losing our leader

I have been attending the same weight-watcher’s meeting, off-and on since 2009.  When our original (and much-loved) leader Steve left, a familiar face, Robin, replaced him.  She had been the receptionist.  Robin is a WW lifer, having been the youngest person to ever join WW (at age 7) and the youngest to achieve a lifetime status.  The group is mostly comprised of supportive, smart and articulate women.  There are about twenty who come regularly, and over the years, we’ve become friends of sorts.

Our meeting is held in a non-descript room with stained rugs.  Nothing fancy.  A couple of months ago Robin tells us we are moving to a new facility, one that will be much nicer.  The move is now a week away.  Yesterday we learn that along with a new meeting place, we will also be getting a new leader.

With no warning, Robin was told she would no longer be running our group.  She was given no explanation, though one is promised for next week.  Ridiculous!

Most of today's meeting is about strategizing how to keep Robin as our leader.  It’s what the group wants, and we are a vocal group.  We hope an aggressive email campaign will save her.

But it makes me think how capricious our jobs are, particularly when someone else controls it.  I have lost my job more than once, and the sting of each loss is still fresh, regardless of reason.  Once it was a business downturn, but it happened while I was on maternity leave.  Twice it occurred because I was in a “newly created job” that really had no reason for being.  And once, the most painful, was because the person who ran Sales was an idiot, but a powerful one who disliked me.  He was fired soon after letting me go (I wish I could say it was because of that bad decision, but of course it wasn’t).

I have no idea why Robin will no longer lead our group.  Right now, she has no idea either.  But someone at Weight Watchers knows, and whomever that someone is, he or she has made an irresponsible decision.

encounter on a bus

I am on an uptown bus when this guy gets on.  He’s a step above a homeless person.  Mid-to late 40’s.  Unattractively dressed.  He’s playing his music without the benefit of headphones.  His iPhone has replaced what used to be a boombox, but the effect is the same.  Loud thumping music.

I say nothing but hope my stares convey what my lips don’t. 

I am reading the paper and as I finish each section, I place it next to me, intending to take the read-sections with me when I leave the bus.  Between articles, I turn around and give the loud-music listening person a stare.  He doesn’t notice, but the person sitting across from me does.

This person looks like a messy version of Lou Reed.  He is sitting sideways taking up two seats.  He sees me staring at the music-listener and says to me, “Hey, what’s your problem?”  I respond, “I don’t see why we all have to listen to someone else’s music?”  “Give it break,” he says.  Then adds, “Besides.  You have nothing to complain about.  At least he’s not littering.”  “Excuse me?” I reply indignantly.  “Ya, I saw you.  Hiding that newspaper next to you.   I know you plan on leaving it when you get off the bus.”

And before I have a chance to reply, I hear it.  Alexander’s voice saying, “Mom, stop it.  Don’t get into an argument with this guy.  It’s not worth it.” 

I collect my newspaper and get off at my stop without saying a word.  Alexander would be proud.

shopping for a gown

June 1999.  That was the last time I shopped for a gown.  And, the last time I wore one.  It was my nephew Michael’s Bar Mitvah.  I ended up having a dress made.  It was beautiful.  I haven’t worn it since, and I’m sure never will.

So now I need to get a dress for Michael’s brother’s wedding in late October.  Again, this is a dress I will likely never wear again.  But it has to be a dress I feel good in and one that will pass the critical eye of my sister, mother of the groom.  It also has to be long.

I arrange to meet at the showroom of two designers, both of whom have couture lines and non-couture lines.  While the couture lines are certainly more beautiful, I have to remember, I will wear this dress only once.

I arrive at the first designer’s showroom and see several dresses that look beautiful.  The first one I try on is a long, straight, glittering green dress.  I put it on and look like a big tree.

The second dress I try on is navy.  Very chic.  It looks simple off the hanger but is impossible to get on.   It is zipperless and requires me and two others to get it over my head.  Forget it.  I would have to sleep in it the night before the wedding to insure I had enough time to put it on the next day. And then how would I get it off with no one at home to help?

The person helping us at the showroom says, “Wait.  I think I have the dress for you.”  He goes off somewhere and comes back with an elegant red dress. I try it on. The sample sized four is too tight and too long, but the six should be perfect.  

There is no need to visit the second showroom, but we go, just in case.  I fall in love with a dress there but it is out of my price range.

We return to the first showroom and I order the dress in black.  If I can look half as good as this model, I'll be very happy.  

déjà new

Last year M calls me with the question, “What do you think I should do?”  She is cleaning out a closet and comes across an unopened box.  She had taken it from her old house when she moved into her new house twenty years ago.  M opens it.  It is from Matouk, makers of fine, expensive linens.  In it is a beautiful duvet cover she must have ordered at some point, though she has no recollection of it.  The duvet cover is monogrammed.  But Matouk has made a mistake.  It should read mCt.  Instead, it’s mTc.  M's husband’s first initial is in the middle, rather than their last name initial.    I have no good answer for her, only another question:  “How could you not have opened the box when it arrived 20 years ago?” 

Now here’s my story.

Let’s start with this:   my apartment is small.  Other than my room and the coat closet, I have three closets.  Good by New York standards, but still, not many closets.

A few weeks ago a friend mentioned that she had gotten a stick vacuum cleaner.  She raved about its lightness and ease of use.  I hate vacuuming and though my Miele is small, it is still heavy.  For daily use, I think the stick vacuum would be perfect.  I research stick vacuums, find the best one, and order it.  I chose a Hoover Corded. I would have preferred the rechargeable but that one is twice as much.

Finally it arrives.  As Alexander is gone, I ask the handyman to help with its assembly.  It isn’t much, but I know it will take Mike under five minutes and me over thirty.

I try it out; it works fine.  I go to put it away in the big front closet.  This is the closet that holds off-season coats, Alexander’s hang-up things, Costco big-boxed items, a step stool, and some other random things.  I take out the step stool to make room for the vacuum and there, next to the step stool, in a closet I open every single day, is another stick vacuum.  The more expensive Hoover corded.  The one I had to have in 2009 and obviously never use.

I take it out, turn it on, and it starts just fine.

I pack up the one I just bought.  Ship it off to Amazon.  And wonder…well, so many things. 

groupon vs bloomspot

So I’ve already written about my bad experience with a Bloomspot coupon. I asked for a $12 refund; Bloomspot agreed their coupon terms were misleading.  And still, they refused the refund.  Plus, it took days to be told no.  “Upper management” had to convene for a decision of this level to be made.

Conversely, I call Groupon to report a problem. I begin the conversation this way, “Let me start by saying I am not asking for anything back.  I just think you should be aware of a problem I had with a Groupon I used at a local restaurant.”

I then went on to describe the problem. 

I recently had a nice dinner using a $69 Groupon.  Two of us received the three courses and glass of wine as stated in the Groupon.  The service was abysmal but the food was excellent.  When the bill came, the waiter had added $13 for tax and $25 for tip.  When I asked why, he said that was based on the full value of the dinner, which the restaurant assessed at $150.  When I added up the items we had, the value was less that that.  Eventually the restaurant deleted the tip and let me add my own.  My friend Shari had the same experience.  Her husband was livid and wrote a scathing review of the restaurant on Open Table.

So here was Groupon’s response.  “Thank you for calling.  We’ve heard this complaint before.  We are going to talk to the restaurant.  And we apologize that you had to experience this.    I am going to credit your account $30.”

Nothing asked for, something gained — a nice surprise.  And clearly Groupon wins hands down over Bloomspot.