Consumer Tip Alert

This is just a reminder that if something seems too good to be true….unless it’s a huge end-of-season markdown at Dillard’s and you’ve just found a Tahari suit in your size for $30, someone may be trying to scam you.

Over the weekend I received a letter in the mail whose envelope bore a postage stamp from Canada. It looked like a mass mailing, as opposed to a missive from Alec Baldwin, whom I assumed had made good on his threat to relocate following the 2000 general election.

I opened it anyway, discovering a very real-looking check from Orion Enterprises, Inc. in Kansas City, Kansa (that’s right, Kansa), for nearly $4,000 and an accompanying letter announcing that I had won a mega lottery.

Who couldn’t use an extra four grand in their checking account? But my keen instincts, the very same ones that led me to purchase a $1,200 Kirby vacuum cleaner in 1991 that now sits in my basement on Unused Appliance Death Row, told me that something wasn’t right.

For starters, I had never entered the so-called ‘Mega Lottery.’

I don’t know what the Mega Lottery is or how one enters. I do know this: if I ever win the Powerball drawing, first off, I have to buy a ticket. Second, if my ticket matches the winning numbers, I’m not going to get a letter and a phony check in the mail. It is up to me to hang onto that ticket for dear life, notify the Lottery authorities, and then have my teeth whitened so they flash during the television interviews.

Third, even though I haven’t won very many contests in my lifetime, I’m pretty sure there’s something terribly wrong with one that promises total winnings of US$98,000.00, and that the check I have in my hands is for payment of Non Resident Government Service tax (GST) Payable in Canada. Further, I have to contact an assigned claims agent to activate my check and receive further instructions on how to claim my winnings.

Last, there were just enough grammatical errors to make me suspect that the good people at Global Financial Inc. didn’t have time to proofread their letter, as they were too busy contriving schemes to convince people that you really can get something for nothing. They referred to me as the ‘second prized winner’ and said that my ticket (the one I didn’t buy) ‘drew the lucky winnings number.’

My consumer tip is this: if you or anyone you know ever receives one of these letters and real-looking but completely phony checks in the mail, enjoy a good laugh, run them through the shredder, and then indulge in a little retail therapy. It’s a reward for being way too smart to be hornswoggled by unscrupulous people who just want access to your bank account on the pretext of depositing money in it.

The moral of the story is this: there’s no such thing as a free lunch, but a good clearance sale is pretty darned close.

Life Stress Test

I haven’t posted for a few weeks because, well, life’s been a bit stressful. Family reunions out of town, vacation, visitors, and more visitors…..events that have had me thinking about which life events have the potential to put people over the edge. That’s when I discovered the Life Stress Test.

It’s a great little tool available on the Internet that measures how much stress you’re under, based on life events. It assigns a score to these events and calculates a total score based on the stressful experiences in your life during the past one to two years. A score of 0 - 149 means you’re doing pretty well; 150 – 299 means medium susceptibility to stress and a need to practice relaxation, and a score of 300 and above means the potential for ‘a serious eruption or illness.’

You’ve probably heard of this test and would agree that events such as the death of a spouse (score: 100), getting fired (47), divorce (73), son/daughter leaving home (29), and even Christmas (12) can result in stress-related illnesses or even disease. The test suggests that if you are experiencing high stress you should learn effective coping skills or get outside help, which, and I’m going out on a limb here, the test’s authors can probably provide. For a modest fee.

I reviewed the list of stressful life events and my only criticism is this: the list isn’t complete enough. Living in the suburbs has its own special set of stressful life events. I have listed some of them below along with their corresponding scores.

Cat food with anti-hairball formula actually has reverse effect – 55

Favorite suit no longer fits – 50
Subsequent diet results in weight gain, not loss – 65

Son or daughter returns home – 55
With their toddler – 65
Who cries a lot – 75

Discovery of crow’s feet near eyes – 25
Discovery that anti-crow’s feet creams will cost $100 per month for the rest of your natural life – 50

Week of August temperatures in the 100s – 60
Seeing what it costs to cool the house during a week of August temperatures in the 100s – 90

High traffic en route to the city – 40
High traffic en route to the city and satellite radio is down – 70

Crab grass takes over lawn – 45
While carefully nurtured plants wither in summer heat - 75

Calculate the total score of the above events and you’ll get an idea of the kind of stress I’ve been dealing with. I’d sit down and try to relax while sipping on a perky Pinot Grigio but my favorite wine store doesn’t carry it anymore. In fact, I’m not sure the winemaker still makes it. Just add another 35 points to the total.

