Self Esteem? Wii Don't Need No Stinkin' Self Esteem!

Mom's birthday was on Friday, and in keeping with sacred family traditions, she was pretty dodgy about what she wanted. She insisted she didn't want anything (which, while it may be true, is nevertheless unacceptable), and then acquiesced to admitting that a bottle of her preferred port would suffice (which it wouldn't).

A few days before the big day, however, she saw a commercial for Wii Fit. She had no idea what it was or how it worked, but she associated physical fitness with video games and her eyes lit up like a kid's on Christmas morning. She picked my brain on it a little and, after receiving what she felt were satisfactory answers, insisted we go pick it up the next day.

Now, me, I'm psyched by this. I've been wanting a new Wii game--and, in fairness, excuses to play my old Wii games--for a while, and what better way to accomplish this than through the ever-popular excuse, "...but it's good for you!"?

But Mom had designs on one-upping me. Because, clever woman that she is, she realized that her birthday was at the end of the week, and she could use this as an excuse to make someone else pay for her new toy!

And that someone else, naturally, ended up being me and my brother. Happy birthday, Mom.

Since, however, we spent her birthday and the day after working a garage sale--which, if you followed my Twitter or my Facebook, you would know went just fucking spectacularly--today was the first day that we could give Wii Fit a proper test run. So while she got her hair done, I dusted off the Wii, calibrated the Balance Board, got the Internet running on it again, did a system update...you know, all those things Mom would never give a shit about, but nonetheless maximized the performance of the console so that she could enjoy her gamin--um, I mean, fitness experience most optimally.

But what kind of son would I be if I gave it to her cold? Oh no, this called for a test run.

So I load the software, set the Balance Board up, and follow the on-screen instructions. Cake! It starts asking me questions like height and age, and I dutifully oblige. Then, the big moment: step onto the board! I do, and, per instructions, relax my shoulders and stand naturally. A charmingly high-pitched voice counts down, chants "Measuring!" a few times, and then brightly declares, "All done!" And with that, they give me my results.

My balance, as it turns out, is a little off: I lean to the left. A touch surprising, since I tend to favor my right side, but okay, no big deal.

Next, my BMI.

BIG DEAL.

I'm not about to divulge what the device told me on the Internet--that's why I locked my fucking profile with a password post-haste, because it's my shame and mine alone, damn it--but let's just say it wasn't pretty. And as if that wasn't demoralizing enough, the little Mii figure next to the scale blew up like a balloon as the scale went up. So now, not only do I feel like a fat bastard, but my avatar looks like one too. Thanks, Wii Fit! I didn't need my body-image issues reinforced at all today!

But hey, at least they let me set goals. However, since they'll only allow you to set a maximum weight loss goal of 20 pounds, let's just say I'll be setting quite a few goals before Hot Air Balloon Mii gets deflated at all. Bastards...

You'd Think I'd Have Learned

Some things never change. Other things don't change even though we wish they would. Today's missive falls under the category of the latter.

Since Mom and I are both home during the afternoons, we've had to become accustomed to each other's habits. Me, I like keeping to myself. I'll run errands in the morning, but when it's afternoon, I want to sit my fat ass down and apply for jobs, fuck around on the Internet, watch TV, read, and write. It's me time.

Mom's version of me time consists of watching TV on the big screen in the living room. And while she is more than entitled to do so, it becomes somewhat inconvenient because Mom's hearing ain't what it used to be. So she watches TV loudly. Really loudly.

Which is fine if she's watching Mystery Diagnosis or Little People, Big World or afternoon baseball.

Not so much if it's A Baby Story.

The other day, I heard screams coming from that TV the likes of which I'd never heard before. And, like an idiot, I went out to see what all the ruckus was about. So I opened the door of my room, turned left, and stared directly at the largest TV in my house.

And what did I see? Why, a baby crowning, of course!

Naturally, I ran screaming back into my room, which my mother just couldn't understand. Quoth her, "You're going to see that eventually someday!" Exactly, Mom. Someday. When it's my wife, and my own flesh and blood protruding from her loins. Not some crazed stranger who consented to be on TV, and an unwilling newborn half-hanging out of her mercifully pixelated cooch.

All of which confirmed for me that it's best if we leave each other be in the afternoons. That is, until this afternoon, as I was playing poker on my BlackBerry and getting my ass handed to me. In my frustration, I naturally swore a few times and got the rage out of me, but my mother overheard me and asked me what was wrong. I told her she'd laugh if I explained, but she insisted, so I again left my room to go tell her.

