I just returned the Montel Williams Health Master Blender. Thirteen dollars for return shipping, but, honestly I would have paid anything just to get the damn thing out of the house. It was sitting on my dining room table for three days - brand new and not even unpacked completely. I couldn’t even lift it out of the tight styrofoam packaging. When I removed the outside box to reveal all the pieces, I found an instructional CD as well as a booklet of instructions for assembly. That did it for me. Anything that complicated was too scary for me. And I feared that I would never be able to get it packed exactly right when I wanted to return it, so I just left it sitting there.
On the second day, waving his arm over the dining room table full of boxes and blender parts wrapped in plastic sticking out of styrofoam packaging, my husband asked, “What’s all this mess?”
“Just ignore it; I’m returning it,” I answered.
I wouldn’t even try it for the sixty day trial period. I knew the moment I hung up the phone, after the woman took my order, that I would be returning it. Even before it arrived, I was thinking, I wonder how much it’s going to cost to return the darn thing.
I’ve done this before. I wake up at 3:00 in the morning, roll over and realize that I still haven’t digested my dinner. Something is wrong somewhere in my digestive tract and I feel like if I could just sit up and burp everything would be alright. Except, when I sit up, I realize the dinner I had at 7:00 PM isn’t going anywhere fast.
I stumble downstairs, boil some water for a cup of peppermint tea, settle into the recliner and find that position that will make it tolerable for the next hour or so until I can burp or do whatever gastronomical emission is necessary to get this sludge moving down the pipes and on its way.
At 3:00 AM there isn’t much to watch when you have the cheapest cable TV program money will buy – channels 2 through 21. But that particular night I hit on something big. Montel Williams was doing a show on the Montel Williams Health Master Blender. I watched in awe for almost an hour while they pulverized vegetables, fruits, nuts and even a piece of brick. Yes, a piece of brick was actually ground down to grey sand. I leaned forward for a closer look and burped. Ahhh
I was feeling better already and thought, this must be fate that I’m up at this hour to see this amazing Health Master Blender! I reached for a pencil and wrote the phone number down, but I wouldn’t call just yet; I wasn’t 100% convinced that I needed another appliance in the house. After all, I’m not new at this. I’ve done this before. Sitting up all alone at night, you order stuff just to feel like you’re not the only one awake at this god forsaken hour. Who else can you call at 3:30 in the morning besides LL Bean or the Health Master Blender order taker?
A few months earlier, while I was trying to digest another heavy dinner, I ordered the amazing Mandolin Slicer-Dicer-Shredder. I knew I had to have this appliance. The guy doing the demo was slicing vegetables with the speed and accuracy of a Samurai and spinning around the kitchen like a whirling dervish. Watching him, you would swear he had more than two arms working at once. In a mere ten minutes he had an entire kitchen table and two countertops full of an assortment of vegetables, fruits, cheeses, olives, hard-boiled eggs and even a rubber ball.
I never bothered to return the Amazing Mandolin. After slicing my fingers up just trying to get it out of the packaging to put it together, then mashing every vegetable I tried to slice into a mushy blob, I threw all the pieces into a large paper bag and tossed it into the garbage. I couldn’t risk losing a finger trying to repackage it and I didn’t want my husband to know I had ordered such a stupid thing in the first place. Except for a few band aids on my fingertips, that I explained as quilting mishaps, I left no trace of my foolish late night purchase.
But now Montel was introducing real people who had used the Health Master Blender and lost 30, 40, even 50 pounds, drinking nutritious vegetable smoothies. How fortunate I was to be up at this hour, to witness this amazing appliance that would change my life forever. I was dialing, credit card in hand, so excited I could feel a little ripple of gas escaping. Ahhh, more relief.
“Yes, I want to order the Montel Williams Health Master Blender! I’ll pay in the four easy installments,” I said, when the sweet talking southern woman answered the phone.
“If you pay in full tonight, we’ll upgrade you to the professional blender – the chef’s model– at no extra charge..”
“Yes! I’ll pay in full tonight.” Burp! “ Excuse me.”
When it came time for me to begin reading off the numbers on my VISA card, I faltered slightly and began asking more questions: Can you really grind up a brick? How strong is the motor? What kind of warranty is offered? Is the container glass or plastic? Is it very heavy? How much does the whole thing weigh? What are the exact dimensions? and, finally, Where is the blender made? Because if it’s made in China, I don’t want it. I don’t trust anything coming out of China!
All of my questions were answered satisfactorily except the last one. After she put me on hold for quite a while, the phone assistant finally came back on the line and admitted that no one there at the switchboard knew where the unit was manufactured.
“Why don’t you just order the blender,” she said, sounding more exhausted than I was. “We have a 60-day, no questions asked, return policy.”
