Rewards

By G. E. Shuman

           

            I only recently began realizing that something very strange was happening to my key ring.  It seems, lately, at least over the past year or two, that my key ring has begun to be filled with objects of an ‘other than keys’ variety.  There are at least a half dozen things there that have nothing to do with starting my cars or unlocking the doors to my home.  Those things are small, plastic tags that are constant reminders of businesses that I occasionally visit, but have no desire to be reminded of every time I start my car.  They are key ‘tags’, I guess you would call them.  The issuers of those tags refer to them as ‘rewards’ cards.  Check your key ring. I promise you, you have some of them.

            
            In the past, before such cards were commonplace among key rings, businesses issued discount cards that looked very much like credit cards, except for the fact that they provided no credit.  They were plastic, credit card shaped things that fit snugly in your wallet, and provided one more opportunity, in addition to the credit cards there, for you to fumble through your personal stuff, while in a checkout line, all the time being glared at by a woman behind you with a shopping cart filled with diapers, two frozen pizzas, her husband’s motor oil, and her year old screaming child, so that you could get some real or perceived discount on the three dollar purchase you were attempting to make.

             Evidently, or more obviously, ‘obviously,’ people like me, and, perhaps, people like you, became tired of such card fumbling, so one of the card issuing companies came up with a truly (from their point of view) brilliant idea.  Some executive, or some caffeine-overdosed non-executive with a burning desire to impress his or her executive boss, must have said the following at an important, number- crunching meeting:  “Hey.  People don’t like fumbling through their wallets in the checkout line, all the time being glared at by a woman behind them with a shopping cart filled with diapers, two frozen pizzas, her husband’s motor oil, and her year old screaming child.  Since most of our customers are smart enough to drive a car, while, at the same time still being willing enough to accept any discount scheme we throw at them, let’s put the card right on their key ring, by golly!”  And, do you know what, by golly?  It worked, and since that meeting most of us have had a growing number of those ‘rewards’ cards right on our own key rings.  Now, in that checkout line, we only have to fumble for our keys.

            The only thing that junior executive didn’t think of was that, in a pinch, people occasionally used to use a discount card or credit card to scrape ice from their windshield, (at least I did,) and spring will be here before you could do it with one of those tiny tags.  Also, the tags wouldn’t

be much good at helping you get into the room you locked yourself out of. Not that any of us would use a card for that.  The only thing they’re good for is what they were designed for, which is good, except that I still hate to see all those tags on my key ring.

             My biggest frustration with such discount programs came the other day, as I was informed that the email address attached to the discount system of a particular business was no longer ‘in’ their system.  I no longer existed, and neither did the points toward a discount that I was earning, as far as they were concerned, even though I have been using the same email address for about fifteen years now. Oh well, we all have to go sometime.

             Now, I want you to know, I do acknowledge that this next statement will make me sound like the crotchety old man that I am fast becoming, but please hear me out, and at least consider that I might have a solution to my perceived rewards card problem. I don’t suggest that you do this, but I think it will work, for me. What I am going to do is to simply take those increasingly-grungy, small, plastic cards off from my ring.  This will make more room for my keys, and less room for a checkout person to take those keys out of my hesitant hands, and scan their company’s little card into some system.  Somehow, I always feel a bit strange when that happens, and even stranger if I have to admit that I don’t have their particular rewards card.  Shame, shame on me.

             Yes, from that day forward I may receive a disapproving look or sigh from the checkout person, but none from that woman with the diapers and the kid in the shopping cart, behind me.  I will pay the full price at the checkout, it is true. I will consider that to be a good investment in personal stress management.  That will be reward enough for me.

           

The Month of Love (and Puppy Love)

By G. E. Shuman



February is, without a doubt, the month of love. We, (The 'we' being used as the most general of terms. ) celebrate St. Valentine's Day, right in the middle of this cold and uncomfortable second month of the new year. It is probably very appropriate and, in general, a good idea to begin a new year with thoughts of love. Hopefully, one of these years, we human types will remember to love each other throughout the remaining ten months.

Yes, the 14^th is pretty darn close to the very middle of a twenty-eight day cycle of life, and of days, of the shortest month of the year. I'll leave you to figure that cycle of life stuff out for yourself. For me, this month always brings back memories of my many years in department store management. (I know, I'm such a hopeless romantic.) Anyway, I will always remember that last few hours before the store closed on the magical day of February 14^th. It was funny, in a way, and a bit frustrating, as seemingly hundreds of husbands in our town tore into the store at the very last minute, on their way home from work, to frantically buy something for 'the wife'. This, shoring up the notion that I always wanted to tear down, of bone headed men, grudgingly taking out their wallet to buy something, ANYTHING, again, for 'the wife'. This, mostly, to keep on 'the wife's' good side. (A side note... and this is the truth. If you are a husband, listen up if you are not a bonehead. If you are a bonehead, this will not help you.) I have always hated that term 'THE wife'. The word 'the', in the place of the word 'my' takes all the meaning out of a name for someone who is supposed to be the most important person in your life. Understand? That term is only a hair's-width away from referring to her as 'the old ball and chain'. Just sayin'. I do remember all of those frilly red boxes of chocolates and frillier, redder nightgowns that we used to sell. The nighties were known as 'babydolls'. As a man, it was not hard to figure out who was looking to benefit from those nighties. I think the chocolates were always just a coverup, to distract 'the wife' into tolerating that tiny nightie.

My wife, Lorna, never got too excited about nighties or chocolates when we were young. Skimpy nighties didn't provide much warmth on a mid-February night. She would smile if I brought her chocolates, but I eventually learned that she preferred jewelry, which also wouldn't provide much warmth. Here is where I would like to tell you that my dear wife has not changed one bit in the forty-two years of our wedded bliss. It's true. She really hasn't. She actually still fits in the earrings I bought her in high school.

When I was a child in school there was probably no more stressful a thing than what your parents called 'puppy love', and no more stressful a time than Valentine's Day. If a boy 'liked' a girl in his class, notes were passed, third hand, to the girl's best friend, to be delivered to her, in deepest secrecy. I actually remember writing one of those “I like you... do you like me?” notes, although, these fifty or so years later, I have no idea who the note was written to. “Write yes or no and send this back to me.” Wow. A man on the way to the electric chair has less stress than a boy opening one of those returned notes. At least your friends didn't have to know you wrote the note, until the girl's friends blabbed it all over school, which usually took about five minutes. If you were lucky, your friends wouldn't find out, and you could rejoice or cry in solitude.

These days I teach junior high and high school English, and I know for sure that 'puppy love' is still alive and well. This bit of juvenile courting has changed, but still survives. I don't think notes are passed anymore, but the message still comes across, loud and clear, with texting and face book, I am sure. The stress must still be there, too. Seventh grade boys may not write many notes these days, but they do 'steal' ipods and phones. What better way to get a girl's attention than to put her phone in your backpack or shirt pocket? Her friends will tell her who took her phone, and she just has to come find you, confront you to get it back, and slap your arm, usually with a smile on her face. I know all about those young, lovesick boys' motivation. Any attention is good attention... the sting of that arm slap is memorable... 'She actually touched me!' (Yes, it can be that sappy.) As a teacher, sometimes, it's also kind of fun to watch.

Valentine's Day is almost here. Do something special for that someone special in your life. I will get my

wife something to celebrate this special day, but it probably won't be chocolates. I also won't steal her ipod, and I hope she doesn't slap me.