, he’s keeping the shiny side up, pointy end forward.