In my last post, I wrote about being “flawless” and what an absolute silly notion we all have about trying to achieve it.

I’ve recently come to the conclusion that I don’t want to be “flawless”. I just want better health, better skin, and home products that are actually going to leave less of a detrimental environment than some I’ve used in the past.

Now, this is a journey for me, I’m not completely there yet, but I’m learning more and more about the products I’m promoting and the impact I want them to have on my life. I had those grandmothers with their own brand of Tupperware in the form of Country Crock and Cool Whip containers.  I feel sure I wasn’t the only one with an aunt who used Bluebird orange juice cans when rolling her hair.

Coffee grounds and egg shells went to compost, and watermelon rinds and bean hulls fed chickens. I’d rather not discuss the huge ball of aluminum foil that was treated like a precious commodity, particularly at church suppers and family reunions. As a child I thought they were nuts for the recycling ideas they came up with, but now I know that using things that are not only good for me, but also for others and for future generations is not kooky, but smart.

But, how do we choose something better? How do we compare which vitamin works better, or is a better buy? How do we sit down and look at our skin care regimen and not spend forty-seven and a half hours on the internet looking for something that works, has botanical roots, and will also be kinder to the checkbook?

Wouldn’t it be great if someone offered home shopping and cost comparing services? Just have someone come in at your convenience, sit down with you and give you a cost by cost comparison on the things you use every day? Makeup, skin care, health, home products - AND you only have to talk about the products YOU want to talk about. No pressure, no hidden fees, no obligation. Wouldn’t that be marvelous?

Hallelujah, it exists! I have joined with some other fabulous business owners to bring you your own, live and in person, personal shopping experience. We’ll sit down over a cup of coffee and look at whatever you want. We can do only skin, only beauty, only health, or only home. Or a combination of all. We’ll go over cost comparison, we can set up automatic shipments at whatever time frame is convenient for you, and put together a comprehensive package with however little or much you want. You don’t have to change anything you honestly don’t think is better for you.  Easy, convenient, and time saving. How can you say no?

So….don’t. Let us help you. I know how many demands are placed on our time. If we can save you money AND give you more time to do the things you love, AND improve your skin, health and home-….well, I don’t know how you can resist.

Flawless. Miriam-Webster states the meaning of this word to be having no flaw or imperfections. I don’t know about you, but there are not many things in my fifty-four years of being on this earth that I have found to be flawless. It seems that no matter how perfect something appears to be- a job, a relationship, a haircut, a piece of jewelry or art- an imperfection can be found, if one chooses to look hard enough.

And, why is this even a word? Why do we feel we need to be able to place perfection in such high regard? And who gets to be the one to say something is flawless anyway? If an expert jeweler, for example, instead of an art expert,  states that a piece of art is flawless, would he or she be believed? Since beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as the quote goes, is flawlessness in the eye of the beholder as well? Or do we hold being flawless to a higher standard than being beautiful? Is flawlessness as subjective as beauty? Does it matter if the object of flawlessness differs? Of course, it is doubtful there are set-in-stone answers. Many will say it is a subjective argument. Some may say there are NO answers. Some won’t even care. I don’t. Because I believe imperfections are what makes each one of us unique. I believe imperfections make us interesting and attractive and aggravating and marvelous.

That’s why I’m going to call this blog, “Flawless”. Exactly because none of us are, and because I believe we shouldn’t care. I believe instead we should concentrate on being our best selves and applying it to what surrounds us, and what is in us, and what is on us. Better surroundings, better health, better skin. What is better? Whatever you believe it to be. I happen to believe I will live a better life by not only being good to others, but by being good to myself as well.

 I want good, reliable home products that work, and won’t do any more damage to our environment than we already have. I want biodegradable when I can get it, and I want botanical too. I also want value, and sound content.

I want skin care  and makeup products that work to keep my skin healthy, not just make it look better. Of course, looking better is a bonus that I won’t begrudge, but it’s not my main goal. I want health products that actually work and will make me feel better, but are also made from natural and safe ingredients.