And true to their sales marketing, there were no questions asked when I called to return the Montel Williams Master Blender that had arrived three days earlier in an oversized, very heavy box that had Made In China stamped in bold lettering and in plain sight.
With the Montel Williams Master Blender out of the house, at last, I know I’ll sleep much better tonight.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
That Russian Orphan
Have you been listening to the news these days, following the story about that Russian boy who was adopted by an American woman and then returned to Russia? The media slant - and the media always takes a slant - is portraying her as some cruel, irrational person. Who would send a child back, unaccompanied, on a plane to Russia?
The Russian foreign minister is outraged by this incident, saying, in an interview with ABC News' George Stephanopoulos, that the actions of the American parent were "monstrous, immoral and against the law." I watched the Today Show interview this morning as Matt Lauer asked the American author, who wrote a book about the adoption process in Russia, if there were any unique issues about that process. Here is her answer:
I got my child from Baby House #6. There were 106 children there where they were lined up in pack-n-play cribs. The children were cared for and loved.
He then asked if there was a higher incidence of emotional issues in Russian orphans. Here was her chance to shed light on the truth of how Russia treats their orphans. She came close, but I doubt anyone will pick up on her last sentence before the interview ended. Here is what she said:
Well, to some degree there is. There are attachment issues and sensory issues. It's very difficult for these children who spend almost 20 hours a day in their cribs.
I'll repeat that, in case you missed it: these children spend 20 hours a day in their cribs.
If you want to read further about the real abuse these children go through at the hands of the Russian orphanage system, I urge you to go to your local library and look for the book: The Boy From Baby House 10. From The Nightmare Of A Russian Orphanage To A New Life In America, by Alan Philips and John Lahutsky
This book is so disturbing to read; I often get a queasy stomach and have to put it down for a day or two. The conditions described in Russian orphanages is so horrific that they would be illegal in America. In fact, they would be illegal by ASPCA standards.
The book follows the life of a young Russian boy born prematurely with some disabilities, and, as a result, is diagnosed as retarded. He is bounced back and forth between the orphanage, an insane asylum and a hospital. Each place is worse than the one before it, and you start to pray that this child will simply die, just to escape the inhumane vile treatment he receives.
He is confined to one room for his entire first seven years and told to keep silent whenever he tries to speak on his own. He spends most of the day in a high-sided iron crib, lying in his own excrement, screaming himself to sleep. He never learned to walk because his muscles were unable to develop from lying in a crib all day. Instead, he would slither on the floor like a snake when no one was watching, because if he got caught out of his seat at mealtimes, he would be punished. I wouldn't give my pet dog the slop he was fed at mealtime. If the caregivers cited in this book ran a facility like that in America, they would have gone to jail for the cruel treatment they bestowed on these helpless children.
That's why I'm appalled by the sanctimonious reaction of the Russian foreign minister and others in the Russian orphanage system who are now threatening to withdraw any further applications for American adoptions. They are citing incidents of death among Russian children who were adopted by American parents. They do not cite the condition that these children are in when they arrive in this country, a result of the atrocious unhealthy upbringing during the most formative early childhood years in their Russian orphanages - conditions that could possibly contribute to their deaths after they arrive here.
Putting this boy on a plane back to Russia is not the outrage we should be focusing on. The real outrage is the immoral and inhumane conditions these helpless children are forced to endure in Russian orphanages. The Russian foreign minister should be outraged at his own country and their lack of adequate care for innocent helpless children in orphanages and their erroneous medical diagnoses that doom some children to a lifetime of hell when they land in an insane asylum.
I urge you to find a copy of this book. If you don't have time to read the entire book, open the middle of the book at page 112 and look at the horrific pictures. I guarantee you won't be able to put the book down. And, if nothing else, you will see the other side of this story, the side the Russians don't want the world to know about.
The Russian foreign minister is outraged by this incident, saying, in an interview with ABC News' George Stephanopoulos, that the actions of the American parent were "monstrous, immoral and against the law." I watched the Today Show interview this morning as Matt Lauer asked the American author, who wrote a book about the adoption process in Russia, if there were any unique issues about that process. Here is her answer:
I got my child from Baby House #6. There were 106 children there where they were lined up in pack-n-play cribs. The children were cared for and loved.
He then asked if there was a higher incidence of emotional issues in Russian orphans. Here was her chance to shed light on the truth of how Russia treats their orphans. She came close, but I doubt anyone will pick up on her last sentence before the interview ended. Here is what she said:
Well, to some degree there is. There are attachment issues and sensory issues. It's very difficult for these children who spend almost 20 hours a day in their cribs.
I'll repeat that, in case you missed it: these children spend 20 hours a day in their cribs.
