I'm often amazed at the choices people make when they're equipped with knowledge. At more extreme examples, people who continue to illegally text while driving despite knowing that they are increasing their chances of a car accident, or a typo. Pregnant momma's who continue to smoke/drink/do drugs all the while having the knowledge that it's going to generate birth defects in the little people growing in their bodies, not to mention the added expenditures for having a kid addicted to smoking/drinking/drugs from such a young age. That shit ain't cheap.
On a less extreme scale we have the people who fail to practice even the minimal standards of personal hygiene. At one point or another we've all been guilty of missing a shower, a face washing or a tooth brushing. It's rare (for a good number of us), but it happens. What baffles me is when people miss the beat on hand-washing after using the washroom. WHAT ARE THEY THINKING?! I'll tell you what I'm thinking when I see someone walk from the stall to the bathroom door: Fecal bacteria spreading everywhere. I'm thinking that I have a pretty good idea of where your hand was just a moment ago, and now you're touching all the same surfaces I'll need to touch to get out of here. Fantastic.
I've caught one woman at work not washing her hands at all, and another woman today doing the obligatory 2 second rinse under the running faucet. This? Does not a clean hand make. And every time I see a woman failing to wash their hands in the bathroom, I am reminded of the day I called out a classmate after determining she was a dirty bird.
Every Wednesday I had "coincidentally" found myself in the bathroom at the same time she was there, and every single time had I witnessed her leaving the bathroom without washing. Hell, I'd have even accepted the courtesy "swoosh your hands under water but not use the soap" kinda half-assed 'washed, but she couldn't even give me that (NOTE: I do not accept this standard today. This is called "growth".)'. One day I thought I'd give her the benefit of the doubt and thought that maybe once she left the bathroom she whipped out the waterless antibacterial hand soap that everyone seems to have these days. To test this theory I brought a snack to class and asked out load to everyone for the antibacterial waterless soap, but I made sure to look specifically at her to see whether or not she had any (Notice that this was weeks in the making. I'd make an awesome spy!). Of course she didn't. She's a dirty, dirty woman. Well I had had about enough of this. Then one Wednesday I was in the bathroom, again "coincidentally" at the same time as "Potty hands" and the following conversation took place...
Me: Um, Potty-Hands, can I ask you a question?
PH: Yes?
Me: Why don't you wash your hands after going to the bathroom?
PH: Um, I don't know. I guess I've never really thought about it.
Me: Seriously? We just spent time talking about it in Toxicology class last week....you know, that whole personal hygiene concept? It's really popular these days...it's a way to prevent the spread of bacteria and disease. Is this ringing any bells for you?
PH: Well I don't have any diseases.
Me: Yeah, well when your hand was just being used to help wipe your ass, I'm more concerned about the bacteria. Then some poor unsuspecting woman is going to come along and wash her hands because that's what normal people do, then she's going to touch the same door handle you just touched with your ass-bacteria covered hands, and she's going to go back to her desk and inevitably touch her face or food or something and ingest your ass-bacteria! She might as well be literally kissing your ass.
PH: Do you want me to wash my hands?
Me: Yes. Yes I do.
Yes I do, indeed. I'm curious as to how many people would do the same (although maybe a little more delicately - this woman drove me CRAZY for reasons beyond her poor hygiene, so my patience with her was a little lacking).
HOMEWORK: Have you, or would you call someone out for poor hygiene if you witnessed them leaving the bathroom without washing? Would you be more likely to do so if it was a stranger or someone you knew (or more specifically, someone whom you knew would be touching some of the same work surfaces you would be touching)? Would it take a drink or two before you'd have the courage to generate such an awkward moment? Leave your input in the comments section below - let's have you all help me figure out how socially awkward I really am.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Sunday, October 31, 2010
WARNING: This post is weak.
Because my creativity has left me but I've been a very negligent blogger: some interesting advertisements I've come across recently....
1. On the radio station I listen to each morning on the way to work, they regularly give jewelry away as prizes for listeners who call in and jump through the appropriate hoops. Normally it's your birthstone in the form of a necklace or earrings or something. More recently however, they've kicked it up (or down?) a notch. Their current advertisement:
"...want to once again give two BFFs a great gift; a pair of pearl necklaces to celebrate their friendship."
If this doesn't sound weird to you, you don't know what kind of pearl necklace I giggle about whenever I hear this commercial. (NOTE: Maybe my in-laws shouldn't click on that link, nor should you if you're at work - your IT department will think you to be a pretty kinky (or exciting?) individual. Your call.) Also? I'm100% 95% 90% sure I'm not the only one who thinks of this when I hear this commercial.