If this sounds like you, then join me. I promise you will never ever read anything that is boring. I promise I will showcase in this blog ONLY products that I believe to better for me and better for you. If I don’t like it, it won’t be put into print that I do. I happen to believe in the skin care, health care, and home care line I promote, but that doesn’t mean I like every single thing. It doesn’t mean you have to, either. I happen think you’ll love what you use, but I’m not going to throw eggs at you if you don’t.

Here’s to new beginnings for me, and hopefully for you, too.  Someone much wiser than me once said that the only thing constant in this world is change.  If this is true, maybe it’s time for a change in the way you take care of your skin, or your health, or your home. Come see me at 418 Beauty Bar on Facebook.  There you will find a link to my Amway page and posts about our many products and services. I hope to see you there!

Dorothy was right, but MUSC gives their all.

So we're here today at our second home. Most of the world knows this place as Hollings Cancer Center, at the Medical University of South Carolina. I call it our second home for a variety of reasons: first, because we do seem to reside there at times. Second, because there has not been one staff member that has treated us as if we were just another patient, a number on a list of things to do, or as a small intrusion on their busy schedule. Every receptionist, assistant, nurse, doctor, research coordinator and volunteer has gone above and beyond with every single appointment, question, treatment, or problem we have had. I cannot speak for others who have been here; but for us, we like that we are recognized, called by name, asked about our day, our lives, our family. They remember trivial things like our love for camping, or photography, or that we have a new puppy. They ask about our son who will soon be part of the US Marine Corps; they ask after our daughter who is in law school.
Our oncologist is an amazingly patient and compassionate man. Dr. Golshayan has never seemed hurried, distracted, or as if he would rather be somewhere else when he is seeing us. He speaks with a slight accent I can't quite place, and always, always, always fills us with hope when we visit. Not false hope, as in a pat on the back and "you just let me worry about it" hope; he tells us of research studies and new drugs and new treatments on the horizon. He always spells out specifically what he wishes to do, and never lets us forget there is a next step, a next way, a new hope that may be just what we need. He goes over every test with us and lets us know exactly where we stand in terms of progression of Gerald's cancer, but always mangages to do it in a way that does not take away our hope. I can think of nothing worse than having no hope. Gerald and I are both devout followers of Christ, and ultimately our hope is in Him. But we do feel He sends us very special people to guide us on this journey. People to encourage us, inform us, and help us make safe and appropriate decisions for Gerald's care.
Today is a special day. We have been approved to take part in a research study for a medication that may slow the progression of Gerald's bone metastasis, and relieve his pain more efficiently. We are very excited. It is an IV infusion that he will take every two weeks for six weeks. He is getting the first dose today, so he has to wait after he receives the infusion to ensure he has no ill effects. They gave him Benadryl and Tylenol to prevent a possible reaction to the medication, so he is lying in the recliner sleeping. It's much more comfortable than the straight-backed chair I'm sitting in, but it's all about him today, so I'm good. I keep watch over him even though he has excellent nurses. I look for even the slightest hint of anything "hinky" (yes, it's a medical term) just like I always do. I'm getting hungry, as he will be when his drugs wear off. We take turns picking out places to eat when we're here (by the way, the staff is awesome with suggestions for dining as well) , and today it's my turn. I'm thinking the Boulevard Diner in Mount Pleasant, but we'll have to wait and see if he feels up to it.
There are many noises going on around me. The infusion lab at HCC is a busy place. There are people here getting chemotherapy, blood, study drugs, and medications for other chronic illnesses besides cancer, like Sickle Cell Anemia, organ disorders, and Chrohn's disease. Everyone has a story. The man sitting across from us tells us he has a chronic kidney problem that causes him to come every so often for treatment. He states if he misses an appointment, he could very well die, because it's the medication that keep his kidneys functioning. He is very small in stature, his flip-flop clad feet not even touching the floor below his chair. He has a very round face, speaks with an impediment of some sort, and is very nervous about his treatment. Tina, his nurse as well as ours, puts him at ease with her quiet voice and confident manner. He sits back in his chair, still a little nervous, but smiles at her, and relaxes his arm for the IV placement. Bells are going off on the other side of us, and Tina, having deftly started the IV, moves on to the beep; it is an elderly gentleman with prostate cancer who is receiving a Zometa infusion, and the IV pump is yelling at her that it's finished its job. He is hard of hearing, and is yelling everything to her: "CAN I GO NOW? ARE WE DONE HERE?" She reassures him and leans forward to speak directly into his ear. "Yes, sir. Let me take the needle out and you can go. I'm going to call your son right now to come in and get you." He leans back, resting in the fact the he can soon go home.
Two nurses at the desk are arguing over where to get their lunch, and the ward clerk on the unit is laughing at them, telling them as large as their hips are, neither one needs any lunch. They playfully take a swat at him, and he scoots our of their reach, laughing. The patients that have cubicles around the desk laugh as well.
Like I said, everyone here has a story, a sadness, a difficulty to deal with. Just like us, they probably don't think about it most days, but on the days they have to come here, it helps to have it feel just a little like home, just a little like what's going on with you matters, really matters, to them.

