I have come to the conclusion that people in the service industry fall into either one of two basic categories: surly, embittered miscreants who make Oscar the Grouch look like Mother Theresa, or bubbly, over-enthusiastic do-gooders who are a cross between Mr. Rogers and Cheerleader Barbie.
After dealing extensively with both, I have decided that I definitely prefer Type One.
They make no pretense of trying to help or even understand the problem. I know that when I am done talking to them, I will need to crack open a fresh bottle of Advil and eat lots of ice cream to lower my blood pressure (Really. It is a scientific fact. Although, they probably don't mean you should eat the whole half gallon in one sitting.).
I feel justified in hopping on my broom and borrowing liberally from Don Rickles stand-up act. And when it is all over, I know that the person I am dealing with is just as aggravated and ticked off as I am.
I feel vindicated and somewhat satisfied.
And then there are the type twos.
They want to be my friend and share with me. They explain, in excruciatingly painful detail, everything. They pretend to be my advocate, my mentor and my therapist all rolled into one. Insults bounce off their cotton candy wall of niceness like a rubber ball off concrete. They are always calm and reasonable.
Which makes me just itch to slap them.
Like the Verizon guy.
After talking to six, count 'em six type ones,who kept transferring me because they couldn't be bothered to actually help me, I got Mr. Verizon.
"Of course, I'll be able to help you," he enthused. "But first, let me give you my direct dial so if you ever need anything, you can just pick up the phone and I'll be there for you."
Great. And can you do it without sounding like a really bad commercial from 1955?
"Oh, I see the problem. Your credit card expires next month and you haven't entered the new info yet," he gently chided me.
"Yes, I know," I gritted out, "but I haven't received the new card yet and that doesn't explain why my automatic payment scheduled for tomorrow won't go through."
"Weeeell. By golly, you're right," he responded, unfazed by my less than friendly tone. "Let me see..."
I could hear him humming a happy little tune as he clicked merrily away on his computer.
Grrrr.
"You know, it can take a full month after you register for the automatic payments to start," he explained as though I were a particularly slow two year old. "It says that right on the site when you sign up."
"Yes, I know," I snapped. "I signed up two months ago, and everything was working fine until now."
"Uh oh. I see the problem now," he crooned. So do I, and I'm talking to it. "It looks like you switched the last two digits on your credit card when you entered it." He actually make a tsk-tsk sound!
"Oh really?" That was it. The gloves were coming off. "Then maybe you can explain to me how the payments went through for the last two months without a problem? Did you perhaps give me two months free, or did someone there pay it out of the goodness of their heart, just to be a nice guy? And, by the way, I have more than one phone on that card and amazingly those charges went through just fine too. How do you explain that?"
As I paused for a quick breath before I finished eviscerating him, he jumped in.
"Well now," he said using the tone of voice one uses when confronting a rabid dog, "I don't know how you're mistake got through like that, but don't you worry. I've fixed it so you won't have this problem again."
My mistake? My mistake? My mistake???!!!
I think I may have actually blacked out for a moment there, because when I came to, he was thanking me for calling and telling me to make sure to call him when I got my new card so that he could change the expiration date for me.
Yeah. I don't think so. That is one mistake I won't be repeating.
Friday, May 16, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Size Does Matter
Perception is a funny thing.
Years ago, I worked at Sears in the women's department. Christmas there brought with it a parade of confused, desperate men who needed gifts for their wives/girlfriends/mothers.
"What size is she?" I would ask.
"Um. I don't know. About your size," they would invariably mutter, looking like they would rather be getting a root canal without Novocain than purchasing a twin set.
The day after Christmas there would then be a line out the door of women "my size" ranging from 4'11" and eighty pounds to 5' 8" and two hundred fifty pounds exchanging those twin sets.
I comforted myself with the fact that they were guys in love...or at least in panic mode.
It is worse when it is another woman. Like last week. And not once, but twice.
The first time, I had found a cute little summer shirt (on sale--yeah me!) and was wandering around looking for a top to match.
Another customer approached me and asked where I had found the skirt. After directing her to the correct rack, I found a shirt and headed for the fitting rooms. Turns out, she ended up behind me in line.
"What size is your skirt?" she asked, guessing a number a full four sizes larger.
As I turned around in shock (how big did my jeans make my butt look?) she saw the ticket displaying the size.
"Oh. I thought we were the same size," she explained, giving me a look that clearly said I was insane if I thought I could squeeze myself into that skirt.
