It used to be that the customer was always right. And even if they weren’t right, they were treated like they were. It was standard business, a way of guaranteeing the customer left satisfied and would return. I don’t think it’s that way so much anymore. In fact, even when the customer is right, I’ve learned they aren’t always treated that way.

Because I’m a bit of a mouse, I generally avoid conflict and seldom complain. The few times I have, it wasn’t apologies I received, but excuses.

Sadly, it isn’t just the big boys, the WalMarts and Exxons, with so many customers that losing a spattering of disgruntleds won’t make a dent. Now, even some service-oriented businesses are mumbling excuses rather than offering apologies. Recently for me, the excuses were with regard to questionable veterinary care.

Our saga began when I took our new pup to the vet and mentioned he’d been scratching his ears. The vet–one I’d admired and trusted for about 20 years–found a small spot of mange on the edge of his ears. Because mange is highly contagious, the vet said both our dogs would need immediate treatment, so my husband hurried our other dog in so both could be dipped.

Although I’ve had dogs all my life, I’d never had an encounter with mange. When this vet prescribed dipping, I deferred to her wisdom, even though I worried the pup was too young and too small and that Murry, who is terrified of baths, might hyperventilate and breathe in too much of the fumes. But the vet was aware of those things. And like I said, I trusted her.

When I arrived to retrieve my boys, they were both dripping wet. Without a word of caution, they were delivered to me, and into my car the saturated dogs went. By the time we arrived home, I was saturated as well. Still, I thought, how bad could it be if it was safe enough for a dog as little as ours?

Once at home, though, the dogs barely moved. They dropped by the door and there they remained. Not eating. Not drinking. I was scared they might die.

And then I got sick myself. In hindsight, I feel dumb that I didn’t connect my own illness with their chemical treatment. My dripping-wet boys had been in my car, had slept on me in bed. But I’d been having health problems already and assumed those problems were worsening. A doctor bill later, my problem was not identified until we visited a different vet a week later. (Yes, I was diagnosed by a vet. Stop snickering. It’s not funny.)

I made several calls asking vets about sarcoptic mange and whether it would be safe to dip a puppy so young and little (under four months and right at 9 lbs.). Each said–with varying degrees of anger and passion–that dipping is never appropriate in such a case. There are safer, less expensive treatments that not only get rid of mange, but also protect against heartworm and fleas at the same time. (The original vet sold us separate medications for those.)

Thankfully, both dogs survived, although both ended up battling a case of kennel cough, too. Once we were all healthy again, I began to stew over the idea that we’d paid so much without being told there had been other options, that we hadn’t been warned of the dangers to our pup (or to us), and that the bill had been stacked with medications we wouldn’t have needed had the most reasonable (and affordable) course of treatment been prescribed from the start.

But like I said up there at the top, I’m a bit of a mouse. I’m fortunate, however, that my husband is not. He went back to the vet seeking a refund, an apology, or an explanation.

Instead, he got an excuse. They stood firm on their course of treatment and refused to admit they may have been wrong. They wouldn’t even admit they should have told us about other treatment options in order that we could have decided which way to go.

It didn’t matter that the customer had product literature from the dip manufacturer saying it wasn’t safe for dogs the size and age of our pup–the customer was wrong. It didn’t matter that the customer had other vets who said our dogs had been given an expensive and irresponsible course of treatment–the customer was wrong.

And I suppose maybe they’re right.

The customer was wrong to have trusted them. Wrong not to have voiced her concerns at the start. Wrong not to have questioned the rationale behind risking the life of such a young, tiny dog to stop an itch.

And wrong to believe such a money-motivated business might do the right thing.

Just finished listening to Good in Bed by Jennifer Weiner. It was definitely entertaining and kept my interest, but I didn’t completely love it. I DID like much of the commentary about plus sized women and how it feels to have gone through a tough break-up, but so much of this story was so far fetched that it bothered me. How convenient that Cannie, the main character, became instant best friends with a movie star who loves the screenplay that Cannie just happened to have with her when they met in the bathroom of a hotel after Cannie cursed the movie star out loud by name, not knowing she was in the next stall. (How’s that for a run-on sentence?) How convenient that Cannie’s perfect doctor fell for her without her even noticing him in that way.

I still liked this book, but it could’ve been SO much better if Cannie had actually faced a few of the struggles real single moms face. That was something that bothered me about Weiner’s other book that I read (Little Earthquakes). There are no financial struggles for any of the characters. That’s such a big part of real life (especially MY real life) that it’s hard for me to find believable a story where money comes so easily for everyone.

