Found this email, sent to a girlfriend a couple of months back:
Hi,
Yes, we are still going to our swing dance classes each week. They make us rotate partners and the class is really big so I only get to dance with Paul once or twice each class.
Other men I have to dance with:
1. The 7 foot tall man: Since I stand almost 4'11", I eyeball his belt buckle. It is awkward for us both.
2. The elderly man who comes to dance class as part of his physical therapy and smells very bad. I admire his gusto but I would pay him to shower before class.
3. Mr Compliments. Last week I told him he looked nice and he told me I'd looked nice about 4 weeks earlier when I'd worn a black dress & heels.
Paul is no luckier. He gets:
1. The lady who pulls her long sleeves over her hands so she doesn't ever make hand to hand skin contact.
2. Ms. Know-It-All: who, last week, told him he was doing the step we were learning "all wrong".
3. The girl who told him to quit talking because she had to count.
I still haven't decided whether I like this class but Paul just loves it. He gets in the car after each class and writes down all the steps and then we have to practice every night. Our living room furniture has been moved up against the wall for weeks. And now he's found utube video of more dance moves, so he stands in front of the computer screen and teaches himself things that we have not learned in class. Three days ago, I pulled a calf muscle because he wanted to experiment with Charleston steps in which all one does is hop on the toes and kick, kick. Two weeks ago, I went to the doctor for a pulled back muscle.
Love you,
Friday, July 10, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Entitlement At The Supermarket
In line at my local supermarket the other night, I told the man behind me, with just a couple of items, to go ahead of me. He smiled graciously and thanked me more than once. As we switched places, I felt good; I’d done him a solid. But the warm fuzzies faded when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the gentleman who had been behind the gentleman behind me, who was now in front of me, begin a series of “notice me” signals. He started by shuffling his single item from hand to hand. Then there was an ever-so-slight throat clearing followed by a full-on cough. By the time I got my first grocery item laid out, he had used more energy in this check-out line than I imagine he’d used to park and locate his single grocery item.
Nonetheless, by the time I finished unloading my under-ten-items cart, the amusing, impatient gentleman seemed resigned to waiting his turn. That should have been the end of this tale of Supermarket Line Entitlement, but alas, we scored the checker who was both chatty and new—a deadly combination for hurried customers--need I point? When the checker picked up the pink shopping bag I had decided not to purchase (I mean, really, do we have to BUY shopping bags now? But that’s another story.), she needed to tell me that it looked like me and that I would wish I had bought it. No, I assured her I wouldn’t even remember it in five minutes but thanks anyway. As she looked up the sku numbers for brown mushrooms, she asked if I had noticed the bell peppers on sale for 50 cents. Why, no, I had not. That was when I was certain I heard an odd bubbling sound----ahhh, yes, it was the impatient man’s blood boiling.
Uh oh, our friendly clerk needed to call a manager—something had gone askew with the register. The efficient girl at the next counter told her there wasn’t a manager on duty right now. And while I summoned all the discipline I could muster not to look back at the Angry Customer, I don’t think our check out clerk ever noticed him. Even as he huffed, puffed and stomped away to another checkout line, she remained obliviously perky. More power to her. Not surprisingly, Angry Customer got out of the store that evening before I did, but I don’t imagine he was wearing the smile that I was.
Nonetheless, by the time I finished unloading my under-ten-items cart, the amusing, impatient gentleman seemed resigned to waiting his turn. That should have been the end of this tale of Supermarket Line Entitlement, but alas, we scored the checker who was both chatty and new—a deadly combination for hurried customers--need I point? When the checker picked up the pink shopping bag I had decided not to purchase (I mean, really, do we have to BUY shopping bags now? But that’s another story.), she needed to tell me that it looked like me and that I would wish I had bought it. No, I assured her I wouldn’t even remember it in five minutes but thanks anyway. As she looked up the sku numbers for brown mushrooms, she asked if I had noticed the bell peppers on sale for 50 cents. Why, no, I had not. That was when I was certain I heard an odd bubbling sound----ahhh, yes, it was the impatient man’s blood boiling.