Cancer Sucks, or Watching Your Husband Go Through the Fire....and You Can't Even Find a Firehose!

I apologize, Dear Reader, for taking so long to post another blog. I have no excuse, other than I simply have not had the energy, the patience, or the first blessed inkling of what I wanted to write about.
Lately, I have been thinking (and praying, and crying, and whining) about what my husband and I have gone through in the last three years. July of 2007, our entire world was not only rocked, but turned upside-down, spun around, and set down slightly off-kilter. Imagine a beach house in a hurricane....the winds and the waves rush under it, lifting it off its foundation, tossing it about. The insides are trashed, the furniture's wrecked, but the house miraculously stands. When the winds die and the waters recede, you find your home sitting halfway on a foundation...only maybe it's not the foundation it was originally on. And you know your house is never going to be the same. Yeah. That's it. That's the feeling we had when we sat on the other side of that big desk in the doctor's office.
Many things have transpired since then. My daughter graduated from USC, aced her LSATs, and made it into USC School of Law on her first try. My son graduated high school and enlisted in the United States Marine Corps. He leaves for Parris Island in January. OOOH-RAH! We are so proud of them. God has blessed us with wonderful children.
My mother-in-law has had a series of strokes that has left her with dementia and a new hatred for her daughter-in-law. My husband's brother has increased his idiotic behavior by tenfold, a feat I would have thought impossible. I digress. The in-law blog will wait. If I write it now, I would spew. I don't like to spew. I like to flow. So let's flow.
One day in June, my husband Gerald mentioned to me that for the last 2 or three mornings he'd been having to get up at night four or five times to go to the bathroom. I am a nurse by trade, so I immediately set up an appointment with a urologist in a week. Gerald was 42, had just had a complete physical 6 months prior, and the only health problem he had was hypertension. I thought maybe he had a urinary tract infection, or prostatitis. Honestly, prostate cancer never even entered my mind. From July 2007, however, it has never left.
My husband called me after he met with the urologist that day. "So what did he say?", I asked. After a couple of seconds of silence, his voice, quivering, replied, "He says he thinks I may have cancer." I could not bear that I sent him to that appointment alone. I will never, ever forget how his voice sounded over the phone. God help me, if I would have had an inkling of what was actually wrong, I would have moved heaven and earth to be there. What I thought was a routine appointment turned out to be anything but. Looking back, I can see this is where we stepped into the coaster car, secured our valuables, and were mindful to remain seated at all times. I told him how much I loved him, and we would get through this, and we would talk about it at home. I cried all the way home that day, tears blinding me so that I wasn't sure I would make it home without wrecking the car. I prayed, I begged, I bargained, I railed, I screamed about how unfair this all was.
When I got home, we sat in the living room without speaking for what seemed like hours. I finally broke the silence by saying, "So what do we tell the kids?" We decided to keep the "maybe it's cancer" part our of it, and told them the doctor was treating him for prostatitis (which was the partial truth; he wanted Gerald's prostate to be as "clean" as possible before he did the biopsy).
Ten days later, I drove Gerald to his office for the biopsy. A few days after that, he called Gerald and said, "Please call your wife and ask her to meet you at my office this afternoon." When we arrived, we were made to wait in the lobby and make small talk with the receptionist. I comment to my husband that I think it's atrocious to make people who have been specifically called in to talk to the doctor WAIT longer than a couple of minutes. He's too anxious to reply. So much for small talk. We sit silently in the waiting area, each of us in our own thoughts....I didn't know what Gerald was thinking that day; I've never asked. But I was thinking, "what if, what if, I should've, I could've"...I was a nurse for Pete's sake. I should have asked the doctor to do a PSA at his last physical 6 months ago. But he was only 42, with no family history of prostate cancer....I didn't know....God, I didn't know....I should've watched for signs more closely....I could've educated him better about the symptoms of prostate cancer....but, he really had not had any. You get the point. Round and round I was going in my head, trying to see if there were other, more subtle signs I should have picked up on. I ran through every sneeze, every cough, every ache, every complaint he had ever made over the last six months.
Just as I had almost convinced myself I was a terrible nurse and should quit the practice, the doctor's nurse ushers us down the hall to his private office. The walk down that hallway felt like a walk down the hallway in every horror movie one has ever seen; it was long, more narrow at the other end, and seemed to go on for infinity. My legs were wooden, my mouth was dry. Here's where we've started to feel the rise of the first hill of the roller coaster. Palms sweaty, heart pounding, up, up, up...the sheer anxiety of the climb exuding from every pore. We sat down in two chairs across from the doctor's desk, which was empty. I was furious. I looked at the nurse, who must have read my mind (nurses are good at reading each others' thoughts) and said, "He'll be right in." I hate that. I despise that. I have worked for several doctors in several offices and I NEVER told anyone the doctor would be right in if he wasn't. And if you, dear reader, are guilty of that, stop. Stop now. Just tell the truth. Most people are intelligent enough to know you're lying anyway.
