Thursday, February 28, 2013

someone who gets what customer service is


A couple of years ago, someone told me about three sites, where for $100 per year, you can buy $4 tickets to shows, mostly off-Broadway (which I generally prefer): theatermania gold club; play-by-play; and audience extras.

I have been a member of two, and this past October I decided to join the third.  I belong to one at a time.

Since October, I have not gone to any shows.  The offerings have been few, and of little interest to me. So I send an email explaining my dissatisfaction, and ending with:

"Would it be possible to get a pro-rated refund (I joined on October 17) of $58 (accounting for 5 months of usage).  Please let me know. "

I have little faith in getting a favorable response. 

Today I speak to Scott who runs the program. I explain why I’ve not been happy. This is his response.

“Here’s what I’m going to do instead of giving you a partial refund.  I am going to give you a full refund.  I am going to extend your membership for three months at no charge, hoping you'll change your mind.  And, if you’d like to see Ann (the new play at Lincoln Center I had been debating getting $40 tickets for), I can get you two seats for Monday night for $9 total."

Scott's attitude may well help change my mind.  

Now if he could just run over to the Census Bureau and re-train Ashley I'd love him even more.

bad start to new job


Yay, I get a job for $16.90/hour at the census bureau.  It begins in April. 

I get an email with two forms I need to complete.  I fill out the first form.  I can’t fill out the second form because the site doesn’t support Apple’s Safari browser.  I mean, really, like Safari is some unknown entity that few people use.  I want to quit already.

Next, I need to call and schedule a time to come to a downtown office in order to fill out more forms and get fingerprinted.

I call.  Ten minutes on hold and I finally get a very-efficient Ashley.  She tells me that the pre-job meeting (making it clear I am not getting paid for this time) is about 90 minutes.  “Why do I need to get fingerprinted again, since I was just fingerprinted in 2010 when I was a census enumerator,” I ask.  She responds, “To make sure you haven’t been arrested since then.”  BUT MY FINGERPRINTS HAVEN’T CHANGED I want to scream but don’t.  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but this is how we do it.  No exceptions.”  Then I hear her whispering.  I think she is complaining about me to another employee.  She takes forever to respond.  I say, “Ashley, Ashley, are you still there?”  To this she replies, somewhat snippily,  “Please, you have to show patience.  I am doing sign language interpretation,”  Huh?  I’m supposed to know this?  I don’t even know what it means!   Why would a hearing-impaired person be trained to handle phone calls?  The conversation drags on.  The call is taking forever, as everything we say is then whispered to another person.   Plus, Ashley can’t tell me why I need to be fingerprinted again.  “If you like, I can get my supervisor who can explain,” she snaps.  I accept her offer.   

I wait and wait.  Finally Elvis comes on.  He provides no answers, but is nicer than Ashley.  His explanation is a simple one, “I assume the government has their reasons.”  Trying to be helpful, Elvis tells me that instead of coming in, he can mail me the forms to complete and I can complete them at home (much better, I’m thinking) and I can get fingerprinted at my local precinct (much more convenient than traveling an-hour downtown).  Then I hear Ashley interrupt nice Elvis.  She assumes her schoolmarm demeanor.  I’m sure she’d just love to whip poor Elvis into place.  Me too if she could.  “No.  We make no exceptions.  You must come down to our offices.  You must get fingerprinted.”  Then she whispers inaudibly what she just said to the person who is learning sign language or teaching it or something.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say to Ashley. “I thought Elvis was your supervisor and he said he could send me the forms.”  “No,” Ashley now admits.  “I couldn’t get a supervisor; Elvis is someone else who works here.”  “But Ashley, you put me on hold, made me wait for a supervisor, and then led me to believe I was talking to one.”  Our inane conversation continues and goes nowhere.

Now Ashley hates me.  I hate them.  Working for a government agency is the worst.  Working for so little money is sad.  Following protocols that make no sense is something I am definitely not good at.  And now having to go to the library to use their computer because I don’t own a PC is ridiculous.

$16.90 an hour.  Barely worth it.

