I’m a deadline-driven procrastinator. If a project doesn’t have a deadline, it will be done the day after never; If it does, it will never be early and will probably be a wee bit late. I work best under pressure—the ridiculous, self-imposed, pull-an-all-nighter kind of pressure that stresses me out and pulls my family in.

I didn’t even know you could buy postcards with preprinted stamps, but apparently they’re all the rage in the 43130 zip code. We received one this week from Hank, the gentleman who cares for our lawn. It wasn’t anything fancy, as you can see for yourself. It was handwritten. Concise. To the point.

There’s only one thing I like spending money on more than dental work and lawn care, and that’s shelling out a few hundred bucks for auto maintenance. You gotta’ do it, but it stinks. So it was with great joy that I contacted several local tire shops to price new treads for one of our cars. (Guys, this is like your wife asking you to buy her a lipstick.)

I’m a retailer, a supplier, just another B in the B2B world. But most days
I’m also a consumer, a customer, a Ms. Jones in heels and in a hurry. I’ve
been on both sides of the customer service counter.

“We’re nice. Our customers love us. We do follow up surveys and people tell us all the time what a great experience they had. Our service sets us apart.”

Blah blah blah.

Can we talk? Well, that depends.

If you’re under 24, “talking” means texting. If I can condense my thoughts into 160 characters and don’t mind using my thumbs to communicate, then we can talk. I won’t even think about calling you, because you never answer your phone or check your voice mail. You rarely use email but you change your Facebook status every time you eat out, get sick or update your blog.

She was one tough customer. Ignoring hundreds of people clamoring for my attention during the busiest sale of the year, she insisted on finding a long-sleeved, pink satin blouse with a high collar. It was not in season. It was not in style. But she would not be swayed. I pleaded with her to try this collared blouse or that pink sweater, but nothing would satisfy her. Finally, in desperation, I asked her, “Ma’am! Why do you need this blouse?”

I recently purchased a fashion accessory without the assistance of my trusted personal shopper. This was a bold move, and I was nervous about my solo selection. I told the salesperson, “If this doesn’t pass inspection by my 13-year-old daughter, it will be returned.”