The Groom Room

This blog is posted here purely for anyone living in Vancouver, BC, doing a search for The Groom Room - 3728 Oak Street, Vancouver, BC V6H 2M3 - a dog grooming salon.  Anyone else might be disinterested.  

DON'T GO THERE!

This is what the owner, a bitchy little man, says on his website: 

Jay Jay's goal is to see his clients leaving happy and satisfied.

PHHHT!

Could've fooled me buddy!  Read on to find out why; but at least it gave me good cause for a blog rant:

**

The Gloom Room

Are we really pampering our pets when we take them to a grooming salon, or are we putting them through a day of hairdressing hell?

There's a lady I know, whom, as a white man, I affectionately call my 'Chinese Mom'.  This lady lives in the past; thinks of computers as what the bible calls 666, yet is always asking me to look up things on my 'machine' for her; companies with good reputations for both maintenance work on her property and reputable businesses to service items like her 1960's answering machine or a cobbler for her thirty-yr-old boots.  Yes, refusing to update anything, or buy new, despite the fact she has more money than a small African country.

She calls me every other night to discuss the state of the world today; her philosophy; 'nothing's as good quality as back in the old days' - which, trust me, she's still immersed within behind the mysterious wrought iron gates that fortify both front and back entrances to her building, heavily padlocked too, her house, a veritable and well-preserved museum depicting life exactly as it was in the last century; stuffed with pristine artefacts, good as the day they were bought.  Better, maybe.

Her most consistent observation is about how people aren't polite any more, that they're unprofessional, lack-lustre, self-serving, and, for the service industry, astonished that its staff just don't seem to care.

Now, of a different generation, I've always raised my eyes at that; thinking she just hasn't moved with the times; still expects everyone to smile and say 'good day', servicemen to wear peaked caps and give a cheery wave from the window of their trucks as if we were all living in a fifties utopia.  But she might just have a point; may have converted me, after all, made me wish that I'd been born in a different era.

The horrendous experience I had this morning at 'The Groom Room' (or as I found out, more gloom, than groom) - a dog grooming service on Oak Street, Vancouver  - left me stunned, and, as an otherwise quiet and calm person, saw me screaming like an Irish fishwife as I left the place, my blood not just proverbially boiling, my eyes popping like a futuristic gargoyle on crack, other customers needing to duck lest they got zapped by the laser cross-fire of my glare.

First, I should point out that The Groom Room's website goes to great lengths to say how professional they are, praises the owner as if he's the second coming; is comprised of self-praising comments and testimonials comprising of, in my opinion as a writer well used to deciphering such applaud, manufactured reviews, and, if not, at least purely selective; not open to receiving general comments from their customers.   Now I know why.  But we have social media to express ourselves, these days - platforms not just for Kamikaze Stanley Cup rioters to jump from.  Yes, word of mouth, not literal anymore as might've been in latter day, but a way to share our experiences, good and bad, to get to the truth of it.  And this one was so horrendous, I want to shout it from the satellite in space.

When I was told to come back five and a half hours later to pick up my dog, I expressed complete surprise at that length of time, questioned it, and was told, before the girl going into great detail as to what the procedures were for grooming a dog, that 'its not just your dog we have to groom'.

"Yes, "I said, "I do know what's involved, but I did make an appointment.  Are you telling me that my dog will be locked in a cage for most of the day, waiting around at every turn for the next stage, grooming, washing, drying, whatever?"

And I'm not sure she understood English exactly, as they do state that they have an 'open room policy', but quickly, she said 'yes' to this, and obviously shocked that I was unhappy with that answer; convinced, I suppose, by her blank expression, that that's what I'd wanted to hear.

"Well that's a bit much, " I said, again, still maintaining calm; knowing how to be civilised, "what happened to my appointment, I don't want to leave him in a cage for the entire day; he's just not used to that?"

"Well, you still want us to do?" she said, obviously wanting me to say 'no' now.

"Well I'm here now, and he is overdue, so I suppose so," I said against my better judgement, "but I will have to reconsider in the future."

Then, someone, apparently, the owner, comes through from the grooming station, the guy whose managed many stores before opening his own according to the website that also claims he might just be 'best in show' himself, but in actual fact, surlier than a pit-bull with a toothache, the kind of owner you might see flouncing pretentiously through a high end hair salon, and declares that they 'don't have time to do him today', dismissing my dog with his hand as he saw to the next customer, obviously deeming me an awkward one off the bat; a cheek to have even questioned their operation.

"Well, after that... no; I don't want him to stay here now, anyway," I retorted, still, relatively calmly.

