Stickers and Mom spit

Don't lick the light fixture, unless you're a Mom.


Yes, the Economy had a stroke. Businesses across the planet are trimming employees like they were stray ear hairs. But we still put up with crappy quality. I’m convinced we have become a society of spineless consumers, too often settling for “good enough” if it means we can save a few bucks.
I'm afraid it's only going to get worse, because "quality" affects the Bottom Line. One of the first branches of employees to go will be customer service reps.
So, the poor folks left will have to deal with even more angry consumers.
Regardless, I'm taking the gloves off.
One memorable nightmare came courtesy the Michigan Department of Natural Resources for their excessively permanent one-year snowmobile validation stickers, which are required and do not go away, ever.
Yes, when the only things left on the planet are bronze statues, cockroaches, Twinkies and Keith Richards, he'll be riding around on a vehicle protected by a Michigan DNR sticker.
It was a real project, removing that sticker from my sled’s hood. Eventually, another sticker over the top was the answer.
But there's more: When finishing a long remodeling project in my daughter’s bedroom, it was supposed to culminate in a new, energy saving, halogen light fixture.
Not only was I saving the world, she would be basking in the warm glow of soft, natural light - "Easier on the eyes!"
All that was left was to remove the half dozen various warning stickers, including that it was "UL-approved."
I’m sure in a litigious society like ours, it makes sense to tell people to turn the power off before installation, to use certain wattage bulbs and not to cook meat products on the warm fixtures or not to insert your tongue into the socket. But the stickers would not come off. If they did, a slight halo of adhesive remained, right there on the most visible part of the lighting fixture.
No amount of spit, elbow grease or detergent would remove the sticker goo. Nail polish remover destroyed the finish and even licking them – kind of odd, licking a sticker that says not to lick it – would not release their grasp. (I figured the old “Magical Mom Spit Postulate” might apply, where a Mother’s spit can take care of any stain on the human body, short of a tattoo.)
Even with The Magical Spit Theory, the ghost of the stickers held on like an aging southpaw relief pitcher with two remaining contract years.
No choice but to remove the whole light fixture, pack it up as best as possible, pile the family into the car and head for the lighting store, an hour away.
We found a new fixture, and decided to dig back into the bedroom project.
I hoped to set up our new, hot rod CD player stereo with a “random shuffle” to have a little background music while we performed our delicate bedroom art.
Sorry, Charlie; The month-old CD/DVD player refused to recognize that function. An hour of researching the directions – transcribed into five languages, including Portuguese and Korean – and still no way to reach the function.
All avenues explored, the player “required authorized mechanical service,” according to an eventual E-mail response from the manufacturer.
I can taste another customer service conversation coming.
It’s getting old, people.
Did I mention my lousy cell phone plan and flaky customer service? Or the substandard auto repair recently? Or that the hood release and defroster on my truck have never worked right? Or the wireless computer problem that never seems to get solved? Or the foam brushes I bought locally that fell apart into the can of paint after ten minutes?
I’m not pointing fingers and did not name the manufacturers - yet. Maybe it’s just a coincidence that a variety of products and services from different nations, stores and professions just seem to be, well, less than acceptable.
Part of the problem is a lack of product testing and logical designs. But a major part is simple corporate corner cutting; Spending more on marketing, flashy (difficult to open) packaging and executive comp packages than actual product improvement.
I’m ready to become the new, official American quality control “Squeaky Wheel,” even if it means licking light fixtures.