Uh oh, our friendly clerk needed to call a manager—something had gone askew with the register. The efficient girl at the next counter told her there wasn’t a manager on duty right now. And while I summoned all the discipline I could muster not to look back at the Angry Customer, I don’t think our check out clerk ever noticed him. Even as he huffed, puffed and stomped away to another checkout line, she remained obliviously perky. More power to her. Not surprisingly, Angry Customer got out of the store that evening before I did, but I don’t imagine he was wearing the smile that I was.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Fish Story--Part 1 of 2
Since purchasing fish as pets rather than simply Tuesday night dinner, I’ve learned as much about Koi owners as Koi fish. Most importantly, that there are two types of fish owners: Those who tell you they have fish. And those who tell you they raise Koromo Koi, recite every classification of carp and casually mention the size & weight of the latest Koi show winner. In the world of the obsessive Koi owner, there are rules and there are secondary rules. There are a lot of rules. In the world from which I hail, fish are what swim toward the squiggling bait at the end of my grandfather’s stick-pole. So, begins my Koi Tale.
I have a combination of goldfish and Koi, none of which do I know the classification. Nonetheless, all were doing swimmingly well until one day, after changing their water, my husband Paul and I noticed two of the goldfish swimming lethargically. The next day, one of those goldfish was belly-up and the other looked to be heading in the same direction. After some quick online research, I quarantined the sick little goldfish, put Paul in the car and headed out to the pet store with the intent of purchasing anything the salesman might tell me I needed, thus the reason I knew my husband was eager to accompany me.
Coincidentally, our little tourist town also happens to boast the area’s only Koi specialty store, owned by a Japanese family and offering koi pond plants, endless advice and beautiful ponds full of large imported koi that could make the most stressed person feel like a Yogi. Since my Koi hobby, I’ve begun going there regularly, often to simply sit and watch the fish.
While on the drive to the pet store, my husband asked why I didn’t stop at this local Koi shop instead. After all, I’ve bought all my food and water plants from them. I tried to explain my theory regarding the two kinds of Koi owners. “The guys who work at the Koi shop here are definitely the type A,” I said speaking quickly, because we were moving 45 MPH and the shop was coming up fast.
“You mean the Type 2?” he asked.
“What?” Driving and talking at the same time had just become harder and I saw the shop up ahead.
“It will save us a lot of time,” he persisted, “and they'll know more than the people at some chain pet store”.
I pulled into the Koi Shop parking lot. Dadblast it—Sunday, and they were still open.
“Alright,” I agreed as we got out of the car, “but watch what you say.”
“Can I help you?” asked the friendly Japanese-American owner.
“We’ve got sick fish” said Paul casually.
“Well one of them, a goldfish” I piped in, figuring that goldfish aren't sacred to the Koi crowd.
“What kind of filter do you have?” I saw this going downhill faster than my goldfish but couldn't get a lie out of my mouth fast enough.
“We don’t have a filter,” says hubby.
“You don’t have a filter?” repeated the store owner. It was not the kind of question that requires an answer.
“No.”
Paul was oblivious to the man’s distress but I saw the man’s eyebrows burrow and I was sure I began to detect something different in his voice; what was it?
“You really need a filter” he persisted. “How many gallons is your pond?”
“Well it’s not a pond. It’s a fountain and they don’t measure them in gallons but probably about forty," said hubby.
“Forty? You know, one full grown Koi needs at least 100 gallons. How many fish do you have?” Aaah—now I recognized that sound in his voice; it was disdain.
“Nine. Well, eight. One’s dead now,” answered my hubby in his laid-back and usually charming manner. I began looking for a giant lily pad to crawl under. I don’t remember the next few minutes of conversation. I drifted away to a more peaceful place. I watched Koi swimming to the surfaces of their large and filtered ponds. I heard the man ask if our pond was at least three feet deep.
“No, it’s probably twelve inches” answers hubby.
“Fifteen,” I corrected him, knowing it just didn’t matter anymore.
“You know, if the fish can’t go deep, they can get eaten by heron or cats. Do you have any predators?”
“Well, we had a squirrel but she poisoned it,” says hubby doing the head-nod point in my direction, “so, no.”
I think we were there 20 minutes but it seemed closer to some number of hours.
Yesterday, I told my husband that we needed fresh pond plants in our fountain-pond and that I was unable to find them anywhere other than the Koi Specialty Shop.
“Bummer,” said he, “I think you burned bridges there.”
I have a combination of goldfish and Koi, none of which do I know the classification. Nonetheless, all were doing swimmingly well until one day, after changing their water, my husband Paul and I noticed two of the goldfish swimming lethargically. The next day, one of those goldfish was belly-up and the other looked to be heading in the same direction. After some quick online research, I quarantined the sick little goldfish, put Paul in the car and headed out to the pet store with the intent of purchasing anything the salesman might tell me I needed, thus the reason I knew my husband was eager to accompany me.
