Morbid Marketing

In honor of Halloween, I thought I'd spend several hundred words on the topic of morbid marketing.

I made up the term for all the direct marketing I still receive for my late parents. Sure, it's slowed down. The National Rifle Association's appeals to my father finally stopped altogether. They must have gotten the message that I did not inherit my father's interpretation of the 2nd amendment after I kept writing nasty things on their postage-paid return envelopes.

But the direct marketing still comes. The most recent appeal came this week, addressed as such: "Luella, Call Fast." It continued inside: "The Most Powerful Anti-Wrinkle Secret in History. No Surgery! No Syringes! No Prescription!"

Well, no luck! And might I suggest you spend a little more on your leads list? Cuz Luella's not worried about a single wrinkle, fine line or dark circle in nearly four years.

But that's an example of the lousy, lazy lists-makers of the marketing world.

It's the personal appeals from companies who did business with my parents and who knew that they no longer were customers because they are dead that really rub me. And, oh, yeah, I'm calling you out.

Allstate Insurance. Just a few months after canceling my parents' car and condo insurance, I received, addressed to my mother from her long-servicing agent, a smartly taglined letter: "Life Changes. Your Insurance Should Keep Up."

So should you, Dan the Insurance Man. Because your appeal that "every time you reach a new milestone in life, it affects everything ... including your insurance," doesn't really apply in, well, death. Unless you mean I should cancel the policies, which I did.

Another, sent to my mother about six months after she died, was from Christ Medical Center. Its appeal: "Please Help Christ Medical Center Continue to Save Lives!"

Umm, need I remind you that mom was your patient, and she died just hours after I drove the two hours home to Wisconsin because your doctors assured me "there seems to be nothing wrong with your mother ... we'll keep her overnight, but she'll get to go home tomorrow most likely"?

Yeah, she went home all right. Home to her Maker.

So, sorry, her estate is not in the mood to give you a 'special tax-deductible gift of ... ".

But my all-time favorite morbid marketing example is a note from Palos Health & Fitness Center. This is where my mom took her water aerobic classes and made new luncheon friends. Because for Luella, lunch was life.

I called to cancel her membership as soon as I realized it was an automatic debit in her checking account. When I did, the woman who took my call asked why I was canceling. I very clearly explained that my mother had died and would no long need her membership.

Apparently the message was not conveyed to the 'membership team,' because she received a note from said 'membership team' just one month later, saying: "We miss you!" ... and ... "We hope you are keeping up with your health and fitness goals. We know you had specific reasons for leaving us but hope that your situation has changed over the last few months. To help you get back on track, we are offering zero enrollment until April 30th, 2007... What a great way to come back."

And on Halloween, I just wonder if Mom's not doing some kind of special Luella haunting on the Palos Health & Fitness Club, just to spook the crack membership team.

Happy haunting!