Attention, Telemarketers! Want to call me during dinner? That'll be $50, please

I have a new post up -- over at Forbes! It's about an insolent car dealership and the best solution I had for dealing with their rudeness: a creative sort of asking.... check it out here!

When I last wrote here, many moons ago, I had so much work I needed to cut drastically back on everything else. I didn't decide to take a break. I just stopped, thinking I'd catch up again in a few days.

The work deadlines came and passed. Then taxes came. Small business taxes are a strange form of torture.

Then the taxes passed, and I was embarrassed. I stopped in the middle of the month of daily asking. On a downer post, no less.

Then the embarrassment passed, and I got busy with house hunting and more wedding planning. Put on offer on a house. Visited 15 others. No luck.

All the while, I was asking and negotiating.

"I should write about this! I'll definitely start blogging again this week," I told myself. Every week.

Finally, for some reason, something happened. I didn't decide to write again. I just did.

So nice to see you around here again. How've you been? I hope this Spring has treated you nicely. Any asking adventures of your own you'd like to share?

Day 3 of 30: Pushing my luck with credit card policies

Here's something I'm not exactly proud of, but in the name of transparency I'll spill the beans.

(Just one request first, Dad: No lectures please! ;) )

I have a Visa card with a due date on a random/weird day of the month, aka nowhere near the first. This month I completely forgot to pay. The next day, Mr. A noticed an online alert that I had a late fee. Curses!!! 

(Usually this isn't a problem, Mom, because I pay bills on or around the same day, but this one completely fell under my radar.)

So on top of the balance of $89, I got charged a late fee of $8 and a $2 finance charge. Dumb dumb dumb.

After a quick poll on Twitter, Facebook and this blog where readers voted for what I should ask, I ended up calling my card company with these two requests:

1. Can you please move my due date to the 1st, so I never forget again? ("Sure!")

2. Can you please remove one or both charges? It slipped my mind and I will be more careful now that the due date is the same as every other bill I have.

The agent said she'll try. Then she disappeared for a minute, leaving a soothing Mozart piano sonata on the line in her wake. She returned with bad news: "I took off the fee, but the computer put it back on. It showed that in August, you had a different fee reversed. I'm sorry! I really tried! You can try calling again later, it might work then!"

She was so sweet.

Gained: Nothing.

Lost: A little under 10 minutes.

Whitney Johnson, who writes a creative, practical and inspiring blog called Dare to Dream, asked me how I felt when I got rejected. 

After I ended the call, Whitney, here's how I felt: I felt like I deserved it!! I felt kind of naughty. Bad naughty, because I should not be racking up these idiotic fees in the first place. Not once but twice in a calendar year? LAMEEEEENESS.

But also I felt kind of good naughty, because at least the reason the computer said no was that I'd previously asked. I guess of all the reasons to get rejected, that's the one I should be the least unhappy about?!

image source: 123rf.com

Day 2 of 30: Make an exception for the exceptional Mr. A?

After work today, Mr. A met me at home and we took off to the gym. This is a rare occurrence, since I'm not one to work out in general (make that one heck of a pricey gym membership come to think of it) and he prefers to play tennis or do athletic things for fun.

"So you're asking daily again," he murmured on the drive down.

"Yes!"

"Why... daily?"

"It's time to get back to the basics. I just feel this is the right time, for some reason. For fun! For adventure!"

He laughed nervously.

And I understand why. For anyone who came to this blog after July 1 2009, if you haven't dug around much you should at least know now that Mr. A was an all star trooper. Whenever I confessed at 11:30 (p.m., that is) that I still had to ask, he jumped into the car with me and we headed somewhere, anywhere, askable. He's come along on detours and suggested asking techniques, he's been a sounding board and a partner in crime. And proofreader -- can't forget that. His friends used to keep up with the daily blog so they'd know what he was up to. Plus, on those desperate days when I really didn't know what to ask for, somehow Mr. A was always a prime target for some odd or spontaneous request. I'd get that glint in my eye and he knew to duck for cover.

In other words, when La Roxy announces that she's asking daily again, it kind of means that Mr. A is along for the ride... for better or worse ;)

Case in point:

We got to the gym, and I realized I left my access card on a different keychain. Also, Mr. A isn't a member, and we were prepared to pay the entrance fee when out of the blue I tried a different approach.

"Hi! I forgot my key thingie, so can I give you my name or ID?"

"You for got your key thingie!!" the guy behind the counter gasped.

"Yes! Sorry!"

"I don't think you can set foot in here without that. Kidding. What's your address?"

After he cleared me, I asked for one more little favor...

"Can I bring in a guest? He's not a member and we're not going to work out for long..."

"Normally it would be $15, but, since I'm at the end of my shift," he lowered his voice here, "go for it."

We waved goodbye and I had a good session on the elliptical, watching the situation unravel in Egypt on CNN.

Saved: $15.

Lost: 1 minute.

Afterthought:

So far, Days 1 and 2 aren't reaches. Nothing I wouldn't have asked for before. Nothing bold or inspiring. This last one wasn't even an explicit request: "Let him in for free?" But it was a suggestion, a hint, and it got the result I wanted. In any case, it's feeling great to stretch these muscles and remember what it's like to do it daily. I haven't hit my stride yet, but once I'm back in that mode, I'm so curious what each new day will bring...

image source: panik-design.com

Day 1 of 30: Made small talk with credit card rep. Result? Fee removed.

Before the call with Amex (goal: remove a mysterious service fee that has creeped onto the last few statements), I wrote down these six words on a blank page. Not sure that I needed a reminder, but it felt good to see them as I spoke:

what i want: remove all fees

I called and explained the situation. The agent asked if I had previously asked for it to be removed, and I said, "Something like that, since I never signed up for this service. So yes, it's there by mistake."

As he was looking up my account, there was a  pause in which he asked, "How is your day going?" Instead of the conventional "fine, thanks," I told him the truth: "I'm having an amazing day. I'm in California where it's warm and sunny, and I can't believe this is February. Where are you?" He answered Virginia, where it's 30 degrees. I apologized for gloating and told him I took a nice road trip through Virginia once. Then, he told me about the cruise to the Bahamas he just finished, and I congratulated him on his weather coping mechanism.