Even though I didn’t like some things about this book, it wasn’t a waste of time. The beginning was fantastic and had so much promise. I kind of wish there had been one more column from the ex-boyfriend since his character’s contribution to the story was basically dropped. The guy had been enlightened enough to understand the plight of large women, to write eloquently about the hauntings that linger after a break-up, but then he became a turd pretty much overnight.

I was talking to a fairly new friend about the upcoming WV Writers Conference and I mentioned that’s where Geoff and I met. I was telling her the story and she asked me to post the column I wrote about it back then, almost two years ago.

============================================

It started because of the rain. Because our bonfire was canceled. Because my friends Krista, Judy and I needed shelter in a hurry. Voices from a nearby cabin porch–fellow writers attending the same conference–called to us, “Over here.”

As the rain poured that June night, we talked with those porch-dwellers, enjoying the pleasant chemistry between our group and theirs. It wasn’t a physical chemistry, as nearly all were married or attached, but one of similar humor and overlapping interests.

As for me, my marriage had ended months earlier. My divorce had been final that week. During the painful times leading up to that night, I’d sworn off men forever, pronounced my heart hardened. It seemed easy–and sensible–to plan for a life with just my daughter and me. I determined the only males in our home would be furry ones (ones we could legally neuter).

But my eyes kept meeting his. Blue-gray eyes. Black lashes. Shy smile.

Throughout that evening and the next day, there were more looks, more smiles, more maneuvering to be in the same places at the same times.

And then another rained-out bonfire. And we were all back on that porch.

We sat side by side and talked, our hands “accidentally” brushing each other when we’d reach for our drinks. When the rain ended, we went for a group walk, and then a just-the-two-of-us walk. We stopped to sit on a bench by the lake, where we talked, oblivious of the time, until the sun began to come up.

We laughed about the schmaltziness of having talked all night, then went our separate ways.

A week later, he drove nearly three hours to take me to dinner and a Mountain Stage concert before driving another three hours back home. A week after that, he drove half as far just to see me for an hour when I had business nearby.

And so began our cautious courtship, one that baffled us both for seeming too easy, for being devoid of awkwardness or conflicts right from the start. We had each traveled vastly different roads in our lives, yet seemed to have arrived at the same point at the same time.

Even so, I was guarded, as there was another whose heart would need winning over as well: my six-year-old daughter. (My dog and cat had already given enthusiastic stamps of approval, both regularly choosing Geoff’s lap over mine.) But I’d been cautious with Celeste, waiting five months before introducing the two, wanting to be certain of my feelings before risking hers.

Yet there’d been nothing to fear. Within minutes, she was decorating him with feather boa and princess hat. Within hours, they were engrossed in lying competitions. She soon took me aside and whispered, “You can keep him.” That same night, the confirmed bachelor leaned over to me and said, “So this is what I’ve been missing.”

Last weekend, Geoff and I attended the same WV Writers conference at Cedar Lakes where we met last summer. There were the same friends on the same porch, and the same late-night walk down that path to the same bench by the lake.

And that’s when he dropped down on one knee.

And when my answer was yes.

Some old timers might say I’m gettin’ above my raisin’ or speaking out of hat here, but if that’s their poison, I won’t pay it no nevermind. In fact, I’ll hang out the welcome mat and say hell yeah. It makes me sad that so many of the once-common sayings from this part of the world are becoming scarcer than hen’s teeth these days.

Experts in linguistics blame technology–mostly television–and a chronically transient population for the standardization of modern language. I suspect there’s a trace of the uppity, too, as speaking a mountain vernacular is viewed by some as a sign of low breeding.

That kind of thinking just dills my pickle. To some of us, the country way of talking can be music to our ears.

These days, it’s common for families to uproot repeatedly. We’ve become a culture of rolling stones, and not only do we gather no moss, but we don’t gather the unique cultural quirks that come from being rooted in a place with ancestors as colorful as those in West Virginia.

My own family’s roots here are still stubby. My mother, a Pittsburgher, and my father–born in Germany, raised in India–moved here in the 1960s when Dad was hired by Carbide. Since I was knee high to a grasshopper when we came here, I remember no other home.

I’ve always been a bit envious of those who have been burying their ancestors for generations in the same family cemetery. That may sound like I have a few ancestors I’m longing to plant, but that isn’t the case. It’s the sense of belonging that much to a place and carrying forward its traces in ways that are uniquely Appalachian.