2. On this same radio station they run advertisements for a local plastic surgeon at "Bluewater Surgeries". They're targeting young mom's who are missing their pre-baby body and are willing to take time away from mommy-hood to undergo some cosmetic procedures that will turn them into that "yummy mummy they knew they could be". The ad campaign ends with a little tune that says "Fall in love with yourself, Bluewater Surgeries". Not meaning to go all feminist on you, dear reader, but it saddens me that cosmetic companies are focusing their marketing campaigns on young women who should quite frankly have better things to worry about than fitting in their "skinny jeans" having just had a child. I think this company may be in cohoots with The Gap.
...So far, it's looking like the ad companies want you (and your BFF) to be skinny and taut so that you can attract men who will give you pearl necklaces! There's got to be something better out there, right? Let's continue...
A sign that I used to drive past on the way home from work:
1. On the radio station I listen to each morning on the way to work, they regularly give jewelry away as prizes for listeners who call in and jump through the appropriate hoops. Normally it's your birthstone in the form of a necklace or earrings or something. More recently however, they've kicked it up (or down?) a notch. Their current advertisement:
"...want to once again give two BFFs a great gift; a pair of pearl necklaces to celebrate their friendship."
If this doesn't sound weird to you, you don't know what kind of pearl necklace I giggle about whenever I hear this commercial. (NOTE: Maybe my in-laws shouldn't click on that link, nor should you if you're at work - your IT department will think you to be a pretty kinky (or exciting?) individual. Your call.) Also? I'm
2. On this same radio station they run advertisements for a local plastic surgeon at "Bluewater Surgeries". They're targeting young mom's who are missing their pre-baby body and are willing to take time away from mommy-hood to undergo some cosmetic procedures that will turn them into that "yummy mummy they knew they could be". The ad campaign ends with a little tune that says "Fall in love with yourself, Bluewater Surgeries". Not meaning to go all feminist on you, dear reader, but it saddens me that cosmetic companies are focusing their marketing campaigns on young women who should quite frankly have better things to worry about than fitting in their "skinny jeans" having just had a child. I think this company may be in cohoots with The Gap.
...So far, it's looking like the ad companies want you (and your BFF) to be skinny and taut so that you can attract men who will give you pearl necklaces! There's got to be something better out there, right? Let's continue...
A sign that I used to drive past on the way home from work:
So what we have here is a billboard for a karaoke spot for kids, which is licensed by the Liquor Board of Ontario...the place that controls all the booze for our Province. They really want to start them on the booze at a young age, eh? I suppose it's only fitting though. If they find joy in drinking, they'll be more likely to pair up with their best friend and meet up with a guy who will give them pearl necklaces, and then knock-them-up, after which they'll need to go to Bluewater Surgeries to get their pre-baby bodies back! Oh, the circle of life.
On a completely unrelated note to all-things-advertising, did you guys know that apparently you need to have a pumpkin on your porch or in a window in order for the little halloween people to know that you're giving away free candy? Sadly, we dropped the ball on the pumpkin boat, and have had about 16 little rug-rats in the last hour and a half. We've watched people walk past our house, looking in at us, but coaxing their kids to go to the house next door. Maybe it's because of our reputation as the naked house. Once again, home ownership will lead to plumper home-owners as we eat the candy we couldn't give away....*sigh*
Monday, October 25, 2010
Living the Exposed Life - May Contain Pornographic Images of Sorts...NSFW
Contrary to what the title of today's blog may indicate, I have not turned into a nudist since my last post. Instead, being the bad, bad blogger that I am (having not updated in nearly two months), I've been so enthralled with the process of finding a home, buying a home, and then moving into said home, that the art of blogging has been lost on me. Let me destroy your hopeful dreams right now by promising you that this update will in no way compensate for my lengthy absence. Instead I shall regale you with observations about first-time home ownership and why I'm pretty sure buying a house equates with a ten pound weight gain which leads to friends suggesting you read books about compulsive eating.
A short list of my personal observations regarding our home acquisition and home ownership (in the whole 9 days we've lived here):
1. During our time living in rental units, I lived in a relatively constant state of fear that something expensive was going to be ruined and we'd end up having to pay for it. As a prime example, less than 2 weeks before moving out of our apartment, Toby decided to become a carpet muncher (no, not this kind of carpet muncher), when he decided to chew the carpet right down to the underpad in a small area of our bedroom. Upon looking up the breakdown of general repairs as supplied to us by our property management company, we were potentially looking at $1400 to replace the carpet in that one room. That's more than we paid for the dog and all of his associated vet bills. Something about this did not seem right. But now it's a whole new ball game. Now I live in a constant state of fear that something expensive is going to break and we're going to end up having to pay for it, which when you think about it seems like it's the same ball game, but I guess we're just in a different field now. I feel as if any potential problem we have is magnified a hundred (thousand) times knowing that we are the only ones responsible for handling whatever situations may arise. I do believe our neighbourhood's property values may reflect this point over time.
2. Buying things is fun! And addictive! Also? It's incredibly hard finding that special balance between "I don't want to be broke", and "I want to replace everything we own! Would it be too obvious if the moving truck with all of our insured belongings accidentally ended up in the river?". This is increasingly more difficult when you realize that you're still using the same furniture you moved out with 4 years ago, or the $15 end-table that is a byproduct of Swedish child-labour.