Then, action: "I have found your account. I do see this fee has been applied twice. Now this service is very useful, and I recommend you don't cancel."

"Thanks, but I'm not interested. I never sign up for 'extra coverage services' like that. It's not my style."

"Well, it's useful because in case of loss of income, or if you were to get injured or married or divorced, this will cover payments. We will actually reduce your balance by up to $500. I really recommend you think about leaving that on there."

I told him I don't need that kind of protection, because I can get free 'coverage' in an emergency from Mr. A or my parents... and then the ask:

"So I'm wondering if you could take me out of the program and even remove those two fees?" 

"Let me take a look here..."

"Of course. I know you aren't required to do that, and this kind of great customer service is why I decided to get an Amex card."

After a pause:

"I will be able to take care of this for you. And thank you for letting me give you more details about that  protection service." He said he'll put a note in my record to make sure the service ends and no new fees get applied in the interim.

"Thank you!"

"That's what we're here for. To take care of you guys. Thank you for being a valued American Express customer."

Thanks for making me feel valued, Amex!

Closing reflections:

1. His question, "How's your day going?" wasn't just small talk. He was testing my mood. Was I angry with Amex? Curt? Would I be nice to deal with or use half an hour of the supervisor's time? 

2. This wasn't a very challenging request, but it still could have gone either way. (Unless Amex is really gentle on fees -- I don't know their policies that well.) I do think that establishing rapport with the agent from the first minute or two set the tone of our whole conversation. Plus, that opening back and forth SO beat 40 seconds of silence or worse, hold music.

3. When he thanked me for listening to his brief spiel, this showed that his real objective was to share that info and try to convince me to stay. If I hadn't listened or been rough, he might have said, "Eff you too," and not canceled anything. This way, we both got what we wanted.

Gained: $24.60 and knocked something off my to do list

Lost: 10 minutes

Question: Have you been successful at knocking off a fee? What strategies did you use?

Day 1 of 30: Here we go. Credit card company, cancel this random fee?

The problem with deciding to ask daily around 11:30 p.m. is that it limits your options. Then I spent an hour and a half waiting before I hit publish, just to make sure I was going to do it.  Now it's 1 a.m. and I feel I should ask before I go to sleep, or it will all be very anticlimactic.

Fortunately, that's where my previous procrastination pays off. I signed up for a credit card a few months ago, and it claimed it has no fee. But every month, an "account security fee" has appeared.

For weeks, Mr. A and I have bounced around this privilege.

"Are you going to call and deal with this?"

"Sure."

Later:

"I didn't have time."

"I'll call."

"No, I will."

Later:

"Have you called?"

"I've been busy!"

"I'll do it."

Well thank you, random impulsive noctural decision. Time to take care of business. AmEx, here I come.

image source: benjii.me

Screw policy: Let us into his ICU room?

Ten feet from the pale green plastic reclineable armchair in which I write, my father is asleep.

Machines are helping his lungs breathe and his heart pump.

Familiar liquids seep through strange tubes, while the regular suck and blow of the respirator does the work his excavated body cannot.

It's been 18 hours since his heart attack, 8 hours since I landed in McAllen, Texas, to be with him.

He had two blocked arteries, which called for two surgeries. One open-heart: triple bypass.

I got to see to him before the second surgery. "It took a heart attack," he teased limply when he saw me. I held his air-conditioned hand, rubbed his back, and we talked about what he'd dream when he goes under. Greece. He went to Greece on vacation, last year, and calls the cliffside temple at Sounion the most sacred and beautiful place on the planet.

"The same wind that beats those rocks blew on the Greeks as they built this temple. You go there and time stops," he told me.

I answered with stories from recent travels and bribed him with the promise of grandchildren.

"Be strong, Tata."

"Sure."

Four hours later, the heart surgeon came out, looked me right in the eyes and nodded.

"No complications."

"We'll have him awake in the morning."

"I was actually surprised at how good his heart looked."

"All that smoking."

"Make sure he does his physical therapy and he should be able to leave in 5 days."

My eyes fell on the surgeon's hands. They moved subtly, efficiently, as he punctuated his message with minute gestures. But there was also something loose and soft about those movements, and it occurred to me that his control over his instruments is more precise and more nuanced than anything you or I could imagine. I wanted to kiss his hands.

The only problem, all things considered, is that the nurse in the ICU didn't want to let us into the room, saying that on the first night visitors are not allowed. My stepmother and I were there, and my sister is arriving in a few hours.

"You can stay for a minute. The first night is critical, so we want to be able to monitor him with no one in the room."

"I know the first night is critical, and he is extremely important to me, so that's why I want to be here."

"I know he's very important to you, and I'm sorry. We'll take good care of him. We'll wake him up tomorrow morning, so you can come back around 8."

That is when I told her his cardiologist and his heart surgeon gave the OK for an overnight stay, and we will stay out of the way, in that corner over there. If two or three people are too many, we'll take turns because we don't want to make their job hard. We simply want to be there, just in case.

I didn't say this, but here's what else I meant: I will stay in the room, because you don't fly 8 hours and watch your father get wheeled away on a gurney for his second heart surgery in 24 hours so you can then lie awake in a bed 2 miles from his hospital room and trust others to take very good care of him, hoping no one is under the weather that night, talking on a cell phone while changing an IV drip, coughing into a glove, getting distracted while adding a decimal point, pumping him with heavy sedatives if he starts walking up before 'schedule' or giving anything less than their live-giving best.

"That's our policy. Let me get the charge nurse so she can explain."

She left.

I picked up my cell phone and called his cardiologist, who had given me his cell number.

"Dr. S____? It's Roxana. I'm sorry to bother you, but you said I could call if I had any questions. The nurse is saying we can't stay in the room. You told me we could stay overnight, and I want to be there, especially because it's his first night after surgery, but she's saying that's against the hospital's policy. Can you please talk to her?"

