In which I learn that Zappos.com hires professional stalkers

Okay, I get that Zappos is a "fun" store. They're going for a laid-back, we're-you're-buddies vibe. That's cool. I can handle that. Plus, I like the new shoes I got. They're nice shoes.
But here's the question: Just how far can you encourage folks go with customer service before it becomes customer stalking?
My previous post was very long, so you probably didn't read it all the way through. That's okay. I didn't proofread it all the way through either.
But the title is pretty much all you need to read. I tried to exchange shoes. Much, much, much talking was required in order to accomplish this.
So that's the end of it, I think. I made it. I beat the level. I got my shoes. New scenario.
Then I check my mail a few days later.

Zappos.com, says the envelope. Printed, official. Follow-up, I think, them being Powered By Service and all. Thanks for ordering. Sorry you didn't like that first pair of shoes. Glad you found others. Please buy more now. You have store credit. Remember your store credit? You don't have to buy shoes. We have socks and knives and golf clubs.
Something like that, I figured.
Odd, I thought, that Zappos.com hand-writes the recipient's address. That seems sort of time-consuming. Also, they should have scribbled a little first to get the ink flowing.

Then I open it up. THEN I OPEN IT UP.

Is that marker? Is that three colors of marker?!
But it's the doggy stamp, the smiley sticker, and that little foam flower dealio that really give me pause.

 I cannot picture this workplace. Are there big jars of assorted craft supplies sitting next to each desk for this sort of thing? Then I'm picturing everyone working at something resembling the Youth desk at my library, stampers and stickers and toys and temporary tattoos hidden away in every drawer, next to the first-aid kit and behind the file folders. Or did he go home and raid his kids' stash of supplies?
And really, it wouldn't take a privacy nut, not even a privacy enthusiast, to be a little concerned that they are getting handwritten mail to their homes from the customer-service guy. Specifically. Personally. HE KNOWS WHERE I LIVE.
On second thought, maybe this means he knows where I blog as well.
Brian with a giant B, my apologies if you discover this in your efforts to further provide exceptional customer service, and feel offended and/or homicidal. You were psyched about flesh-eating insects, remember. It's fair for me to think of this as mildly weird.

So what say you, gentle reader? Would you be put off or pleased by this exercise in Extreme Customer Service? If I actually *buy* something on my own initiative from this place, will I get balloons? What should I use that store credit for, anyhow? Do they really sell kitchen knives?

In which I have (and subsequently transcribe) a marathon phone conversation in order to return shoes

You know how sometimes you say "It's a long story" when it's not, but you really just don't feel like telling the story at all?

Sometimes that backfires.

The way it backfired is actually, and somewhat ironically, a rather long story (or at least an incredibly long conversation), which includes my name more times than virtually any conversation I have had in the past, including several I've had that involved at least one other person named Emily.

It seemed straightforward enough ... a bit strange, as situations go, but straightforward.

I inexplicably received some shoes the other day, two pair, one per box, sitting obediently on my doorstep when I returned from work. 

I was quite certain I had not ordered any shoes -- volume 1 of Digger, yes, and season 7 of Buffy that I'd been doing without so long, but nothing remotely resembling shoes. Some asking around finally revealed that they were from an aunt who heard from my mother that I had been looking for shoes and had, as this particular aunt is wont to do, simply ordered up a couple pairs and had them shipped off to me.

The one pair was lovely, the other a bit clomp-y and not quite the proper fit. So, as is fairly often the case and even the expectation with random surprise deliveries such as this from that particular aunt, I decided to go to the website from which the order was made and find an equivalent and more-fitting pair for a swap.

Unlike a simple return, an exchange required calling up Zappos directly. So, a call was placed. A straightforward call. An, "I got these shoes and would like these shoes instead, please, thankyouverymuch bye" sort of call.

The customer-service guy answered with that peppy-puppy sort of tone that, on my less-friendly days, makes me go "uh-oh" and feel a sudden desire run off and hide in an abandoned basement for safety's sake, much like a werewolf on the eve of the full moon who's just been asked to take care of a friend's kitten for the weekend ... or ... um ... I was going somewhere with this.

Here's a fancy bunny to break the upcoming monotony:

Anyhow, you could tell right off it was going to be one of those companies that makes their employees chat up the customers in an effort to seem friendly and welcoming and give us good reviews and tell your friends about us please. Though in this case, store policy only served to enhance the naturally-occurring chattiness.

Me: I'm not sure I pressed the right number, it said "returns" -- I'm calling about a gift exchange?