Slipping into the skirt a few minutes later (which fit perfectly, thank you very much), I was tempted to go knock on her door and model it for her, but my ego couldn't handle her enquiring about the shirt.
The honor of insulting my chest size went, instead, to the sales clerk a few stores down.
"That's a great dress," she gushed, as I browsed through the racks. "And it's thirty percent off!"
"It looks a little small," I eyed the garment dubiously. "Do you have a larger size?"
"Well, no," she admitted reluctantly, then hastened to add, "but this should fit you. The designer made this with someone like you in mind."
I shouldn't have done it. I knew it was a mistake, and I would regret it, but I couldn't help myself.
"Someone like me?" I asked, bracing myself for the answer.
"Well, yes. You're small on top," she explained, making not so flattering gestures with her hands. "You know, like the European models."
No, actually, I was not aware that European models were flat-chested girls with large bottoms. Perhaps if the designer runs short of models, he can just use giant pears to display his clothing line. Maybe he should start marketing his line using the Queen song, "Fat-bottomed Girls". That ought to bring the customers pouring in.
But, she wasn't quite done.
"I can't wear these clothes myself, because I'm a triple D, but you are built like her," she indicated the other saleswoman, who looked as confused as I did.
Ah, yes, perception is everything.
Years ago, I worked at Sears in the women's department. Christmas there brought with it a parade of confused, desperate men who needed gifts for their wives/girlfriends/mothers.
"What size is she?" I would ask.
"Um. I don't know. About your size," they would invariably mutter, looking like they would rather be getting a root canal without Novocain than purchasing a twin set.
The day after Christmas there would then be a line out the door of women "my size" ranging from 4'11" and eighty pounds to 5' 8" and two hundred fifty pounds exchanging those twin sets.
I comforted myself with the fact that they were guys in love...or at least in panic mode.
It is worse when it is another woman. Like last week. And not once, but twice.
The first time, I had found a cute little summer shirt (on sale--yeah me!) and was wandering around looking for a top to match.
Another customer approached me and asked where I had found the skirt. After directing her to the correct rack, I found a shirt and headed for the fitting rooms. Turns out, she ended up behind me in line.
"What size is your skirt?" she asked, guessing a number a full four sizes larger.
As I turned around in shock (how big did my jeans make my butt look?) she saw the ticket displaying the size.
"Oh. I thought we were the same size," she explained, giving me a look that clearly said I was insane if I thought I could squeeze myself into that skirt.
Slipping into the skirt a few minutes later (which fit perfectly, thank you very much), I was tempted to go knock on her door and model it for her, but my ego couldn't handle her enquiring about the shirt.
The honor of insulting my chest size went, instead, to the sales clerk a few stores down.
"That's a great dress," she gushed, as I browsed through the racks. "And it's thirty percent off!"
"It looks a little small," I eyed the garment dubiously. "Do you have a larger size?"
"Well, no," she admitted reluctantly, then hastened to add, "but this should fit you. The designer made this with someone like you in mind."
I shouldn't have done it. I knew it was a mistake, and I would regret it, but I couldn't help myself.
"Someone like me?" I asked, bracing myself for the answer.
"Well, yes. You're small on top," she explained, making not so flattering gestures with her hands. "You know, like the European models."
No, actually, I was not aware that European models were flat-chested girls with large bottoms. Perhaps if the designer runs short of models, he can just use giant pears to display his clothing line. Maybe he should start marketing his line using the Queen song, "Fat-bottomed Girls". That ought to bring the customers pouring in.
But, she wasn't quite done.
"I can't wear these clothes myself, because I'm a triple D, but you are built like her," she indicated the other saleswoman, who looked as confused as I did.
Ah, yes, perception is everything.
Friday, May 9, 2008
Sign Here
Later today, we are heading off to NYC for the weekend, where, tomorrow we will be seeing a show... and maybe getting an autograph?
When I was fourteen, my mom took me to see my first Broadway show, A Chorus Line. Afterwards, I stood outside the stage door and waited for someone, anyone, to come out and sign my program.
Finally, the door opened and the young man holding the costume had barely put one toe out before he was mobbed like he was the last chocolate bar in the Halloween bag. To this day, I'm not sure whether he was a member of the cast or the wardrobe assistant, but I got his autograph. (I also lost it about week later...oh well, it probably wouldn't have gotten much on E-Bay anyway.)
A few years later, Tim and I drove to Binghamton, NY with my mom and two of her friends to see the ice capades (Hey, we were young, crazy and living on the edge). Peggy Flemming was the big star that year and one of the friends (also named Peggy) couldn't wait to see her. All the way there, it was Peggy, Peggy, Peggy. (It was enough to make you swear off the Capades forever!)