3. I'm a little disappointed that our house isn't haunted. I think I've watched too many episodes of Ghost Whisperer and had convinced myself that moving into this house would be like some magical gateway into the world of communicating with ghosts. (Although I continue to consider the fact that maybe they're just shy...)
4. I'm worried that we're going to establish a reputation for ourselves in our new neighbourhood as the "naked ones". The original intent with this phrasing was because all of our windows are naked (finding acceptable window treatments is hard, y'all!), but the more I think about this, the more I realize that people are quite probably actually seeing us naked since the only room in the house without a window is the bathroom. I'm increasingly suspicious of the neighbours peeping-tom habits since several people walked past our house this evening while I was sitting in the car out front - they made direct eye contact with me but did not return my polite smile...instead, I caught them rubber-necking to look into our house as they walked along. If they're trying to get a good glance in now, they won't for long....
Moving is incredibly fattening. First, there's the fact that you're trying to "eat down" the reserves of food you have in your fridge, freezer and pantry so that it's less for you to move come the big day. Of course the closer you get to moving day, the fewer options you have, and the chances increase dramatically that you'll opt for pizza, or something with equal artery-clogging powers. Then comes moving day where you reward the help of your movers with yet more pizza for lunch! And beer! Lots and lots of beer! Then come dinner time you're tired of pizza, so you decide to get chinese food instead, only this time you're not hungry again an hour later because the yeast from all the beer you've been drinking makes you feel like this. Since you have no eggs, no bread, no anything really your husband suggests McDonald's for breakfast the next morning. A couple days later, you realize that one of your movers missed out on the reward of pizza and beer because she had to leave for a family function, so you decide you'll make her a cake. Only instead of making her a cake using all of the batter, you decide to play "some for you, some for me", and end up making one small cake for her and a dozen cupcakes which are promptly devoured by you and your husband. Of course you're out running errands and shopping all the time (see observation # above), and by the time you get home it's too late to actually cook anything, so you end up picking food up on the way home. It's a vicious cycle that ultimately leads to this:
So anyways - moving = you get fatter. So much fatter that in the once-a-month-get-together where you meet up with a few friends and discuss a book you all read for about 15 minutes but then continue to yak about all things not-book-related, one of your friends decides to suggest you all read a book about overcoming compulsive eating. Number of girls in this small little group? Five. Number of girls with a BMI greater than 18%? One. Hmm. Come to think of it...this book was recommended before the move. Awesome.
Truth be told, we may be a few pounds heavier in the new house, but we'll take those added pounds over the potentially fatal injuries that could have been incurred had we stayed in our Toronto neighbourhood. I think this one is an easy call.
A short list of my personal observations regarding our home acquisition and home ownership (in the whole 9 days we've lived here):
1. During our time living in rental units, I lived in a relatively constant state of fear that something expensive was going to be ruined and we'd end up having to pay for it. As a prime example, less than 2 weeks before moving out of our apartment, Toby decided to become a carpet muncher (no, not this kind of carpet muncher), when he decided to chew the carpet right down to the underpad in a small area of our bedroom. Upon looking up the breakdown of general repairs as supplied to us by our property management company, we were potentially looking at $1400 to replace the carpet in that one room. That's more than we paid for the dog and all of his associated vet bills. Something about this did not seem right. But now it's a whole new ball game. Now I live in a constant state of fear that something expensive is going to break and we're going to end up having to pay for it, which when you think about it seems like it's the same ball game, but I guess we're just in a different field now. I feel as if any potential problem we have is magnified a hundred (thousand) times knowing that we are the only ones responsible for handling whatever situations may arise. I do believe our neighbourhood's property values may reflect this point over time.
2. Buying things is fun! And addictive! Also? It's incredibly hard finding that special balance between "I don't want to be broke", and "I want to replace everything we own! Would it be too obvious if the moving truck with all of our insured belongings accidentally ended up in the river?". This is increasingly more difficult when you realize that you're still using the same furniture you moved out with 4 years ago, or the $15 end-table that is a byproduct of Swedish child-labour.
3. I'm a little disappointed that our house isn't haunted. I think I've watched too many episodes of Ghost Whisperer and had convinced myself that moving into this house would be like some magical gateway into the world of communicating with ghosts. (Although I continue to consider the fact that maybe they're just shy...)
4. I'm worried that we're going to establish a reputation for ourselves in our new neighbourhood as the "naked ones". The original intent with this phrasing was because all of our windows are naked (finding acceptable window treatments is hard, y'all!), but the more I think about this, the more I realize that people are quite probably actually seeing us naked since the only room in the house without a window is the bathroom. I'm increasingly suspicious of the neighbours peeping-tom habits since several people walked past our house this evening while I was sitting in the car out front - they made direct eye contact with me but did not return my polite smile...instead, I caught them rubber-necking to look into our house as they walked along. If they're trying to get a good glance in now, they won't for long....