"Whatever,' he said, as I walked out the door, again with a flick of his hand.

Yes, the top-dog owner of this apparently highly acclaimed business, shouted at me more bitchily than the actual bitches running around him behind the counter, more-so than two drag queens double-booked in a sleazy night-club might have each other.  And so that's when I lost it; coming back through the door to shout like the aforementioned fishwife; pointing out the actual meaning of the word 'appointment', closing with a statement that he can look forward to a 'nice testimonial' on his website - but then, of course, they don't invite honest general opinion.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," he shouted, again with a flick of his wrist, regardless that he was checking in the other victim   a man in a business suit who might just have been happy to have his dog incarcerated for his working day.

And while as a business owner myself, I don't always agree that the customer is right, I damn well would never speak to, or dismiss anyone like the owner of this business did to me; a new customer, who simply, and reasonably, I feel, objected to a five and a hour so called 'appointment' to groom my mini-schnauzer, leaving him in what is tantamount to a production line, one where he wouldn't get to pee, eat, walk, nothing.

Dog business is big business, in this city and I thought it was too good to be true from such, an, apparently, highly acclaimed place; getting an appointment with only a few days notice, but if I'd known my puppy would be stuck in an assembly line for the entire day, I wouldn't have bothered booking.

So beware; find a groomer that actually works to a schedule, dedicates time to your pet - which generally should be about two and a hours to three for most small to mid-sized dogs, in my (other) experience - and not pushed and shoved around waiting for the next stage in the grooming process, oftentimes cooped up in a small kennel in a hot room and feeling abandoned.

If this is how the owner of The Groom Room treated me, I can only imagine how he'd treat my dog when I wasn't there to see.  And talking of which, I wouldn't even speak to my dog, with as much disrespect as he showed to me, a paying customer.

So yes, my Chinese mom might just have a point, common courtesy and professionalism far less than pedigree these days, it seems.  An extinct breed, right enough, no wonder she locks herself away from society and craves the good old days where people knew the meaning of customer service.  No wonder, that she'd rather resort to using '666' than go out into the world in person.

Things I’ve come to realise since my cleaning lady went on a seven-week vacation

1.     That my life has changed irrevocably, the meaning of ‘line up’ now quantifying the fact that the dishwasher will indeed not empty itself.

2.     That there might just be something to being a bottle collector; I could most certainly supplement my income with the amount of empties that I’ve just had to deposit for those less fortunate - either that or I could learn a new musical skill.

3.     That my fridge might just be a portal to new worlds with intelligent life forms.

4.     That it’s not just politicians with dirty little secrets hidden within their cabinets.

5.     That unlike the dishwasher, my oven will clean itself even if its skill does seem to be restricted; missing the nooks and crannies of the hotplates as it does, but no matter how much I try to encourage it, the microwave just can’t match those obliterating kind of temperatures; what just might be inspiration for a wanna be Picasso evident on all three sides, top and bottom.

6.     Where the expression ‘breeding like rabbits’ was begat from when I looked under the furniture.

7.     That ‘Lysol Ultimate Bathroom Cleaner’ might ultimately rein from the bathroom throne; providing shining hope for the murky minions there, ‘tapping’ into its skills even in the kitchen, but for whatever reason it has a grudge against my beautiful wooden dining table; wiping it clean, sure, but beating it into a dull submission ‘to just think about that!’

8.     That it is not minor earthquakes in the region, after all, that make the pictures on my wall askew from time to time, for there have been a couple of shakes recently and still they’re as straight as the last time I adjusted them just after my cleaner left two weeks ago.

9.     That windows of opportunity ‘clothes’ themselves when doors doubling as laundry baskets no longer will.

10. That despite Nancy Sinatra’s claim; shoes do not take on a life of their own.

11. That, in contrast to number ten, toys really do come alive when no one’s around – either that or someone’s running a doggy day care here when I’m out.

12. That judging by the water’s absolute refusal to drain in the shower, it might just be time for a haircut.

13. That the outdoors has, under false pretences, taken credit far too long for the fresh aroma of nature that I always thought was particularly skilled in permeating, even in winter, the smallest cracks of my doors and windows.

14. That contrary to what their name suggests about their disposition, baseboards really don’t skirt any issues at all.

15. That the dog doesn’t mind taking a bath now, not after the last time I rinsed him down in there; the tub doing a highly impressive impression of the dank mucky puddle up the park.

16. That there’s no treasure in that old trunk in my study as I always fancied there might be.  No, now I have to put that retirement plan to bed! (See what I did there?)