Coincidentally, our little tourist town also happens to boast the area’s only Koi specialty store, owned by a Japanese family and offering koi pond plants, endless advice and beautiful ponds full of large imported koi that could make the most stressed person feel like a Yogi. Since my Koi hobby, I’ve begun going there regularly, often to simply sit and watch the fish.
While on the drive to the pet store, my husband asked why I didn’t stop at this local Koi shop instead. After all, I’ve bought all my food and water plants from them. I tried to explain my theory regarding the two kinds of Koi owners. “The guys who work at the Koi shop here are definitely the type A,” I said speaking quickly, because we were moving 45 MPH and the shop was coming up fast.
“You mean the Type 2?” he asked.
“What?” Driving and talking at the same time had just become harder and I saw the shop up ahead.
“It will save us a lot of time,” he persisted, “and they'll know more than the people at some chain pet store”.
I pulled into the Koi Shop parking lot. Dadblast it—Sunday, and they were still open.
“Alright,” I agreed as we got out of the car, “but watch what you say.”
“Can I help you?” asked the friendly Japanese-American owner.
“We’ve got sick fish” said Paul casually.
“Well one of them, a goldfish” I piped in, figuring that goldfish aren't sacred to the Koi crowd.
“What kind of filter do you have?” I saw this going downhill faster than my goldfish but couldn't get a lie out of my mouth fast enough.
“We don’t have a filter,” says hubby.
“You don’t have a filter?” repeated the store owner. It was not the kind of question that requires an answer.
“No.”
Paul was oblivious to the man’s distress but I saw the man’s eyebrows burrow and I was sure I began to detect something different in his voice; what was it?
“You really need a filter” he persisted. “How many gallons is your pond?”
“Well it’s not a pond. It’s a fountain and they don’t measure them in gallons but probably about forty," said hubby.
“Forty? You know, one full grown Koi needs at least 100 gallons. How many fish do you have?” Aaah—now I recognized that sound in his voice; it was disdain.
“Nine. Well, eight. One’s dead now,” answered my hubby in his laid-back and usually charming manner. I began looking for a giant lily pad to crawl under. I don’t remember the next few minutes of conversation. I drifted away to a more peaceful place. I watched Koi swimming to the surfaces of their large and filtered ponds. I heard the man ask if our pond was at least three feet deep.
“No, it’s probably twelve inches” answers hubby.
“Fifteen,” I corrected him, knowing it just didn’t matter anymore.
“You know, if the fish can’t go deep, they can get eaten by heron or cats. Do you have any predators?”
“Well, we had a squirrel but she poisoned it,” says hubby doing the head-nod point in my direction, “so, no.”
I think we were there 20 minutes but it seemed closer to some number of hours.
Yesterday, I told my husband that we needed fresh pond plants in our fountain-pond and that I was unable to find them anywhere other than the Koi Specialty Shop.
“Bummer,” said he, “I think you burned bridges there.”
Saturday, July 4, 2009
No Control of Remote
“Forgot another soda in the freezer, huh? asks my husband. It’s a rhetorical question. There are only two of us living here and I’m the one that likes to “chill” soda cans before dinner. Problem is, between setting the table, cooking and chatting, a can of coke is easily and often forgotten. The intended ice-cold soda becomes the sticky brown goo that makes our freezer door difficult to pull open for three days; then I clean it.
Another rhetorical question goes like this, “Couldn’t get the remote to work again, huh?” The only response to that question is “The remote does not work”. It should be obvious; here I am sitting in front of a sixty-one inch television screen of blue-gray static with the volume turned to maximum, for effect. I am missing whatever it is that I came downstairs to watch on TV.
“We really need to teach you how to use this remote” says hubby. By ‘we’, he means ‘I’ but he says 'we' because it somehow sounds kinder. I know this because we’ve been through it least a half dozen times. He holds one of his three remotes, each used for separate mystical purposes, in front of me and points to a specific button on this 8”x2” piece of robot which boasts no less than 42 total buttons. His finger is the size of 6 of the largest ones. I don’t know to which pin-sized button he is pointing and I’ve already missed 15 minutes of whatever I came down here to watch. I am testy and impatient. I’ve been punching random buttons for ten minutes now, to no avail.