Moving is incredibly fattening. First, there's the fact that you're trying to "eat down" the reserves of food you have in your fridge, freezer and pantry so that it's less for you to move come the big day. Of course the closer you get to moving day, the fewer options you have, and the chances increase dramatically that you'll opt for pizza, or something with equal artery-clogging powers. Then comes moving day where you reward the help of your movers with yet more pizza for lunch! And beer! Lots and lots of beer! Then come dinner time you're tired of pizza, so you decide to get chinese food instead, only this time you're not hungry again an hour later because the yeast from all the beer you've been drinking makes you feel like this. Since you have no eggs, no bread, no anything really your husband suggests McDonald's for breakfast the next morning. A couple days later, you realize that one of your movers missed out on the reward of pizza and beer because she had to leave for a family function, so you decide you'll make her a cake. Only instead of making her a cake using all of the batter, you decide to play "some for you, some for me", and end up making one small cake for her and a dozen cupcakes which are promptly devoured by you and your husband. Of course you're out running errands and shopping all the time (see observation # above), and by the time you get home it's too late to actually cook anything, so you end up picking food up on the way home. It's a vicious cycle that ultimately leads to this:
 | |||
| Also? I apparently had no arms when we were living in the apartment. |
So anyways - moving = you get fatter. So much fatter that in the once-a-month-get-together where you meet up with a few friends and discuss a book you all read for about 15 minutes but then continue to yak about all things not-book-related, one of your friends decides to suggest you all read a book about overcoming compulsive eating. Number of girls in this small little group? Five. Number of girls with a BMI greater than 18%? One. Hmm. Come to think of it...this book was recommended before the move. Awesome.
Truth be told, we may be a few pounds heavier in the new house, but we'll take those added pounds over the potentially fatal injuries that could have been incurred had we stayed in our Toronto neighbourhood. I think this one is an easy call.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
No Kudos for Almost Wetting the Bed
Life has been really stressful for the past couple weeks and despite the pending ulcer I can feel forging in to the lining of my stomach, I continue to feel that causing undue stress for the customer relations departments of large corporations is an excellent idea. If this simple act doesn't cheer me up, then what will?
Today's 'target' is the Mars Corporation - you know, the chocolate bar manufacturers? I was offered a "Kudos" granola bar from a co-worker today of which she exclaimed "and they're only 100 calories!". It didn't take long for me to discover that she had fallen victim to (and was thus also perpetuating) false advertisement. The bar she handed me was not in fact 100 calories - it was 130. The problem with this is that the product packaging clearly states on the label "100 Calories Per Bar!" (see image below). Needless to say, Mars got a letter:
Hello,
As a first-time consumer of your product, I figured it was my responsibility to let you know that there is a conflict of information on your product packaging. The box that the bars come in clearly states 130 calories per bar on the front (for the Peanut Butter flavour) - as seen here:
However, the individual wrappers advertise 100 calories per bar:
What's up with that? I feel like maybe you just got lazy with the individual wrapper packaging and kept the same slogan for the peanut butter as you do for all your other flavours. No kudos for you on this one Mars...no kudos for misrepresentation.
Loony
Naturally you'll all be informed when I hear back from Mars with their action plan for the obviously-needed recall on this product. They'll either have to change the formula to ensure that the bars meet the 100 calorie proclamation, or change the wrappers on all the bars. Of course they won't be able to resell the recalled bars - that would be unhygienic. They should feed them to the homeless. They need the extra calories anyways.
In completely unrelated news, remember when you were a kid (or maybe even an adolescent for some?), and you had a bedtime accident? If you were asleep when it happened, weren't you always dreaming that you were peeing when you'd suddenly wake up to this warm, wet sensation? These dreams have been haunting me for the last week and a half. Alarmingly, they are these intensely graphic dreams where I make it a point to find a bathroom and then proceed to have the longest, most gratifying pee of my life. Two nights ago, my dream consisted of quite literally, a bathroom marathon. It was like a combination of a layup drill in basketball practice, and what the ladies washroom looks like after a movie has just let out. There were a large number of ladies all lined up facing a stall in the bathroom, we were all wearing white shirts and gym shorts, and we were hustling into the stall one at a time to relieve ourselves, and then back out to the back of the line we went to do it all over again. Aside from the disturbing fact that there was no handwashing in my dream (ew!!), it got to the point where in my subconscious state I was all peed out! By the time my 5th or 6th rotation came around, there were no bodily fluids left to excrete out this particular area of my body and I was actually trying to force out some urine. I always wake up from these dreams thinking "oh dear god, no!", and am for once in my life relieved to wake up cold, thanks to my blanket-hog husband and my badass bladder control. According to the Dream Dictionary:
"To dream that you are urinating, symbolizes a cleansing and a release of negative or repressed emotions. Depending on your dream context, urination is symbolic of having or lacking basic control of your life. You are literally "pissed off" and not expressing yourself in a positive or constructive manner." (NOTE: This totally makes sense when one factors in the things going on in my life right now - but we'll save those details for another entry)
This is such simple math:
Catalyst for pissing Loony off + No outlet for expressing herself (ie: letters to companies who commit faux pas) = Loony possibly wetting her bed, grossing out her husband and getting divorced
Catalyst for pissing Loony off + Loony expressing her angst through unrelated yet eloquently phrased letters to companies who deserve a little kick in the butt for maleficence = A dry bed for Loony (and Ryan!), a long and happy marriage and lots of babies
So essentially, these letters that I write to companies like Mars, Crest, Mazda, Ministry's, etc? They're potentially saving my marriage.