BlogHer Bits: Women's Wisdom

During today’s BlogHer sessions I attended one facilitated by two entrepreneurs: Susan Mernit and Patricia Handscheigel. They’re both savvy and a touch sassy - and I mean that in a good way. Susan has been developing a software product that will be beta-tested soon. Patricia founded stylediary.net and sold it late last year to stylehive.com. They were well-suited to lead a discussion about the lives and thoughts of women entrepreneurs.

Whether you're a full-time entrepreneur, serial entrepreneur, or simply watching from the sidelines, you can benefit from the nuggets of wisdom these women have gleaned from both triumphs and setbacks. I wrote their observations down as quickly as my pen would write. Hearing what they’ve learned in their life stories was like discovering the keys to the queendom. Except everyone gets the keys, and everyone gets to be the queen. If not of her world, at least of her own life.

Inner challenges are the hardest to overcome. You shouldn’t ask, “Who am I to do this?” but rather, “Who am I not to do this?”

A great entrepreneur is someone who can live in chaos and uncertainty. Entrepreneurs say, “I think there’s a better way.”

Follow your passion.

Sometimes what holds us back is not the glass ceiling but the sticky floor.

Don’t let anyone discredit your value.

Success is about persistence. Keep fighting your way through.

Figure out how to keep going no matter what.

Your recovery strategy is what’s important; avoiding mistakes is not.

Know that you need help. Ask for mentors.

Combine believing in what you’re doing with riding through the absolute fear.

You must have three things: 1. Passion about your interests. 2. Truth – be real, be honest about what’s going on. 3. Belief in yourself. The ones who fail stop believing in themselves. (Note: these words of wisdom came from a male participant in the group whose name, I believe, was Mikhail.)

I keep moving.

Play to your strengths. I’m not good at everything and I don’t have time to learn everything. Find someone at a price you can afford who can help free you to focus on what you have a track record of being successful at.

Stand tall within yourself. Define what success means and stay true to your entrepreneurial vision.

Entrepreneurship is like a soccer game – sometimes you’re running, sometimes you’re kicking, sometimes you’re sitting on the bench.

Failure is in the eye of the beholder. You’re in charge of how you’re going to view what’s happened.

Balance is great but balance doesn’t make you great.

You Know You Have a Bad Cold When....

....you make a phone call and the person who answers says, "Just a minute, sir, I'll be right with you," and you're NOT a sir.

....it's 85 to 90 degrees outside, the sun is shining, and you're shivering like a Chihuahua.

....your ears are so stopped up you can't even hear yourself think.

....but you can hear yourself breathe.

....you'd like to wake up and smell the coffee but you can't. Smell the coffee, that is. Not even Starbucks bold flavor of the day.

....you wonder if anyone would mind if you just wore your pajamas to work.

Disco Fever

Over the holiday weekend I was rifling through a stack of magazines when I came across an advertisement that caught my eye primarily because it was the only one not promoting yet another new medication that I should talk to my doctor about.

The ad was for car insurance. The target audience was presumably anyone who can remember the 70s from actually having been there, not from watching tv reruns on Nick at Nite. The headline read ‘Disco Fever.’ Answering yes to three or more of the disco-related questions implied that you are still stuck in the 70s. It was a lighthearted attempt to connect with baby boomers by reminding us of the artifacts of our youth such as platform shoes, 8-track tapes, and John Travolta’s dance moves.

I chuckled at the memories and then noticed another part of the ad. It was a list of hit disco songs, including “Let’s Get It On,” by Marvin Gaye; “Love to Love You Baby” by Donna Summer; and “Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees. As I scanned the list I realized that I have loaded every single one of those songs onto my iPod and listen to them semi-regularly.

It was a sobering moment of truth, like understanding that the reason people have been smiling at you for the last hour is not because of your dazzling brilliance, but because you have a large piece of spinach dangling from your front teeth. The advertising people were laughing at, not with, me.

