A J.D. at H.D.?

Don’t get me wrong --- I’m happy about the way the economy is picking up, and that more jobs are available (even though the number of new jobs is still short of the 250,000/month needed in order to get our country back on track).  But I am stunned at the kinds of jobs people are accepting, despite their high qualifications.

Take last week, for instance.  I went into my local hardware chain store and was thrilled to see that the contractors’ line was so long it prevented pedestrian traffic down the main aisle. But, I also noticed that one customer had a slew of rebar on his contractor’s cart, a thick wad of metal about ten inches off the floor and extending two feet into the aisle.  It would not be easy to notice, if a person wasn’t already looking for it, and could cause some hapless shopper to trip over it and fall flat on the cement floor. (I did that once.  I don’t recommend it).

So, being the ever-helpful consumer that I am, I said to the customer, “Uh, sir, your rebar is sticking out,” to which he replied snippily, “I know, I’m checking out right now.”  Then, I tried letting the clerk know about the potential trip-and-fall hazard, but she also told me she was helping him check out (and therefore couldn’t be bothered to avert a potential accident).

So, with the kind of gusto Lois on “Malcolm in the Middle” would muster, I went to the assistant manager and explained that he should train his staff to be aware of potential hazards, to which he told me, “Well, if a customer trips and fall, it’s their fault, and we are not responsible.”  Then, I congratulated him on his work as an unpaid (and unlicensed) attorney.  Heaven help us if he passes the bar exam.

The Vomit

Warning: Some may find the content of this post just plain gross!

I’m overly sensitive, and I hate to hear people talking about body functions - I get an immediate visual.  The incident I report below happened in the mid-2000s, and was one of the first times I experienced egregious customer service. 

I was the only buyer in a fabric store where there were two workers.  I brought my fabric to the counter to be measured and cut, then the phone rang, so my helper stopped to take the call.  It was a personal call, but the other worker just stood by watching and listening, and never offered to help me so I could pay up and be on my way.  I waited patiently (yeah, right) as the worker talked with her babysitter – evidently her daughter was sick at home.  She said, “She threw up?” and with no sense of shame or need for privacy she continued, “What was in the vomit?”

Yes, I was treated to a vivid description, which did not put me in my happy place.  It was bad enough that no one could finish helping me, but this worker didn’t even have the sense of decency to go in the back room to take the call; she made me hear it!  I’m sure I said something to that effect, and her response?  She began scolding me and accused me of hating children.  As if.

Do I need to tell you that they were out of business within the next year?

The Real Chicken

Those of you who’ve been reading my blog for a while know that I make a lot of comments about why businesses fail.  I usually bag on bad customer service, but that isn’t the only reason.  Sometimes there is just a disconnect between what people want to buy and what a business wants to sell.  For instance, in the ideal world, EVERYONE will tell you that they want to buy the highest quality item for the cheapest price.  That is usually not possible, so most people settle on one or the other --- low price, or high quality. 

Those of us who are “quality shoppers” often don’t mind paying a little more to get a little more value.

All this to say…

Years ago, where I grew up, there was a VERY popular restaurant/ bar.  It was so “hip” that there was no name or address on the building (which was set back from the street.  You had to KNOW where the place was).  A few years later, I found myself working there for a short time, and that in itself was considered local status.  The place had great food, great prices, and served a college crowd.  It was run by a good businessman, who began mentoring a young protégé.

About five years later, after moving away, I returned for a visit.  I arrived in town late one night and decided to dash in to my old haunt.  I was surprised it wasn’t jam-packed.  The young protégé was now the establishment’s owner.  He handed me the menu, and I saw that the prices had gone up drastically, but the food had always been dependably good, so I asked for a chicken enchilada.  Without batting an eye, he said, “Do you want the one with the REAL chicken? If so, it’s a dollar extra.”

And that’s why the place was practically  empty.  I took the real chicken, but I never went back again, and I’m sure a lot of other people didn’t, either.

