Category: Uncategorized

Some years ago, I was working in HR for a veddy proper gentleman, along with about 40 other people.  We would get amazing gift baskets from clients at Christmastime, and we would break them open and everyone would share.  In one of these baskets were two, tiny packets of smoked salmon.  After the packets had been out for a few days, I asked around to determine interest in them, then I took one and ate it.

A few days later, Veddy Proper came stalking around looking for the salmon packets.  I could hear him coming, and as he drew nearer, I could make out him asking if anyone had seen the salmon. Where was the salmon?  My cubemate, who had eaten the other packet, yelped, “Lane ate one!”  She added quietly (too quietly for him to hear as he had already rounded on me) that she’d had the other.

“Really?” He asked, and I nodded.  He huffed.  “I don’t know what you are used to where you come from, but here, we do not just take what we want.  We do not smash and grab.  We do not take all for ourselves without thinking of others.  We share, we–”  It went on until he had drawn a little crowd and I was worried that the heat from how hot I had blushed was going to burn my skin from the inside out.

I apologized and went back to my work when he walked away, surprised and mortified.  Somehow, the scolding always sounds worse when it happens in a British accent.  That night, I went to the store and bought the biggest packet of smoked salmon I could find, and a card.

I wrote him a little note, apologizing for having taken the 1oz salmon packet, and hoped that this would make up for it. 

It ended well, with his apology, and we probably both learned something.  Him, not to talk to people like that–especially in front of their peers.  Me, never to touch anything ever again.  Ha!

I think the funniest part of the story is that he was “secret Santa” gifted with a couple of other large smoked salmons for the next few years.  I’m pretty sure I know who the culprits were, and I adore them for it.

Last night, confused in the excitement of an open house and program that included well over a hundred kids, Thor gave a piece of his costume (a red bandana) to another little girl to give to his teacher.  This was not protocol, and in front of a hallway full of parents and children, Thor was scolded and told he would not be allowed into his classroom to participate in the rest of Open House since he didn’t have his bandana in his hands.  I said I would IOU a bandana.

Today, I ordered a dozen to be shipped to the person who wiped the smile of excitement off his little face, and made him hang his head in shame.

There just isn’t room for that in my life, and I won’t make room for it in his.  I just wish I had the luxury of shipping a hundred.

Worst Customer Service Experiences of my Life

1. In retail sales, it has to be a toss up between having to regularly clean up poopy diapers in the dressing rooms at Sears, or the time I found a used tampon in the dressing room at Express.  Close behind (pun!) would be having to clean the bathrooms at the Christian bookstore.  I cleaned those things sometimes 3 times a day after nasty people defiled them.
2. As a waitress, I could complain about the people who tipped poorly, or ran out on their checks, but the worst was always one particular church group that would come and destroy the 12-top I worked on Sundays at Denny’s.  I hated to see them come, but I hated worse seeing them go because it meant a tabletop orgy of syrup and crumbs, and chicken skin, and jelly, and butter, and egg bits, and all manner of spilled drinks. Under the table was just as bad, and don’t get me started on trying to clean out the spaces between chair seats and their backs.  It took longer to clean up after these people than it did to serve them, and with all their special orders–y’all, I still have nightmares about them once in a while.  Second to them would be the men who tried to pat my backside.  How bad are they if physical contact comes second?!
3. In banking, the worst was a famous baseball player who came through the motorbank to cash his $10k+ check.  He had no identification with him and shared a name with about 300 other clients I saw on a daily basis.  When I refused to cash his check a) because it was over our motorbank limit, and b) because he didn’t have ID, he freaked out all over the place.  In restrospect, it was probably ‘roid rage.  He was howling, insisting that I should know who he was, and I should do what he wanted because he was [Famous Name Player] of [Then Really Rotten Team, which is now Pretty Darned Good Even if They Did Choke in the Series Last Year].  Angry, angry man.  Ugly, ugly words.
4. Internally, the worst customer service experiences I’ve had were working for That Religious Organization.  The absolute worst, when the wife of a manager called and left 3 back-to-back messages on my voice mail, telling me what a slovenly disappointment I was, and how ungodly, and unfit for Christian service I was because HER HUSBAND had forgotten to give her the information she had requested me to give to him to take home.  While her tell-off took over 8 minutes, her apology took less than 2–I never really got over that tell-off while I worked there.  Second to that was the family member of the head honcho, who chewed me out for not knowing her voice when she called–on my first week working there, and the first time I had ever spoken to her.  Actually, the worst experiences I’ve had have generally been with Christians.