Disappointingly, Peggy did not perform that night after all (really? a cold?), so when my mom, Tim and I mistakenly found ourselves backstage after the performance (note: never, never, follow my mother when she says she knows a shortcut) we couldn't pass up the opportunity to forge Peggy's autograph and give it to our Peggy, along with a story so outlandish that Mother Goose would have been embarrassed to publish it. Hahaha.
Turns out the joke was on us. Peggy swallowed it hook, line and sinker, and made such a fuss over it that we were too ashamed to admit what we had done (wait till she tries to sell that one on E-bay!)
Knowing this story, it was no wonder that a few years later, when we were at another Broadway show, there were those among us who doubted the authenticity of a few autographs.
Standing in line waiting to get in, I thought I recognized the woman in front of us. After a fierce, whispered debate,(you to, no, you go) Tim approached her and found out that it was indeed Angie Dickinson. He got her autograph, a kiss and total disbelief from the rest of the group who were further back in the line. (Yeah, and who was she with...Raquel Welch and Bridgette Bardot?)
He endured the good-natured ribbing all during the fifteen mile hike up to our $10 seats on the roof, and then all the way down again to the lobby at intermission for a smoke(that tells you how old this story is!) where he was able to prove the authenticity of the signature, because, there she was...and with Harry Reasoner no less.
Naturally though, when the smokers all returned for act two, I didn't believe a word they said. Angie Dickenson sure, but Harry Reasoner's autograph? That was pushing it beyond the bounds of believability.
Enlisting the aid of the local Sherpa, we trudged all the way down again, only to find an empty lobby and not even a cigarette butt to prove Tim's claim. Ha!
I kept the autograph, of course, but to this day, I'm still not sure I buy the story. I was, after all, the one who forged Peggy Flemming's autograph.
When I was fourteen, my mom took me to see my first Broadway show, A Chorus Line. Afterwards, I stood outside the stage door and waited for someone, anyone, to come out and sign my program.
Finally, the door opened and the young man holding the costume had barely put one toe out before he was mobbed like he was the last chocolate bar in the Halloween bag. To this day, I'm not sure whether he was a member of the cast or the wardrobe assistant, but I got his autograph. (I also lost it about week later...oh well, it probably wouldn't have gotten much on E-Bay anyway.)
A few years later, Tim and I drove to Binghamton, NY with my mom and two of her friends to see the ice capades (Hey, we were young, crazy and living on the edge). Peggy Flemming was the big star that year and one of the friends (also named Peggy) couldn't wait to see her. All the way there, it was Peggy, Peggy, Peggy. (It was enough to make you swear off the Capades forever!)
Disappointingly, Peggy did not perform that night after all (really? a cold?), so when my mom, Tim and I mistakenly found ourselves backstage after the performance (note: never, never, follow my mother when she says she knows a shortcut) we couldn't pass up the opportunity to forge Peggy's autograph and give it to our Peggy, along with a story so outlandish that Mother Goose would have been embarrassed to publish it. Hahaha.
Turns out the joke was on us. Peggy swallowed it hook, line and sinker, and made such a fuss over it that we were too ashamed to admit what we had done (wait till she tries to sell that one on E-bay!)
Knowing this story, it was no wonder that a few years later, when we were at another Broadway show, there were those among us who doubted the authenticity of a few autographs.
Standing in line waiting to get in, I thought I recognized the woman in front of us. After a fierce, whispered debate,(you to, no, you go) Tim approached her and found out that it was indeed Angie Dickinson. He got her autograph, a kiss and total disbelief from the rest of the group who were further back in the line. (Yeah, and who was she with...Raquel Welch and Bridgette Bardot?)
He endured the good-natured ribbing all during the fifteen mile hike up to our $10 seats on the roof, and then all the way down again to the lobby at intermission for a smoke(that tells you how old this story is!) where he was able to prove the authenticity of the signature, because, there she was...and with Harry Reasoner no less.
Naturally though, when the smokers all returned for act two, I didn't believe a word they said. Angie Dickenson sure, but Harry Reasoner's autograph? That was pushing it beyond the bounds of believability.
Enlisting the aid of the local Sherpa, we trudged all the way down again, only to find an empty lobby and not even a cigarette butt to prove Tim's claim. Ha!
I kept the autograph, of course, but to this day, I'm still not sure I buy the story. I was, after all, the one who forged Peggy Flemming's autograph.
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