I was flustered. He thought I was someone else. He asked me to repeat myself, which I did, more calmly. Then he asked me to put the charge nurse on the phone. She talked for a minute in hushed tones, then told me it was fine. We can stay.

So here I am. Ten feet from my sleeping, sedated daddy. Now I'm not sure what else to do but wait, hope, write.

[image source]

No parking ticket!?

[image credit]

Thursday morning, June 17, I was meting with a client and a colleague in my office's conference area.

The client walked in worried about not having enough money for the parking meter and I assured her that the meeting would be over before her meter expired.

It wasn't.

As we were wrapping things up, she looked at the clock, saw she was overdue on the meter and told us she needed to leave. She started gathering her things and saying goodbye when, from our second floor office window, I saw it: the meter maid mobile, pulling up to the client's car.

"Meter maid!!!!!" I screamed and grabbed the quarters someone had instantly produced and shoved into my palm.

"Gooooooooooooooo!!!!!" they all screamed back.

I leapt down the stairs, sprang out the door and bounded across the street.

"Please!" I gasped. "It just expired! Here are quarters! Please no ticket! I know once you start writing the ticket you can keep going but please, please -- here are quarters!!"

She meter maid shot me an amused glance and gave her verdict. "Man, you're fast. Ok."

"THANK YOU!"

Upstairs, I saw them all leaning out the window and I shot them a thumbs up. When I walked in, we all high-fived. You see, they were under the impression that the client escaped the ticket because I had sprinted down and stopped the meter maid.

But I'll tell the real you why no ticket was issued.

Because it wasn't my car.

I am a ticket magnet. Remember those 3 tix I appealed and I promised seven whopping months ago to update you about? I FINALLY recently got the last of the three verdicts: all rejected. I tried lying (for this experiment, naturally ;) ), I tried citing policy, and I even tried being nice and sweet. Fail. Fail. Fail. (Here was that original post: http://thedailyasker.blogspot.com/2009/12/3-parking-tickets-3-askings-let-games.html)

One more example: Just a few days ago I met with a different client at his establishment and for 10 minutes I kept saying, "I have to run and feed my meter. I'll be right back." The conversation kept going, I didn't extricate myself since it was on the verge of finishing, and when I got to the car, 8 minutes late, there was a ticket on the windshield.

So, the moral for avoiding tix is... Run fast? Always Ask?

Nah, much simpler: Don't be La Roxy.

;)

(Any other strategies??? Dish them below. I'd love to hear your success stories since this is clearly not my forte!!)

To bribe or not to bribe?

A lot has happened these past two weeks.

A lot.

I'm finally catching my breath, which means I'm back to blogging. You know, by now, how things go. Write write write, then disappear for a bit and live. Then write again. Last time I blogged, I was telling you about Thursday, May 20. Theater tix. Moving on to Friday, May 21...

There is a bar in D.C. called The Gibson, and it's what's known as a faux-speakeasy. Not actually breaking any laws in 1928, but sure as hell looking like it could. A nondescript facade with nary a sign or nameplate. Out back, a moonlit patio glimmering in a constellation of candles. Prohibition era cocktails. Vintage clad waitstaff. Antique furniture here and there, and tipplers tipplers everywhere.


The club is so secretive, in fact, that if you don't know how to open the door and end up knocking, the bouncer will scoff to anyone who will listen, "If they can't figure out the door then they should definitely not be let in." At least, that's what happened when I was standing next to said bouncer and some people outside couldn't figure out how to work the handle. Losers.

But the Gibson has a very modern reservation system: You give the bouncer your name and phone number and when a table opens up, he'll call you. Like, on your cell phone. That way there's no waiting in line or carrying around one of those hideous restaurant pagers that always give me a heart attack when they start buzzing.

So that is what we did. I was out with Pernstein and Mojojo, friends from college and high school respectively, and after waiting half an hour or so in another cafe, Pernstein's phone rang.

We were in.

We were escorted to our table, where we inspected the interesting drink menu and placed our orders. Just as we were settling in, we got word that a few more friends wanted to join us.

We asked the waitress if we could fit more people at our table and were told it's against house rules. We asked for a different table and she said no. We asked her if we could switch places with the couple canoodling at the large table next to ours, and the waitress said fine -- but the couple answered they're waiting for friends.

Bottom line, the waitress explained, the Gibson was incredibly busy -- and couldn't possibly risk overcrowding -- and there was nothing we could do but wait and see if a table opened up later. She apologized and left.

One member of trio suggested we get to the point by other means.

"You mean a bribe?" La Roxy asked, suddenly invigorated. "Wow! I've never bribed anyone before, except for a carton of cigarettes my parents made me give that customs official when I was visiting Eastern Europe in 1991. So that's how things are done in D.C."

"It's not a bribe, it's a tip," quoth Mojojo. "And it's not about D.C. It's everywhere."

"I almost want to bribe the bouncer, just to be able to say I did."

But the more I thought about it, the less it seemed like a good reason to part with $20.

Instead we just kept asking various waiters and finally the bouncer himself if they would let us move to a bigger table or attach more chairs or switch tables with another group or anything!! Because all we wanted to do was invite a few more patrons to their bar, consume their alcohol and add currency to their coffers. And our friends were 10 minutes away. We couldn't wait an hour.

The bouncer repeated: No, sorry, no can do. You have to wait your turn, or leave.

Well, guess what.

The moment the others showed up, our group was invited upstairs, to a private room, with chairs to spare. A cozy, elegantly decorated salon where we could really hear each other talk, and conveniently located a few steps away from the upstairs bartender.

Perfection!

Half of that floor was empty, in fact, so apparently all those concerns about overcrowding were posturing.

Which makes me happy I didn't bribe them. And even happier I asked.

[credits: first image; second image]

Can I buy your mug, Waffle House?