17. That silver might just be an impostor; in fact it’s a cotton lining to be discovered behind every soft downy cloud.

18. That my bathroom windowsill might have a point; spreading gossip that I’m metrosexual as has been its tendency of late; perhaps its time to go back in the closet?

19. That if you don’t pick up the party favour from your Godson’s christening - a love heart shaped picture frame attached to a nicely tied blue ribbon containing iced chocolate almonds - that fell on the floor when you were cleaning the dresser, that the dog will accuse you of having held out on him all this time.  Yes...  a false labour saving method is the art of procrastination when one considers the mark on the carpet that the ingestion of his very first taste of sugar will undoubtedly deposit later.

20. That the canine species might just be more intuitive than we think, vacuums really are obnoxious sucky bastards.

21. But the biggest thing I’ve learned since my cleaning lady abandoned me?  That what highly manipulative parents say is true; anything can be turned into a game; stopping in-between chores to write these little notes and rather enjoying it, the place sparkling now to the point where I might have missed my vocation – but I rather suspect that’ll be a one time deal only - but at least I got to write as well.
  
22. That I might not be paying her enough - but... then again... anyone who can take a frikkin' seven week unpaid vacation, might just be doing better than me!

I think I’m good for two weeks now, only five to wade my way through.

Cultural Differences My Dog's Arse

Anyhoo... this morning, I decide to take the dog a walk to Trout Lake, that is after being nearly knocked down by some Chinese woman driver when I took him round the block.  I know we joke about it, but I swear Asians can’t see out the side of their eyes; backing into me in the lane, as she was, four times, despite my shouts indicating that she was putting me in peril.  One would think that shouting oi would be the same in any fucking language, but apparently not!  Then I get looked at out the driver’s window with that gormless look that Asians can have; wide-eyed (well as wide as they can manage, anyway) but certainly wide mouthed, and a face as blank as an iPad after a 20hr flight.  And no apology, I mean, you don’t have to when you don’t actually hit someone, apparently, nearly having their exhaust pipe shoved up your arse doesn’t count, oh no-o... the gormless look will suffice, asking just what the hell you were innocently walking along for in the first place - just like the one the Asian woman gave me a few days ago too.  She was dwarfed, and I mean dwarfed, by a huge pram in Safeway, I’m talking the kind that nannies from Victorian England used, pushing it at full speed down the biscuit aisle and ramming into me, not having looked to see if anyone was coming up the other way, and yes, I saw her not look.  No apology there either... just that same expressionless gawp until I stood with my own accusatory stare flinging my arms wide in disbelief that she hadn’t even acknowledged it, the contents of my basket everywhere.  But bruised banana be damned, I was getting a solly from that fucking bitch, who wasn’t gonna offer one for all the tea in China - or at least aisle six.  “Herr-oo,” I say, and she continues to gawp completely and utterly unaware as if I’m just some kind of a madman - which of course I was by that point.  

Now it’s not just Asians of course, lest you think ‘oh my God, I can’t believe he’s being so racist,’ God knows I take the piss out my own culture all the time, mention it all the time in my books actually as I do culture in general, and anyway... what is it one says in situations like these... ‘some of my best friends are Asian?’  No, those actual Chinese women could have been anybody of course, but I can’t help but think, ‘anybody’ might have profusely apologized for steamrolling me the way these two slitty-eyed bitches did (don’t judge, they call me ‘round eyes’, and its what we all think when we’re angry - unless you’re Prince Phillip who always speaks like that).  But every culture has names for every other culture - French are the ‘frogs’, the Germans, ‘sauerkraut's’ or ‘boxheads’, and it’s not uncommon for people to say ‘its suddenly a bit ‘nippy’ in here’, when a Japanese Tour group enters the room and I could go on.  Point is, when you come from where I do, name-calling is actually employed in a lighthearted, affectionate way for the most part, or like I intend here, just to vent.

No, its inconsiderate people in general, I feel no hatred for I am enlightened, I am a child of the world... of the uni-fucking-verse... I love everybody and everything – well unless your name happens to be Jennyfer LeClair - but that’s another story and I vented that by depicting a vile character with the same name in my book, Prickly Scots (any similarity to people alive or dead to me is purely coincidental). For instance, the fat white Canadian guy behind me at the ‘fifteen items or less’ checkout after the China crisis had unfolded, might’ve just wished that he hadn’t sniped that I perhaps had more than that in my basket, judging by his gawp, as I, using my best (or worst) Scottish and furious face, stared him in the eye screaming: ‘Dae ye waant tae fuckin’ coont them son ,’ - we use that in times of good and bad, ‘son’ - going on to say that  if there did happen to be sixteen items, then did he really expect me to go to another checkout?  Would that not take about the same amount of time as the checkout girl to swipe them? (and yes it was a girl before you accuse me of being sexist as well).  I mean, come on... are people really that stupid, that pedantic about something that is obviously meant to be just a rough guideline, a rule that is meant to suggest no huge shopping-cart-load-fuls, e.g. those shopping for the fucking month or for Kate Plus Eight?  But I guess at least we line up here; they don’t in many European countries, pushing to the front in shops and bus stops etc.  Frigging Eurotrash - and I say that with love for apparently I am European.