57 Years

I’m blunt.  I’ll admit it.  I say what’s on my mind, kind of like a female John-&-Ken-Show.  And, it’s easier for me when people are forthright with me, as well.  Many times, a “yes” or “no” answer (without the long explanation) will do just fine.

Recently, I was at the doctor’s office.  I had some lower GI pain and was concerned about a possible bladder infection. (Turns out it was a pulled muscle; got a little too enthusiastic with an ab machine).  The new assistant asked me, “Do you have frequent urination?”  I answered yes, and she said, “How long have you had it?”  I replied, “All my life.”

I don’t think she was satisfied with my response.  She continued asking questions, then made her way back around to it:  “Do you have frequent urination?”  Again, I answered, “yes,” and she said, again, “How long have you had it?”  I replied with a little more emphasis, “All my life,” to make sure she understood my answer.

Have you ever noticed that when some people ask you a question and they don’t like the answer, they keep asking you the same question?  Why is that?  Do they think that if they ask you the same question enough times, the answer will change?

She worked her way back around to it a third time.  “Do you have frequent urination?”   “YES” (me, getting testy).  “How long have you had it?”  This time I said loudly, “57 years.”

She stopped asking the question. Wish she could have listened to my answer the first two times.


(c) 2013, Elena E. Smith

Mis-spoken

Strange things can happen in the early morning, while waiting for the day’s caffeine to kick in.  I guess it can happen at other times of day, too, like years ago when I needed to set-up service at my new apartment and called the local electric company, saying, “Hi, I’d like to request a turn-on, please.”  Of course, the minute I realized what I'd said, I started laughing so hard I had to hang up the phone.

But that was my mouth, which is different from my ears, and the ears of others who’d had less than the necessary amount of coffee at LAX earlier in the week.  As we stood in the tunnel about to board the plane, a number of us noticed that a man was bringing his dog on board in its pet carrier, and one man asked the question we all wanted to know about flying with your dog: how much was the airline charging for this perk?  The pet owner cheerfully explained that - even though it was expensive - it was worth it to have Poochie with him.  To bring your pet on board, the airline charged $95 per leg.  I quickly did the math in my head --- that would be $380 for the dog to ride along!  Passengers exchanged looks, and, of course, many of us began thinking that it would be cheaper to have a dog with three legs.  One man even remarked that, perhaps you could tie back one of the legs and pay only $285.  Finally, the dog owner realized what we were all thinking, and explained that it was a $95 charge for each “leg” of the flight.

And then there was the early morning in Greeley, CO., when Nancy and George and I sat around, not yet through our first cup of coffee.  I was wearing some comfortable fur slippers that Nancy had loaned me, and stuck my leg up in the air, letting the rim of my pajama bottom fall back.  “What kind of fur is this?” I wanted to know.  Both of them looked at me in horror and informed me it was time to shave.  Friends, that’s not the “fur” I meant!

Mechanical Aptitude?

I hate to be sexist, but… I keep having this experience with female clerks who have a presumption that women do not have mechanical aptitude.

I noticed it several years ago when I was having a lot of keys copied for the mobile home sales business.  It is very hard to find a good key copier, because --- there is skill involved.  Some people do it well.  About 1/3 of the time you have to return to the hardware store to have it remade, because it doesn’t work.  I use all three local hardware stores, and the problem is “across the board.”  I even had one place explain to me that the time of the month makes a difference because the machine’s calibration slips little-by-little until it’s time for the regular tune-up.

At one hardware store, a cute young gal made some bad keys, so when I returned, I was pretty explicit that I wanted a Man to re-make them.  She almost burst into tears and told me, “Any one of us can help you.”  What she didn’t realize was that there is skill involved, and because she did not realize it took skill, it is unlikely that she would ever develop it.

Today, I was standing at the in-store coffee grinder at my favorite market, and noticed  that (after I’d cleared the chute and poured my beans in) the grinder was only letting a trickle of ground coffee out the spout.  I tried the second choice of settings… same thing.  By now, I had determined that something was wrong with the coffee grinder, and thought it would be helpful if I alerted store personnel.  Well, the gal I flagged down was having none of it.  The first thing she did was raise her voice and berate me, saying, “You’re not doing it right.”   In a tone that was equally snotty, I informed her that I have been grinding coffee longer than she has been alive, so in all likelihood, I have some proficiency at it.  I tried to explain to her that I had called her over because the machine was not functioning properly, and I thought she needed to know that.  Because she still believed that I was an incompetent customer, she offered to grind it for me.

