Tuesday, April 28, 2009

One Is The Loneliest Number

This past weekend, I was in The Windy City (and it was!). Based on Tim's recommendation, when I found myself alone for dinner one night, I went to a pizza place near the hotel for some famous deep-dish Chicago style pizza. Yummy!!!!

Thinking I was being smart by going early, I walked in to find the place jammed and had to fight my way up to the "hostess" stand to put my name on the list.

"How many in your party?" she chirped.

"One."

Blink. "One?"

"Yes," I held up one finger thinking the poor thing needed a visual aid.

"One?" she repeated, shouting over the din.

Gee, could you say it any louder? I don't think they heard you at the Sears Tower! One. Is that a problem??????

"Oh." Pause. "There's a fifteen minute wait," she warned as though trying to scare me off. "Maybe twenty."

But I was not about to give up that easily on what Tim had assured me was the best pizza in Chicago. I gave my name and wedged myself into a corner of the bar area amidst all the happy couples and groups and families like the sole skunk aboard the ark.

Five minutes later, I discovered the reason why the woman at the desk had tried to discourage me from putting my name on the list...pity.

Over the loudspeaker, I heard, "Steve, party of four; Carol, party of two." And the speakers weren't only inside the restaurant. Oh no, they were outside as well, echoing names and numbers up and down the block.

Great. Now half the population of greater Chicago would hear, "Ann, party of one" and wonder what kind of a loser was spending a weekend night eating pizza alone. This had better be the best pizza I've ever had in my life!!!

A full thirty minutes later, the announcement came. "Ann, party of two." Two? Was there another Ann? One who had a friend or significant other? I pushed my way up to the desk.

"Um, Ann?" I pointed to myself and the guy manning the microphone nodded. "It's supposed to be only one."

"I know," he whispered, giving me a wink. "It's okay, Just go to the top of the steps and they'll seat you."

Wow That made it official. Where do you go after being given an imaginary date by the wait staff? I'm thinking that's pretty much the bottom rung of the ladder.

As I was finally seated in a corner (I guess they didn't want to give the other diners the idea that it was acceptable to dine alone), the waiter came over and plunked down two sets of silverware and two glasses of water.

"I'm alone," I informed him.

He did a double-take. "Only one?"

Yes. One. Uno. Un. Single. Solitary. I'm willing to break into the musical number "One" from A Chorus Line if that would help you grasp the concept. Again, I held up one finger (and was very proud of myself at this point that it was not the middle one).

"Oh. Okay," he backed away, perplexed, taking the extra items with him.

What was it with these people? Had no one in Chicago ever eaten alone before? Was I committing some crime? Hey, maybe that's what they finally got Capone for.

I finally did get my pizza, and a to go box, unasked, for the leftovers. Which was a good thing, because I was probably going to be having it for lunch the next day instead of the hot dog I was hoping for because I was alone. Single. Solitary. One.

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Doomed From the Start

You know how they have those ads showing some poor unfortunate soul who has just had some horrendous misfortune befall them, and the slogan warns, "Don't let this happen to you"?

Well, meet the poster child for airline travel.

Over a month ago we purchased tickets for an Easter trip to Florida. Less expensive, non-refundable tickets. And excuse us for trying to save some money. Next time, I'll just borrow a cannon from the circus, aim it south and climb in. I would be better off.

As usual, I received confirmation via snail mail for our e-tickets a few days after purchasing them, but when I looked, there were no seat assignments. Hmmm. Puzzling. I always have seat assignments.

So I called the agent and was told that per the "new" policy, the airlines are not offering seat assignments to anyone purchasing the less expensive non-refundable tickets.

Okay, let me get this straight. I am being punished for not spending the extra $100 per ticket to get a fully refundable seat on an over-sold flight. I get to show up at the airport the day of travel -- holiday travel-- and fight it out with the other "non-refundables" and "standbys" who also don't have seats. In addition to that, you are charging me $25 to check a bag, and two bucks for a crummy bottle of water. What's next? An additional $15 to breathe oxygen instead of carbon monoxide during the flight? How about pay toilets or a fee for the life vests?

Left with no recourse because I had non-refundable tickets (which leads me to ask, what about those people who purchased the "deals" like $29 round trip? Do they even get to board the plane, or are they just strapped to the wings?), I waited until the day before and went online to see if I could print out boarding passes with seat assignments. Nope. The airline thought of that too, and put the whammy on it.

So I called the airline directly and asked if there was anything I could do, up to and including offering my first-born to secure seats. Well...I could pay now over the phone for seats, but there weren't any together anymore (like I even cared at that point who I was sitting next to!), or I could just show up really, really early to make sure I got seats. Well, thanks for all your help! I began to seriously wonder what the range on those circus cannons was.