After what to us seemed like hours, although the minute hands had barely moved, the doctor arrived. "Mr. Atkinson, Mrs. Atkinson, I have some tough news. 11 out of the 12 biopsies we did came back positive for cancer." Well, he gets credit for not beating around the bush, that's for sure. We were almost at the top of the hill. "Can we cure it?", Gerald asked the question I was too frightened to ask myself. "I'm not sure", the doc replied. Then came the mad rush down the highest hill. My heart went to the pit of my stomach, then dropped to the bottom of my feet. I was lightheaded, dizzy, and nauseous at the end of the first drop. "I want to schedule you for a CT scan, a bone scan, and surgery". Now through the loop-the-loops we go.
We scheduled the CT scan that day, the bone scan for the next day, and surgery for the next week. We were ushered out of his office as quickly as we were ushered in. It was as if once the doc got through the process of telling us the news, once the band-aid was ripped off quickly, his work was done. And we were numb, all the way to the hospital to pick up the contrast, all the way home. Except for holding Gerald's hand in mine on the drive back, we could have been in separate cars. The silence was roaring in my ears. I guess I was getting ready for the next hill to climb in that rackety old coaster car.
That was three years ago. We are still on the coaster ride. We climb, we get told oh, you'll probably have about two years. We rush down at breakneck speed, white-knuckled, breathless, eyes squeezed shut. On the road to the Medical University, we're climbing again: anxious, holding our breath, praying. Sitting in the tiny exam room is almost unbearable, the tension so palpable you can see it shimmering just outside the corner of your eye. Dr. Golshayhan walks in (NOT the jerk physician we began with, by the way)tells us things look great, everything's stable, let's keep doing what we're doing. Here comes the relief that follows the rush of flying downhill, then slowing down. No instant healing, no "looks like all the lesions we saw in the beginning are gone" but at least he gives us hope. He sees the coaster car we're in and he's trying his best to shore up our brakes, slow down the ride, and get us off. That's all we've wanted. He tells us he has many options for us to try if the current one starts to fail. He sits with us, makes us feel like he's got all the time in the world, and if he ever is late seeing us, actually apologizes for making us wait.
I have spoken of hurricanes and roller coasters, dear reader, and they both leave you feeling like you can't quite grasp what has just happened. It takes a while before you can remember back and see it clearly.
The "fire" analogy I mentioned in the title refers to how I feel at times. My husband is the strong, silent type of man. To add another metaphor to the mix, he is the kind described as walking softly and carrying a big stick. He's not much on talking about his "feelings" or discussing his illness. Because the type of treatments he takes target hormones more than the actual cancer itself right now, he doesn't "look sick". This is what people say to him when they see him after learning he has stage IV cancer. "Wow, you look great! You don't even look sick!". He says he's not sure how to respond to that, except to say a humble, "God is good". He says sometimes he thinks people must think he's lying about having cancer. As if anyone would lie about that. He's actually the one going through the fire, and I'm the one that has to stand helplessly by, watching him go through this. No fire hose, no water bucket, no wet blanket to help him. All I can do is try my best to help ensure the burns will heal. Oh, he will still have scar tissue, but maybe over time they will fade, and he can point to those scars when he's talking to others who have similar stories and say, "I earned every one of them, and they have helped make me who I am." How I long for that day. You say, "you're going through it with him," and you're right. But I'm not the one that's been told I only have a couple of years with my wife and kids and family and friends. I'm not the one who worries about leaving those people behind hurt and broken for having to go through this. I know he thinks about these things, and there is very little I can do to help that. I will stand by him, I will help him in any way I can, but it's still HIS life that hangs in the balance. It's heartbreaking to see him struggle through the emotion of trying to tell me these things. That he's not afraid of dying, he's just sad when he thinks of leaving me and the children behind, that he hates his treatments are putting us into debt, that he's sorry for causing me to lose days of work while coming with him to his appointments. All I can do is be there, be the voice of reason when he has his "bad days" and enjoy his company every day.
We still don't know what lies ahead of us fully. We aren't promised tomorrow, none of us. But we are still shocked when we're told we may only have a few years left. My husband is not even supposed to be here now. But he is, and he's strong, and loving life, and living life. What more could you ask for?