At that point, I stalked off, deciding to return to the kiosk after she went to another aisle.

But, in reporting this incident to the manager, I mentioned that I believe this is an age-related issue.  I have noticed that a number of young people approach their work with the idea that they are all-knowing and fully experienced, and if a customer tries to explain or tell them anything, they immediately assume that the customer is an idiot.  For instance, when I go to write a check, clerks aggressively inform me that, “I need to see your driver’s license.”  Well, “D for duh.”  They do not seem to realize that if the Buyer (me) is age 55+, I have been writing checks since the 1970s, and --- guess what --- I already know, from experience, that you need to see my license.  (In fact, if you’ll just chill for 2 seconds, you will notice that I am taking it out of my purse as you speak.  Oh, you thought I was reaching for my lipstick?  Who’s the dummy, here?)  Yes, there seems to be an inordinate amount of bossiness among today’s Customer Service personnel.  They seem to believe that Customers need to be directed, and dictated to, because most of us would be too incompetent to make a purchase without their advice.

What is it with today’s “yoots”?  They seem to think we’re all “stoopit.”

© Elena E Smith, November 2012

Serve-us

There used to be a day when consumers’ business was appreciated.  Not any more.  Often when I am shopping, I feel that the clerks speak to me as if I am their employee (and my rejoinder to that, in my head, is, “You can give me orders when you put me on your payroll”).

It seems the most difficult part of shopping these days is not selecting the merchandise --- it’s actually getting through the check out line so you can take it home and enjoy it. 

Yes, back-in-the-day, when people did math in their head, it didn’t take long to pay and receive your change.  But now, we have debit cards and computers, which only work right on your first try about 75% of the time.  Whether it is a loose scanner, buttons that you can’t depress without a sledge hammer, or something the clerk did that made it go back to the beginning and start over again --- who knows, do I look like a computer geek? --- checking out is a major ordeal.  Once you scan your card, you get to play “20 Questions” with an inanimate object.  Is this really the card you want to use?  [Are you sure?] Do you want cash back? Do you want it all on one card?  Are you using coupons today?  Makes you want to just go back to paying cash for everything.

And then, you get to deal with the clerk, who has a skewed impression of what “helping” you is.  Back-in-the-day, helping someone meant assisting them in getting their needs met.  It did not mean second guessing their needs, then getting snappy if you guessed wrong...  A case in point:

Me:  I’d like that all in one double bag, please.

Clerk:  Would you like me to put that in 2 bags for you?

Me:  No, I already told you what I need.  I need them all in one double bag,  please.

Clerk (indignant): I’m just trying to help you.

Me:  Why would you be helping me if I told you what I need, and you offer me something different?

Clerk huffs, then says in a snotty voice:  Have a nice day.

Kind of makes you feel like the star of ‘Monty Python Meets Candid Camera.’

* * *

And, how about the concept of “waiting in line,” or as some say, “waiting on line.”  The customer waits, and then it is the service provider’s turn (clerk/ cashier/ waitress) to “Wait” on the customer.  That concept has been lost in transition.  “Wait” would indicate that the clerk stands patiently as the consumer retrieves cash/ checkbook/ debit card from purse or wallet, to pay for the goods.  But I’ve seen many clerks get impatient when the customer doesn’t hop-to-it.  The clerk then: turns to a fellow clerk and talks about last night, begins texting, finds anything else to do other than “wait” on their customer.

Then, that same service person hands you a coupon you don’t want, your receipt, and your change (if you have any), all rolled up together.  Never mind that your receipts go one place in your wallet and the cash goes in another, because there isn’t enough room in any one place to fit it all.  Especially those receipts that are now 14” long when they print out.  You can barely find the purchase information because the stupid thing is trying to (a) get you to take a survey, (b) give you a list of legal disclaimers re: your purchase, or (c) advertise more stuff you don't need and don't want to buy from them.