I can’t deny it: I have Disco Fever. I loved disco music during its heyday and still do. Certainly my musical horizons have broadened over the years. But science fiction writers couldn’t invent a better machine to take me back in time than songs from the era when I was carefree and cool (or thought I was). Just a few measures of that booming electronic drum kit mixed with a syncopated bass beat and in an instant I'm 18 years old, dancing in my own Dance Dance Revolution. And I know I'm not alone in feeling this way.

Yet many of my disco-loving contemporaries hesitate to admit that their feet twitch just a little when they hear “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor or “I'm Your Boogie Man” by KC and the Sunshine Band. Perhaps they fear being ridiculed if their peers find out, the way many Republicans are feeling these days.

Of course I can’t blame people for being cautious about admitting to a penchant for a musical genre that spawned some curious products, such as Qiana knit shirts and exotic mixed drinks made with beer. Let me explain.

Here in the Midwest during the late 70s many of us enjoyed a hotspot called Pogo's. Pogo's was the hip, happening place for young college students who weren't old enough to go to real nightclubs. A personable, poodle-haired deejay named Greg Gann spun tunes from a booth that looked out over a dance floor made of colored lights timed to light up with the beat of the music.

Even more memorable, however, were the special drinks and the commemorative Pogo's glass they were served in. Beer, orange juice, and grenadine topped with a cherry was the most popular combo. These imaginative concoctions were due to Kansas liquor laws at that time. Nightclubs for the 18 – 20 year-old set could serve lower alcohol content beer (called “three-two” beer) but not wine or spirits. You couldn't drink an actual Tequila Sunrise but you could sip on the beer imitation and pretend it was the real thing.

In the end, whether you have Disco Fever or not, if you survived the era, that alone is a victory. But if you want to know where I sort the true disco lovers from those who can merely recall songs of the late 70s, it’s with a single by Dan Hartman called “Instant Replay.” If you get happy feet when you hear that song, you’ve got the Fever. I've talked to my doctor about it and the only known cure is to dance until it goes away.

When It's NOT The Thought That Counts

Many times in my life, more than I would like to admit, I have found myself at an important place of decision making. This place is an intersection, where cluelessness meets good intentions. At this intersection should be a sign that reads "It's NOT The Thought That Counts."

I venture to guess you have found yourself there as well. The way we all arrive at this place is by wanting to do something good for someone else, but not having the slightest idea what that good thing might be or how to do it. That’s when good intentions go awry, like the person who tried to perform a random act of kindness by baking a cake and leaving it on her neighbor’s porch as a surprise. The family dog discovered the cake instead and ate it, becoming terribly ill. Not only that, but the dog required an emergency trip to the vet, stomach pumping, intravenous fluids, and an overnight stay. The total bill for this random act of baking kindness was about $500.00.

So it was with a random act of baking kindness I performed many years ago when I was a young bride. We had just bought our first house that summer and not long after the move learned that a neighbor two doors from us had died. She was an older woman who lived with her daughter, and although we had never met either of them, I decided it would be a neighborly gesture to bake a loaf of pumpkin bread to be shared with visitors stopping by to express their condolences.

When I think of pumpkin bread what comes to mind is Thanksgiving and Christmas and large groups of people eating as though they are preparing for three months in hibernation. Pumpkin and fall are as linked together as watermelon and summer. Pumpkin bread is not a food you typically associate with barbecues, picnics, and high temperatures in the 90s.

Nevertheless, armed with my new Betty Crocker cookbook, a can of pumpkin in the pantry, and all the requisite spices, I eagerly set about the task ahead of me. This poor grieving neighbor whose name I did not know would at least know a measure of comfort that only Betty herself could bring.

As I emptied the can of pumpkin into the mixture of eggs, sugar, butter, flour, and assorted spices, something troubled me. A slight metallic scent permeated the air. Had the pumpkin gone bad? Nonsense, I told myself. Canned goods last for at least a year. This particular can of pumpkin had been purchased no more than eight months ago. It was fine.

The odor continued to bother me as I mixed the batter. I decided that if it still didn’t smell right I would throw it out and not even bake the bread. The last thing I wanted was to present a toxic gift to a grieving neighbor.