WOMAN CHANNELS LONESOME DOVE CHARACTER IN LOCAL BOOKSTORE....FULL STORY AT ELEVEN

There is a scene in Larry McMurtry’s book, “Lonesome Dove” that is a favorite of mine. A captain in the U.S. Calvary has spied one of Woodrow Call’s ranch hand’s horses, and wants to “commission” it for the U.S. Army. Dish, the ranch hand with the horse in question, politely tells him the horse is not for sale. The captain and his men sneer derisively and proceed to take the horse anyway. When Dish tries to stop him, he is beaten. Another ranch hand, Newt, attempts to protect Dish’s horse by taking the reins. When the captain begins to beat Newt with his quirt, Newt refuses to let go. Call, who is a retired Texas Ranger, comes out of the store, sees what’s going on, and without losing a step takes the captain’s own quirt and gives him a beating so severe, he appears to lose all reason, punching and hitting the man in almost robotic fashion. He is so intent on his punishment, his friend and business partner Gus has to pull him away to keep him from killing the man. The ranch hands are speechless, as they have never seen this side of their easygoing boss. As Call walks past them, dusting himself off, he sees their stunned expressions and explains, “I hate rude behavior in a man…I won’t tolerate it.”

Dear reader, I feel the same way. We as a society have lost the art of being polite. It was a thing a Southerner took pride in, being polite. Smiling when you didn’t feel like it. Helping someone even if it meant putting your own needs aside. Paying attention to details. Saying “yes ma’am” and “no ma’am”. “Thank you”. “Please”. Respecting the property of others. Understanding that the rights of others should not get lost in your "right" to be "right". Saying what you needed to say without intentionally hurting someone’s feelings, and if you did, saying you’re sorry, even when you said it as softly as you could.

When I was in nursing school (this was not in the last century, as you might think, but only 22 years ago) I had a nursing instructor who was a true Southern belle. She came from an old southern family, went to an all female college, lived in an old historical home, and never went without her hair and makeup done. My nursing instructor would most likely starve herself and her children before she went to the local Harris Teeter (southern belles don’t shop at the Pig) in nothing less than her finest. What she wore to shop for food, I wore to church. Sometimes.