Oh, and how about the staff who --- after your small hands are filled with all the items I just listed --- then picks up your bag and holds it in the air as if you must “drop everything” and take it.  I am now having to stop and explain to people, “I will take that as soon as my hands are no longer full; you can set it down, if you like.”  I also notice that many people aren’t able to judge the length of my arms, or anticipate my reach, so they actually hold the sack out in a way that I can’t take it from them anyway!

Egads, what is the shopping world coming to?  Makes me really appreciate my vegetable garden and the eggs I buy from my friend, Harry.


© Elena E Smith, November 2012

Say what?

I believe that younger people are experiencing greater hearing loss than they should be.  IMHO, it is because they work in noisy environments, without floor carpeting or drapes or those horrid-looking acoustic ceiling tiles to absorb some of the sound.  Why worry about the health of employees, when making your establishment look “cool” may attract more customers?

If you’ve been reading this blog for a while, then you already know about the Mind Reader incident.  Well, here’s a new one. 

I was sitting in a community college class where the strict teacher had just finished making her point about late arrivals to class.  The door opened, and a confident young student walked in.  The teacher, in her strident New York accent, announced, “You’re tardy.”

Thinking the teacher had just greeted her with, “How are you?”, the student replied, “Good, thanks, how are you?”

Ba-da-bump.

© Elena E Smith, November 2012

“Who Are You? (Who-who-who-who)….”

Readers, you all know how I feel compelled to rant about the current state of our abilities to communicate effectively – or not.

The other day I had to make a business call of a somewhat confidential nature. I dialed the phone number saved in my cell – the number from which the professional had called me the day before – and began my call by using the other professional’s name (Let’s just pretend his name is “Mike,” to keep this entirely confidential.  You never know, he may decide to read my blog some day).

I began my conversation with, “Hi, Mike?” and went on to give my spiel.  The person answering the phone discussed the business with me for almost 5 minutes, when I had to ask a sensitive question, intended only for “Mike’s” ears.  Then, the man said, “Oh, I’m not Mike, I’m --- [someone else.]” 

People, how is it that you are in a conversation with someone for 5 minutes before you realize that the phone call is not for you?

1 –When you answer the phone, and I ask if you are Mike, you ---

     (a) pretend to be Mike, because his calls are more interesting than yours.

     (b) say you are Mike because it’s going to yank my chain and there’s not much
            I can do about it.

      (c) are not sure if you are Mike or someone else, so you take the call anyway.

2 – And, why would any professional use a client’s cell phone instead of their own?
      (a)  To remain incognito?

       (b) Their client's phone has better upgrades than theirs does?

       (c)  Who the “f” cares, anyway, right, it’s casual…

© Elena E Smith, November 2012

WTH BLUNG ?

So, is there anyone besides me who is “over 29” that occasionally wonders if early-onset Alzheimer’s has set in?

If you are a writer, like me, you probably carry a tablet around with your ideas, lists, To Do's, etc.  I try to organize my work and my thoughts in categories, and that is why --- about a month ago --- I took my shopping list to the store on an index card, checking off items as I found them.    When ready to make my next trip, I reviewed my previous list to see what I’d missed and there is was:

                                                            B L U N G

BLUNG?  WTH did that mean?  I had a creeping, uneasy feeling.  Somehow, I had written down a word that had no meaning.  I stressed over this for days.  Whined to my friends.  Asked for prayer.  But no one could help me figure out why “BLUNG” was on my shopping list.

The weeks passed, and I still couldn’t figure out what BLUNG meant to me.  When I was ready to start a new list, I went through the house to see what I needed, and noticed I was short one toilet bowl cleaning tab, which I often refer to as “bluing.”  So, that was it!  My writing was so messy that the “N” was written on top of the “I.”

That brings me to another question.  Has anyone else who is “over 29” become such a sloppy printer that you can’t read you own writing?  I’m not trying to solicit confessions.  I just hope I’m not the only one...