It seems that colloquialisms-the phrases and descriptions exclusive to this part of the world- are being squeezed out by slang. While some slang is easy for anyone anywhere to pick up and use, no matter how much we say it, it’ll never be ours in the same colorful way as it was in the past. For instance, if you want to own up to a mistake, which one sounds better? Saying “My bad,” or “This isn’t the first time I’ve brought chicken to a fish fry.”

A few years back, I started collecting sayings every time I came across an especially good one. Although many of them are a little too crude to print in the paper, below are a few of my favorites.
He’s tighter than a tick with lockjaw.

She could talk a dog off a meat wagon.

He could cut himself with a picture of a razor.

I’m as confused as a termite in a yo-yo.

She’s cuter than a bug’s ear.

You need to count your fingers after shaking hands with him.

He’s so crooked that when he dies, they’re going to have to screw him into the ground.

She couldn’t catch a cold if it had handles.

I wouldn’t speak to her if I met her in hell and she was carrying a big lump of ice in her hands.

You look like you’ve been drawn through a knothole backwards.

I’m mad enough I could eat barbed wire and spit nails.

She’s got more cousins than Carter’s got liver pills.

Now that’ll throw yer hat in the creek.

Uglier than the southbound end of a northbound donkey.

We grew up so poor we’d go to Kentucky Fried Chicken to lick other people’s fingers.

And my absolute favorite: Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit!

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

And now some from my collection that weren’t entirely suitable to print in a family paper . . .

He couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were written on the heel.

She’s so full of shit her eyes are brown. (That one’s usually said about me.)

She’s so stubborn she’d argue with a stop sign.

He’s as jumpy as a fart on a griddle.

I’m as busy as a one-armed barber with hives.

She wouldn’t say shit if she had a mouthful.

That food tasted so bad the dog had to lick his ass just to get the taste out of his mouth.

That kid is ugly enough to scare the buzzards off a gut wagon.

It’s hotter than a goat’s ass in a pepper patch.

I’m as anxious as a one-eyed cat watching two rat holes.

Well, I’ll be dipped in shit and rolled in breadcrumbs.

He’s shorter than a mouse hole.

That man is dumber than a sack full of hammers.

That’s about as handy as a pocketful of paper assholes.

If you threw him in a barrel of boobs, he’d come out sucking his thumb.

This is one of my favorite descriptions ever. It was said about a woman who was wearing a really bright lipstick: “Her mouth looks like a jaybird’s ass in pokeberry time.”

If you have any to add, please post them under comments or email them to me at karinfuller@cnpapers.com.

I was just trying to copy and paste the story about my husband that was in
today’s Metro Putnam, but apparently I’m not as techno-savvy as I thought. I didn’t even know they were going to do a story about Geoff, but it was the photo they used with the story that was the biggest surprise. I’d never seen it before. It’s Geoff without facial hair–a picture he says was taken about 8 or 10 years ago. I still haven’t figured out how they got it. (He was blaming me, but I SWEAR I’m innocent.)

Here’s a much more recent picture of him.

The article is about these three writing classes Geoff’s will be teaching soon–one is a four-week course on writing short fiction, and the other two are Saturday-only classes, one on the business of writing and the other on self-editing.
If anyone out there is interested, he has more information on his website at www.drwriteclinic.com or you can contact him at geocam@adelphia.net.

I ran down to the library at lunch today and found a few of the audio books I had on my list — Good In Bed by Jennifer Weiner and Comfort & Joy by Kristin Hannah. (Actually, that second one wasn’t on the list but the author was, so I grabbed it anyway.) I also got one called Heal Yourself with Medical Hypnosis. It sounded interesting, but I have a feeling it’ll end up being one of those ones where my mind drifts off. (Or maybe with hypnosis, that means it’s working?)

I’ve been curious about hypnosis and hypnotherapy for a while. I keep wondering if it might help me get past my problem with public speaking. I tried Toastmasters but didn’t have the time to commit to it. Besides, Toastmasters seemed to be more for polishing speaking skills than whipping a fear. Mine’s a strange phobia. If I’m in front of a bunch of people and they’re asking me questions, I’m OK, or if I’m really pissed off, I can talk fairly well. But to just stand there and speak . . .

(shudder)

In one of the comments section down below Missy and I were talking about coming up with names and I mentioned that Celeste just looked like a Celeste, which then led (of course) to me trying to find a picture to prove that I’m not totally insane. I don’t think any other name would’ve fit her.