“There are two tuners,” he speaks slowly, “One controls the TV and the other controls the DVD player. If you want to watch the TV, you have to turn off the DVD tuner.” In my defense I respond that I pushed the button which says “Watch TV”. After all, what else should a person have to do on a remote control that has photos? Let me note here that, in order to make this a simple process, my husband purchased as a Christmas gift for me this fine remote control. On it are several color photos, one of a TV next to a tiny buttoned labeled ‘Watch TV’ in print size smaller than anyone over 35 can possibly read. Another photo shows a giant tub of appetizing buttered popcorn next to the words, ‘Watch a Movie’. It sounds simple. Until you consider that there are forty additional buttons, the size of fingernail clippings and all crammed onto a box half the size of my billfold and if the correct buttons are not pressed in the correct sequence before pressing “Watch TV”, the result is white noise. Breathe. They forgot to install the button labeled “No White Noise”.
“It’s not very user friendly,” I complain.
“I know, but you just have to understand certain basics and you won’t have any trouble.” He detects my pessimism and tries another approach. This means he moves on to new and different buttons. After all, there are 42. “Here, maybe you will like this better. Hit THIS button.” Again, he points to one of them but seems to be grasping how ineffective that is. “It’s the Activities button,” he persists, “ Press it instead of the ‘Media Device’ button.” But now the TV is on and so is my show. A simple show, requiring very little thought. Hubby continues to talk but I’ve drifted. He knows I'm not listening but patiently finishes his explanation hoping, I suspect, that if he repeats it all enough, I will eventually piece together the bits and parts to form a complete understanding of wireless technology. I tune back in about the time he is saying how we should make all of our lights work in sync with the remote.
Another rhetorical question goes like this, “Couldn’t get the remote to work again, huh?” The only response to that question is “The remote does not work”. It should be obvious; here I am sitting in front of a sixty-one inch television screen of blue-gray static with the volume turned to maximum, for effect. I am missing whatever it is that I came downstairs to watch on TV.
“We really need to teach you how to use this remote” says hubby. By ‘we’, he means ‘I’ but he says 'we' because it somehow sounds kinder. I know this because we’ve been through it least a half dozen times. He holds one of his three remotes, each used for separate mystical purposes, in front of me and points to a specific button on this 8”x2” piece of robot which boasts no less than 42 total buttons. His finger is the size of 6 of the largest ones. I don’t know to which pin-sized button he is pointing and I’ve already missed 15 minutes of whatever I came down here to watch. I am testy and impatient. I’ve been punching random buttons for ten minutes now, to no avail.
“There are two tuners,” he speaks slowly, “One controls the TV and the other controls the DVD player. If you want to watch the TV, you have to turn off the DVD tuner.” In my defense I respond that I pushed the button which says “Watch TV”. After all, what else should a person have to do on a remote control that has photos? Let me note here that, in order to make this a simple process, my husband purchased as a Christmas gift for me this fine remote control. On it are several color photos, one of a TV next to a tiny buttoned labeled ‘Watch TV’ in print size smaller than anyone over 35 can possibly read. Another photo shows a giant tub of appetizing buttered popcorn next to the words, ‘Watch a Movie’. It sounds simple. Until you consider that there are forty additional buttons, the size of fingernail clippings and all crammed onto a box half the size of my billfold and if the correct buttons are not pressed in the correct sequence before pressing “Watch TV”, the result is white noise. Breathe. They forgot to install the button labeled “No White Noise”.
“It’s not very user friendly,” I complain.
“I know, but you just have to understand certain basics and you won’t have any trouble.” He detects my pessimism and tries another approach. This means he moves on to new and different buttons. After all, there are 42. “Here, maybe you will like this better. Hit THIS button.” Again, he points to one of them but seems to be grasping how ineffective that is. “It’s the Activities button,” he persists, “ Press it instead of the ‘Media Device’ button.” But now the TV is on and so is my show. A simple show, requiring very little thought. Hubby continues to talk but I’ve drifted. He knows I'm not listening but patiently finishes his explanation hoping, I suspect, that if he repeats it all enough, I will eventually piece together the bits and parts to form a complete understanding of wireless technology. I tune back in about the time he is saying how we should make all of our lights work in sync with the remote.