If you want to read further about the real abuse these children go through at the hands of the Russian orphanage system, I urge you to go to your local library and look for the book: The Boy From Baby House 10. From The Nightmare Of A Russian Orphanage To A New Life In America, by Alan Philips and John Lahutsky
This book is so disturbing to read; I often get a queasy stomach and have to put it down for a day or two. The conditions described in Russian orphanages is so horrific that they would be illegal in America. In fact, they would be illegal by ASPCA standards.
The book follows the life of a young Russian boy born prematurely with some disabilities, and, as a result, is diagnosed as retarded. He is bounced back and forth between the orphanage, an insane asylum and a hospital. Each place is worse than the one before it, and you start to pray that this child will simply die, just to escape the inhumane vile treatment he receives.
He is confined to one room for his entire first seven years and told to keep silent whenever he tries to speak on his own. He spends most of the day in a high-sided iron crib, lying in his own excrement, screaming himself to sleep. He never learned to walk because his muscles were unable to develop from lying in a crib all day. Instead, he would slither on the floor like a snake when no one was watching, because if he got caught out of his seat at mealtimes, he would be punished. I wouldn't give my pet dog the slop he was fed at mealtime. If the caregivers cited in this book ran a facility like that in America, they would have gone to jail for the cruel treatment they bestowed on these helpless children.
That's why I'm appalled by the sanctimonious reaction of the Russian foreign minister and others in the Russian orphanage system who are now threatening to withdraw any further applications for American adoptions. They are citing incidents of death among Russian children who were adopted by American parents. They do not cite the condition that these children are in when they arrive in this country, a result of the atrocious unhealthy upbringing during the most formative early childhood years in their Russian orphanages - conditions that could possibly contribute to their deaths after they arrive here.
Putting this boy on a plane back to Russia is not the outrage we should be focusing on. The real outrage is the immoral and inhumane conditions these helpless children are forced to endure in Russian orphanages. The Russian foreign minister should be outraged at his own country and their lack of adequate care for innocent helpless children in orphanages and their erroneous medical diagnoses that doom some children to a lifetime of hell when they land in an insane asylum.
I urge you to find a copy of this book. If you don't have time to read the entire book, open the middle of the book at page 112 and look at the horrific pictures. I guarantee you won't be able to put the book down. And, if nothing else, you will see the other side of this story, the side the Russians don't want the world to know about.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
My Day OFF
I had a day off today. Accent on the word: OFF
In my mind a day off means exactly that. A day off. Off from work, off from responsibilities, appointments, demands. It also means a day off from fun, if I choose it to be that way.
On my day off I put the alarm clock under the bed and wake up when my body decides to awaken. If I decide to stay in my pajamas until 1:00 PM, and eat M&M’s and coffee for breakfast, no one is going to stop me. The idea of lunch might not occur to me at all because I’ve been picking on cookies and fruit all day.
I won’t make the bed, clean the bathroom or straighten up the kitchen all day. It’s my day off. I will take in the mail, but I won’t open any bills.
I don’t want to feel like I have to justify a day off or do something on my day off to make the off-time worthwhile. Why should I? Haven’t I been busy enough all week? Don’t I deserve to just do nothing on a day off?
So why, then, do I stutter like a guilty child when my husband calls in the middle of the day and asks, “So, what are you doing on your day off?” I draw a blank, I falter and pause and try to think up something –anything - that I’ve done in the past three hours that might justify my free time.
“I did some laundry and got an idea for my blog,” I say, hoping that those are adequate activities to justify the past six hours.
“It’s beautiful out today,” he answers. “Haven't you been out yet? You should go out somewhere today. Why don’t you take your mother to the beach and walk along the boardwalk, or pack a lunch and go to the park?”
I want to tell him to butt out of my day off. Don’t be planning things for me to do. Damn the sunshine. Why couldn’t it be raining today? Do I have to feel guilty here because it is such a beautiful day and I’m still in my pajamas (I didn't tell him that) and I’ve wasted the entire morning and half the afternoon sitting in front of my laptop watching the new Mac iPad demos and seeing what’s new for Spring at Talbot’s online?
“I don’t know if I’ll be going out today; I’ve got a lot of things on the agenda,” I lie.
“Oh, too bad,” he says. “Well, try and relax a little. After all, it is your day off.”
In my mind a day off means exactly that. A day off. Off from work, off from responsibilities, appointments, demands. It also means a day off from fun, if I choose it to be that way.
On my day off I put the alarm clock under the bed and wake up when my body decides to awaken. If I decide to stay in my pajamas until 1:00 PM, and eat M&M’s and coffee for breakfast, no one is going to stop me. The idea of lunch might not occur to me at all because I’ve been picking on cookies and fruit all day.
I won’t make the bed, clean the bathroom or straighten up the kitchen all day. It’s my day off. I will take in the mail, but I won’t open any bills.
I don’t want to feel like I have to justify a day off or do something on my day off to make the off-time worthwhile. Why should I? Haven’t I been busy enough all week? Don’t I deserve to just do nothing on a day off?