“Would ya look at that?” Geoff said.

“What?” Celeste asked.

“The pup made an exclamation point on the carpet.”

“That’s not funny.” Celeste’s nose was snarled in disgust.

Curious, I looked in from the kitchen to see for myself. “Hey,” I said. “It does look like an exclamation point. And look over there - an ellipsis.”

“That’s NOT funny,” Celeste said again. “I just cleaned up a puddle a few minutes ago. And now this.”

I handed her the paper towels.

“Maybe he’ll get like that spider from ‘Charlotte’s Web’ and start spelling out words,” said Geoff. “He’s got punctuation down.”

Although I expected more whining, Celeste cleaned up the creatively placed droppings of her obviously well-fed little dog with just two or three sighs. (Long and loud sighs.)

I’ve been pleased by how well she’s held up to her promise to care for her pup. But to be honest, I’m a bit surprised, too. I expected the novelty of having a dog of her own would quickly wear off, that she’d begin attempting to shirk her responsibilities a little at a time.

Although there have been a few slips, rather than shirking, she’s been taking on more responsibility for our other animals without being asked, recognizing and taking care of their needs. Filling their food and water dishes, brushing their hair, cleaning off that disgusting eye gunk (but so far, not tending to litter boxes). Caring a little led to caring a lot. It was an outcome I hadn’t expected.

When I mentioned that to Geoff, though, he didn’t seem too surprised.

“Taking care of someone else takes you out of yourself,” he said. “Suddenly, you aren’t all that matters. Your sacrifice isn’t that big a deal because what you’re working for or who you’re helping becomes more important.”

He went on to tell me how, many years back, not long after he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, a close friend was going through some serious medical problems of her own. Even though his situation had him feeling spent, he pushed aside what was happening in his world and instead focused on helping her get better. When her situation was finally stable, he said his concerns, which had once seemed so overwhelming, had shrunk down to something completely manageable.

“Maybe that’s why therapists suggest their patients to do volunteer work,” I said. “It not only distracts, but reframes. Seeing someone else’s problems can minimize yours.”

It reminded me how, several months after my baby died from spinal muscular atrophy, a man I’d never met called asking if I’d consider talking to a couple whose baby had just been diagnosed. I told him I had nothing to offer this couple, that I was still too big a mess to do any good. Still, he seemed so confident I could help that, ignoring my doubts, I agreed to visit them in the hospital.

The couple had a million questions. I had a half-million answers. They cried, and I consoled them. I cried, and they consoled me. I’m not sure which of us that visit helped more, but I know when I left, I felt better than I had in a while.

“The more you give, the more you get” is something of an overused phrase, and while it makes sense, it also seems incomplete. Like it needs a few different words. Perhaps, “The more you give, the more you can give up.” Amazing things become possible when the self is sacrificed to benefit others.

And it seems appropriate that we’re celebrating today, Easter Sunday, in honor of the most important sacrifice of all.

Celeste woke up this morning not feeling too well, so she’s in my bed watching TV. I went in a few minutes ago to check on her and this is what I found . . .

The one on Celeste’s chest is NOT our dog. She lives across the street.

I ran across this picture the other day and it cracked me up all over again, so I thought I would share it. This is me and my favorite uncle, Edgar Frankwich, back when I was eight months pregnant with Celeste. (Yes, eight months. I got even bigger than that.)

Edgar died five years ago last month from a rare form of cancer caused by the anti-rejection medications he took after his heart transplant. He was the neatest person. I miss him especially bad this time of year. My mom (his sister) and I love yard sale season, and so did Ed. He liked to come down here from Pittsburgh so he could go with us to the sales held all over Putnam county the first weekend in May.

My uncle and I used to email quite a bit, and he was always sending me funny stories to use in my column. I would tease him that he was just trying to get his name in the paper, and it became a joke between us because I’d use his stuff, then only identify him as “a relative.” Anyway, after Edgar died, I told one of my friends I was going to miss Ed always trying to get his name in the paper.

Immediately after that, I started finding pennies everywhere I went. It was the strangest thing. It wasn’t just one or two, but ten or more every day. Once I put money in a vending machine, and when my change came out, it included a handful of pennies. No one puts pennies in a vending machine, yet they tinked out with my change. I’d heard about “pennies from heaven” before, but I thought it was silly. Which made Edgar have to work even harder. Finally, I cried uncle and wrote one last column about him. As soon as it appeared, the pennies stopped.