CS Rep: Uh, um, yeah, I can help you with that, ah, what's your name?

Me: .... Ummmm, Emily; I'm gonna tell you what the situation is here first and then I'll give you whatever the information is you need, okay?

CS Rep: Ah, okay, sure!

Me: [explains situation]

CS Rep: Okay, Emily, so, is this something you want to keep on the down-low from the person who sent it?

Me: ... Um, no, she's fine with me returning stuff.

CS Rep: Okay, just wanted to make sure it's not like, "My mom bought me these and I hate them" or something [knowing, conspiratorial laughter] --

Me: Yeah; no, that's not the case.

CS Rep: Okay! Well Emily, do you have an account with Zappos?

Me: No, no I don't.

CS Rep: Okay, so I'm gonna start by setting up an account for you.

Me: [started searching for the "Register" button shortly after his previous question] Uh, I can start an account on my own if you like.

CS Rep: Ummm ... [recovers] uh, okay, you can if you want, it's up to you!

Me: Okay, 'cuz it looks pretty simple.

CS Rep: Yes! It's very simple!

Me: Yeah alright, I've made a *lot* of accounts, lemme see, name, email, password ... doesn't really matter, I won't probably be using this again [dang, I need to stop narrating aloud to myself].

CS Rep: Aw, you won't be using it again? That makes me sad.

Me: Um ... well I guess you have to use it to order, don't you. I was more thinking I'm not gonna be returning anything again.

CS Rep: Yes, you'll use it to order [goes into pre-made "things you'll use your account for" spiel as I finish actually making account]

Me: 'Kay, I'm all set.

CS Rep: Okay, Emily, so what's the email you just used for that account?

Me: Well ... I'm gonna say it and then spell it, 'cuz it's weird. [says, spells]

CS Rep: Hm, okay!

Me: Long story.

After much more speaking and fairly little progress, including such themes as Which Shoes Do You Want? ("Aw, not the leopard print?") and What Happens to the $12 Difference Between These and the Other Pair? ("I, uh, I've never had someone exchange something where it cost less, let me look that up"), and Other/Cheaper Things I Can Buy Here ("clothing, golf clubs, kitchen knives ..."), we returned to that old favorite, Your Email Address ("So, Emily, I've emailed the shipping label ... now what's the story about your email address?").

Remember what I said about long stories?

Me: Well, um, it's just a species name actually --

CS Rep: Yeah, I figured something like that!

Me: [in my speediest "telling impatient new library patrons where all the computers and service desks are" voice] It's a bug, dermestid beetles; they're flesh-eating bugs, but ... basically, they're hide beetles, so. Yeah, like I said, long story why I chose it though.

CS Rep: See the reason I ask is, I'm really interested in forensic stuff, like CSI stuff and that kind of thing. So what's the long story?

Me: [good luck with the job options, buddy]. Ah. Interesting. Well. [so much for getting rid of him with the flesh-eating-bugs part]. Have you heard of the TV show Bones.

CS Rep: [closest anyone has come to delivering an audible eye-roll] Of course.

Me: [back to "the-info-desk-is-in-the-middle-over-there-they-can-help-you-find-items" rhythm] Ah, okay. Well, I always liked the character Zack; so of course he's got his flesh-eating bugs, and that's the kind they were. And they all had names, and he wouldn't let anyone kill them, because they had names, and I thought that was cute. So. There you go.

CS Rep: Okay, I get that! Cool.

Me: [SO AM I GETTING MY NEW SHOES OR WHAT] So. *HREM*

CS Rep: Okay, so that address wasn't the one they were shipped from, that's going to you, right? [starts reading back address]

Me: Seven. Not two, seven. Right?

CS Rep: Oh, right! Yeah, I must have been reading the ZIP code.

Me: ... [there are no 2's in my ZIP code] Ah. Yes?

CS Rep: And that's -- how do you pronounce that -- AH-mayz? Ah-MEHZ?

Me: ... Ames. It's Ames. [this package is never going to find me, is it?]

CS Rep: Oh, okay!

Me: YEP.

CS Rep: Well, you have a good evening!

Me: You too. BYE!

But on the bright side, I got my shoes the next day, and they fit precisely as they ought -- even the surly werewolf artist-librarian Lizard Lass can find no fault. Plus, the buckles jingle when I walk. Yes, this is definitely a plus.

Okay, I admit, the umbrella isn't mine. I don't really go for the polka-dot motif. But I couldn't resist....