The Over-Communicator: Tell Me Everything I Didn’t Need to Know

I am uneasy when I encounter the lack of basic-level skills in those from the generation(s) that follow mine, those who will set the tone for, and become responsible for, the future of American life, politics, history, etc.  Although my observations may be more relevant in Southern California, I see some frightening trends regarding an inability to communicate at a basic level --- if you’ve read my other blog posts, you’ve seen me document this trend with specific examples (and, hopefully, with humor).

It’s not that I am saying ‘my generation’ is better at communicating than any other… after all, we brought you the phrases ‘Let it all hang out,’ and ‘Whatever.’ But I do remember that, in my grammar school years, the art of communication was blended in with our other studies.  We were taught how to answer a phone correctly (these days, some people don’t even murmur ‘Good-bye’ before hanging up in your ear); learning how to give simple directions (I have met numerous store clerks who are unable to describe where to find something, so instead they escort me to it); and the very delicate art of knowing when you may have said too much (I can verify it takes years to learn this one). 

The younger generation(s) of today seem to be on the horns of a dilemma --- they have access to more information and technology than my generation dreamed of, but there don’t seem to be many protocols in place regarding how to use the information and how to discern when enough is enough and too much is too much.

At times, it seem that technology controls them, rather than the other way around --- using technology to manage/ organize their lives.

I recently posted an item for sale on Craig’s List, and had more contact from the Buyer than I have on a weekly basis with my BFFs, and the constant contact just about drove me up a wall.  She continually e-mailed, called or texted to: get directions, confirm directions, change direction, change the time, change the date… all over a $30 purchase.  She was unable to keep track of our communications, so if she e-mailed me a question and I e-mailed her back, she would forget where the question and information were stored and would call or text me wondering why she didn’t hear from me. 

When she bought the product, I was so happy to know that I wouldn’t be hearing from her again, until… she asked me if I had the CD-ROM that went with it.  Unfortunately, I DID have it, but not with me, so the routine continued for another week-and-a-half of over-connectedness and missed appointments.

I tried to organize her by letting her know that I would be at a specific location during a specific time frame on a specific date --- I don’t know, that just seemed logical to me.  Still, she called or texted me 4-5 times that day to confirm/ re-confirm/ double-confirm… only to text me at the end of the day that her plans had changed and she couldn’t show up.  The constant interruptions during my day ---  responding to her phone calls and text messages --- was annoying.  By now I was getting so much contact from her that I felt like I was being e-stalked!

(I know, if you’re “over-29” like I am, you’re probably asking, “Why didn’t you just mail it to her?”  I made that suggestion several times, but for whatever reason she did not want me to know her address.)

Twice, I gave her detailed directions on how to find me, then she called or texted to ask me how to get there (I was at an intersection of two well-known streets).  It became apparent that this poor gal had absolutely no sense of how to organize her thought process or any of her electronic communication tools.  I wanted to scream every time I saw her phone number pop up. 

When we finally connected and I placed the CD-ROM in her hand, I internally breathed a sigh of relief… perhaps I would finally be able to disengage from this short, intense, mundane relationship.  But that was not to be.  Within 20 minutes of leaving me, a text message appeared: ‘I am so cold right now…’ I didn’t answer back, as I wondered how long it would take her to realize she had not texted her husband.

© Elena E. Smith, 2011

That’s My Job, Too

Have you ever been in an altercation?  If so, were you aware of it?

This is a customer service problem that happened to me over a year ago in a popular local coffee shop.  Well, what’s even more popular than the location or the brand is the “popularity” the employees feel for each other, which takes precedence over any pretense of working.  And it appears that was learned by example from management.

I walked into the store one day to order a treat, and the manager called me aside.  He told me that I had been in an altercation, and he wanted to know what had happened.  It was a surprise to me.  I thought “altercation" meant a fistfight, and I was sure I hadn't been in one of those.  I had no damage; I’d done no damage.  (When I got home and looked in the dictionary, I learned that an "altercation” is just a disagreement.  Whew!)  I asked him to clarify what he was talking about, and he said that he couldn't because it was confidential.  And yet he pressed me for more details about this dramatic incident I had no recollection of. 