So why, then, do I stutter like a guilty child when my husband calls in the middle of the day and asks, “So, what are you doing on your day off?” I draw a blank, I falter and pause and try to think up something –anything - that I’ve done in the past three hours that might justify my free time.
“I did some laundry and got an idea for my blog,” I say, hoping that those are adequate activities to justify the past six hours.
“It’s beautiful out today,” he answers. “Haven't you been out yet? You should go out somewhere today. Why don’t you take your mother to the beach and walk along the boardwalk, or pack a lunch and go to the park?”
I want to tell him to butt out of my day off. Don’t be planning things for me to do. Damn the sunshine. Why couldn’t it be raining today? Do I have to feel guilty here because it is such a beautiful day and I’m still in my pajamas (I didn't tell him that) and I’ve wasted the entire morning and half the afternoon sitting in front of my laptop watching the new Mac iPad demos and seeing what’s new for Spring at Talbot’s online?
“I don’t know if I’ll be going out today; I’ve got a lot of things on the agenda,” I lie.
“Oh, too bad,” he says. “Well, try and relax a little. After all, it is your day off.”
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Why Men Are Happier
I'm experiencing brain drain this week. I don't know if it is the beautiful weather that beckons me away from this desk, or just a fog in my head from the newly bursting flowers and pollen in the air. Whatever the reason, I do not have an original piece to post for this week. Instead, I am sharing with you something that still gives me a chuckle, no matter how many times I read it. This was one of those e-mail chains I received and passed along to some of my women friends, but it is so good, it is worthy of a reprint for all of you who haven't seen it yet. Hope you enjoy it and find some humor - and some truth - in a few of the observations.
Men Are Just Happier People-- What do you expect from such simple creatures?
Your last name stays put. The garage is all yours. Wedding plans take care of themselves. Chocolate is just another snack. You can be President. You can never be pregnant. You can wear a white T-shirt to a water park. You can wear NO shirt to a water park. Car mechanics tell you the truth. The world is your urinal. You never have to drive to another gas station restroom because this one is just too icky. You don't have to stop and think of which way to turn a nut on a bolt. Same work, more pay. Wrinkles add character.
Wedding dress $5,000. Tux rental-$100. People never stare at your chest when you're talking to them. The occasional well-rendered belch is practically expected. New shoes don't cut, blister, or mangle your feet. One mood all the time. Phone conversations are over in 30 seconds flat. You know stuff about tanks. A five-day vacation requires only one suitcase. You can open all your own jars. You get extra credit for the slightest act of thoughtfulness. If someone forgets to invite you, he or she can still be your friend.
Your underwear is $8.95 for a three-pack. Three pairs of shoes are more than enough. You almost never have strap problems in public. You are unable to see wrinkles in your clothes. Everything on your face stays its original color. The same hairstyle lasts for years, maybe decades. You only have to shave your face and neck.
You can play with toys all your life. Your belly usually hides your big hips. One wallet and one pair of shoes - one color for all seasons. You can wear shorts no matter how your legs look. You can "do" your nails with a pocket knife. You have freedom of choice concerning growing a mustache.
You can do Christmas shopping for 25 relatives on December 24 in 25minutes.
No wonder men are happier!
Men Are Just Happier People-- What do you expect from such simple creatures?
Your last name stays put. The garage is all yours. Wedding plans take care of themselves. Chocolate is just another snack. You can be President. You can never be pregnant. You can wear a white T-shirt to a water park. You can wear NO shirt to a water park. Car mechanics tell you the truth. The world is your urinal. You never have to drive to another gas station restroom because this one is just too icky. You don't have to stop and think of which way to turn a nut on a bolt. Same work, more pay. Wrinkles add character.
Wedding dress $5,000. Tux rental-$100. People never stare at your chest when you're talking to them. The occasional well-rendered belch is practically expected. New shoes don't cut, blister, or mangle your feet. One mood all the time. Phone conversations are over in 30 seconds flat. You know stuff about tanks. A five-day vacation requires only one suitcase. You can open all your own jars. You get extra credit for the slightest act of thoughtfulness. If someone forgets to invite you, he or she can still be your friend.
Your underwear is $8.95 for a three-pack. Three pairs of shoes are more than enough. You almost never have strap problems in public. You are unable to see wrinkles in your clothes. Everything on your face stays its original color. The same hairstyle lasts for years, maybe decades. You only have to shave your face and neck.
You can play with toys all your life. Your belly usually hides your big hips. One wallet and one pair of shoes - one color for all seasons. You can wear shorts no matter how your legs look. You can "do" your nails with a pocket knife. You have freedom of choice concerning growing a mustache.
You can do Christmas shopping for 25 relatives on December 24 in 25minutes.
No wonder men are happier!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