Today's 'target' is the Mars Corporation - you know, the chocolate bar manufacturers? I was offered a "Kudos" granola bar from a co-worker today of which she exclaimed "and they're only 100 calories!". It didn't take long for me to discover that she had fallen victim to (and was thus also perpetuating) false advertisement. The bar she handed me was not in fact 100 calories - it was 130. The problem with this is that the product packaging clearly states on the label "100 Calories Per Bar!" (see image below). Needless to say, Mars got a letter:
Hello,
As a first-time consumer of your product, I figured it was my responsibility to let you know that there is a conflict of information on your product packaging. The box that the bars come in clearly states 130 calories per bar on the front (for the Peanut Butter flavour) - as seen here:
However, the individual wrappers advertise 100 calories per bar:
What's up with that? I feel like maybe you just got lazy with the individual wrapper packaging and kept the same slogan for the peanut butter as you do for all your other flavours. No kudos for you on this one Mars...no kudos for misrepresentation.
Loony
Naturally you'll all be informed when I hear back from Mars with their action plan for the obviously-needed recall on this product. They'll either have to change the formula to ensure that the bars meet the 100 calorie proclamation, or change the wrappers on all the bars. Of course they won't be able to resell the recalled bars - that would be unhygienic. They should feed them to the homeless. They need the extra calories anyways.
In completely unrelated news, remember when you were a kid (or maybe even an adolescent for some?), and you had a bedtime accident? If you were asleep when it happened, weren't you always dreaming that you were peeing when you'd suddenly wake up to this warm, wet sensation? These dreams have been haunting me for the last week and a half. Alarmingly, they are these intensely graphic dreams where I make it a point to find a bathroom and then proceed to have the longest, most gratifying pee of my life. Two nights ago, my dream consisted of quite literally, a bathroom marathon. It was like a combination of a layup drill in basketball practice, and what the ladies washroom looks like after a movie has just let out. There were a large number of ladies all lined up facing a stall in the bathroom, we were all wearing white shirts and gym shorts, and we were hustling into the stall one at a time to relieve ourselves, and then back out to the back of the line we went to do it all over again. Aside from the disturbing fact that there was no handwashing in my dream (ew!!), it got to the point where in my subconscious state I was all peed out! By the time my 5th or 6th rotation came around, there were no bodily fluids left to excrete out this particular area of my body and I was actually trying to force out some urine. I always wake up from these dreams thinking "oh dear god, no!", and am for once in my life relieved to wake up cold, thanks to my blanket-hog husband and my badass bladder control. According to the Dream Dictionary:
"To dream that you are urinating, symbolizes a cleansing and a release of negative or repressed emotions. Depending on your dream context, urination is symbolic of having or lacking basic control of your life. You are literally "pissed off" and not expressing yourself in a positive or constructive manner." (NOTE: This totally makes sense when one factors in the things going on in my life right now - but we'll save those details for another entry)
This is such simple math:
Catalyst for pissing Loony off + No outlet for expressing herself (ie: letters to companies who commit faux pas) = Loony possibly wetting her bed, grossing out her husband and getting divorced
Catalyst for pissing Loony off + Loony expressing her angst through unrelated yet eloquently phrased letters to companies who deserve a little kick in the butt for maleficence = A dry bed for Loony (and Ryan!), a long and happy marriage and lots of babies
So essentially, these letters that I write to companies like Mars, Crest, Mazda, Ministry's, etc? They're potentially saving my marriage.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
UPDATED: The Night I Got Kicked In The Side Of The Head By A Stripper, and Response Letter From The Gap
I`ve noticed that as I`ve gotten older my desire to spend time in the bar-scene has decreased substantially. There are of course, exceptions to this - more specifically, when it`s time to celebrate. Last night was one of these exceptions. Out celebrating my friend K`s birthday, we went to a bar that I hadn`t been to in a couple of years. It`s never been my favourite place, and in my experience the quality of the customer base that frequents this particular location leaves much to be desired...but alas, it wasn`t my call. We walk into the bar after coming from a comedy club and I`m disappointed to see that we are the first ones there. I`m even more disappointed to see that since the last time I was at this particular bar, they have installed two stages and 5 stripper poles. I can already see where the night is going to go.