All I could think was that when my friend Ken and I had coffee there recently, we had moved someone’s book so we could sit down; it turned out the person was "saving a place” and was very blunt in telling us so.  I called Ken on my cell phone to ask him if he was aware that we had been involved in an altercation, but he was not.  The manager then told me that this was not the incident he was referring to.

I wracked my brain, but honestly, I couldn’t recall anything, and that if he couldn’t “give me a hint,” then I wouldn’t be able to help him.  He gave me a hint: it had to do with “multi-tasking.”  Oh, THAT altercation!

I had gone into the store a week earlier and ended up in line behind some young big-mouth gal who had the hots for one of the male store employees (off duty at the moment), and had evidently been dumped by him and was seeking information/ consolation from his roommate, who worked at the store, and every other store employee she could get to listen to her.  She bogarted the counter space and the female Barista was so enthralled that she neglected my drink.  Keep in mind, Big Mouth was not a paying customer. 

This goes back to what I said in my first draft of the book, “No Problem,” advice to business owners who don't want to make a profit:

When there is a customer in front of your store clerk, and the phone rings, make that phone call the priority.  Remember, the live customer is a PAYING CUSTOMER.  The caller is a POTENTIAL CUSTOMER.  This is a customer-service no-brainer.  The paying customer has already decided to buy, so let him wait while you answer every question the price-shopper wants to know.  This will attract more “potential customers” to your store.

I finally commented to the Barista that most people cannot multi-task, even though they think they can.  Although she stopped the gabfest and made my drink, she was so offended that she went to the manager and complained about me.  Hence, the interrogation.  (I guess he was deciding if he should banish me from the store).  The manager was quite surprised when I laid out the scenario for him and identified the employees involved.

And what do you think he did then? He asked me if I would continue to report inappropriate employee conduct to him on a regular basis, to help him with his job.  I sadly note that he did not offer to pay me for this.

(c) 2011, Elena E. Smith, all rights reserved

Art of Complaining

Is there an art to complaining?  I have read a few articles that would suggest that there is.  But, face it, who likes to be on the receiving end of a complaint?  And who enjoys the constant whine of the chronic complainer?  (You can all put your hands down, now).

In a previous BLOG, entitled “Thanks, Frank,” I complained about the service I received from a local business.  I would now like to report on the results of that incident.  As it turned out, the complainees (those whom I complained about) called it to the attention of the store owner, and when I returned to pick-up my order, he was there to greet me.  He told me that he completely understood my position, that I would never have to worry about a problem like that again in his store, and that if I ever received less-than-top-notch service, I was to call him on his direct number.  Whoa, did I get that right?  Let me turn up my hearing aid!  I think I hear music… music to my ears, that is.

I am still getting a little residual high over the sense of vindication I received from this business owner (and yes, generationally we are in the same age group).

But, does it really pay to complain?  For me, it is a bit of a mission, or a cause.  I have concluded that most businesses these days no longer have a trainer on staff, or even a lower-level supervisor (at some companies, everyone gets the title of supervisor, no matter what their job duties are!  It’s probably in lieu of adequate pay).  So, in a sense, when I must correct someone for inappropriate behavior, I am filling the role of unpaid corporate trainer.  I have to say, there is a part of me that considers this a worthy role.  Because, IMHO, if I don’t tell them, who will?  I make my living in commission sales, and as unpleasant as it is to hear gripes from unhappy customers, if they don’t tell me they weren’t satisfied, they will probably tell ten of their friends, and that will hurt my income far more than their compliant(s) will hurt my feelings. 

I do not like criticism --- nobody does --- but I also know that when someone feels comfortable enough to tell me they have a complaint or objection, they are giving me an opportunity to fix the problem, and if I succeed with that opportunity, then more opportunities will come my way.

(c) 2011, Elena E. Smith, all rights reserved

Thanks, Frank

… or maybe I should say Sid Vicious, or Paul Anka, the writer of the famous song, “My Way.”  Now we have a whole generation (or more) of people who think that THEIR WAY is the BEST WAY, and should be OUR WAY, too.

