The governor of my home state, South Carolina, has recently come under fire for instituting a policy whereby all state employees must answer the phone with "It's a great day in South Carolina, how can I help you?" Much of the reaction has been negative, with the main criticism being that positive phone greetings are not exactly the cornerstone of a plan for economic recovery. I'm a bit of a skeptic of positive self-talk in general, and while I don't have much knowledge of the psychiatric pros or cons of the practice, I'm usually the last person to join in when someone suggests you "give yourself a round of applause" or whisper some inane mantra before a key event.

That said, I've clearly witnessed the detrimental effects of the opposite, when people give up a fight before even lacing up their gloves. We've all heard someone quip that they're horrible at something, ranging from sales, to public speaking, to learning a new language, to an athletic endeavor. When asked what evidence they have of their gross incompetence, more often than not the person will mention they've never even attempted this dreaded task. Similarly, everyone knows the perennial victim, whose miserable lot in life was preordained by an angry deity, dirty politics, an uncontrollable physical condition (age, gender, etc.), or an invisible "system" seemingly created merely to block this person's advancement. These people seem walled in by a blockade of their own creating, and they rarely advance or improve, presumably at least partially due to a lifetime of negative self-talk.

With the current state of the economy, many would debate that it's a great day in South Carolina, and I certainly find myself in the camp that considers this gesture a bit childish. Even so, perhaps we could all use a self-directed vote of confidence, or at least end self-sabotage. The world isn't always full of great days, so it seems imperative we act as our own ally for the day when no one else will.

One of the dangers I've found with the ready availability of information on the internet is the risk of running into an expert arms race of sorts. I recently made the rather mundane purchase of a new vacuum cleaner, and thought a quick scouring of the internet would make for an easier decision. About 30 minutes later, I was accruing a growing (and exceptionally useless) knowledge of the nuances of various suction systems, beater brushes, and accessory mounting systems. I'd believe I had finally found a winner, only to read a raft of complaints about the manufacturer's customer service or product support.

Similarly, nearly any luxury item I research on the internet, from coffee to spirits, is surrounded by a litany of advocates and detractors who debate nuances as if discussing a life-saving surgical procedure. I quickly learned to avoid too much internet research of restaurants, as every five star review seemingly has a "worst meal I ever consumed" counterpoint.

Over 50% of the time that I've followed the advice of these self-appointed experts I've often ended up with an overpriced and overly complicated product, or something that's apparently too nuanced and subtle for my uncomplicated tastes. Actual users of a product, or even a seemingly knowledgeable salesperson, can usually meet my needs better than a six-page debate about whether a single subcomponent of a complicated product should be built from titanium or carbon fiber. In short, I've officially surrendered in this particular arms race.

Our family is in the process of building a new house, and during the process of choosing the various options and fixtures the builder's representative noted that all closets included "ventilated shelving." My wife and I shared a quick look, which indicated it was my turn to assume the role of ignoramus and ask "what exactly is 'ventilated shelving.'" The representative gave a rather flowery reply indicating that this is the generic white wire shelving available at home improvement and DIY stores around the world, and some marketing genius has decided "ventilated" added more mystique than "wire shelving."

We've all seen this practice at work, from dubbing garbage collectors "sanitation engineers" to the flight attendants who use "we're here for your safety" as a mantra to avoid customer service. Words matter, and while trying to verbally polish up a mundane product or position may be done with the best intentions, it may only serve as a letdown when the proverbial steak doesn't match the sizzle. We've all heard that honesty and trust are cornerstones for everything from great brands to great leaders, so while there's nothing wrong with an occasional superlative, realize that there's a line between creative marketing and ventilated shelving.

I've occasionally suffered the curse of every frequent traveller: waking up in a hotel room, brain still half-dreaming, and coming to the startling realization that you have no idea what city, state, or even country you're currently in. While the answer usually comes to me after a moment or two, most hotel rooms are little help. There are some nuances among geographies: your average large city will have a smaller and potentially "hipper" room, or artwork might have a regional flavor. Power outlets narrow down the search, getting you oriented on a regional basis (despite curveballs like British-style outlets in Hong Kong, or the hodgepodge quasi-EU standards employed in Italy), and in the worst case emergency instructions give you an indication of the language.

While one's room might not provide the ultimate answer, in an extreme case of location loss I think breakfast would provide a final verdict on where I'm staying. Hotel breakfasts seem to be the ultimate indicator of geographic location, price of the room, and target market. In the U.S., there's a strange economic gap whereby lower-end hotels routinely feature a complimentary breakfast of sorts, and mid- to upper-grade hotels provide nothing gratis, but do add the option of room service. A key differentiator on the lower end seems to be the presence of a pancake or waffle machine jazzing up the otherwise lackluster "continental" breakfast. (A comedian once remarked, "On what continent is this actually considered breakfast?").

In the UK, baked beans and grilled tomatoes are seemingly a breakfast staple, as is the presence of a mysterious substance marked "HP Sauce." Whether the latter increases horsepower or is the sauce of choice of fictional wizard Harry Potter I am unsure.

Breakfast in Hong Kong usually features a bun with a savory piece of pork inside, while China always has "tea eggs," hard-boiled eggs soaked in tea with a decidedly foreign smell to the western pallet. The French actually succeed in the oft-imitated pain au chocolate that they invented, while the Italians make a cappuccino that I miss to this day. While the hotel room might be one sample of hundreds of similar specimens, should I completely lose my bearings my plan is to make an immediate beeline for the breakfast bar. If you spot a confused looking American looking for an automated pancake machine, or carefully investigating the pastries for clues, kindly slip him a map, flag, or other trinket to aid in his finding himself.