I suspect when the words, “New and Improved” appears on any product, item or whatever, it usually means the product, item or whatever has been improved better than the original. I hate these words because for me, it’s usually the kiss of death when these words appear.
Why are products, items or whatever—that are perfectly fine and need no further improvements—are suddenly improved? Is it because the little elves and drone bees have nothing to do except make life miserable for the rest of us who enjoy the product, item or whatever, just the way it is?
Let me put this perplexing problem into perspective with a few examples.
My favorite Belgian dark chocolate almond bar was unavailable for two months due to production and transportation problems. Sound familiar? Well, my favorite chocolate bar finally arrived on store shelves but the fancy new wrapper had sparkly green letters announcing “New and Improved.” How can anyone improve on chocolate? I read the small print on the wrapper. My 72% Belgian dark chocolate with roasted whole almonds has more alien ingredients to preserve its shelf life. If my chocolate bars were being sent to the astronauts on the space station, then the need to add more preservatives are understood. BUT, come on, we’re talking chocolate here and at my house, there’s no worries about chocolate hanging around too long. . .
Some months back, Hubby and I discovered a commercially baked apple-rhubarb pie and a sour cherry pie that tasted as if I had baked them myself. These store-bought pies were delicious. They had all-natural ingredients and that flaky golden crust with the lumpy surface because it was stuffed with great filling. The filling wasn’t that thick, icky-sweet commercial filling, but tasted as if I had peeled, sliced and sweetened with just enough sugar and spices. These pies were the dessert answer when I didn’t have time to bake. Today I saw the pies—new box, new size, new label, new price and with those dreaded words, “New and Improved.” I checked the ingredients and sure enough, there were sufficient chemicals to make that thick, icky-sweet filling and a phony pie crust. It was also a smaller pie with a bigger price. I decided to go home and bake my own.
The absolute, totally worst scenario is when “New and Improved” hits technology. I’m not against any improvements if it makes life easier. BUT, I am against any improvements relating to my computer programs that are working perfectly fine.
Do those techie knuckleheads ever consider the number of people who do not need to link their computers to smart phones, electronic notepads and all the other techie gizmos other people need to stay connected to? I only have my laptop that so far, can be persnickety, but if it had to deal with learning a new system, it (the laptop), would go into such a traumatized state, that no amount of dark chocolates or mini-donuts, would cajole it into a working mode.
I state this with complete sincerity—“Leave my programs alone!” It took me 6 months to learn the ins-and-outs of the previous program and another 6 months to learn the program that’s now been discontinued. I am literally getting older by the minute each time there is a you-know-what announcement. I don’t want to link my computer to my wrist-watch. I like my peace and quiet when I’m away from my desk. There are no buzzes, beeps or cheery tunes to call me back.
I like my old programs because it continually works for me. It doesn’t need any further improvements, So, please leave us a choice of whether or not we want the improved version. My “senior” laptop and “senior” cellphone thanks you.
Wait a sec— I was just about to take a calming bite of my dark chocolate almond bar when I noticed something else in fine print on the spiffy new label. The chocolate company is now under a new “Mother Ship.” If there is anything worse than “new and improved,” it’s called “Under New Management.”
Sigh. Life just handed us another lemon. . . . . .