I have a longstanding love affair with Waffle House. The pictures above are from a road trip in 2005, at which point my relationship with this culinary institution was a tender 2 years old. I think the second photo in particular captures the optimal nook-and-cranniness of the wheat bread and beef patty, into which the square of American cheese has melted with perfect cremosity. Note, in particular, how the cheese's glistening yellow molecules stand in subtle counterpoint to the crunchy, golden hues of the butter-toasted bread, offset by the darker beef and a hint of grilled onion in the left foreground.

That's quality.

The first time I went to Waffle House was in 2003, also on a roadtrip. I was heading to Boston from Texas, with La Sorella as copilot and head troublemaker. We had just picked up my car, the same Nissan I drive today, from our dad, and we were driving it to Boston. There it would live for the next five years, collecting hundreds of parking tickets for ferrying me those five blocks between my apartment and campus on snowy mornings. I know, I know. Californians.

But on that trip, all we had before us was the open road in early August, hundreds of Waffle Houses to discover and the sweet exhilaration of possibility.

We hit our first one in Alabama.

I fell fast, and hard.

At first it was the waffles that got me: Golden and crispy, with a batter more consistent, less airy, that I would have thought I'd like. Love is gentle, love is kind. Love teaches you new things about yourself.

By the third or fourth Waffle House of the trip, I had switched to the patty melt, and I've never looked back.

In 2005, I drove cross country, from California to Boston, with Mr. A. We made the requisite stops, and on one such visit I snapped the photos above. I also waxed poetic to the waitress about their patty melts and she let me take home a coffee mug. I didn't even ask!

It's been years since I've had the privilege of dining there. But on this D.C. romp, I took a few days off to seek refuge in the rural enclaves of the Virginias.

Eau, my D.C. hostess, drove, and close to midnight we spotted it: a Waffle House, in [city name redacted to protect all parties; reasons will become clear below].

The patty melt was so good I ordered another. The coffee was watery and fragrant and diner-perfect. The scenery was so satisfying, as were the smells. And the company was exquisite.

As Eau and I ate, an idea occurred to me. La Sorella. She had eyed my mug, she had even possibly coveted it. What if I could get one for her, too?

Thus did I ask the waitress:

"So, I have a confession. I am obsessed with Waffle House, and my sister is too. She lives on the West Coast and I know she would loooove a mug. Do you think I could, like, buy one? How much do you think is fair. $5? $10?"

The waitress looked enchanted.

"I can't sell it, I wouldn't know how to ring it up, but," and here she lowered her voice, "why don't you just take it? I didn't tell you that. But seriously, during the bar rush every night, salt and pepper shakers disappear... the mug would not be missed."

"Really?!"

"Yes. I'll just rinse it out and bring it back for you."

She did one better: let me finish my coffee in the mug I was using and returned with a clean specimen, discretely wrapped in paper and tucked inside a Waffle House plastic baggie.

Some would call that shoplifting, embezzlement, a combo of the two. I call it a souvenir. And I shall repay the value of that mug, many times over. With this blog post, which I hope sends other patty melt-o-philes to the House's warm embrace. And with my eternal devotion.

[images (c) The Daily Asker]

Can I ride your segway?

I asked this to the police officer standing somewhere in D.C.

He invited me to step on. The wind was blowing. The sun was shining. And I was about to get away when he called for backup!!!

Here is the best of our photo shoot, art directed by La Sorella.

Thanks, Officer Anonymous!

(Contrast that to this episode, an early asking.)

Would squatting please her magesty?

This weekend, I experienced three askings I simply must recount.

On Friday afternoon I headed to Union Station to meet La Sorella, who was coming into D.C. for the weekend. Our goal was to catch up over dinner, see some friends at brunch, recover with a relaxing dinner, say goodbye over lunch -- and walk it all off at the museums.

My cell phone was almost out of batteries and I had 10 minutes to kill, so I ducked into a bookstore, made a purchase and asked if I could plug in my phone for a while.

"I'm waiting for my sister to get here and if my phone is dead we won't be able to connect," I explained.

Seemed reasonable to me -- wasn't bothering anyone, the outlet was in an empty corner and the total cost to them would be a few cents. Should be ok, right?

But the people at the register all seemed very nervous at this request.

"You can, but not for long," one employee finally answered. "It's just that my manager wouldn't approve."

"Ok, don't worry -- if your manager tells me to leave I'll just say I did it without anyone's permission. I won't get you in trouble, I promise!"

They laughed, relieved, and I sat down next to the outlet (as there were no chairs nearby) reading my new book and wondering who this manager was.

I soon found out.

"Miss, you cannot sit on the ground."

"Excuse me?" I looked up from my book.

"You have to have your feet on the ground," she said. "I can't have you sitting like that." I looked at my crossed legs, the blue shoed feet peeking out from under the sweater bunched into my lap, and looked back up at her.

"Is it ok if I squat?"

Another customer walked up to her and asked for help finding a book.

Before she could answer me, the phone rang. La Sorella's train arrived and she was walking my way.

3 parking tickets, 3 askings. Let the games begin.

[I feel your pain! via seanfuture.blogspot.com]

If you wanted to appeal a parking ticket, what would be the best way to go about it?

Should you:

a) Look for inaccuracies in the way the ticket was written and argue that those render the citation invalid or untrustworthy?
b) Assert you had a parking permit properly displayed at the time the ticket was issued, which means you shouldn't have gotten cited in the first place? (aka a sorta, half, almost, goosebelly grey lie) (ok, fine, big fat lie)
c) Simply ask: tug at the appeal decider's heartstrings with an absurdly touching story about a preemie, then request clemency?

Ever in the pursuit of truth, your dastardly asker has decided to obtain not one but THREE tickets in December, so she could test each of these methods.

That's right. I was so excited to bring you the latest and greatest in parking ticket appeal techniques that between December 1 and December 4, I acquired three whole tickets. The first was for parking in my own driveway. The second two were for letting the meter expire.

Because the people deserve to know: Which method wins?

1) The "Invalid Ticket" method

I was cited for parking in my own driveway and touching the sidewalk with two wheels. In my appeal letter, I cited California Vehicle Code and tried to undermine the officer's competence.