 Hands down, the funniest thing that has EVER happened, was a man who did not speak English, passing me a note asking for coin wrappers that was spelled phonetically.  It read:

“pleez to give me wrapers for my penis”

And once I quit laughing, I happily gave him wrappers for his pennies.

Maaaaybe once a year I really lose my temper with a stranger.  Usually, it has to do with traffic.  I think the last time I lost my mind with someone, it was in a parking lot about a year and a half ago.  It was before we moved anyway.  Well, I lost it again tonight.  Big time.  In front of masses.

Thor and I went to Ross to find new drinking glasses, a gift for Pokeno night, and I ended up with a few extras (I finally found navy blue suit pieces!  yay!) I had a basket full by the time I got to the register.  I stood in line for a while, then a new register opened, and since I was next, they called me over.  I started that way, and a scrawny white woman came scrambling behind me, already griping about how slow the cashiers were.

Leaving aside the fact that Ross isn’t Barney’s New York, and you aren’t ever going to get 5 Star service there, the elderly woman who was working the first register was clearly moving at her top speed, and the little girl who opened her register line was also working at a steady pace.  Crazy behind me sneers to the girl, “You’re going to move faster than that one, aren’t you?  You can go faster than that, right?”  And she nods at the elderly clerk and SNIFFS.  My clerk smiled uncomfortably and kept moving through my items.

Crazy starts huffing and puffing, and muttering about speed, then she yelps, “You’re making my life hell!  You’re so slow!”

Mind, the girl was working through my basket.  The girl was doing her best to avoid eye contact and keep going, while the nutjob kept blurting out inappropriate comments about how slow and lazy all these kinds of workers were…???…and I was quickly losing my cool.

Finally, the clerk was on my last two items and Crazy howls, loud enough for others to turn and look, “Did you think I was kidding when I told you to hurry?!  Did you think I wasn’t serious when I told you I needed you to move fast?”

And that did it.  I’ve worked in retail and customer service my entire life.  With the exception of a 9 month stint in a bank basement doing research and recovery, my entire career has had one thing in common:  Dealing with people, and satisfying the internal/external/adjunct customer.  Blew. My. Stack.  It went like this:

Me:  Uh…Sweetie (and lord–if you know me, you know that Sweetie coming out of my mouth is like c-ntrag coming out of Irene’s) this girl is trying to work here.  A little less from you, please?

Her:  She’s slow!  I’m in a hurry, and she’s moving like a turtle!  A TURTLE!  She is making my life hell.

Me:  She is working, and I don’t think she’s your problem.  Leave it be.

Her:  They are my problem!  I’m in a hurry and–

Me:  Lady, I’m sorry that my shopping has inconvenienced you, but that’s life.  Now leave the girl alone and let her work.

Her:  YOU haven’t inconvenienced me.  THEY have!  And I hate coming here they make my life hell!

Me:  Then don’t come back.  I don’t think they’d miss you.  (and then I bellowed) NOW LAY OOOOOOOOFF!

This is when I realized I had caused quite a scene by raising my voice on the word “Lady,” and that the other clerks had paused and were watching us, too.

Her:  *blink blink*  I’ll lay off because you told me to, but not beca–

Me:  *hand up*  Thank you.