If you read this far without falling asleep or giving up entirely, you deserve a cookie! So go bake yourself some. I'll take care of the leftovers if you have any. :)

In which my unhealthy squirrel obsession pays off

...well, a little at least.

As does my propensity for eavesdropping on tech-related questions that do not currently apply to me, with the generally-accurate assumption that at some point I will manage to break something in a similar way and have no idea how to fix it on my own.

So, backstory: On Tuesdays I have to loiter a while on campus near the lake. The lake is home to two swans, some ducks, many geese, and various squirrels, raccoons (which is apparently a typographical error, since there is no such thing as more than one raccoon? Ah, spellcheck), chipmunks, and such small deer.

Large and small alike, they are all fed on bread by idle hikers and eager children, and so have become quite (at times unnervingly) tame. I walked up on this group yesterday and only three of them even noticed me -- the female mallard second from the right isn't turning her head to look at me, she is tucking her head under her wing and falling asleep.

Anyhow, all I have to do is sit down and it's as if I'm not there at all. So the squirrels promptly started being adorable because they obviously knew I couldn't find my camera. One was drinking from the lake, one was playing with bark chips. Finally I managed to get my camera out, on, and focused in time to take a brief video of Adorable Teenage Squirrel #3 fighting with a scary stick. It was one of the cutest things I've personally witnessed and recorded a squirrel doing, and I was eager to get back home and share it. I still had time to kill before that, though, so I went through and started deleting subpar images from my camera in case something else interesting happened that required even more video space.

One of them was so blurry, I didn't know why I hadn't deleted it immediately. I clicked the trash can icon, and the "Yes" button, and then ... I clicked back a couple pictures to where my video should have been, and it was GONE.

Noooooooo.

My camera is not very good at making it clear which preview images are images and which are video stills, and I apparently misjudged which images came before and after the video I wanted, because I had deleted it. Just like that. IT WAS BLURRY BECAUSE IT WAS A SQUIRREL MID-CUTE-ATTACK. After fretting about this (and the lack of an "undo" button) for a good thirty seconds I realized that (unlike similar disasters I'd had in the past with less-sophisticated media-recording devices) the image had been stored on a memory card, and the thing about memory cards was that deleted things weren't necessarily Gone Forever. 

I rushed home (being ridiculously careful to remind myself not to take anymore pictures with the camera in the interim, just in case), jumped to the first forum post I could find asking about recovering deleted images, and LO AND BEHOLD, there were options. 

I hooked up the Lumix, downloaded PhotoRec, and with a few keystrokes I had recovered my beloved squirrel (along with ten or fifteen less-beloved squirrels that had been deleted in the same run).

As the sort of person who's had more than one "NOOOO, I TAPED OVER MY FAVORITE SONG/TV SHOW/RANDOM SOUND CLIP AND NOW IT'S GONE FOREVER AND THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS FINDING IT ON THE INTERNET" moment, I have to say I don't entirely mind the "nothing you delete is ever really gone" element of today's technology.

My brain needs an upgrade ....

You know those ads where Siri is like your helpful little slave, captive brain-in-a-box with no feelings or feeding to worry about, just a helpful imaginary friend, a handy auxiliary brain to behave as your own surely would were it connected to the entire Internet?

Those are kind of creepy, aren't they?

Anyhow, the point of this post.

Asking direct questions is a great way to get answers, but if you're asking a medium meant to imitate your brain, then the answers can get dicey pretty fast.

After yet another bout of fussing and fuming at search engines, Pandora (I keep "breaking up" with it and then feeling bad and giving it another chance ...), and the Internet in general, I realized that my own personal brain doesn't really do that much better 90% of the time. It's just learned to run through all the wrong answers more quickly, so I wind up with the right answer sooner.

Most days.

Some days it is just about exactly as quick on the uptake as Pandora or Google.

Now, I've complained about word-association in the past, but downtime and idle conversations are one thing (two things, pah, you know what I mean). What about when I'm actually requesting helpful information from my patented brain algorithm? 

An ideal situation would be,

Me: What is the name of that color?
Brain: What color?
Me: The nice one that sounds like super-blue but is actually beyond-the-sea.
Brain: Based on your search query, "ultramarine" is the closest match.
Me: That's it! Thank you, brain!
Brain: You're welcome.

