dara t. mathis

Breaking Up with Bad Businesses

Little Girl Angry on Her Dad — EPIC stink face! (Photo credit: khanmehmetozdemir)

I am reclining, engrossed in Denzel Washington’s preternaturally calm face as he flies a plane upside down. The massaging chair kneads my lower back. It has been aching of late and the rotating balls feel pretty good.

So, why am I absolutely infuriated?

It is 12:55 pm and I have just 5 minutes to get back to work. My mouth is full of cotton and dental tools and my dentist is nowhere near finished with my fillings. She asks me, belatedly, if I have to go back to my job today. I nod a little and hold up my left hand, fingers spaced apart. “Five minutes?!” She kicks herself into gear and tells me that she will have me out in 20. I fume silently, held hostage with my mouth propped open like a guppy.

My appointment should have started at 11:00 am. After waiting about 25 minutes, I asked the receptionist, a little disingenuously, if I had come at the wrong time for my appointment. I knew full well what time it started; I just wanted her to be aware of it. I wanted to leave but I had already paid for the visit. She confirmed the time. But the dental assistant did not come for me until 11:50 am, at which point I was past irritated.

I told the receptionist that I would not be able to get the second procedure done due to my job, and she blithely said, “Oh, the first one won’t take too long. You’ll be out by 1:00 pm, just like we scheduled.”

Staring at the ceiling-mounted DVD screen at 1:05 pm, I am angry. But my anger doesn’t boil. It simmers. I plot. I scheme. They ask me if I am okay, they apologize for being late, and all I say is, “Mhmm.” Nawl. I am debating whether or not it is time to quit my dentist, whom I have actually grown to like. She has cool things like movies and massages and head-circling x-ray machines, and I don’t want to give that up.

But I hate awful customer service. I am patient to a fault, but when people take advantage of said kindness, I feel helpless. Like aliens are experimenting in my mouth with sharp tools and I dare not move, lest I get cut–while every cell in my body yearns to escape. They hold my time hostage. Waiting, it infuriated me that I had 1) already paid and could not leave without raising a stink to get a refund 2) warned the lady there was not enough time and that I would be late returning to work and 3) that I did not want break up with them based on one bad occurrence.

I imagine walking up to the receptionist and saucily requesting that my January appointment be cancelled because I’m switching dentists. But she isn’t sitting there when I leave. I storm out with a thundercloud over my head and numb cheeks, so I can’t smile even if I want to.

The only leverage I have against this ever happening again is withdrawing my patronage from their practice. I absolutely cannot stand businesses abusing my time. Generally, they give good dental service and are friendly. I like that the practice is black women-owned and operated; I try to support minority businesses when I can. An hour late, though?! Grumble, grumble, grumble. I’m still mad!

But should I give them another shot? What would you do?

I’m About to Go Broke

Empty — H&M is about to straight ROB me (Photo credit: -Mandie-)

I kid, I kid! But not really.

When I first moved to Atlanta seven years ago, I discovered a store that not only kept its racks full of fashionable, work-appropriate clothing, but also made clothes small enough for women my size. Honestly, that’s all I really ask of a store; make stuff I can fit and look grown up wearing. With this criteria, Swedish retailer H&M made a quick fan out of me. I perused their website, only to find, horrified, that they did not have an online store available to US customers.

Whaaa?! No online sales in the era of the Internet? I have been confounded by that ever since.

Last month, I found out that H&M would finally open their website for shopping to US residents in August. And today, I realized that it’s August already! H&M is running a sale, which my Frugal Frannie side absolutely loves.

So, within the confines of my ironclad budget…yeah…I’m about to go broke.

Happy shopping, ya’ll! Are you an H&M fan?

Zimmerman’s Valid Fear

George Zimmerman — Profiling: A face for black boys to fear. (Photo credit: DonkeyHotey)

“I’m gon’ put some lead in him,” Mr. Williams says. His raucous laugh holds no mirth, but his belly shakes a little beneath his hands. “If I catch ’em in my yard, I’ma beat the piss out of ’em!”

“Mhmm. I ain’t got too good an aim, so I’ma buy me one of them shotguns. And if I see ’em, that’s it!” Mr. Taylor echoes.

My neighbors are predominantly black, late middle aged. This conversation floats around my head at our annual fish fry. All summer, we have endured a rash of broad daylight break-ins in our suburban Atlanta community.

Crime spikes during the summer, when school is out and idle hands find devilment to get into. The thieves ring doorbells to fish for empty homes and break in if no one answers the door. And at any given moment, a young, black male can be seen running from a cul-de-sac, bulging book bag thumping across his back. A neighbor wrapped in a housecoat yells at him angrily to stop. He is never caught.

The men at the fish fry generally agree: If we catch one in the yard, we’re laying hands on him; if we catch one in our home, we’re shooting to kill.

They are that angry, that violated. They are that afraid.

Today, I think about a shotgun’s bullet tearing through the flesh of a teenage boy, ripping muscle from bone and blasting a peephole in the center of him. I am unsettled, regardless of Castle Doctrine.