And the clerk finished my transaction, looked up with tears in her eyes and said, “Thank you for that.”

The Crazy didn’t say another word.  I hope she was ashamed of herself.  I hope she never goes into that store again for fear of running into that clerk.  I hope she is afraid to shop at Ross for the rest of her life.

The world is coming alive in our neighborhood.  The walk to school this morning was like the beginning of a Disney film.  Birds chirping and swooping down out of trees to whoosh up into others as we passed by, ducks quacking happily at each other, squirrels chasing one another around tree trunks and pausing to stare at us, everything in bloom (including my allergies) and beautiful.  And, even though Nature is trying to murder me by sneezing fits, I have come to love Spring best of all the seasons.

I used to like Fall best.  Crisp and red-gold, I loved the autumn air and the progression into winter as everything shed down to its survival minimum.  I think if I were still in Virginia, I would love Fall best.  Texas isn’t so pretty in October, you know.  But springtime?  At least where we live, in a very watered area, everything bursts open in color.

No, it isn’t actually Spring yet, and we are still facing March.  March can mean nasty ice for us, but at least this week it looks and feels like Spring, and the wildlife is enjoying it enough.

Plans!  Mice!  Men!  NOOOOOW!

Translated from the language I found myself speaking this morning, that is, “The best laid [plans] of mice and men often go awry.”

Mornings are difficult in my house.  Probably so in the house of everyone with children.  Thor is a normal child, so he is a dawdler, daydreamer, and slowpoke.  Thinking back, though I cannot remember thinking myself slow (only careful and curious), I remember very, very well my mother’s frustration with me every morning.  I am sorry that Thor will have similar memories.  I am glad that I have not succumbed to the temptation to box his ears, or chase him out the door with the backside of a hairbrush.

This morning, after he had pushed the putting on of socks past the five minute mark (he had his hand in one sock and was talking to it like a puppet, sidetracked from his purpose) I completely forgot that I had resolved to stop bellowing.  Since he was not responding to my, “Thor, get your socks on.  Put your socks on now,” I fell into an apoplectic speech pattern recognized by parents all over the world.  It happens at that point that your head pops off your neck like a cartoon train whistle and steam blows out of your ears.  It’s like Cliff’s Notes for talking to a child.

“Put your socks on now,” becomes, “Socks!  On!  Now!!!”

Who needs verbs?  Articles?  Pronouns?  Not elementary school children, that’s for sure.

I think when I am talking to him, he hears, “Put your wamp wamp wamp wamp wamp wamp wamp, Thor!  Wamp wamp wamp, Thor, wamp wamp wamp shoes wamp wamp.”  So, it seems prudent to speak Cavemom and just hit the highlights with urgency, fervency, and that one vein bulging in my temple.

B sniffed at me this morning, that because I had the news on television, Thor was going to be slow.  He was distracted by the tv.  Ha!  I have tried with the house silent.  Then, he just entertains himself.  He talks to his socks–he makes a puppet and talks to the sock puppet.  Or, he checks out his feet. Hey! Toenails!  Or he is a spy and his shoes might have explosives in them, so he has to put them on very, very slowly in order to avoid triggering the devices (yes, he’s watched too much Chuck.)  Or he stares at the ceiling.  Or, when he should be brushing his teeth, he stares at his own reflection making faces instead.  When he is eating his cereal, he’ll eat a couple of bites, drift off into daydream and forget he’s eating, and sit there with his spoon lifted, eyes in middle distance, smiling as he ninja battles Autobots, or whatever it is he is doing in that head.  The boy just has better things to do, and does not understand the urgent need to put on clothes he’d rather not wear, to go to a place he’d just as soon not go.  What’s the rush?  Procrastination is strong in this one.

According to his grandparents, this is absolutely genetic–and a double dose of it, no less.

I’m going to have to figure out a way around this, though, because I don’t see it getting better in the teen years, do you?  Maybe a cattle prod?