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Decision Challenged
Last week I went into a store to choose a purse. Unfortunately the purses were all hung high, so that I had to ask the store owner to get down anything I wanted with a long stick. I had him get down a lovely cream colored woven one. Then he stood there, waiting for me to decide. Silly man. I went back a couple of days later to look at the same purse but saw two others I also liked. The nice man got all three down for me but again he stood there, stick in hand, waiting for me to decide. The pressure was unbearable and I left, like before, empty-handed.
Commitment is hard for me. Well, it’s a struggle. I mean, I don’t like to do it. The permanence of a final choice is distressing. When it comes to making decisions about the big things--jobs, children, hair length-- people are understanding. Like my realtor who once said “Oh, you’re not sure which salary-sucking-lifetime-commitment house you want to put an offer in on? That’s okay—you think about it overnight.” Instead, it’s the small things that really cause problems for the decision-challenged among us. My tailor has learned not to put down her pins when I say “Yes, that length is fine”. Other supermarket shoppers breeze past as I examine every apple in the bin. And pity the hurried waiter who expects me to choose from a menu with over four items.
I went back into the purse store today. Silly man grabbed his stick when he saw me. I announced that I had made a choice. As he rang up my purchase, he kindly volunteered that if I got home and found that this one didn’t “work” I could bring it back. I told him I was certain that this was the one. He didn’t look convinced. When I got home, I stuck the store bag and receipt under my bed—just in case.
Commitment is hard for me. Well, it’s a struggle. I mean, I don’t like to do it. The permanence of a final choice is distressing. When it comes to making decisions about the big things--jobs, children, hair length-- people are understanding. Like my realtor who once said “Oh, you’re not sure which salary-sucking-lifetime-commitment house you want to put an offer in on? That’s okay—you think about it overnight.” Instead, it’s the small things that really cause problems for the decision-challenged among us. My tailor has learned not to put down her pins when I say “Yes, that length is fine”. Other supermarket shoppers breeze past as I examine every apple in the bin. And pity the hurried waiter who expects me to choose from a menu with over four items.
I went back into the purse store today. Silly man grabbed his stick when he saw me. I announced that I had made a choice. As he rang up my purchase, he kindly volunteered that if I got home and found that this one didn’t “work” I could bring it back. I told him I was certain that this was the one. He didn’t look convinced. When I got home, I stuck the store bag and receipt under my bed—just in case.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Home Depot: Take Two (or How to Get Attention at the Home Depot)
After my weekend experience at a Home Depot (see prior post), I went in to yesterday's HD with a bad 'tude. I was there to get pressure treated 2X6's, in 8 and 10 foot lengths; so I donned my fashionable black back-belt for support and pushed in one of the orange Depot carts which, alone, must weigh as much as I. I headed back to the lumber section and hadn't even reached the treated wood when an employee asked if I needed help. I wouldn't want another person to choose my wood for me any more than I'd want him choosing my clothing or my dinnerware, so I politely turned down the offer and briefy reconsidered my take on HD employees. As I began fishing through the 8' pieces, another employee asked if he could help me. Okay, now I'm beginning to feel a bit like I'm on display.
"No thanks." I smiled. He seemed hesitant but walked away. Liability concerns?
By the time I got to my 10' pieces, I could feel more eyes on me. But I kept going. They would see that I knew what I was doing and leave me be. Nope.
"Do you need some help with that?"
I looked up to see three guys who were NOT employees, standing at my beck and call, plus Mr Hesitant Employee still hovering in the background.
"No thanks, just checking out the wood."
I continued to roll the wood on its side, checking to see how straight each piece was, while trying to balance it awkwardly on my giant, rolling orange cart. But, there's nothing like four burly guys staring to make the most competent 4'11" wood checker DROP her wood. They rushed over, as I knew they would, and the larger of the three non-employees gave me a lesson on how to pivot my wood to check for bow-dom. I was familiar w/ the technique but appreciative of his intent and thanked him.
As I pushed my large and loud cart to the front, two additional employees offered to help me load the wood into my car. To end this story properly, the checkout person also offered to call someone for me. So, Home Depot, you've redeemed yourself. At least, until I return to your garden department.
"No thanks." I smiled. He seemed hesitant but walked away. Liability concerns?
By the time I got to my 10' pieces, I could feel more eyes on me. But I kept going. They would see that I knew what I was doing and leave me be. Nope.
"Do you need some help with that?"
I looked up to see three guys who were NOT employees, standing at my beck and call, plus Mr Hesitant Employee still hovering in the background.