As if the whole seating issue wasn't causing enough stress in my life, two hours before the flight was scheduled to take off, I got a call from the airline telling me it had been delayed by ninety minutes. Goody. More uncertainty. I wondered where I could buy I helmet for my cannon flight. Something in a nice shade of pink maybe.

But eventually, we got up and off. Which is more than I can say for the return flight.

We got to the airport early, boarded on time, closed the doors, and began barrelling down the runway only to have the pilot slam on the breaks. Apparently, the "check engine" light had gone on. So, back to the terminal we went and waited for the mechanic.

And waited. And waited. And then got off the plane and waited some more. After three hours of sitting at the gate (and really, who doesn't enjoy lounging comfortably in a vinyl and metal chair joined at the hip to a perfect stranger while munching on some delicious airport food that even a starving dog would turn its nose up at), they told us that the plane needed a part that wouldn't be there for another three hours. But once it got there, well, they were pretty sure the plane would take off. Eventually. If it was the right part. And if it fit. And if the flight crew didn't "time out". And if all the planets lined up. And if pigs sprouted wings and started to fly.

I began googling circus cannons on my blackberry.

Twelve hours after first arriving at the airport, we made it home, with seats even. And before I book my next flight, I might try looking into a giant slingshot or maybe even a catapult. It couldn't be any worse than flying commercial.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009

Three Times is the Charm

My ipod nano died last week, so I decided to upgrade to the itouch and have some fun. Apple seemed to think I needed exercise instead.

Monday, I went to the store, which was, as usual, jammed. First, I talked to somebody in an orange shirt, but they told me I needed to register with somebody in a blue shirt, who told me he would have somebody in an orange shirt help me.

Okay, since I was already talking to an orange guy, why did I need the blue guy again? Gee, I remember the good old days when you could walk into a store and get help from anyone regardless of the color shirt they were wearing.

But, I followed protocol and was assigned an orange guy, only not the original orange guy who had led me to the blue guy. Oh no, another orange guy who had to come from across the store. (Was it something I said?)

I explained to new orange guy that I wanted the itouch and a case. Did they have one with a clip?

He shook his head regretfully as he led me over to an entire wall filled with nothing but cases and told me no.

No? Seriously, you have, hmmm, let's see, one, two, three...six million different cases here and not one for the itouch with a clip? It never occurred to anyone that like every other ipod in here, someone, somewhere, someday, might want to attach their itouch to them?

"Well, you could put it in your pocket," he offered helpfully.

Wow. My pocket. And how many engineers did it take to come up with that solution? I continued to scan the endless collection of cases, sure that this guy just had to be wrong, as I threw a withering glance in his direction.

"What about this one?" I asked, tapping a leather case.

"No, that's only for the iphone."

"Okay, how about this one?" I pointed to another likely candidate.

"That's for the old itouch. You have the new one, but here's the one I use," he volunteered, handing me a silicone sleeve. "I love it."

Yeah, because you have pockets. Accepting defeat, I took his suggestion, purchased my itouch and left, shaking my head in disbelief.

The next morning, after charging my new toy, I successfully downloaded my music, but couldn't download my photos.

Time and time again, my new touch told me it was "syncing", but failed to do so. I tried resetting, I clicked on every possible option and button they offered. I even tried to download the new 2.2.1 program they told me I needed. Nothing. Nada. Zip.

I looked online for help. I watched tutorials. Still nothing. Nada. Zip. But I now knew more about the itouch than I ever wanted to, and frankly, I'm a little bit worried that I may have had to get rid of some vital information, like the names of the top ten finalists on American Idol to make room for all that new information.

Gritting my teeth over the pain I knew it would cause me, I turned to my final resort...the helpline.

Miracle of miracles though, the Apple helpline was...helpful. Within a few minutes, the woman was able to tell me that Mr. orange guy had sold me an ipod that not only had some problems, but that it didn't even have the latest programs installed. She made me an appointment for that afternoon and suggested I return it for a new one. Done.

So once again, I trudged back to the mall and fought my way through the crowd to the help desk, where a blue girl told me I needed to check in with an orange girl with a laptop in order to be sent back to the help desk where somebody blue would help me. Arrrrrgh! And what color shirt should I see for the newvous breakdown I am about to have?

Within a relatively short period of time though, I had my new "updated" ipod and was about to be happily on my way when blue girl told me that my case was not designed for that model touch and I would be unable to use earphones with it. Arrrgh and Grrrr!!!!

Did I still have the box? Yes? Good, then just bring it back and exchange it. I began scoping out the store looking for the orange guy from the day before, but luck was on his side and he wasn't there. I had thought of a new place for his ipod besides in his pocket and wanted to share it with him.