Fast forward to a couple hours later in the evening (and a few tequilla shots), when the bar is now packed. Unlike what you`d see in most bars though, nearly everyone`s eyes were simultaneously aimed in the same direction. It appears as though either off-duty or wannabe strippers came to this particular bar to practice. At one point in the corner of the stage there was a dry-humping orgy of 5 people who legitimately seemed oblivious to the other people in the bar; all of whom were staring at them like some god-awful car accident. The guys of the orgy eventually convinced some of this girls to start gyrating on the poles instead of on them - because that was so much classier. This was when a few of the girls kicked it up a notch and started doing fanciful work on the poles nearly going upside down and showing us what was barely-hidden under their short little skirts. Unfortunately, because the dance floor was so full, there were limited options available and so K and I found ourselves right up by the stage. On the pole to my left were two girls who decided they`d give the orgy-clan some competition. While flinging herself around the pole, one of the girls happened to kick me in the arm and the side. This? Did not please me. (Now might be a good time to highlight the fact that when I'm in a public setting such as a bar, my patience for people drops significantly. I tend to get a little feisty.) I poke the girl in the thigh (because it was around eye-level), to which she doesn't even notice (I assume having her legs groped is just second-nature and she doesn't even realize it)...so a little pinch to the arm got her attention. I indicated that what she does for work or recreation is none of my business, but I'd appreciate it if she could keep her legs to herself and refrain from kicking me during her pole antics. She seemed to be agreeable to this, so I keep rockin' out on the dance floor - that is until I suddenly feel a foot in the side of my head. This? Pleases me even less. Although I'm behaving, the pole dancer and I exchange a few choice words until her pimp-equivalent steps in and breaks it up. Having had her pole-dancing adventures ruined for the night, she moves onto bigger and better things - her pole-dancing friend. It's not long after our little interaction that I see these two girls sandwiched up against each other, making out with a guy behind each of them rubbing up on them like a pig in it's own shit (From a bacteria-ridden standpoint, I think this analogy is perfect). Needless to say, there were girls kissing, dry humping everywhere I turned, and mens boxers flying through the bar like confetti.
Additionally, on the tv screens were a series of models swimming through a pool infront of a camera. Sharing my theory on this with a guy waiting at the bar scored me and K some free drinks. My belief was that the bar wanted to be like something you'd find in LA or Vegas - having a full-size aquarium with models swimming around in it for an added touch of eye-candy. Since this town is certainly not LA or Vegas, the feasibility of finding the finances, real estate and model-material to do this made it an impossibility. Not to be denied the ability to create a "high-end" ambience, the owner of the bar got a few of his friends together, asked them to go swimming in his pool and planted an underwater camera. Naturally the girls all had gas which explained the continuous bubbles underwater. The guy insisted on buying our drinks because apparently it's a rarity to find a funny girl - and that was when I realized he bought us the drinks because of my personality. I was disheartened to realize that since my bar-going days, I have become that girl - the one who gets by on her personality and not her looks. It was at this point that I realized I won't be frequenting a bar again in my near future (although I've already agreed to go again in about 3 weeks from now), and when I also realized I've never been happier to be a married woman, because let's face it - my personality is an acquired taste. I'd totally be screwed.
Speaking of screwed... (not really, but I didn't really have another transition lined up here): The response to my e-mail to The Gap:
Dear L.,
Thank you for your email about our current store window marketing
campaign. We are sorry to hear that you are unhappy with our new
?Pants? campaign. We appreciate knowing how our advertising is being
received and comments from loyal customers like you are valuable. We
have several different campaigns a year and each is designed to target
various segments of our consumer base. We regularly evaluate our ads for
effectiveness and reach to ensure our advertising is appropriate for our
customers and our brand. We have forwarded your valuable comments to the
marketing manager responsible for these decisions.
Thank you again for taking the time to contact us.
Sincerely,
Stephanie
Customer Service Consultant
Honestly, this has left me somewhat speechless. Feel free to leave your own whitty or serious comments on this response (or anything really - just not herpes. We don't need to hear about your herpes.) below to make my job easier for tonight since the hangover is seriously cramping my creativity.
I promise my next entry won't be so lame.
**UPDATE: Who am I kidding? I'm never entirely speechless. Below is the response I sent back to The Gap.
Hi Stephanie,
Did anyone over there even read my original e-mail? I'm curious as to who your target consumer base is with this pants campaign? I'd legitimately like to know what group you decided to target to intentionally make them feel self-conscious about their body. Was it the impressionable teens? The "want to stay with it" younger moms? What comes next - Turtlenecks to hide the pack of hot dogs holding your head? Shapeless garments to hide those child-bearing hips? Because god forbid anyone strays from the drone-like body type of the Gap's ideal customer! The horror!!
For future reference I strongly suggest implementing marketing campaigns that make your potential customers feel good about themselves instead of preying on their insecurities.