CVC states that if the VIN (vehicle identification number) is visible on the dashboard, it must be written on the citation. My citation did not include the VIN, even though it is visible. Perhaps the ticket is invalid? Perhaps the officer was sloppy? Here's what I wrote:

I am writing to appeal citation number [###], issued on [##/##/####] at 8:40 a.m. I believe this citation is not valid for two reasons. California Vehicle Code section 40202 states that the vehicle identification number (VIN), if visible through the windshield, must be reported on a citation. Here is that code, for your reference.

The notice of parking violation shall also set forth the vehicle license number and registration expiration date if they are visible, the last four digits of the vehicle identification number, if that number is readable through the windshield, the color of the vehicle, and, if possible, the make of the vehicle. The notice of parking violation, or copy thereof, shall be considered a record kept in the ordinary course of business of the issuing agency and the processing agency and shall be prima facie evidence of the facts contained therein.

My VIN is visible through the windshield, yet it was not included on the citation, rendering that ticket noncompliant with California law.

2) Given that Officer [XXX] did not notice or record the VIN number, I do not know how anything he or she observed or reported on this ticket is trustworthy, hence presumed accurate. That is, if Officer [XXX] did not correctly record the VIN, how do we know he or she was not rushed, did not make other mistakes in issuing this ticket, including the very observation that my car was touching the sidewalk?

I have included two pieces of photographic evidence. First is a photo of the VIN number, and second is a second citation, obtained two days later, in which the VIN is reported. I provided the first so that anyone reviewing my case can see that the VIN is visible through the windshield, and the second image to show that another officer had no trouble reading these last four numbers.

Based on this information, I ask you to dismiss this ticket. Thank you for your time.

Sincerely,

La Roxy

[via giovanniworld.wordpress.com]

2) The "Lying Scum" method

Next, I got cited for having an expired meter in an area of a college campus where, if you possess a special permit, you can park for free around the clock.

A friend gave me his permit number (since it's not restricted to a single car) and I put that on the citation appeal form. He said if I need to go in to a hearing, he'll let me bring his permit. (Was the permit actually there? If a ticket and a permit walk into a bar and no one notices either of them, are they really there? Are any of us really every "here" or "there?" What is the meaning of life? Mommy?!)

Here is what I wrote:

Multi-use permit displayed on dashboard. Number provided in form above. Further documentation gladly provided.

3) The "Preemie in Danger" method

[via getty.com]

The last ticket I got, the very next day, was also for an expired meter. I had no good explanations or surprise revelations to resort to, and so I tried a different approach. The "Have mercy on me and indirectly participate in my good deed," approach. Here is what I wrote:

I am requesting clemency, mercy, or any leeway you can grant. I always dutifully either pay the meters or use a multi-purpose permit. That day I was on my way to my car, to move it, and on the way I stopped to say hi to someone who is extremely talkative. I realize I could have cut her off and gone to my car, but she was telling me about her new premature baby and I felt bad to say, "Gotta run! Hope she survives! Tell me another time!"

I know it's ridiculous to ask for mercy for something so trivial, but if there is any way you can forgive this, or give me a break of some sort, it would be a huge relief.

I was about to pay it, but I realized that I could at least try asking first.

Thank you,
La Roxy

Three tickets. Three askings. Results TBA.

Give me a break, Sprint?

Once in a while I go over my cell phone minutes and pony up the cash. I know that's part of the deal and I've never protested. Until now.

Sprint charged $20 for talking 105 minutes more than my allotment.

But this time, I asked for a break because... it was my birthday!

It happened to fall on a Monday, and 245 of the minutes I talked that day were between 7 and 7.

So I figured, why not try.

"Hello? Hi. I have sort of a silly question... I went over my minutes last month and looking at my bill, I realize that most of that is because it I was talking to people on my birthday. So, I don't know if you have a magic birthday wand you can waive, but if there's any way you could reduce that charge, or erase it, that would be so wonderful."

"I'll have to check with my manager," the agent replied.

"Of course! Thanks for even listening to my request."

He chuckled, I tittered, he put me on hold, and I held my breath.

He came back with a compromise:

"My supervisor said I can go ahead and take off half of that charge."

"Really!? Thank you!! You just made my birthday even sweeter."

Results: Reduced an overage charge from $20 to $10. Thank you, Sprint!!

(I found this pic on textually.org, a page about txt and sms messaging I just stumbled across. Kind of scary how on-target this cake is, come to think of it...)

Free stock?

June 29. Day 364.

I decided to wrap things up on this second to last daily asking by revisiting a request I'd contemplated in the past but never got around to doing.

Back in October, it occurred to me to write to a bunch of companies, asking for one free stock from each. I didn't end up doing it, because I wondered how to phrase the letter and I worried it would be a shot in the dark, and a waste of time.

Well, now that I've been at this for almost a year, I know for a fact that trying is worthwhile.

Even when I was sure the other party would say no, I often got a resounding YES.

So... gotta try.

Today I wrote a letter -- a good, old fashioned paper letter -- to one company.

At first, I planned on writing to a bunch -- maybe 20, or even 50 or 100. Maximize my chances at success. But as I wrote this first letter, I realized there are few firms I could address convincingly. I mean, "Please give me a stock," is one thing, but "Please give me a stock because I really believe in your products today and your direction for the future" is another.

I've narrowed down the list to about 15 companies based on these criteria. For today, I'm sending this one off.

I'm not going to publish my letter until I hear back. But here's the gist of what I wrote:

--Love your company for reasons xyz.
--Would like invest in your company but I'm an indigent grad student now
--I decided what the hell, why not just ask for a stock?

Also, I vowed at the start of this project that I would not use my blogger "status" to get any benefits. All year I have asked as regular Roxy, not someone who can influence public opinion. I stuck to this rule to the end, or it would throw off the experiment.

Investment: two hours of researching companies and individuals and writing the letter.

Potential gain: Hmm. Around $5,000 if all the companies say yes. About $25 if this first one agrees. (Based on today's prices.)

BRING IT ON!!!!!