And so, back I went on the third day to exchange my case. This time, I bypassed the orange, the blue and the help desk and went straight to the case wall on my own. After searching for a while(let's just say I was thinking of changing my name to Rip Van Winkle when I was done), I finally saw what I was looking for...the Holy Grail...an itouch case for my generation itouch with.....wonder of wonders, a clip!

Hah! Take that, orange people.

I seized the next person I came across and, refusing to buy into their colored shirt fixation, shoved my receipt under their nose. I told them I was exchanging one case for another and gave them the evil eye when it looked like they might try and palm me off on another "color". Fortunately for them, they backed down and quickly made the exchange.

As I left with my new itouch snuggled into it's new clip case, I paused to wipe a tear from my eye, sad that I would have no reason to visit for a fourth day in a row.

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Yet More Proof That Comcast Could Mess Up a One Car Funeral

So last week I wrote of my experience with Comcast, and much to my surprise, I was contacted by them (see comment by anonymous). Apparently, they "twitter" their name to see who has reached their limit and is blogging about them (my guess...90 percent of their customers).

After checking to make sure it was legit, I did contact their "We Can Help" people who called me back three days later (gee, hope they didn't break a sweat rushing to help) to assure me that everything was now fine with my account since I had re-registered for automatic payments.

Okay...and since this was already done last week, you are helping me how exactly?

But, as long as the matter was cleared up, I was prepared to be forgiving.

And then they went and did it again. They sent me a paper bill and killed all the warm, fuzzy (all right--tepid and slightly hairy) feelings that were beginning to take root in my heart.

Now, mind you, this was not a bill for the account that I had been "helped" with. This was a bill for a second account we have in Tim's name. This account had been signed up for automatic payment and ecco bill for over a year. Hmmmm. So now they were trying to push me over the edge by screwing up both of our accounts. Good plan. Why not just wait until I am having a bad hair day also and attack my phone account as well?

After several deep breaths and a longing glance at the liquor cabinet, the red haze slowly began to clear from in front of my eyes, and I looked more closely at the bill. It wasn't actually a bill, but a statement saying that the amount owed was going to be paid by debiting my bank account, and thanking me for enrolling in the program.

Oh, really. Well that would be a neat trick since I hadn't ever enrolled in the debit program. I had signed up for automatic payment with my credit card, but I had never, ever given them my banking information.

Debating whether I should take a Valium before or after placing the call, I once again dialed a number that, regrettably, I know better than my own, and punched the appropriate number of buttons so that I might speak to an actual person. ( for anyone who is interested, the code is 1,2,1,1,4)

First question: Why are you sending me a paper statement?

Answer: We are doing it because of legal issues. People who signed up for the ecco bill are complaining that they (A.can't, B.won't, C.don't know how--pick one, the guy actually used all three) to access their bill online.

Question: So, even though I am signed up for the ecco bill, I will get a paper statement?

Answer: Yes, but don't worry, it's not just you. I get one too.

Oh, that makes me feel much better. And you're still calling it an "ecco bill"? Way to reduce the carbon footprint.

Second question: Why am I being told that I am signed up for the debit program? Because I have to tell you, that when you try to take money out of my account, you're going to find you have a major problem, since you don't have access to it.

Answer: Ummmmm.

Question: Can you access my account information? Because it should say that I am enrolled in the automatic payment program using my credit card.

Answer: Oh. Yeah. Well, actually it says you have not been enrolled in any program to pay, ever.

I mentally counted to ten, but it didn't help. I still wanted to explode, only I was ten seconds closer and more aggravated.

Question: Are you looking at my account now? Yes? Okay, do you see the payment history?

Answer: Oh, yes. I guess you were enrolled. Let me look into this. Can I put you on hold?

Sure. What's another hour or two between friends?

Several mind-numbingly boring minutes of listening to muzak later, he came back on the line and told me that I shouldn't worry about it because it was just the way they worded the letter. Even though it said debit, it really meant automatic payment.

Oh, okay. So maybe I shouldn't worry about the money I owe you either, because even though it says I owe it, maybe it really means that I have that as a credit? Yeah, I'm going to need a better explanation than that.

Another stint on hold.

And the final answer is: They just don't know why I was sent that statement, but I am definitely signed up for the automatic payment. Now. So everything will be okay. Now. And I won't get any more statements. Now.

Yea, and I'll believe that. For now. Until I get the next letter or call. In the meantime, I think I'll just investigate Direct TV.

Oh, and Comcast people who will be reading this? Please. Don't help. I can't waste any more time on the phone listening to Blue Bayou.