L.
Fast forward to a couple hours later in the evening (and a few tequilla shots), when the bar is now packed. Unlike what you`d see in most bars though, nearly everyone`s eyes were simultaneously aimed in the same direction. It appears as though either off-duty or wannabe strippers came to this particular bar to practice. At one point in the corner of the stage there was a dry-humping orgy of 5 people who legitimately seemed oblivious to the other people in the bar; all of whom were staring at them like some god-awful car accident. The guys of the orgy eventually convinced some of this girls to start gyrating on the poles instead of on them - because that was so much classier. This was when a few of the girls kicked it up a notch and started doing fanciful work on the poles nearly going upside down and showing us what was barely-hidden under their short little skirts. Unfortunately, because the dance floor was so full, there were limited options available and so K and I found ourselves right up by the stage. On the pole to my left were two girls who decided they`d give the orgy-clan some competition. While flinging herself around the pole, one of the girls happened to kick me in the arm and the side. This? Did not please me. (Now might be a good time to highlight the fact that when I'm in a public setting such as a bar, my patience for people drops significantly. I tend to get a little feisty.) I poke the girl in the thigh (because it was around eye-level), to which she doesn't even notice (I assume having her legs groped is just second-nature and she doesn't even realize it)...so a little pinch to the arm got her attention. I indicated that what she does for work or recreation is none of my business, but I'd appreciate it if she could keep her legs to herself and refrain from kicking me during her pole antics. She seemed to be agreeable to this, so I keep rockin' out on the dance floor - that is until I suddenly feel a foot in the side of my head. This? Pleases me even less. Although I'm behaving, the pole dancer and I exchange a few choice words until her pimp-equivalent steps in and breaks it up. Having had her pole-dancing adventures ruined for the night, she moves onto bigger and better things - her pole-dancing friend. It's not long after our little interaction that I see these two girls sandwiched up against each other, making out with a guy behind each of them rubbing up on them like a pig in it's own shit (From a bacteria-ridden standpoint, I think this analogy is perfect). Needless to say, there were girls kissing, dry humping everywhere I turned, and mens boxers flying through the bar like confetti.
Additionally, on the tv screens were a series of models swimming through a pool infront of a camera. Sharing my theory on this with a guy waiting at the bar scored me and K some free drinks. My belief was that the bar wanted to be like something you'd find in LA or Vegas - having a full-size aquarium with models swimming around in it for an added touch of eye-candy. Since this town is certainly not LA or Vegas, the feasibility of finding the finances, real estate and model-material to do this made it an impossibility. Not to be denied the ability to create a "high-end" ambience, the owner of the bar got a few of his friends together, asked them to go swimming in his pool and planted an underwater camera. Naturally the girls all had gas which explained the continuous bubbles underwater. The guy insisted on buying our drinks because apparently it's a rarity to find a funny girl - and that was when I realized he bought us the drinks because of my personality. I was disheartened to realize that since my bar-going days, I have become that girl - the one who gets by on her personality and not her looks. It was at this point that I realized I won't be frequenting a bar again in my near future (although I've already agreed to go again in about 3 weeks from now), and when I also realized I've never been happier to be a married woman, because let's face it - my personality is an acquired taste. I'd totally be screwed.
Speaking of screwed... (not really, but I didn't really have another transition lined up here): The response to my e-mail to The Gap:
Dear L.,
Thank you for your email about our current store window marketing
campaign. We are sorry to hear that you are unhappy with our new
?Pants? campaign. We appreciate knowing how our advertising is being
received and comments from loyal customers like you are valuable. We
have several different campaigns a year and each is designed to target
various segments of our consumer base. We regularly evaluate our ads for
effectiveness and reach to ensure our advertising is appropriate for our
customers and our brand. We have forwarded your valuable comments to the
marketing manager responsible for these decisions.
Thank you again for taking the time to contact us.
Sincerely,
Stephanie
Customer Service Consultant
Honestly, this has left me somewhat speechless. Feel free to leave your own whitty or serious comments on this response (or anything really - just not herpes. We don't need to hear about your herpes.) below to make my job easier for tonight since the hangover is seriously cramping my creativity.
I promise my next entry won't be so lame.
**UPDATE: Who am I kidding? I'm never entirely speechless. Below is the response I sent back to The Gap.
Hi Stephanie,
Did anyone over there even read my original e-mail? I'm curious as to who your target consumer base is with this pants campaign? I'd legitimately like to know what group you decided to target to intentionally make them feel self-conscious about their body. Was it the impressionable teens? The "want to stay with it" younger moms? What comes next - Turtlenecks to hide the pack of hot dogs holding your head? Shapeless garments to hide those child-bearing hips? Because god forbid anyone strays from the drone-like body type of the Gap's ideal customer! The horror!!
For future reference I strongly suggest implementing marketing campaigns that make your potential customers feel good about themselves instead of preying on their insecurities.
L.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Because Not Everything Is Funny...