"No thanks, just checking out the wood."
I continued to roll the wood on its side, checking to see how straight each piece was, while trying to balance it awkwardly on my giant, rolling orange cart. But, there's nothing like four burly guys staring to make the most competent 4'11" wood checker DROP her wood. They rushed over, as I knew they would, and the larger of the three non-employees gave me a lesson on how to pivot my wood to check for bow-dom. I was familiar w/ the technique but appreciative of his intent and thanked him.
As I pushed my large and loud cart to the front, two additional employees offered to help me load the wood into my car. To end this story properly, the checkout person also offered to call someone for me. So, Home Depot, you've redeemed yourself. At least, until I return to your garden department.
Monday, June 29, 2009
My Rules of Customer Service
My blog seems to be turning into a whine-fest. But here goes: Over the weekend, Paul and I visited the garden center at a Home Depot. After walking a couple of aisles, I didn't notice ground cover. So, I walked to the front and ask the twenty-something guy, who was busy chatting w/ another employee, where I could find it.
"Ummm. . . ugggh . . I dunno. I'll call". God forbid he have to walk around and learn anything about the department he's working in. I figured by the time he called and found someone, I could find it myself. I was right. No biggie there, but he never followed up. Never an 'Oh, I'm glad you found it' or 'Did you find it?' And don't even consider the option of him walking over to me; he returned to his prior conversation, never to acknowledge my presence again. When it was time to check out, I purchased, among other items, a large, heavy plant on a trellis. No offer to carry it to my car. I looked around for plastic to lay in my car and there was none to be had.
"Do you have any plastic sheets?" I asked the girl who checked me out.
"I don't know." But she turned around and pulled out one piece from a large box hidden behind the check out counter.
"Could I have a couple more please?" I asked
She complied. Meanwhile, a different checker commented to my husband, who was standing there waiting:
"She (me) doesn't know what she's doing--those sheets are big."
I don't know what I'm doing? You're kidding--did you graduate from the customer service training school?
There, I feel better. I like to think I'm a pretty patient customer when the employee makes an effort (I think I'm a good driver too). There's nothing more pleasing than a person who enjoys their job; it usually shows. But lately, customer service seems to be a lost art.
So, here are my rules for anyone who cares:
--Make eye contact with the customer.
--Don't chat with fellow employees while dealing with a customer.
--Smile if you can manage it.
--Offer any small service available or just make idle boring chit chat so I think you notice me (do you need help loading this? would you like a plastic sheet? did you find everything you needed? how is your day going?)
--Use polite phrases, such as "thank you".
And I thank you for indulging my blog-o-complaints today. More to follow, I suspect, as I am now heading to the post office, dry cleaner, supermarket, building supply store and, you guessed it, The Home Depot garden center.
"Ummm. . . ugggh . . I dunno. I'll call". God forbid he have to walk around and learn anything about the department he's working in. I figured by the time he called and found someone, I could find it myself. I was right. No biggie there, but he never followed up. Never an 'Oh, I'm glad you found it' or 'Did you find it?' And don't even consider the option of him walking over to me; he returned to his prior conversation, never to acknowledge my presence again. When it was time to check out, I purchased, among other items, a large, heavy plant on a trellis. No offer to carry it to my car. I looked around for plastic to lay in my car and there was none to be had.
"Do you have any plastic sheets?" I asked the girl who checked me out.
"I don't know." But she turned around and pulled out one piece from a large box hidden behind the check out counter.
"Could I have a couple more please?" I asked
She complied. Meanwhile, a different checker commented to my husband, who was standing there waiting:
"She (me) doesn't know what she's doing--those sheets are big."
I don't know what I'm doing? You're kidding--did you graduate from the customer service training school?
There, I feel better. I like to think I'm a pretty patient customer when the employee makes an effort (I think I'm a good driver too). There's nothing more pleasing than a person who enjoys their job; it usually shows. But lately, customer service seems to be a lost art.
So, here are my rules for anyone who cares:
--Make eye contact with the customer.
--Don't chat with fellow employees while dealing with a customer.
--Smile if you can manage it.
--Offer any small service available or just make idle boring chit chat so I think you notice me (do you need help loading this? would you like a plastic sheet? did you find everything you needed? how is your day going?)
--Use polite phrases, such as "thank you".
