Much better manners

The story of DD’s efforts to interview a PR professional for school is continuing, it seems. In a good way this time.

She, of course, had explained the whole situation to her program coordinator, complete with righteous indignation and accompanying dramatic body language. Her coordinator, of course, was very sympathetic and reassured DD that she would try to work something out, perhaps with a willing graduate of the program, in time for DD to complete the project. But before she started to make those phone calls, she fired off an email to an acquaintance of hers, who just happens to be on the board of some PR association in the province. She wanted to let him know that some of the members of this association had treated some of her students very unprofessionally and they needed to understand that a student’s time is just as valuable as theirs, that students have deadlines just like they do, and that students are deserving of just as much respect as they are.

This gentleman (and you will see why I call him that in a minute) replied very quickly. Basically, he was astonished that some of his association members would behave so disrespectfully. Their behaviour was unacceptable, according to him, and he would certainly bring it up in a general way with all the members in the future. And as for this poor student, he’d like to help her out. Would she like to interview him?

The coordinator quickly passed on this information to DD, who could not quite believe it. This man is one of the top PR people around, and is in charge of the PR of a number of very large, very well-known companies in the Vancouver area. He is a board member of a huge association. He is kind of a big deal. And he was offering to give her an hour of his valuable time, if she was interested.

If she was interested??? Hell yes, she was interested!

After a few emails and phone calls, the appointment was set up for Saturday afternoon. Yes, this lovely man is going to take time out of his weekend to help out a student who is thinking of entering his profession. And he has laughingly promised her that there is no way that he will blow her off, because he was once stood up on a date when he was teenager and he still remembers how awful that felt, so he has made it a point to never, ever do that to anyone else.

Now THAT’S good PR.

Where are your manners?!

I’m feeling very irate on behalf of DD. She’s feeling quite livid on her own behalf. Why? Read on …

DD’s major assignment at school this semester is to research a career in which writing skills are used and to interview someone who actually works in that career. This is not necessarily a novelist or journalist, though it could be. There are many, many ways to earn a living that involve writing, and after much thought and deliberation, DD decided to research a public relations career.

What she learned excited her – particularly the fact that if a PR person works for a large company, it is very possible to earn scads of money. This really interests DD. So, she found a woman who runs her own PR company, contacted her, and arranged to meet her for an interview.

DD rehearsed all her questions many times, figured out the most efficient way to get to the appointed location on time, practiced with her digital recorder, carefully planned her clothes, hair and make-up (must look professional, you know!), and headed off early so that she wouldn’t be late. She texted me when she arrived, way too early.

Then she phoned me. In the middle of the morning. You don’t phone a teacher in the middle of the morning. We are busy teaching. So when the phone rings, we immediately assume that it’s an emergency and we answer in a panicky voice.

It wasn’t exactly an emergency, but DD was pissed. Her interviewee didn’t show up. All that preparation for nothing – not to mention a big project that revolved around this interview.

But DD did make contact with her MIA interviewee later, who was full of apologies. So sorry, she wailed, I forgot! One of the casualties of running your own business is that you don’t have secretaries making your appointments and keeping you organized any more, it seems. The woman offered to meet DD another day, but that didn’t work for DD. So, she offered to set DD up with another PR person who lives in our area. DD agreed, thinking that this would be the very least this PR person could do to make up for the missed meeting.

So, after a few emails and phone calls back and forth, DD ended up making an appointment to meet with this second PR person today. She even emailed her yesterday, reminding her of the time and place of their scheduled appointment, concluding with a friendly, “Please call or email me if something has changed and you’ll be late or won’t be able to make it after all.”

I was getting my nails done late this afternoon. My phone rang. Luckily, one hand was done so I could answer. It was DD.

“Mom,” she said flatly.

“Hi DD,” I replied. “What’s up?”

“I have a question.”

“Okay.”

“How long is it appropriate to wait for someone when they don’t show up on time to meet you?”

“This one didn’t show up either?!” I sputtered.

DD’s voice was cold. “No, she didn’t. I’ve already left her one message saying that she was fifteen minutes late and I was wondering if she was still on her way or had I gotten the day or time or something wrong.”

No, DD, you didn’t get anything wrong. You did everything right. It’s just too bad that some people can’t keep commitments to those who are counting on them. And five hours later, this woman still hasn’t had the courtesy to call DD back to explain her absence. I hope it’s not death or destruction, because that’s all that could possibly excuse this lack of manners. Possibly.

And DD still has to interview someone who makes their living by writing. Someone who will actually show up to the interview.

Hot stuff

The weather has changed in the past week or so. It’s still fairly sunny, but the temperature has definitely dropped. It’s too cool at night to go out with just a thin sweater. Sandals are becoming a dicey proposition during the day. Tank tops and shorts are no longer appropriate apparel.

It’s really autumn. I hate to admit it, and the leaves haven’t really started to change colour and fall yet, but it is really autumn.