Results? You'll be the first to know!

Second, I posted a request on HARO, a cool service that connects writers, reporters, and bloggers with sources. I asked people to tell me their own stories about asking. Also requested to interview people who get asked a lot because of their professions. Over time, I'll start featuring their specialized advice, tips, and tricks.

The request still stands -- anyone with stories or strategies related to asking or negotiation, send them in!! I'm thedailyasker [at] gmail [dot] com.

Gained: Hopefully, tons of stories and insights. Material to kick off Year Two!

Rewind (Polentomania) and... help me get a job?

June 8. Day 343.

And the What city am I in? winner is... Anne!! Congratulations, and check your email!

I am in Milano.

To get in touch with the winner, I clicked on her name where she left the comment. Her name led me to her blog, I turn my camera on, where she has published the most amazing pictures of places that make me dream. Here's one, chosen almost at random since there were so many beauties:

So, yes. I've been staying with my cousin La Divina and her ragazzo! She's the one I offered to help last night, since she had to leave on a last minute business trip today. Hang laundry to dry so a sista has time to prepare for a client meeting? Anytime!!

As a matter of fact, last night I was so tired and viral that I totally skipped over the (slightly) more dramatic asking!

Yesterday I spent the day at Lake Como with a group of their friends. We had lunch at a polenteria, which does for polenta with the Bubba Gump Company does for shrimp. Fries it, boils it, bakes it n' broils it. I suggested -- indeed, asked outright -- if we could order fewer dishes and share them, since we were planning a spate of appetizers, a first course, a second course, sides, and a dessert, coffee and grappa finale. Maybe six portions for eight people?

I wasn't trying to boss anyone around, but I thought it made sense, since everyone seemed worried that it would be too much food.

The idea was rejected the same way my various other requests have been approved -- enthusiastically.

"No way!!! That's just not how things are done in Italy!!!"

Okay!!!

I ended up with more food than I could handle, but there were enough supereaters in the group (one guy in particular, was phenomenal -- he had the wild mane, cool smile and devastating but elegant precision of a lion tearing into a gazelle) that not even a sliver of salami was spared.

At the end, though, they were beating each other up for drinking more water than wine. "We're losers! Lightweights! An embarrassment!! Impossible!!"

It was a lovely meal and a lovely day. Afterward, to walk off 3000 of the 15,000 calories we'd just collectively enjoyed, we went for a short hike. Here's a happy cow, clinking bell and all, here's where I have decided to move if I ever become a cheesemaker.

Speaking of vocations. Back to today. I asked for something banal, career oriented, practical. And important. I'm applying for jobs, and I asked a friend back in the states to look over a version of my cover letter. She's a pro, a total whiz, and her opinion is worth its weight in gold: weightless, ergo priceless.

I don't know what's in store tomorrow.

But on Wednesday, guess what: I'm heading to Tuscany, for round two of my research. If Milan was low key, asking wise, since I had a clingy cold and a long professional to-do list, I promise to push the envelope in wine country.

un bacio,

La Roxy

Illegal parking 101: Don't ask, don't tell

June 3. Day 338.

Met up with some friends around 9. Destination: a bar on the water, in time for happy hour. The girl who was driving circled around for a few minutes and, finding nothing -- not even an illegal spot tight enough to fit her Mini -- moved on to the next neighborhood. Still nothing.

"How long does it take to find parking in this city?" I inquired.

"Depends if you care about getting a ticket or not," came the answer. "If you don't, 5 minutes."

We approached downtown, where there's a cool rooftop bar, a rarity in this city. The driver found an illegal spot and swooped in.

Just as we were getting out of the car, four young policemen, in uniform but acting relaxed, like they were off the clock, pulled up to the spot next to hers -- which was also illegal. They got out, then milled around for a moment.

"Damn!! If I leave the car here, I'm definitely getting fined," the driver lamented.

"Don't worry! They'll never fine you! Let's just pretend we're waiting for someone and once they're gone, we rush to the bar," another retorted.

"But they're coming back eventually. And then what?"

I had it! The solution! I would ask for clemency.

"Guys, what if I talked to them?"

They both looked at me, mortified.

"I will ask them if you can leave your car here. Explain we all know everyone breaks the rules anyway, and we've been circling around for half an hour, so could they be nice and promise no ticket?"

"No!! La Roxy, no no no no way!!"

"Don't worry! If anyone gets in trouble, it's me."

"NO. More like if you ask, they're going to say it's illegal and we'll have to move again. The system here is 'Don't ask, don't tell,' got it?"

We waited for the cops to disperse and headed to the bar (whose empty lowball glass, which formerly held my strawberry caiprinha, is here; above, its neon terrace).



Gained: Instructed to hold back. I don't know the lay of the land, so I just took their cue. Fortunately, she got no ticket. The cops were still gone when we got back. Looks like they partied harder than we did.

I hadn't proposed to ask because I needed to fulfill my daily dose. I just thought it was a "nothing to lose" situation that could help them out. An enterprising American diplomat to the rescue! Guess not.

A few hours earlier, I asked to borrow someone's office equipment.

I was getting a tour and learning what kind of work an acquaintance does -- a mix of marketing and branding, with lots of cool clients and cool technologies -- and I came across a magazine in the lobby with an interesting article.

"Do you have a photocopy machine I could possibly use to copy these three pages?"

"Sure, why?"

"There's a story here that I'd love to read later."

"Of course! Here's the machine. Press the black button. Make yourself at home!"

Gained: Saved money and time of tracking down/buying the magazine. Simplified my life. Got my own copy of a cool article. Here's another picture of the bar.

Contest announcement

May 31. Day 335.

It's Day 335, and you know what that means: Time for another contest!!!

What city am I in?*

Anytime between today and June 7, enter your guess as a comment to this post. Include a nickname so I can notify you if you win.

Only one guess per reader, please.

If there are multiple correct answers, everyone with a correct answer will be entered in a drawing for the prize: a souvenir of your choice from this city, worth up to $25.

I'll post a new picture each day and sprinkle in clues.