The following is an e-mail I sent to the Customer Service department of The Gap this afternoon. If you too feel the need to demonstrate your disapproval for their recent choices, you can write to them at custserv@gap.com.
To The Attention Of The GAP Marketing Department And The Suits Who Back Their Ideas:
Thanks for generating a slogan that perpetuates the decreasing feelings of self-worth that people place on themselves based on their appearance.
I am confident that with ads like this you are securing employment and potentially even generating more jobs for those who work with individuals suffering from various eating disorders . For that, I guess thanks for helping to maintain or possibly even decrease North America's unemployment rate.
Thanks for enforcing my belief that people should have to pass a test or achieve some sort of certification in order to be able to procreate. Individuals with alarmingly low-standing moral qualities such as the people who created and supported such a campaign should have no hand in raising and instilling any sort of values in the future of our society.
And finally, thank you for reminding me why I'm not nor will I ever be your customer.
L.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Foiled Assassination #1
This past week was a little rough. I've certainly had worse, but one annoyance after another seemed to sprout out at me like moths to a flame, and the only thing I could do was sigh and wonder "is it over?". Wednesday morning was particularly irritating, but by the end of the workday there was a light at the end of the tunnel. The sweet taste of a victory was consuming my senses which for one reason or another, made me feel a little parched. I had already shut down my computer and had my purse and lunch bag thrown over my shoulder when I decided that one last swig of my water bottle would be satisfying. I pick up the aluminum bottle, brought the small opening to my lips and threw my head back, guiding the water bottle along the same path so that water could flow freely into my mouth. Hmmm. What is this solid I feel amidst the cool, refreshing water? I quickly reviewed the last five minutes of my life to see if I had eaten something, anything that would have maybe left a little piece of itself in a tooth. Nothing. Knowing that I wasn't going to be swallowing anything in my mouth until I knew what that solid was, I cupped my hand infront of my face and spat everything I had into it, to discover this:
Which, at the time of course, looked like this:
So of course my initial reaction was to scream - this high-pitched short-lived scream which was mistaken for a sneeze by one of my coworkers. I corrected her while continuously horking and spitting into the garbage, trying to rid myself of the fly's vomit which I was sure was infecting my mouth as we spoke. When I felt like anymore spitting would result in the release of my own bile, I called it quits and moved on to tactic #2 - gum. Piece after piece after piece of gum was devoured until I had a wad of it so big it put a jawbreaker to shame. I figured this would tide me over until I could get home and brush my teeth, but even then, I was sure that unless I used a strong bleach mixture, my mouth was never going to feel clean again.
Unfortunately, I was right. This fly has scarred me from water which I think was it's master-plan all along. The fly must've been perched somewhere around my workspace, plotting how he was going to take me out. He knew that even if he were to vomit and defecate his little heart out all over my taste-buds, he alone may not be enough to make me violently ill and ultimately cause my demise. On his own little kamikaze mission he plunged himself into the shadows of my water bottle, knowing that as soon as I discovered a fly in my water, I would never want to drink water again and would die of dehydration. Either that or he was hoping to survive and lay eggs in my stomach for his little maggoty larvae to eat me from the inside out. Either way, he has successfully managed to alter my drinking habits, and I'm sure that if he were alive today, he would tell you that this pleases him. (Now would be the time that I would point out that he's not alive today because I drank the little fucker!). Was it worth it Mr. Fly?
Which, at the time of course, looked like this:
 | ||
| This thing was IN MY MOUTH you guys. For real. |
So of course my initial reaction was to scream - this high-pitched short-lived scream which was mistaken for a sneeze by one of my coworkers. I corrected her while continuously horking and spitting into the garbage, trying to rid myself of the fly's vomit which I was sure was infecting my mouth as we spoke. When I felt like anymore spitting would result in the release of my own bile, I called it quits and moved on to tactic #2 - gum. Piece after piece after piece of gum was devoured until I had a wad of it so big it put a jawbreaker to shame. I figured this would tide me over until I could get home and brush my teeth, but even then, I was sure that unless I used a strong bleach mixture, my mouth was never going to feel clean again.
Unfortunately, I was right. This fly has scarred me from water which I think was it's master-plan all along. The fly must've been perched somewhere around my workspace, plotting how he was going to take me out. He knew that even if he were to vomit and defecate his little heart out all over my taste-buds, he alone may not be enough to make me violently ill and ultimately cause my demise. On his own little kamikaze mission he plunged himself into the shadows of my water bottle, knowing that as soon as I discovered a fly in my water, I would never want to drink water again and would die of dehydration. Either that or he was hoping to survive and lay eggs in my stomach for his little maggoty larvae to eat me from the inside out. Either way, he has successfully managed to alter my drinking habits, and I'm sure that if he were alive today, he would tell you that this pleases him. (Now would be the time that I would point out that he's not alive today because I drank the little fucker!). Was it worth it Mr. Fly?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)