The customer is always right—sometimes

Two back-to-back retail experiences yesterday have left me shaking my head in puzzlement. Friday, I called in my weekend order to Central Market, and Christian kindly picked it up for me. I had ordered a jar of pickled herring and specified in the note that I wanted herring in wine but not the dill marinated that was online. I got the dill marinated. Not the end of the world, but I mentioned it when I filled out the usual market survey.

Let me preface this by saying the people who staff the Central Market curbside pickup may well be the nicest people I have ever dealt with—polite, accommodating, cheerful. It’s a joy to do business with them. Yesterday someone from that department called to apologize about the herring and let me know that they were refunding the cost of the item plus my service fee. Once again, proof that it pays to be a regular customer. They certainly didn’t have to do that, but I much appreciated the gesture.

Jordan and I ran errands Saturday morning and stopped by a store where I needed one item. It too is a store I frequent often and have for many years. And the one item was something I use frequently. For a single thing, it didn’t seem worth unloading the walker and me, so I told Jordan what I wanted, and she even made a note on her phone to be sure she had it right. The store carries two similar things, but I cannot use the one and rely on the other product. When I got home, I found I had the one I had specifically said not to get. Jordan was angry because she clearly told them what she wanted and got the opposite.

I’ve always been told you catch more flies with a teaspoon of sugar than a cup of vinegar, so when I called, I was prepared to be sweet. That attitude changed quickly. The salesperson who answered said, “Oh, you can always bring it back,” so I explained about the walker and that it was difficult. She went on to assure me that she wasn’t in the store when Jordan was, and it was clearly not her fault. I finally told her I was waiting for her to say, “Sorry.” Oh well, of course she was sorry, but it wasn’t her fault. I said I’d try to get it Monday and would call first, so she assured me she wouldn’t be in Monday, to which I said good, maybe someone more helpful would be.

A few minutes later, the person who had waited on Jordan called. (I am pretty sure I would recognize her from frequent trips to the store if I saw her in person.) Her take on it was that they had two similar products—I told her I was well aware of that since I’d used the one for years. “Well, your daughter wasn’t sure which one you wanted.” I was rude. I interrupted and said quite firmly, “She knew perfectly well which one I wanted. She even wrote it down.” The salesperson (who do I remember that called them shop girls?) tried again, “She wasn’t sure,” and I said “Yes, she was.” She did finally agree to give me curbside service for a swap on Monday

They were both so busy telling me it wasn't their fault that I wanted to tell them they needed some of Stanley Marcus’ philosophy—‘The customer is always right”—or Marshall Field’s, whose motto was, “Give the lady what she wants.”

The Society for Uplifting our Language

We seem to have a society for everything, from animal protection to the most highly specialized medical sub-specialty or obscure genetic condition. Do a search for “Society for” and you’ll be astounded. So, I’m proposing a new one: The Society for Uplifting Our Language. (It reminds me of the day Jacob invented a new song, “I’m Uphappy Today!”

I supposed it’s the sudden and highly visible re-emergence of Roseanne Barr and Ted Nugent that have sent my mind in this direction, but really they have just brought some subconscious thoughts to the front. The problem with language today, as I see it, is twofold: incorrect usage and crudity.

I realize and applaud that language is a changing, organic entity, but I think some standards apply. Like the proper use of lay and lie. My childhood neighbor reminds me that her father always said, “People lie. Hens lay.” But it seems to be a distinction that even well-educated minds today can’t grasp. Please don’t go lay out on the beach: lie out on the beach. But don’t lie the book on the table: lay it there.

Frequently when I see misuse of things like their, they’re, and there, I attribute it to a typo. Lord knows my fingers are faster than my brain, and I make a lot of those. But I may start making lists and reporting on egregious errors from time to time.

But then there’s the matter of crudity. Why oh why do people think they have to emphasize everything with an F-bomb. David Hogg made a eloquent response to Laura Ingraham’s personal attack, but for many Americans older than Hogg he ruined it by including three F-bombs. That doesn’t emphasize your idea, it weakens it.