A more realistic situation would be,

Me: What is the name of that color?
Brain: Red lorry, yellow lorry, red lorry, yellow lorry ...
Me: PAY ATTENTION. What color is it?
Brain: What color?
Me: The nice one that sounds like super-blue but is actually beyond-the-sea.
Brain: ♫ Somewhere ... beyond the sea ... ♫
Me: ...
Brain: Was that the song you were looking for? It appears that 80% of the above lyrics match your search query. Do you want to buy Finding Nemo on DVD with your Amazon gift card? Your VHS copy is looking a little worn.
Me: I WANTED A COLOR. Super-blue, but not.
Brain: UBERWEISS. It's new, it's German, it's super-tough. Don't you wonder how that laundromat scene would look set to the Freeze-Ray song from Dr. Horrible? You have Tuesday off, you could probably make--
Me: NO, GAWD, I'LL JUST LOOK IT UP. Um ... okay, it would be under ...
Brain: U.
Me: U?
Brain: For "ultramarine."
Me: Ah, right -- HEY. D:
Brain: :D
Me: THIS ISN'T FUNNY.
Brain: Did you mean: ♫I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cryyy with the saints--♫
Me: STOPPIT I DON'T WANT THAT IN MY HEAD WHILE I'M AT WORK.
Brain: No, the song you didn't want in your head at work is by Cee-Lo Green. The title is F--
Me: SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP.
Brain: ...:(
Me: Sorry brain, but ... you know how you get sometimes.
Brain: Yes, I am also sor-- wait, have we been letting Pandora run unattended this whole time?
Me: IT'S PLAYING THE IRISH FOLK MUSIC AGAIN.

Brain: AND THE PREVIOUS TRACK WAS FROM GLEE.

Me: WHY DOES IT EVEN HAVE THAT SONG?
Brain: WHO CARES?? THUMBS-DOWN, THUMBS-DOWN!!!
Me: I KNOW I KNOW, MY MOUSE WON'T MOVE THAT FAST.
Brain: I'M SO SORRY.
Me: I got it, I got it! It's okay, Brain. It's over now. It'll be okay.
Brain: :) Not to dig up the past, but why did you need to know what ultramarine was called?
Me: Um ... I don't remember. Isn't that your job?
Brain: I don't know, let me look that up--
Me: NO. Don't. Please. I'll ... I'll just use it in a blog post, I haven't blogged in a while.
Brain: Very well. Did you ever know he was singing "Kyrie, eleison" in that song?

Me: I didn't know it even had words, I just thought he was making 80's noises.

Brain: So did I. Thumbs-up?

Me: Let's not get carried away. But ... I guess you and Pandora aren't so bad after all.
Brain: :D

This is a baby bunny my brain thought you might find relevant.

Blaidd drwg?

Either the universe is ending, or someone downtown is having a bit too much fun with chalk.

On the way back from the British food store's St. Paddy's bash, I noticed something on an alley wall. At first it just looked like faded scribbling, but at the right angle....

In case you didn't get that, let's tweak the light a little:

What say you, handwriting experts -- same culprit from the sidewalk a couple weeks back?  

Looks like somebody needs a Doctor.

Been a while ...

So little has happened while I've been away!

Well, not in the world around us, but here in lizard-lass-land.

I finally sort of finished the digital painting I've been alternately working on and avoiding for months now:

I just wanted to draw a little monitor lizard standing on his hind legs and maybe painted a little or wearing some decorations. Then I realized I needed a background, and shading, and ... well, basically I ran away screaming. I keep telling myself that this is the most I'll bother doing, that it's as good as it needs to be and nobody really cares either way, but then I keep seeing something *wrong* with it. I'm currently ignoring the fact that the left leg of the dot-painted human on the boomerang has somehow gotten smudged out of existence.

Also discovered that frog legs, despite what everyone says about everything, do not taste at all like chicken. If you deep-fry them and leave them in the fridge for a day, they do start to dry out and get a texture sort of like chicken breast ... but I don't think that's what they were getting at. Basically, it's like a firm white freshwater fish -- trout was the one that came to mind for me. It's not strongly flavored (definitely not bird-flavored), and if there's any flavor it's fish. The meat breaks apart/flakes a bit like fish too. Really, the main problem is that when you cook up a whole set of frog's legs without breaking them apart, they look like a frog's butt.

The gecko still lives, the library still stands, and the days grow warmer. We'll see if I can keep up a little better with you fine folks (yes, I pretend my readership is existent AND plural) in the future.

Livin' on the edge of the law...

Here's to hoping they can't one day arrest me for those pictures of my Thomas the Tank Engine night light I posted earlier, or for quoting Gilmore Girls.