I went into a local store last Friday to re-order my business cards but the four people working in the store didn’t know how to access their computer database that had my already-designed card in it and vehemently told me to return on Tuesday. 

So I went to another local store on Monday, thinking perhaps they would like my paltry piece of business for $30 because, you know, one day I may actually make some money and end up spending more than that.  This second store is one I have been using recently, and I thought I would be pretty satisfied with their level of customer service. 

So, I presented my already designed business card and told them I needed one that looked just like it, with some small changes to the company name/ logo, and they said I could have a proof in approx. 24 hours (Tuesday afternoon).  Tuesday afternoon, I went back to the store (since I’d not received my proof by e-mail), and it wasn’t done yet.  So Wednesday morning (today) I went back in 11-ish, as instructed, and the card was done --- but all the type sizes had been changed.  Why?  Well, the artiste told me that his way was much better than mine.  I should have asked him if HE was planning to pay for my order.  I had to explain to him twice, rather harshly, that those of us who are “over 29” can’t read “mice type,” and that many of the people I do business with are in their 60s - 80s.

Why is it that so many people today think that they know what I SHOULD want when in fact I have already told them what I DO want?  I've now lost 24 hours on something I need and the typesetter wasted his company’s time producing something I didn't ask for and can’t use. 

And of course, no one stops to think of how awful I feel when I have to be so firm (which can translate into “bitchy,” depending on who’s within hearing range).

©  Elena E. Smith, 2011

Mind Reader

So, in my ongoing rant about the sorry state of customer service these days…

In addition to the lack of listening skills, there appears to be an alarming rate of early hearing loss among customer service workers today.  Evidently, their constant use of ear buds, cell phones, and close proximity to noisy machinery in the workplace --- where modern décor doesn’t include carpeting and drapes to muffle the noise --- is really taking a toll.

I was in my favorite upscale coffee house a few weeks ago, where the counter clerk was not following the procedure of writing my order on my cup when I gave it to him.  This seems to be happening more often as people challenge themselves to memorize potential  orders and experiment with mutli-tasking.

I gave him my order – a grande skinny hot chocolate with no whip.  I gave it to him again, and he appeared to be writing it down the second time.  Then, in a rather aggressive manner (because many clerks speak to me as if I am there to serve THEM and not the other way around) he looked at me and said – ‘Do you want whipped cream on that?’  My exasperated look (since I’d already given the order twice, including the no-whip part) was misinterpreted by the young man, who glared back at me and said, “I’m not a mind-reader, you know.”

©  Elena E. Smith, 2011

“The Bar” Has Been Lowered

I was in my favorite local market a few weeks ago, and I have to say that with all of my Customer Service complaints, this one is rarely an offender.  But on this particular day, I got into a line with a fairly young female checker who was definitely not focused on her job.

I had only 4 items --- a Cliff bar, a jug of milk, an onion, and a box of muffins, and as she started to ring them up, I said, “I’ll take the candy bar.”

Since it is customary in many stores for clerks to hand over a small item that looks like something I am about to eat, I did not think there was anything confusing about my request.

But I could tell by the way she was not looking at me that she was also not hearing me, so I repeated it.  After the second time, just to check, I said,” Did you hear me?”

“Oh, yes,” she answered, but she then bagged all 4 items without handing me the Clfif bar.

I couldn’t let it go.  “I thought you said you heard me, when I told you I would take the candy bar.”

Busted, she looked at me indignantly and said that she didn’t know what I meant.  (Then why didn’t she ask me to clarify it?)  As she handed me the Cliff bar, she felt it necessary to scold me by telling me that a “Cliff bar” is not a “candy bar.”

All I can say is --- so which of the other items did she think looked more like a candy bar – the carton of milk, the box of muffins, or the onion?  Be serious!

Or, as my friend George explained, “Many of these young people are busy sending a text in their head.”  Touche, George!