And after I told the story, what was the first thing I heard from the TV? "This will involve dilating her cervix so that the doctor can use this needle to puncture the amniotic sac and break her water."

GAH!

All of which has me convinced that when it is my wife, and it is my flesh and blood entering the world, the first thing Daddy's gonna do is hire someone else to work the video camera.

The Customer Isn't Always Right

I know for a fact that the Starbucks Coffee Company will not live or die as a result of the three dollars they just received from me--three dollars for a Caramel Macchiato, sitting in a cup right next to my laptop right now as I sit waiting in their E. College Ave. location. Nevertheless, I felt exceptionally good about the money I spent on this drink, for a reason you might not suspect.

Having worked in food service and retail for approximately six consecutive years in my teens, I understand that it is an unforgiving profession. Whether you in your travels want to admit this or not, the people behind the counter or register are, occasionally, trying to serve you as best they can. Sure, they can be cold and rude and unhelpful on occasion, but if they really were that ineffective or foul-tempered all the time, they wouldn't be employed for very long. What I'm trying to get at here is that sometimes, the clerk's shitty mood is actually the fault of the customer--perhaps not you, but someone behind you that has left an indelibly crappy mark on his or her day.

Case in point: an older woman (perhaps in her 50s or 60s) came up to the counter and asked the clerk something in a voice I could not hear clearly. He responded that they only do samples three times a day, but that the cookies are available for purchase if she was interested. The woman proceeded to launch a passive-aggressive tirade explaining that she would never come back to that Starbucks again. She even went so far as to tell the children that were accompanying her that the store was "stingy," and when stores are that cheap, they don't deserve her business. She proceeded to take her drinks and leave.

I was intrigued by the exchange, and particularly by the manner in which the clerks and baristas handled both themselves and the situation. They were professional, straightforward, and polite--all while simultaneously remaining unwilling to kowtow to the rude and unreasonable requests of this snarky woman. I was, as I typically am, thrilled to see people refuse to acknowledge those who believe they are, for no good reason, more deserving or privileged than others.

All of this I observed while seated at the very table I am at now. I'd been here for about a half hour, and was sitting waiting for Darrell to arrive and help me pass the time while Karen defended her Master's essay. I had bought no drink and was simply planning on mooching the free Internet and killing time in peace while spending no money. But the interaction between the staff and the woman was such that I couldn't keep out of my chair.

I went to the counter and ordered a Caramel Macchiato. Then I asked the barista making my drink what had happened. Turns out she was a "regular" whose orders were exceptionally demanding and complicated, whose children left messes at all the tables they used when they came in, and whose sensibilities were apparently incensed by the clerks refusal to give all her children a sample of one of the cookies. Upon hearing the entire story, I told them in no uncertain terms that the only reason I'd purchased my drink was because of how marvelously they had handled the situation--right down to the clearly sarcastic but absolutely deserved "Have a wonderful day, ma'am!" the barista delivered as she left.

I didn't buy the drink because I thought Starbucks desperately needed my three dollars. But I felt good about spending it because I understand how difficult the situation must have been for them, and they handled it with aplomb. Little Miss Demanding was entirely in the wrong, trying to take advantage of the outdated mantra that the customer is always right. What most people these days fail to realize is that the expression, while generally true, does have its limits. And when you ask a place of business to just give you something for free, they are well within their rights to refuse--and when they do, it is you, and not them, that are wrong.

So kudos to the men in black and green for defusing the situation well. They've been laughing about and discussing it for the past fifteen minutes, and it's been great to overhear them because even now there's no malice, just disbelief and frustration. It's a nice reminder that they're not just obnoxious douchebags who want nothing to do with you--they're flesh-and-blood humans with a job to do who only want to do it as easily, effectively, and quickly as possible. And sure, we're all pretty jaded when it comes to service and retail because of the Clerksian notion that just because they serve you doesn't mean they like you. But how much of that do we bring on ourselves because we selfishly think we're entitled to something special because they're the server and we're the customer?

If I learned anything from my time at Trader Joe's, it's that good retail is not a one-way street: it's an exchange. A clerk's attempts to serve you well only succeed if you are willing to give a little bit back too. That's not some radical, brilliant notion either--just good old fashioned common sense and human decency. Wouldn't it be great to see those things making a comeback?