But that Canuck guy hung on to his Tootsie Roll and his Cheesy Wotsits like Kirstie Alley to a sitcom after I was finished with him, I tells ya.  But it was my poor gas pedal that took the brunt of it as I drove back to the sanity of my sanctuary, which I knew I should never have left in the fucking first place; grocery shopping online looking more attractive all the time.  I used to joke that I’d love to live in a cave - but only if it is high tech -  and I’m really starting to think I would love that now, becoming less and less tolerant of the public at large than ever before - of every cultural denomination.

Oh but I digress, and how... that’s a record even for me... but this fucking city is pathetic man, with all its money-grabbing rules and the people who run the place.  You take your dog to the park, any given park, even the one at the end of the block, and they’re all being patrolled by City of Vancouver trucks these days, the latest bi-law designed to go after people like me who loves and cares for a dog and just wants to throw a ball around for it to run after on occasion, but no-o, not anymore;  they must be on a lead at all times.  Unless you drive a couple of miles, to take the dog to a patch of only a couple of hundred yards and risk your dog’s neck to any amount of the ‘big vicious guys’ also vying for the space allocated for the entire fucking city’s dogs, as well as each other’s Chuckit balls, you’ve had it.  And if you dare to try and have that kind of fun with your family pet in this international city, you get fined on the spot now; they’re every-fucking-where those bastards.  

Of all the dogs that need homes in this city, a dog friendly city apparently, you’d think they’d go a little easier on those of us who do undertake to look after one.  But no, this city is too busy out looking for their daily quotas from otherwise respectable citizens.  Well, that, and when you go two miles over the limit, catching us on cameras for the slightest little thing, even going through amber, and using those monies, as well as my taxes, for building apartment blocks for the insane and the homeless, paying for their safe drug centres all over the fucking joint (pun intended) and putting them up in Parisian hotels for the fucking Homeless Olympics... and yes there is such a thing.  (But it begs the question, if they’re street people, why do they need to be put up at all?)  I’ve started to wonder, now that they seem to be considered a bone fide sub-culture in this city, would it not be politically correct to spell homeless with a capital ‘h’?

It’s $250 if you don’t pick up your dog’s shit you know, which isn’t generally a problem in this city, most, like me, right on that, yet a human can defecate in public, as they frequently do here even on main streets.  Don’t know how many times I’ve seen that, and all the fucking police do is wipe their arses for them, and not to mention holding their needles in bus-stops while they roll up a tatty trouser leg and get a good vein going.  Oh well, where else is a homeless person to go, I suppose?  In their fucking subsidised luxury condos, that’s where, in their nice comfortable druggy centres.  Don’t get me wrong, I know there are many unfortunates, they’re addicted, some are born that way, but why I am paying at every turn for the choices many of them made in life?  For the troupes of homeless that head west every summer for BC’s climate, to come and insult us on our streets, and whose Pit-bull dogs and the like can get away with shitting everywhere and nobody says a word to them for fear of getting an ice-pick to the head?

But still, that’s what you get when you close down the local loony bin and leave them to their own devices; living among society, as they did here – but, even if they were made homeless, at least they don’t have to live by all the dictatorship rules the rest of us do; it’s not worth it, you see, going after those kinds; they can’t pay the fines, their welfare cheques would never stretch.  

I often wonder why I don’t join them, start claiming from the government, I wouldn’t have to struggle so much at all, and I’m sure life would be a lot easier if you didn’t have to pay for nuttin’.  

Perhaps not... but there is one thing I have decided; if what I perceive to be rudeness really is just a cultural difference like they say it is, then I ain’t apologizing for nuttin’ from hereon in.  You’re gonna get more than just a blank fuckin’ stare as I ram my Scottish sensibilities doon yer throat in future!  So... do excuse me; its not rude; just the way we do things in Scotland; we’re well known for being miserable bastards across the fucking pond, ye ken!  

Oh yeah... and am gonna get a forty foot lead fur ma fuckin’ dug anaw!

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