I’ve been trying to hold out as long as I can before turning up the furnace, though. My TV room is in my basement, and it’s always just a bit cool down there, so I have a small oil space heater. I turned that on the other day, to a very low temperature, just to take the chill off. But my furnace, no. Not yet. When I do turn it up, that means that it’s practically winter. Time for ski jackets and thick gloves and scarves. And, because this is the Wet Coast of Canada, it’s also serious umbrella time. That, I’m hoping to stave off.

So I’ve been bundling up a little in the house for several days now. I’m now wearing socks more often than not, as well as long-sleeved tops. I’ve been known to pull on a sweater in the evenings. But I won’t turn up the furnace until I absolutely have to. Like when there are icicles dripping from my nose, maybe.

Now, Darling Daughter spends much time in her office upstairs. This is because she is usually studying and doing homework (Did I ever tell you that she decided to head back in school, even though she’s a recent university graduate? She’s now taking a two-year professional writing course, with the ultimate goal of someday getting a job that entails using her writing talents – but NOT journalism, no way, says she! Actually, I think my offspring just likes being a student. But anyway…)

So DD was up in her office late yesterday afternoon, working away – I think. She could be simply texting her friends or downloading porn for all I know (I don’t keep that close a watch on her, after all!), but suddenly she came downstairs, shivering. I was starting to make dinner. She came up to me and snuggled in for a hug.

“I’m so c-c-cold!” she moaned. “Can’t we turn the furnace on? Please?”

She was all wrapped up in several sweaters, so I couldn’t just tell her to put on another one. I don’t think she even has any more sweaters. So I went over to the thermostat to check the temperature reading.

It was below 20 degrees Celsius, maybe 17 or so. That was too cold, for sure. I was about to give in and turn the thermostat up – then I stopped.

“Hey DD,” I said. “You know there’s electric heat in all the bedrooms, right? You know you can control your own heat up there, right? You know if I turn up the furnace that it’ll only heat down here and not upstairs, right?”

DD looked at me blankly for a second.

“Right,” she murmured.

She turned and went back upstairs, as silent as could be.

I hope she got warm eventually.

I don’t get it!

You know about checking to see which of your posts are the most popular? It’s kind of like googling your own name, I think: everybody does it, but few people admit to it.

Well, I do it and I admit to it. And just for the record, apparently I do not exist in Google-land, only in the Blogosphere and in my own imagination. And it seems that my most popular post is the one I wrote about PG’s new pet name for me, Donkey.

I have no idea why this is. I have no idea why so many people google donkeys in the first place. I also have no idea how that particular post on my blog comes up when people do google donkeys. I’ve tried it. My blog did not come up. There were over 100 pages of donkey references, but my blog did not come up. So I am truly mystified.

DD finds this incredibly amusing. This whole donkey thing tickles her fancy so much that on our recent trip to Greece, she bought me this small stuffed donkey in Santorini. She MADE me choose one – and threatened that she would choose one for me herself if I didn’t.

The Santorini donkeys are actually quite famous, so she also fell all over herself with glee when we came upon these two fellows in the village of Pyrgos. I consider myself fortunate that she didn’t make me sit on one for the photo.

PG also thinks this donkey business is hilarious. He figures that he is now a major trendsetter. Calling me Donkey has given him his fifteen minutes of fame. He will not let me forget this. He also met us at the airport with this sign:

And I have now given search engines another of my blog posts to connect with searches incorporating donkeys. You’re welcome.

Frequent flyer

A week from today, DD and I shall be on a plane heading to Athens. The one in Greece. The ancient city one. From the west coast of Canada, it’s going to take almost 15 hours to get there (almost 20 hours, if you count connection time, but I’m not going to. That’s too depressing.).

We have to take three separate flights to get there. We have to take three separate flights to get back home again. In between we will take a few bus trips, an overnight ferry ride, and two more flights. All this in 18 days.

All this because DD has graduated from university (with a very high GPA, too, said her proud mama) and when I offered her a grad trip, she chose Greece. I agreed, then suggested Istanbul too, seeing as how we’d practically be already there. That’s the two extra flights in between getting there and going home: a flight of less than an hour from Crete back to Athens, then another just a bit longer than an hour to Istanbul.

That’s eight flights within eighteen days. That’s also a problem. I often, though not always, suffer from incredible sinus pain whenever I’m in a descending plane, and it’s gotten worse every year. The only way to curb it is drugs. Copious amounts, according to the pharmacist I consulted the other day. I should starting taking them a couple of days before flying, he advised, so as to keep those sinus passages open.

“Okay,” I said dubiously. “But what about all the flights I’m taking on this trip?”

He waved his hand dismissively. “It’s probably a good idea to take the pills the whole time you’re away then.”

He handed me a box of fifty tablets. “That should do it.”

As I paid for them, he added this little gem. “And the only problem might be that they’re non-drowsy. You might not sleep very much.”

I might not sleep very much, he said. For eighteen days. But my sinuses will be clear.