I said all that to say this: that woman might have looked like she was as sweet as sugar, but screw up on one of her discussion questions and she would bury you. She would, however, send you to your grave with the most polite, “I’m so sorry…I really hope you do better next time” and a smile on her face that made you think you scored the highest in the class. Her name was Colleen Judd, and it didn’t take long for us to label her with the nickname “Killer KO-LEEN”. Even with that nickname, and her insistence on a 20 page dissertation on fetal circulation, we loved her. We loved her for one reason: she was polite and kind. When she handed you your paper, it could be a 95 or a 35, and you would get the same smile and pat on the shoulder as she passed. She never argued with you over a question, a comment, a grade. She would let you know she was right but did it politely. Somehow a bad grade didn’t hurt quite as bad; it made you just want to do better next time. Her smile and gentleness kind of took the “zing” out of a sucky day. Yes, I said sucky, and she would not like that word. Sorry, Mrs. Judd.

I’ve had teachers, instructors, speakers, a husband, superiors (I use this term loosely), and children who snorted at every mistake I made while trying to learn something by asking what must’ve looked like to them a stupid question. And every time I hear that snort, or see that condescending smile (you know, the one where their eyes glaze over, they tilt their head to one side, and are mentally going over their acceptance speech at winning the Oscar for pretending to be interested in what you have to say) I think of Colleen Judd, who taught me the art of saying what needed to be said without wounding the soul. I have not always done this; I know this to be true. But I do try. Every day, I try. And when someone snorts at me, I feel like Woodrow Call. I just want to beat the crap out of someone. On these days I go home and watch “Cops”, hoping to see the police officers use the tazer on a particularly obnoxious person and get a chortle or two. Sad, isn’t it?

On recent occasion, this was very difficult to do. I was having one of those “should’ve stayed in bed with the covers over my head” days. Shall I tell you? Oh, yes, let me tell you. I must warn you: not but one person in my story was anywhere near a Judd. It was brutal.

The day started with me calling my insurance company to inquire why they had refused to pay for my recent eye exam when I had gone to a physician that was listed on their web site as an accepted provider. The conversation went something like this:

“It’s a great day at Blue Choice Healthcare. This is Debbie (fictional name given to protect the guilty from suing me), how can I help you?”

“Hi, Debbie. This is (me) and I’m calling to inquire about the listing you have on your website for Dr. Jane Smith (again fictional) as being an accepted provider. You have her listed, but when I had my exam, payment was denied from Blue choice, and I had to pay out of my pocket.” (Something someone who pays as much for insurance as I do should NEVER have to do)

(After quite a bit of her tap, tap, tapping on her keyboard; yes, the Poe analogy is intentional) she says, between the smacks of gum, “That’s because Dr. Smith is not listed as a provider”.

Uhm, didn’t she hear me say she was? In my mind, I’m thinking maybe she doesn’t understand Southern, so I slow my words down. “Yes, she is listed. I’m looking at YOUR website and she is listed as a provider whose services are covered under MY policy with YOUR company.”

“Ma’am, I’m not seeing her as listed with our company as a provider. Are you sure you’re on the right page?”

“Do you have another page with vision care providers listed?”

“Not to my knowledge, no. Just the one.”

“Well, it’s your web site. The web address is www……” Here, she interrupts me.

“Ma’am, I’m not sure I can access the page you’re referring to.”

“But you said you only had one page. If you only have one page of vision providers listed, surely we’re looking at the same page.”

“Ma’am, we don’t always have access to the pages the customers do. But I’m telling you (ooooohhhh….see, she messed up right there…..telling me) she is NOT listed as a vision care provider with our company. Therefore, YOU are responsible for all costs involved in seeing her…..”

“Yes, Debbie. I am aware of that. I wrote the check. My question is not whether or not I need to pay the bill. The bill is paid. My question why MY web page has her listed as a provider when she’s not. I would think you would like to correct this error before someone else pays a visit to her that costs them unnecessarily.”

By the way, the gum smacking continues ALL THE WAY through this conversation.

“Well, all I can tell you is I can’t access the page you’re referring to.”

She had to do it. She HAD to end that sentence with a preposition.

“I have not given you the web address of the page to which I am referring, Debbie. You wouldn’t let me.”

You were too busy cracking your gum, heavily sighing, and rolling your eyes through the phone at me.

“It wouldn’t matter, ma’am.” At least she did call me ma’am. Although it didn’t sound right coming in between cracks of gum. “We can’t always access the same pages the customers can.”