Wednesday, February 27, 2013

lots to do while sick


I know I’m better because I am craving a burger.  After two days of eating little and doing nothing, I am finally reclaiming my energy.  While I was sick, I …

  • Finished The Light Between Oceans by ML Stedman, even cried by the end, something I never do anymore, even at the saddest movie.
  • Tossed the unfinished soup I made last week, as it was green, and green food makes me sick to look at, unless it’s a vegetable.
  • Discovered the coolest site for business cards (and mini-cards) called moo.com; love the name; love the concept; love the pricing; love the designs.  http://us.moo.com
  • Wrote an “I doubt you’ll hire me but here’s why you should” letter to a start-up company that sells glasses online.  Everything about the company intrigues me; I’m just hoping it’ll be a mutual love-fest; I'm not optimistic.
  • Helped a high school senior polish a follow-up letter to her first-choice college.  Her brother wrote me the most heart-warming letter in response.  I felt better instantly.
  • Negotiated with Abraham at Time Warner Cable who, by the end of our 20-minute call, had reduced my cable bill by almost $70 without changing any of the services.
  • Spent no money, except for food.
  • Listened to my Nike Fuel Band whine, “Of all the bands, why did you have to pick me?!

Sunday, February 24, 2013

sick


A few weeks ago Shari calls and suggest I host Oscar night.  I enthusiastically agree.  But then, some people are out of town while others show little interest.  It gets scaled back to, “whoever wants to come, come, and then we’ll order in, depending on who is here.”  And then I get sick and it’s cancelled.

I wake up not feeling right.  Overwhelmingly tired (after 8-hours of sleep), achy, and nauseous.  I spend most of the day sleeping.  I am talking to M around six.  I’ve eaten nothing and am afraid to.   She suggests ginger ale and saltine crackers, neither of which I have in the house.  But I’m feeling a bit better.  I decide to walk around the corner to my local D’Agostino.

The fresh air feels good.  I pick out the saltines and then the ginger ale.  All of a sudden I feel my body ignite.  Beginning with my toes, an immense heat travels up my body and I think I could faint, right there in the soft drink aisle of D’Agostino.  I should leave but so much effort was involved in getting to the store I don’t want to go without my items.  But the lines are long.  People must be stocking up for their Oscar Parties.  I find a manager and say, “Can you please help me? I am feeling sick and the lines are long.  Could you possibly check me out?”  He looks at me and my appearance confirms I am not feeling well.

We get to the register, and I am feeling hotter and hotter, weaker and weaker.  I put my head down on the register.  He completes the order, but I know I cannot make it the short walk home. 

There’s a long window seat in front of the cashiers.  I sit down, amidst bags of groceries waiting to be delivered.  I put my head in my hands.  And then I throw up.  I hear customers shriek.  After all, they are buying food.  Then someone yells, “Should we get her an ambulance?”  I mumble not to, followed by a series of unheard I’m sorries.

One of the delivery boys walks me home.

I crawl back in bed, sorry I had ever left it.  Watching Ben get his deserved Oscar for Argo makes me feel a little better.

____________________________

Addendum:  I later speak to my doctor and learn I probably have something called norovirus that is spreading throughout New York.  I google it and find this:

One British scientist called it the "Ferrari of the virus field" for its ability to spread rapidly. Fewer than 20 virus particles are enough to infect someone.

Now these poor people in line at D’Agostino could get sick, on top of being repulsed. How I wish I'd stayed in bed.  Their sentiments too, I'm sure.

Thursday, February 21, 2013

dinner drama


Seven of us meet for dinner to celebrate Shari’s birthday.  The restaurant we’ve chosen is Per Lei, a small Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side.  We all comment on its chic décor.  We have a nice corner table in the back, and everyone is settled in for a good dinner among good friends.  We’ve reviewed the menu; have decided who is splitting what with whom; and have ordered a nice red wine.  The restaurant is dark, and I discover a new Flashlight app that others at the table have.  I download it and am amazed at its potency. While I am engaged in conversation at the north end of the table, the conversation at the south end is not a happy one.  A three-time request for bread is ignored.  A dirt-encrusted glass is placed on the table.  And Shari has asked for the manager.

The manager arrives and clearly needs a course in The Customer is Always Right.  Shari politely tells him of her dissatisfaction with the service so far, and asks that he take our order.  Rather than apologize, he argues.  He is offended that Shari has criticized his wait staff, but worse, he suggests that bread was placed on the table when it wasn't.  He is unhappy with us for not being happy.  Shari asks for the bill; we pay, and we leave.

We end up at Grace’s, another local Italian restaurant.  Shari knows the management there, and has called beforehand.  By the time we arrive, about ten minutes later, our table is set and bread is on the table.

The food is great and the serving sizes large.  The house salad is outstanding.  I order an excellent scallop-with brussel sprouts-and spaghetti squash entree.



All seven of us have been (and some still are) Horace Mann moms.  The conversation never lags.  It is always nice to celebrate a good friend’s birthday. 

I had gotten Shari’s approval in advance to bring my camera.  But no one wants her picture posted in this blog.  I assume, though, that posting this photo with my good friend Zelia (behind the napkin) is okay.