Words like “asshole” are everywhere on Facebook. Our orange leader has exacerbated the problem, with his gross references to women’s anatomy and his denigration of some of our allies as “shithole” countries. Crude is crude, and it is neither clever not effective.

Some will dismiss my complaints as those of an old woman belonging to a different generation. Yes, I’m old, but refined civilization never changes, and effective communication doesn’t morph into crudity. But just as I think there are standards of behavior to pass down through the generations, I think there are standards of language.

My dad used to stress that you never said, “Oh, it’s just family,” and let down your table manners. It was, he said, a matter of respect. Just so, I think the language you use is a matter of respect for the person(s) you’re addressing.

What? You want me to be president of this new society? Well, if you insist, yes, I’ll do it. I’ll monitor. Just remember me next time you post on Facebook.

A birthday tribute to my dad

Above is the MacBain Clan Crest, with the words "Touch not the cat but a targe (glove--be wary when dealing with MacBains) and the clan crest and a bit of the everyday plaid.

My mother hooked the wall hanging; my oldest son and daughter-in-law put together the plaid-and-grey quilt with the crest in the center.

 

 

Today is my dad's birthday. Richard Norman MacBain was born in 1897 in Ontario, the son of a minister in the church of England. He served in the British Army in WWI and then came to the States to study osteopathic medicine. Eventually he became president of his osteopathic college, administrator of the associated hospital and, during my early years, maintained a part-time private practice. He shaped me, and I took away many things from him.
He was a Scot and proud of it, rarely mentioning that his mom was Irish. I too am a proud Scot, a member of Clan MacBain. Dad became interested in genealogy late in life, even visited the MacBain Memorial Garden outside Inverness. I've been there too and nearly wept at the Culloden Battlefield. Someday I'd love to write a novel incorporating Scottish history.
Dad's Anglophile tendencies led him to be proper and dignified, and he used to say you always used  your best manners on your family. He was a stickler about table manners, and my brother and I have inherited that and put it into effect with our children and now the grandchildren. No elbows on the table, use the right utensil, don't butter your bread in the air (that one used to get me). But I truly appreciate good manners and a certain grace about dining, though I'm mostly given to casual entertaining. I didn't come away with his Anglophile food tastes--meat and potatoes (we ate a lot of lamb as I grew up and I loved it). Mom loved fish and seafood and when they visited Boston she'd drag him to seafood restaurant and then hide her face when he ordered roast beef.
I also got a strong work ethic from my father. He worked hard, believed in treating all people fairly and doing the best honest job he could. I went to work in his office at fourteen and by the time I moved away at twenty-one, I was his executive secretary (not a pc term today). I'd still make a damn good executive secretary. Before anyone thinks cushy job working for your father, you'd have to know Dad. He was harder on me than any other employee (except maybe my brother who briefly worked in maintenance), and he's the reason that I am today, in retirement, compulsively at work on lots of projects.
I can remember in the evenings that Mom and Dad sat in their chairs by the fireplace and read, each with a book, but they kept interrupting each other to read an irresistible passage aloud. They took turns reading the works of Will and Ariel Durant aloud. No wonder I have a houseful of books.
Like my dad, I am most comfortable if church is a regular part of my life--there have been periods I let it slip away, and I was sorry. Dad and I used to sing hymns, loudly and off key, and I love the hymns, the ritual of the Methodist or Christian church. On Sunday evenings, Dad would play the piano, and we'd sing together--sometimes Scottish songs, though his specialty was "Redwing" and I still hear that melody going through my head.
There are things I didn't take from Dad, one being his love of gardening. It was his avocation, and he spent weekends on his knees, in disreputable clothes, digging in the dirt. We owned the lot next to our house, and it was Dad's garden, beautiful to behold. Then in the summer evenings, he and Mom would sit out there and have a drink. Today I like a lovely garden, but I don't like doing the work...and these days my aging back won't let me.
There are of course facets to me that come from my mom and some that sprang up to surprise them and me. But so much of me is my dad come to life again--I even look like a MacBain. So, thanks, Dad,and Happy Birthday.