“But you said you only had one page of providers. If you only have one page of providers….” And that’s when I knew I was secretly being taped for “Candid Camera”. I felt like Lou Costello in that old “Who’s on First” routine. I just politely said “Thank you, Debbie” and rang off the phone. It did seem rather pointless to argue with someone who didn’t care whether they were actually helping you or not. I could have asked for her supervisor, but beleaguering a point until I wanted to climb through the phone and choke her with the cord seemed detrimental to my ability to continue paying bills I shouldn’t have had to pay.

With my newly purchased contact lens prescription in hand (I didn’t get them at Dr. Smith's office because my insurance would not have paid for them) I called a provider that Debbie assured me was listed. The conversation was short; I was going on vacation the next day and wanted to know if my prescription was in stock. The woman on the phone assured me they were, and that day after I left work, I trekked out to the mall to get them. THIS brief moment in history went something like this:

I walk into the store and go to the customer service counter, where no one is present. After a few moments, a man came from the back of the store with a huge grin.

“Hi, can I help you?”

“Yes, I called earlier to see if you had my particular brand of contact lenses in, and was told you did. I came to get a box of each.” I hand him that costly piece of paper, my prescription.

“Wow. I didn’t think they even made these anymore. No one wears these anymore.”

“I do.”

“Well, little lady (I promise to God he called me a “little lady”) I don’t think we carry these in stock. Have to special order these suckers.”

“The woman on the phone assured me you had these “suckers” in stock”.

He looks around furtively. “It wasn’t me.”

“I know it wasn’t you. It was a woman. Clearly, you are not female.”

He chuckles. “Heh, heh, no ma’am, I’m sure not.” He stands a little taller and sticks out his chest like Charles Atlas. Who was he trying to convince?

“Do you have them, sir?”

This is where I just about lost my mind, because he didn’t even look. He didn’t even pretend to look. I mean, couldn’t he at least go into the back and thrown a couple of boxes around, make some noise?

“Nope. Gonna have to order ‘em.” Didn’t even call me little lady that time.

“How soon could you have them if I order them?”

“Oh, it’s gonna take probably about a week for them suckers to come in.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t have that kind of time. I’ll check elsewhere. I’m going on vacation and ….” Can you believe as soon as I said I wasn’t interested in ordering, he walked away from me, before I even finished my sentence? No, “Thanks anyway, maybe next time”, or “Sorry, sure wished I could’ve helped”. He just walked away.

With blood roaring in my ears, I decided to walk down to the other place in the mall where they sold contacts and see about my luck. THAT little excursion went something like this:

I walk in to see two salesmen, one talking on a cell phone in what was clearly a personal conversation, and one preening in front of the eyeglass mirror. I clear my throat. The peacock looking at himself in the mirror turns and hits the one on the phone in the arm. “Your turn”, he hissed. I mean, did they think I was deaf? Blind? Dumb? Desperate? Well, desperate….a little.

“I’d like to see someone about possibly buying some contact lenses. I have a prescription…”

He’s relieved. He works in glasses. He escorts me to a desk in the corner where they clearly don’t observe the child labor laws, because these two girls behind the counter looked about twelve. One is on the phone, again, clearly having a personal conversation. The other has her purse on her shoulder. And gum. Smells like Juicy Fruit.

“I’d like to buy some contact lenses. I have a prescription.”

She looks at me as if I have grown two extra heads. “Uhm”, she twirls a lock of hair, “we’ve already gone to the bank…”

Well, bully for you. Glad to know you got that little chore out of the way. This is my business…..how?

“What do you mean?”

“Huh?” “Oh! I meant like we couldn’t give you, like, change, or anything….”

“I don’t need change. I have a credit card.”

Deer in headlights look again. “Ohm….well….see……we’ve, like, already locked up the contacts.”

“Did you throw away the key?” I know I shouldn’t have, dear reader, but I couldn’t help it. As AC/DC sings, “Evil walks behind you, evil talks around you”. Evil was singing its sweet, seductive song to me. Yep, in four-part harmony by this time.

“What?” “Oh, ha ha.” “No ma’am, but it’s just like……we could probably order them for you……tomorrow…..maybe?”