Spread the word to your friends or any geo-sleuths you know!

Here's the first clue:

As for asking.

I had a vision of taking a photo from the cockpit, for the first clue to kick off this contest, so I put on my sweetest smile and asked the flight attendant if that would be possible.

"Yes!" she exclaimed.

"Really!?? Great! Thank you? When should I come up?"

"Come up?"

"Into the cockpit?"

"No, you can't go into the cockpit. I thought you were asking me if you could take photographs from your window."

"No, I want to take a picture of the captain, and the landscape below. Is that ok?"

"Oh no, the cockpit is closed. But you can take pictures from your window!"

Gained: Gratuitous permission to take pictures from my window seat. Thanks.

*If you already know where I am, or can get the answer by chatting up my mumsie or Mr. A... you can't participate. Only real guesses. Sorry!

Share your campfire? Buy a drink with no ID?

May 24. Day 328.

My idea of a fun mountain getaway involves: cozy cabin, waking up to the sound of woodpeckers outside my window, making waffles for breakfast, going hiking or skiing, stopping for pizza and a drink at the local brewery, taking time to read, write, and think on the lovely backyard deck overlooking a crisp stream, topping it all off with homemade hot chocolate or a glass of wine by the fire.

Mr. A's idea is identical to mine, only he'd replace everything with one word: camping.

Since I'm not a camper, have never been a camper and (sorry, amore mio!) will never be "a camper," we compromised and booked the Forest Suites Resort, complete with spa and heated pool for me, and the word "Forest" in the title, for him. Close enough, right?

Jokes aside, I've been relatively open to the idea of trying to rough it. As long as I'm warm at night, and I don't have to carry twice my body mass in supplies, and the bears are on sabbatical, I decided to give camping a try. One day. (Hey, if I've slept in a mosquito infested hut in the Peruvian jungle, an overheated car in Mexico, and a hotel lobby couch on Halloween in San Francisco (long story), I should definitely be able to handle a sleeping bag in the High Sierras. Right??? Please say yes.)

Tonight, to give me a feeling of what camping would be like, Mr. A proposed we take a stroll through a campground by the lake as the intrepid adventurers settled in for the night.

Just after sunset, we wandered in. All around us, small groups of people were searing meats on their barbecues, sipping beers and talking in low whispers. Music played here and there. It did look relaxing.

As we strolled, I mentioned I hadn't asked for anything yet. Maybe I could come up with something here? See the inside of a mobile home? Have dinner with some strangers? Solicit advice for a potential first time camper?

I didn't want to ask for the sake of asking, so I thought about what I really wanted. And then it dawned on me: all weekend, I'd been smelling the burning wood of hundreds of campfires. And that's one thing we couldn't do at our hotel. Mr. A was on exactly the same wavelength.

We walked around the now dark lakefront property, wondering who to ask, "Can we share your campfire?" Then Mr. A suggested I refine it to "Can we share your campfire for 5 minutes?" Then, stay longer if they invited us to. That would give people a chance to test us out without committing, since we really didn't want to impose on their holiday. But who knows? Maybe someone would be up for it? Plus, if someone agreed to let us hang out, we'd offer to buy a few beers or food from across the street. And then chill out for an hour, or as long as we felt welcomed.

A family with kids seemed like they'd be quickest to reject us. We also decided to avoid couples, since it seemed likely they'd want the evening to themselves. That left groups of adults. Some had chairs set up, with no room for extras, so we walked by. Other groups were completely silent and it seemed strange to bust in.

For some reason, I was feeling nervous. People come to the forest to escape strangers, not commune with them.

Still, what was the worst thing that could happen?

We settled on a group of three guys who were in their twenties. Or so they seemed in the light of the fire.

We walked up, and they smiled as we approached. Or so it seemed in the light of the fire.

"Hi," I said, softly.

"Hey."

"We were just walking around, and we were wondering if we could share your campfire for 5 minutes. Just to warm up. Would that be ok?"

"Sure," one replied. Or so it seemed in the light of the fire. No wait, actually he really did.

They stopped talking, and it felt kind of awkward.

"Thanks a lot," I continued, filling the silence. "We're staying at a hotel nearby, so we can't have the campsite experience there."

"No problem."

Then, we were all quiet for a minute or so.

Next, a young man and woman walked out of the tent, and her body language screamed "leave."

"What are they doing here?" she asked her friends.

"They asked if they could stop by for a few minutes," one guy told her.

"We don't camp, but we were taking a walk and asked if we could share your fire for a bit. Do you mind?" I asked.

"Actually, that's weird," she said. "That's not normal behavior. We don't feel comfortable with you here. Please leave."

We thanked the guys and left.

Afterward, I started dissecting the interaction. What if we'd come earlier, so they could get a better visual read on who we were? What if we'd come with beers, or offered something from the start? Or maybe it's an unspoken rule of the forest: to each her own campfire.

"Relax," Mr. A told me. "Don't beat yourself up. You tried."

I guess.

To ease the sting, we headed across the street, to an empty bar. Rojo's Tavern. A reggae band was starting soon.

I ordered a cocktail, and when the bartender carded me, I realized I didn't have my ID in my wallet.

Where was it? Probably in the hotel.

"I'm almost 30," I told him. "Ancient. Can't you see my white hair and wrinkles?" I joked.

He laughed merrily.

"I believe you're almost 30, but I can't sell you a drink without an ID."

I really wanted to talk back. Both to question his reasoning and rail against the idiotic U.S. drinking system. Doesn't work, except to prevent legal drinkers with missing IDs from consuming a cocktail. Drinking age should be abolished, period. So there.

But what was the point.

We left.

I found my license in the car.

Next bar: didn't get even carded. This place, The Brewery, was packed, had delicious house cocktails and yummy appetizers, for great prices.

Gained: Two rejections in one night. Still alive!!

My fight for freedom of choice

May 16. Day 320.

I was having brunch at Bleu Boheme, a bistro I've never visited before which caught my eye about a year ago. At last, I was sitting in its lovely dining room.

