Clawing back cash

It had to come. A review of extravagances that fall into the category of “desirable but not necessary.” First to feel the cinch of purse strings was the New York Times. It’s delivered on Friday, Saturday and Sunday, mainly because the Sunday crossword is a worthy Sabbath challenge.  Very occasionally, I complete that crossword but the Friday and Saturday puzzles are beyond my IQ level. Furthermore, thirty-six bucks or so seemed excessive in relation to the amount of time I spent reading any of the publication. With grim determination I phoned Customer Service and dealt the heavy blow of cancellation. Great disappointment from the delightful man at the other end of the line. “Why are you cancelling the subs now, you’ve been a subscriber for eleven years?  We don’t want to lose you.” He walked right into my beastly trip. “I am not too impressed with the left-leaning bent of the op-eds,” I claimed and added, for further ammo, that it was too expensive anyway.  The pleasant fellow said he would talk to his supervisor about the situation. I twiddled my thumbs, created a particularly attractive doodle around The Times’ masthead until he returned with amagical offer. I am keeping the delivery of the NYT but now paying  a derisory sum for it.

Next to go under my particular budget cut was the Loft charge card. I was late with a payment having been away for over a month and received, as expected, a finance charge of a buck or two. My tolerance level for that was acceptable, but I howled in pain at a “$25 late fee.”  Snatching the phone from its cradle, I managed to speak to a disarmingly charming young woman. She was so nice I had to cut back a bit on my wrath. I explained what had happened and threatened to close the card forthwith. She had to have had a smile on her face when she offered, with no further encouragement, to remove the $25, and finished by wishing me “a nice day.” Usually a wish so insincere that it  makes me want to spit. This time, I liked what she had to say and promised not to cancel the card.

Next in my sights is the cable company, a much more tricky negotiation as I am uncertain what I am paying for at the moment. I know it adds up to $71 per month for TV and Internet access. I can stomach the Internet charge but find it hard to justify spending so much on TV when  Jack Bauer  and Mrs Bucket are the mainstays of my viewing week. When that situation has been milked, I shall attend to the telephone charges where I can envisage spectacular savings.  Up to now, the best I have been able to do is sign up for Skype. It worked, with camera and all, a couple of times, but since then no one can hear me . A situation with which I am displeased and unfamiliar. So it’s definitely back to the land line companies for some “friendly adjustments.”

In these tough economic times, every little counts and, believe me, I am counting every little dime.

retail and retaliation

Shopperholics must be in a  state equivalent to an alcoholics’ delium tremens these days. Despite being  a truly reluctant non-shopper, I have been unable to avoid the lure of the great maw of shopping malls. Recent visits to the mall force me to wonder how retailers can bear to open their doors each day as they give away great hanks of profit in a desperate bid to rid the stores of mother lodes of inventory. On an open day at a departrment store, I discovered Polo stuff at 40% off – and it was this season’s merchandise, not some old left-over from the summer. Big investment on my part at full price, translated into not such a big investment with that 40% whacked off the total. In the shoe department, I found shoes at full price, but at the register a negligent clerk had omitted to remove a neat little printed sign that declared “20% Off All Regular and Reduced Price Shoes.” Gottcha, thought I, and politely requested the appropriate deduction. “That should not be there and you are not entitled to the discount,” claimed the harassed clerk. A much more experienced and, dare I say it, larger lady than I, then chipped in her two cents’ worth. “It says 20% off, you have to give it to her,” she said, bullying the salesman into agreement. Then, the coup de gras from my new found friend. “I want my 20% off these shoes too.” I could see the salesman was steamed, but he was caught.

The cashmere sweaters were marked down from $110 to $49.99, which attracted me, so I collected two of those and then thrust an “extra $10 off any purchase over $25″ coupon clipped from the morning’s newspaper into the hands of  the clerk. Actually, she was merely ringing in sales and flogging a further whopping discount if I decided on getting a store credit card. Not for me that day, but two days later, I succumbed in another chain store, bought a terrific shirt (already discounted by 20%) plus a further 15% for signing up for a credit card I shall never use.

What’s a retailer to do? Mark-downs are the great incentives. For shoppers like me who loathe the very thought of listening to screeching hangers sliding along clothes racks and making decisions about what looks good and what looks almost hideous, the darned incentives work. Where will it all end? No doubt some shops will crash into obilvion, among them the interesting niche stores. The greater challenge will be to wean the consumer off the heady wine of discounts and not paying full price.  Come on retailers, show us your mettle and stay in business by providing great customer service and excellent product. “Have a nice day” is so yesterday and so is “Can I help you?” No salesperson should ever ask a question to which the curt answer is a firm”No.”

technology, the tyrant

I was brought up on a steam typewriter and used carbon paper to make copies: after today’s struggle with scanning a document I ache for the days of yore. Technology is a tyrant to old wobblies like me. Apparently I can’t live without it, but living with it is excruciating, not least because any kid can accomplish, with a couple of clicks, that which takes me hours to do. The scans disappear into the ether, then re-appear all smushed together on one page which becomes so beladen with bytes and gigs that my poor old e-mail cannot stomach the load and refuses to spit any of it onwards to the required destination. Circumventing this particular nastiness required cunning that only a codger could concoct. I scanned each miserable sheet singly, eventually locating them exactly where I had sent them. That was a new and interesting experience.

After the sweat and tears involved in that little episode (it took up the best part of an afternoon) my Skype decided to play the goat. I could see and be seen and talk to my contacts, but could not hear a word they said. Struck dumb, they were. We communicated the old fashioned way – with nods and shakes of the head, much finger wagging and then with typing. The Help menu was explicit, but did not appear to apply to my particular piece of high-tech machinery. I remain dumb and dumbfounded.

teaching

In a contemptuous way, I used to think that those “who can’t” – teach. Wrong. After sixteen hours of being taught how to teach, I was released on a totally non-speaking English student fully expecting her to be reading and comprehending Einstein’s Theory of Relativity after three sessions under my careful tutelage.

Each session lasts about an hour and a quarter and the poor dear, whose native language is Spanish, has tolerated fourteen lessons with Einstein nowhere in sight. However, we are making some progress with the verb “To be” – perhaps it should read “or not to be” as my ability to project the meaning of this stinkingly simply verb to a Spanish-speaker has caused concern. Mainly for me. I imagine that my student would be making great strides forward if she was left in the capable hands of a true teacher, not a blessed amateur. However, I take encouragement from the fact that she appears three times a week for the lessons with me  despite her heavy work schedule.  

Shortly after my expectations about my teaching skills were dashed, I contacted my “mentor” who assured me that there was no room for disillusion.  “Keep at it,” he advised: use short words, use reptition until you are blue in the face, make it interesting. Easy for him, and back to the teaching trenches for me.

Progress is measured in milimeters and I am amazingly elated when I receive a telephone call from my student. Using the phone is not  a subject we have covered, even though it is number two in the beginner’s English textbook. I am not even particularly put out when the phone call is to let me know she cannot attend this evening’s session.  In the past, she has had a friend telephone me with information. What courage it must have taken her to place the call.  She used my name, mentioned the word “lesson” and that she was tired. Great – all words that have been on the flash cards for the last three weeks.

Back to the fray tomorrow. I hope my student is getting as much out of these efforts as I am. And, damn it, I now have to acknowledge that my teachers truly were talented and inspirational. I wish I had realised that at the time – nearly fifty years ago!