©  Elena E. Smith, 2011

The Day I Almost Lost My Car…

The temperature was high, and I’d just finished an Open House on a mobile home.  Sometimes, I’d forget to turn off the a/c and the radio when I left the car, and I’d also forget that my poor 12-year-old 225,000-mile vehicle would fail to start under these conditions.  That was how I ended up calling for a tow-truck to take me from my Open House to my own home half a mile away.

I wasn’t too happy with the guy who showed up.  He was about 6’2”, burly, and Friendly (note the capital “f”).  Despite the fact that I was annoyed with my vehicle’s poor performance, in addition to my financial worries, this 40-something man was determined to become my best friend in the next 15 minutes. He took his time, working slowly and methodically and kept asking me questions about myself.  Once he had the car on his flatbed, with me sitting prisoner beside him in his cab, he told me all about himself, letting me know that in addition to this part-time weekend job as a tow-truck driver he also had a white-collar job with a large corporation during the week.  I was instantly angered by this.  In an economic climate when many of my friends couldn’t find jobs and were faced with losing their homes, this guy was hogging two jobs!

He s-l-o-w-l-y drove to my mobile home park.  He s-l-o-w-l-y drove up the hill to my unit.  I sucked it up and kept my mouth shut.

In front of my home, I waited patiently to have my car moved into the driveway so I could say goodbye to this fellow, who s-l-o-w-l-y began the process of dismounting my car.  Unfortunately, when he began to raise the bed (slowly) in order to bring out the ramp, the tow chains holding my car in place dropped off with a loud clang, and my little 2-door RAV 4 began to slide off the truck, hitting its muffler on the back edge of the truck bed, bouncing, and began rolling down the hill at about 5 m.p.h.

My first impulse was to run toward it to stop it, but I immediately realized that would be like trying to patch the Titanic.  I watched as it began to roll down the hill, my life flashing before my eyes.  Without a car, I couldn’t work or support myself.  And, what if it rolled all the way down the hill and took out the front of Ben's home?  Or, what about my almost-lame obese neighbor who was trying to get a closer look and didn’t seem to realize it was rolling in her direction?

The tow-truck driver lumbered after my car.  I was hopeful.  Just a week ago when I’d been in a hurry delivering signs and fliers, I’d left my car in gear when I got out on a flat surface, and it had started rolling backward.  I ran behind it, opened the door, and then ran a little further behind it so I could jump into the seat at the appropriate time.   I was looking at this fellow and thinking, “He's a man… he knows what he’s doing,” and watched as he got the door open, only…. he was half-lying on the seat of my car and his lower legs were being dragged along the pavement.  But, he cocked the wheel and ran my car into the wall (and the dent is only a few inches long).

I was grateful. 

But when he got up, he began clutching his legs and telling me that he had hurt himself.  Stupid me, even though I saw the car dragging him, it all happened so fast I thought he was doing everything on purpose!  His pants were not ripped at all, but I realized he probably had soft-tissue damage, something I suffered from once that takes years to heal.  I felt bad for him, and asked him if I should call 911, and with a hangdog look, he said, “No.”  I offered to get some ice to put on his legs, but he thanked me for my kindness and declined.

He then began the slow process of retrieving my car, as a gaggle of nosey neighbors watched for further excitement.  I was nervous, because I was not sure whether it had been operator error or a mechanical failure, and if there was something wrong with the flat bed, wouldn’t this just happen again?  But, there was really nothing else I could do except let him fix the problem.  So, he took a few moments to get his pain under control, and then went back to work, re-loading the car on the flat bed so he could get it near my driveway, and then un-loading it again and getting it safely into my carport.

Once it was over, I couldn’t wait to get rid of him.  He followed me to my car and stood looking at me, and I couldn’t believe the words that came out of his mouth: “Can I have a hug?”  I wanted to smack him.  This man had almost ruined my economic security, and he wanted ME to hug HIM?  But I also realized that the 6’2” 250+ pound man I was looking at was no more than a 3-year-old in a 40-something’s body.  So, I gave him the hug --- a side hug, of course --- then sent him on his way as I ran to the phone to make a full accident report.

(c) Elena E. Smith, 2010