And I thank you for indulging my blog-o-complaints today. More to follow, I suspect, as I am now heading to the post office, dry cleaner, supermarket, building supply store and, you guessed it, The Home Depot garden center.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Baffled Again
Farrah Fawcett died yesterday. It would have been bigger news but that Michael Jackson died as well. My reaction to the Jackson death was pretty nill. My reaction to Fawcett's death was that I felt kind of old. Then I forgot both and went on with my life. I was reminded of the deaths later while shopping for dinner. People in the produce department were discussing it. The 1200 people in line for supermarket Starbuck's were discussing it. And finally, the people in the check-out lines were talking about it.
"So, did Ryan and Farrah ever marry again?" the suit & tie man in front of me asked the check-out guy.
"I don't know but I know she said yes," the guy answered.
For real? You people know this stuff?
Then the checker in the next stall yelped, in response to something, "Oh my God, really? Michael Jackson is dead? That's HORRIBLE!"
I just don't get it--were you two close friends? When it was my turn to pay for my food, I was asked how I felt about it all.
"Ummm . . . I didn't know any of them" I said.
My checkers response: "You know who Michael Jackson was, don't you?"
Geez.
"Yes. But I didn't know him."
His face went blank. Then the other checker, from the next stall--seemingly over her grief stage--chimed in with, "Did they ever find out if David Carradine was murdered?"
I couldn't resist: "Yes, he murdered himself."
"Well, there were some weird circumstances," my checker said. "We may never know for sure." Yep, we need to send the FBI in for that one.
"So, did Ryan and Farrah ever marry again?" the suit & tie man in front of me asked the check-out guy.
"I don't know but I know she said yes," the guy answered.
For real? You people know this stuff?
Then the checker in the next stall yelped, in response to something, "Oh my God, really? Michael Jackson is dead? That's HORRIBLE!"
I just don't get it--were you two close friends? When it was my turn to pay for my food, I was asked how I felt about it all.
"Ummm . . . I didn't know any of them" I said.
My checkers response: "You know who Michael Jackson was, don't you?"
Geez.
"Yes. But I didn't know him."
His face went blank. Then the other checker, from the next stall--seemingly over her grief stage--chimed in with, "Did they ever find out if David Carradine was murdered?"
I couldn't resist: "Yes, he murdered himself."
"Well, there were some weird circumstances," my checker said. "We may never know for sure." Yep, we need to send the FBI in for that one.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Common Courtesy Not So Common
Short trip into a department store this afternoon where a young boy--maybe twelve years old--stood, sizing me up. Up and down. When I smiled and spoke he ran away but continued to turn and stare. Then I heard him say to a man, no more than 15 feet from me, "Dad, there's a lady over there that I'm as tall as!" Instead of shushing the child, the father did a full-body turn so he, too, could see me in all my four foot, eleven-ness. Without turning to make eye contact, I said, "You know, I can hear you." And they both disappeared.
But my story doesn't end there. As I left the department store, I stopped at the mall's large outdoor Koi pond to watch the fish. Across the pond, about a half dozen kids were poking the fish with sticks and then I saw one of them throw in a fish that he'd apparently picked up; the fish floated to the top and was clearly struggling to swim again. Seems it's tail had been ripped. So bright kid leaned down to pick up the fish AGAIN when an older woman standing next to him, a stranger, told him not to touch it. Meanwhile, bright kid's mother was sitting behind him on her cell phone, unconcerned. Today, I was reminded that not everyone is cut out for parenthood.
But my story doesn't end there. As I left the department store, I stopped at the mall's large outdoor Koi pond to watch the fish. Across the pond, about a half dozen kids were poking the fish with sticks and then I saw one of them throw in a fish that he'd apparently picked up; the fish floated to the top and was clearly struggling to swim again. Seems it's tail had been ripped. So bright kid leaned down to pick up the fish AGAIN when an older woman standing next to him, a stranger, told him not to touch it. Meanwhile, bright kid's mother was sitting behind him on her cell phone, unconcerned. Today, I was reminded that not everyone is cut out for parenthood.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
The Chicks'll Scream
Paul and I saw Grease last night. Although they performed the family version of the songs (you know that I ain't bragging, she's a real lightning wagon), it was worth going just to see Taylor Hicks emerge from a giant plastic ice cream cone (he was Teen Angel). After the show ended and bows were taken, they let him sing a diddy from his latest album; error. People were jumping out of their seats faster than you can say "greased lightning!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