During his 911 call, George Zimmerman swore, “These assholes they always get away.” He told the dispatcher about the vandalism in the area. When I first heard the transcript, I felt his rage. I thought it was targeted at young black boys. But I also heard this sentiment at the all-black attended fish fry. Riffraff. Punks. No-account bored teenagers. Worthless thieves who always get away and are never found, whose parents fear them and whose teachers fail them by passing them through school.

My community’s resolution to protect life and property (including mine) is justified. The major difference between Zimmerman’s fear and my neighbors’ fear is that Zimmerman allowed his anger about his fear to direct his gun toward a child who was not committing a crime. My neighbors do not accost teens traipsing across lawns as if youth and skin color were indicators of criminality. And they certainly do not stalk sagging jeans and hoodies.

Trayvon Martin Protest - Sanford — Trayvon Martin Protest – Sanford (Photo credit: werthmedia)

Profiling is a fear-based response to helplessness. When we don’t know who is violating our sense of safety, we cling to archetypes and images that give us some tangible figure at which to direct our anger. It is human. But it is still wrong.

George Zimmerman had every right to feel angry and afraid and frustrated about the crime occurring in his neighborhood.

He did not, however, have a right to kill Trayvon.

Undressing the Italian

I have never been so irritated to see a half naked man in all my life. (Mind you, this is a rare occurrence for me, as I generally think half naked images are better than fully naked ones. But I digress).

Frankly, I think Kraft did themselves a disservice by making The Zesty Guy the star of their new Italian dressing commercials, instead of the dressing itself. Italian people everywhere should be offended.

It’s supposed to be funny, in the vein of Isaiah Mustafa’s Old Spice Guy commercials, which positively slayed. Old Spice hit it on the nail with their absurd monologues, the amazing set tricks (I’m on a horse!), and Mustafa’s deadpan aristocratic delivery. His chiseled, naked torso is a bonus, but it doesn’t feel extraneous because 1) it’s a commercial for body products 2) the commercials play on the idea that your man will look like Mustafa (or at least smell like he looks like Mustafa).

http://youtu.be/97Q56WXTsp4

At first, the Italian dressing ads didn’t have me laughing. I gave Kraft a side eye for marketing so obnoxiously to women when Italian dressing isn’t a necessarily a woman-centered product. My husband stans for Italian dressing and I’m 100% sure The Zesty Guy is not marketing to him.

And, c’mon…there is nothing sexy about a vinegar-based sauce. And even if you mix nekkid time with Italian dressing…well, that’s not really the sexy sauce of choice, now, is it? The stains it would leave…!

But I’ve lightened up a bit after reviewing more of the videos. Kraft uses similar set tricks as Old Spice, like instantaneously sliced bell peppers, telekinesis-melted butter, and apron wardrobe ~~malfunctions~~ changes. Those do elicit a chuckle. The actor, however, feels like a beefcake prop to me, whereas Mustafa’s characterization of The Old Spice Guy actually took talent. Both men do smize convincingly, so there’s that.

Underneath it all, I have finally put a finger on what initially irked me. Sex-based marketing usually attempts to be subtle; since Kraft is going balls to the wall with it, they adopt a tongue-in-cheek tone. I then feel as if I’m playing a game of chicken. I don’t want to be cognizant of the fact that I’m buying Italian dressing because I subconsciously associate it with The Zesty Guy. Because dangit, I like Kraft Italian Dressing! They are forcing me to choose between supporting half-naked advertising or eating naked salads.

Sex sells, yada yada yada. But I chiefly admire advertising that hinges on smart, not tingly, humor.

Now, let me go finish my salad.

A Racist Apologizes

The original title of And Then There Were None... — The original title of And Then There Were None (1939), by Agatha Christie. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Dear Offended Black People:

I meant exactly what you thought I meant when the word nigger leapt from my mouth. It did not escape. It did not slip out. I launched it with all the force my vocal chords could muster. I wanted it to stick.

If I was sorry for offending you, I would never have said it.

The truth is, the word nigger tastes like absinthe, dark and heady in my mouth. I have swirled it around on my tongue behind the curtain of nightfall, forbidden. It pairs well with other adjectives, like “dirty,” “filthy,” “stupid,” “ugly.” But it is intoxicating solo; I prefer it straight, no chaser.

I called you a nigger because who pulls out a spade when the Big Joker outweighs it? Who brings a pillow to a gunfight? The word is all blunt edged consonants and feral growls. It is a word you stab with and yank back streaked bloody.

And yes, I do have black friends, but we didn’t collaborate on this one. They’re fine people. But if they had done what you did to anger me, the word would still have echoed in my thoughts, manic to be heard.

To be honest, I needed to free nigger from the cage of my teeth, to allow the word to point its blade toward home: the heart of a black person.

Racist? Call me what you will; I have already called you the name I deem fitting for you.

And if ever I repented, it would be for the act of withdrawal, the forcing of men to become mice and retract words–as if a feeble thread of “sorry” could stitch wounds meant to remain gaping.

From my heart,
Every Racist Ever.

*If you hadn’t guessed, this fictitious post illustrates what I think a real “apology” for a racial slur should sound like.