“I’m sorry. Did I ignore the closed sign? Are you not open?” I look around, incredulous at the….well….stupidity I see going on in this place. I ask to speak to the manager. I am ushered back to the eyeglass part of the store, where I find the manager is Mr. Peacock. I tell him of the terrible service I received…er, didn’t receive, and that I would NEVER buy a pair of glasses or anything else out of his store and that he needs to send himself and his staff to a seminar on customer service. Turns out he was also the optometrist. Guess if I went there anytime soon to have my eyes checked he’d probably try to blow my eyeballs out with the eye pressure tester.

I turn on my heel and march out the store in proper drama queen fashion. Wait, there’s Barnes and Noble. I ordered a book there last week. Let me check to see if it’s in. I walked in to the customer service desk. No one is there. I am beginning to think Customer Service is the job I am going to be relegated to in Heaven. After waiting for, count ‘em, dear reader, 7 minutes, I look to my left. There is a girl stocking books on a shelf. She glances at me. And keeps right on stocking books. I look to my right. There is a young man stocking books on a shelf. He glances at me. And keeps right on stocking books. Are they being timed? Is there a minimum quota of books to be stacked hourly? As I ponder jumping behind the customer service desk and taking it hostage for the remainder of the evening, another clerk walks. Right. By. Me. She refuses to make eye contact. Does that assure her that I will not attack her? Did she learn that in some B & N seminar? NEVER MAKE EYE CONTACT. DO NOT MAKE EYE CONTACT. KEEP THE CUSTOMER CONFUSED. PLAY DEAD IF YOU HAVE TO. WALK FAST. Is this the new mantra of customer service? If I had a quirt, or knew of somewhere in the mall I could have purchased one, beloved, you would have woken up to the Morning News headline reading, "LOCAL WOMAN CHANNELS LONESOME DOVE CHARACTER IN BIZARRE ATTACK AT BARNES AND NOBLE".

I walk to the back of the store, where the checkout counter is located. There is life! A woman is kneeling behind the counter with her back to me, stocking books on a lower shelf. I gotta tell ya, I practically live my off hours in a bookstore, and I have never seen so many people so eager to stock books in my life. Anyway, I clear my throat. Without turning OR looking around she says, “Yes?” in a very short, clipped manner that is meant to assure me I am working on her last nerve.

“I am checking to see if a book I ordered has arrived.”

She utters a heavy sigh. She continues to stock. “Did you get a notice that it was here?”

“No ma’am. I was already in the mall and just thought I would check.”

Another heavy sigh. She groans as she rises to her feet and faces me. “Name?”

I couldn’t help it. “My name, or the name of the book?” I give her a “Killer KO-LEEN” smile.

“YOUR name.” I was really working that vein above her right eye. I could see it pulsating from where I stood.

As I give her my name, she tap, tap, taps the keys…behold, it’s in!

She points me in the direction of the customer service desk, and must see the stricken look on my face, because she assures me she will usher someone over to take care of me.

As I reach the desk, the nice older man behind the desk smiles at me and says, “Hey, I got your book you ordered right here. Looks really interesting. I see it’s about the Gullah way of life. I love reading about our South Carolina history. I visit Charleston every chance I get. Have you ever been to…?”

We have an entire adult conversation that did not make me groan, wince, roll my eyes, or wish I knew a little Voodoo.

And that, dear reader made the day all worthwhile. I wrap myself in paper and words the way some wrap themselves in a warm blanket, or take a hot bath. When I find someone else that feels the same, I exude happiness the way a dog wags its tail when its master has arrived home.

If I have point to this wretched tale I’ve woven, I guess it’s this: a little genuine-ness, a little kindness, an extra effort, a little interest in someone else’s life can go a long way.

If you work in customer service (or really if you just want to be a better human being), I want you think about this story the next time you’re in a hurry to go to lunch, or you think how you act doesn’t matter, or you want to treat others the way you’ve been treated in the past. The man I met at the end of the day was no different than any other character I introduced in this sordid little tale. He just, for two minutes out of his hectic day, made me feel better. It was a small act that went un-noticed to everyone else on the planet. Except me.