by Mary DeWinkeleer

Last week I got a message telling me that the raffle ticket I had filled out at our local “Old Homes Day Fair” had been pulled, and I had won a prize. When I called the company back, the woman on the other end informed me that I had won a 3,4, or 5-night stay at a hotel in the 48 contiguous states and a $100 Visa gift card. 

Cool! Sign me up!

But . . . to get these “free” gifts, my husband and I (we BOTH had to be there) had to go to Ogunquit, Maine (Yay! How beautiful!) and listen to a 90-minute spiel at the Inn Season Resort about their not-a-timeshare program. (Boooooo!)

“But wait! There’s more!” 

If we signed up for a session for the upcoming Friday or Saturday, we would also get a $50 Amazon gift card and a free night at one of their resorts.

My husband and I left around 10 a.m. to get to the resort by noon for our appointment. We checked in and immediately had to choose which prize we wanted: a $40 gas card, a $40 gift card to a local restaurant or $40 worth of scratch tickets. We chose the scratch tickets.  Yes, I admit it: I like the thrill of the scratch.

We decided we were up for an adventure and some free stuff, so I booked it for Friday, which was today.

My husband later said he suspected they offer those prizes as a sort of “predictor” as to what kind of couple they are dealing with. Pick the gas card? Woah, money must be really tight to pick something so practical. Pick the restaurant gift card? Oh, this couple probably can’t afford to go out to dinner in Ogunquit, Maine, without a little help. Pick the scratchies? Perfect! They are frivolous and have money to burn on scratch tickets! These are just the suckers we’re looking for!

(Joke’s on them. We knew from the start we would not be signing up for the program, so their little experiment failed if they thought we were just their kind of fools.)

After choosing which prize we’d take, each couple in the waiting room were called in by their designated salesperson. Our guy Mark called our name and took us to a back room where he began his talk about the not-a-timeshare program. (Apparently, they got the memo that “timeshare” has a very bad connotation, so it is now called “Vacation Ownership.” You say po-tay-to, I say po-tah-to . . . )

What an orchestrated salespitch! He claimed he was “not a salesman” and worked in “member services,” so he didn’t get commission or anything and would get us in and out really quickly. Suuuuuure, Mark. For someone who “was just filling in,” he certainly had all the numbers ready to go and had a really good handle on how to use the website.

And the anecdotes. Oh dear god the anecdotes. He had one for each part of the spiel–and even had photos of his trips to Puerto Rico and Jamaica readily available on his phone to show us. Yes, Mark, how did you know we’d want to see a virtual stranger’s vacation photos . . .

We especially loved it when he talked about his significant other, who he calls Mindy-poo. No, I am not lying. Mindy-poo. We even saw a photo of Mindy-poo next to some statue in Puerto Rico during the phone photo slideshow from hell.

In between stories of Mindy-poo and detailed explanations of just how cheaply we could travel all over the world, he kept leaving to get various handouts. We figured he was probably hoping we would be giddily talking about what a great deal all this was. 

One time he came back and said, “Two couples out there are signing up! You know how I know? Their credit cards are on the table. Ahh the old ”everyone-is-doing-it-and-so-should-you” peer pressure tactic. Did he forget we aren’t in middle school anymore?

When it was approaching 1:40 (I thought he was going to be quick?), my husband talked about how expensive my daughter’s college is and how much we are spending on my son’s braces. When Mark came back after getting the handouts with the prize information on them, my husband and I were both standing. Wow, did Markypoo’s demeanor change. He was cold and hung his head a bit. 

Sorry, Mark.

The lesson here? Go to college, kids. Go to college, so you’ll never have to depend on the whims of random people to put food on your table. 

Especially if those are “I-picked-the-gas-card” kind of people.