I zeroed in on a bread basket, which comes with either two baguettes or two toasted croissants, fluffy butter, a mix of jams, and coffee, for $7.50.

Before ordering, I inquired if it would be possible to get one of each (one baguette and one croissant), instead of two of one.

The reply was no.

I looked at my dining companion, a friend visiting from New York with her adorable new baby. She was looking at me, expectantly. What was I waiting for?

I turned back to the waitress.

"Is there any way you could let me try both? Pleeease?"

She thought about it, thougt about it some more, and then agreed.

Merci!

Gained: variety

9 negotiation lessons from the trenches

May 12. Day 316.

What do buying a car, locking up the Chicago mob and being a total rockstar have in common?

Negotiation!!!

This afternoon, I found myself in the living room of Gay Hugo-Martinez, a professional acquaintance. (It's related to the side work I do.) Once our meeting was over, I asked her about her background, since I'd heard she used to be a lawyer and totally changed tracks a few years ago.

Turns out that before moving to San Diego, she fought organized crime in Chicago in the 1970s.

As she sat demurely in her sunny home, she poured out stories complete with phrases like, "Organized crime figures won’t kill prosecutors. They know that if they kill one, there's another one right behind them that will do the work." Another gem: "If one of us has to go into the witness protection program, that’s not going to be a picnic" (words she told a colleague back in the day). And, my favorite: "I knew that if he (the hitman she put behind bars for 25 years) wanted somebody killed from his jail cell, he could do it."

Day-am.

And then, she mentioned the golden word: negotiation.

"Negotiation? I'm obsessed with that! Can you tell me more?"

Being a federal prosecutor involves a lot of persuading, negotiating, getting the other side to do what you want, she explained. Here are a few tips I gleaned from our brief but riveting conversation, which she kindly agreed to let me post:

Interview with Gay Hugo-Martinez about Negotiation, Empathy, Playing Hardball and Playing Fair

1. Know your strengths and weaknesses

Enter any negotiation with a firm idea of what you're willing to risk and what you stand to gain. Obviously, the stronger your strengths, the more bargaining power you have. "How much are you willing to give in order to get what you want?" she asked. For best results, figure this out before starting.

2. Know the other side's strengths and weaknesses

This helps with persuasion, knowing when to back away, knowing when to press harder. Think about it. If you can deduce what the other side is willing to give up, or what it can't stand to lose, you have the advantage. A simple example: this is a great time to buy a car, since dealers are struggling.

3. "Go for the gold"

"Ask!" she said. Yes, ask. Her word exactly. So many times, people shoot themselves down. She tells this to her kids, to strangers in her living room asking about asking. Ask! Ask for more than you think you'll get, ask when you think you might not get. "You have nothing to lose," she added.

4. Be empathetic

Empathy can be a powerful tool. It helps you imagine the other side's position, and it might encourage you to take reasonable risks. For example, maybe you think asking for a free cucumber at the farmer's market is rude or silly. But imagine that you were selling veggies and someone asked you to throw in a sample. You'd probably be happy to show off your wares and attact a new customer with a sample. Not such a crazy thing to ask after all, right?

"It works better if you say to yourself, ok, if you were in this position and somebody came to you and asked you, would you think this was reasonable?" she said.

5. Be fair

Related to this: let's say your position is so strong, or the other side is so needy, that you could run circles around them with your demands. Stop. Think about it. Then play fair. It's what you'd hope from the other side, if you were in the weaker position.

6. Enthusiasm can be your friend

I used to think that if you look excited about something in a negotiation, that was a weakness. For example, "What a perfect car! I reeeeeally want it! Yipee!!!" could tell the dealer that I'm eager and willing to pay anything. Bad.

Not necessarily so, she said. Who would you rather deal with: Someone who really likes your product but claims she has a limited budget, or someone who doesn't seem to like your product but claims she has a limited budget? Who's more likely to seal the deal?

This is an especially useful foundation for the next step:

7. Hardball: Walk away

If you're not getting what you want, and if you know you have a strong position, walk away, calmly and coolly.

"In negotiation, if you have a positon and you think you’re right, it’s better to pull back and walk away and wait," she said. "Then the other person knows there’s some credibility in your position, and that may be your bottom line."

Added tip: never walk into a car dealership expecting to drive away. Always give them your number, then tell them to call you. Repeat after her: " 'I’m sorry, that's just not what I’m willing to pay. You guys change your mind, call me.' Then turn around and walk out."

8. Keep doing it

"The more you do it, the more comfortable you become, the easier it becomes for you to do it, and the better you get at it."

(After 316 days of asking, I can add: so true!)

9. Women do ask

I was curious if she thought women ever underestimate the strength of their positions (alluding to the idea that women may hesitate to ask because they don't realize they're in a position to do so.)

She replied that not every woman has good negotiation skills, but not every man has them either.

Good to keep in mind.

Gained: Advice from a masterful negotiator. And thanks again for agreeing to be featured on this blog!

Later, I did a small negotiation of my own.

I went to get Mr. A's car washed. The posted price was $13.99, but I wanted to test out a few of these tips.

My strength: the other car washes nearby, which might be cheaper or honor a coupon I had
My weakness: no time or desire to move
My insider knowledge: many businesses offer coupons - so even if I didn't have his exact coupon, but maybe I could use that info to score?

His strength: convenience -- I was in his parking lot
His weakness: didn't have the best price
His insider knowledge: no idea

What I wanted: a discount and a clean car
What he wanted: a customer

"Hi," I started, from inside the car (trying to look ready to drive away). "I was wondering, do you guys have any coupons you could apply? Even if I don't have the actual print out?"

"No, I'm afraid not."

"Oh, ok. Because I have coupons for a bunch of car washes, but I'm here now. Any chance you could honor one of those?"

"I can do even better. Keep your coupon, and I'll give you $2 off any wash."

"That sounds good. Thanks!"

Gained: $2. Not exactly locking up the mob, but applied today's lessons, from theory to practice. Next step: buy a car, this summer. And save big time.