And so, without turning off the mixer, I leaned down to catch a whiff. In a moment I felt the sensation of a beater pressed against my face and a motor vibrating next to my head. Apparently the mixer had grabbed a lock of my hair and wasn’t letting go.

The sensation of a motor-powered beater yanking my scalp was not unlike what I imagine a facelift might feel like. My skin was being pulled so tightly I could barely move my lips to call for help.

Help arrived, and together we untwisted the lock of hair that had become tangled in the beater. A triangle of smooth white flesh appeared over my ear where the hair used to be. There was no blood and no injuries - just wounded pride over making such a silly, preventable mistake. Of course I tossed the batter. Later I baked a batch of cookies. Without using the mixer.

I learned many lessons from this incident. But the one that has stuck with me the longest is this: when you find yourself at the intersection of good intentions and cluelessness, it really isn't the thought that counts. A good intention that goes awry can create as much havoc as a practical joke. If you want to express sympathy do what we do here in the suburbs and send a thoughtful note, perhaps with a gift card enclosed. It's practical and unlike a random act of baking kindness, there's little possibility of injuring either yourself or someone else.

Pigmentally Challenged

When I was a scrawny adolescent in a hurry to become the Person I Was Meant To Be, I wanted in the worst way to look like the shapely bikini-clad models in the tanning lotion commercials.

They promised a transformation from washed-out wallflower to bronzed beauty in just a few short hours. After many afternoons of dutifully dragging my beach towel, transistor radio, and a large glass of Diet-Rite outdoors I understood something that the good folks at Coppertone had neglected to mention: some people, no matter how long they lie in the sun, will never get the deep, dark tan portrayed by those fun-loving, beach-cavorting youth.

No, some of us are pigmentally challenged. We can’t, and we shouldn’t, lie out in the sun. Because we now know that a tan is your skin’s reaction to the sun’s damaging rays, and that when you get to be a middle-aged adult like me the cumulative effect of all that sun will be to look like a leather boot.

Today I wouldn’t dream of lying in the sun to get a tan. In addition to the health hazards, there’s far too much perspiration involved. But I do like to wear shorts when it’s hot. That’s where tan-in-a-bottle comes in. Those same good folks at Coppertone have made it easy for the pigmentally challenged to achieve a surfer’s sun-kissed look merely by applying sunless tanning lotion.

The trick is not to over or under apply. This advice has proven to be much more difficult to follow. Which is why my bathroom cabinet has become a warehouse for multiple bottles of various brands of sunless tanning lotion and spray.

Bottle #1: Was purchased prior to the Habitat for Humanity Build I participated in last month on the Mississippi Gulf Coast. I thought if I could just get a little color on my legs and arms I wouldn’t look so much like Boo Radley. Following the directions I showered, shaved, and exfoliated. Three hours later, I applied the lotion to what was left of my skin. The bottle guaranteed that this product was streak-free.

The next morning I woke up and was horrified to see that, far from the outdoorsy “Survivor” contestant image I was hoping to project, my legs resembled that of a café awning, with stripes in varying shades of skin tone. Not only that, but the tanning lotion made every light freckle much darker, so that I appeared to have a skin disease to go along with my stripes.

Bottle #2: Undaunted, I was ready to try again a few weeks later after the first fake tan of summer had faded. This time I purchased a bottle of self-tanning mist that promised a 360 degree continuous spray and ultra-even application. I just knew I was going to wake up with legs like a tennis player’s.

Instead, I resembled a brindled cow. I could see large circular patches of color with gaps of pale skin in between. The color was beautiful, it just wasn’t consistent.

Bottle #2, Attempt #2: Over the weekend I decided to give the self-tanning mist another try. Reasoning that I had learned much from my mistakes I optimistically applied the mist in one steady spray up and down my legs without stopping.

I had never seen anything go so horribly wrong. Apparently gravity forced the steady spray I had applied so carefully to collect in a runny pool on the back of my heels, causing a discoloration that looked like I’d had an accident with a can of Krylon. And despite my attempts to cover every square inch from the knees on down, I had still missed some spots.

Perhaps I should join other pigmentally challenged people who embrace their paleness. After all, it’s the way God made us. Still, I’m not ready to give up. I understand Coppertone has a new product out. It’s called “Endless Summer Gradual Tan.” Better yet, one reviewer says it’s dummy-proof.