A tale of two service automotons

What follows is true, only the names have been changed to protect the identities of the victims and their families, even though we laughed with them long after the events occurred and the frustration dissipated.

In this age of circuitous touch-tone phone options all designed to keep consumers from talking to a real live carbon-unit and humanoid-type automotons trained to keep you talking in circles until you surrender your dignity and hang up the phone, we bring you these stories of success!! Not tall tales of Davids slaying Goliaths but real accounts of John and Jane Does going toe-to-toe with The Man and emerging victorious. For those of you just looking to avoid corporate phone mazes, check out the Gethuman Database.


Account One: Keep asking the question

While planning a trip to Europe for two adults and their two children, our heroine whom we'll call Heroine, bought the airline tickets online. The price included a $50 discount per child. However, when the bill arrived, the discount was not there. A phone call to the airline ensued. Because ticket prices change more often than some people's socks, the airline drone was unable to find the online deal that matched the discounted price. A battle of wills ensued. Heroine was not going away until the $50 x 2 was refunded and the drone had entered the default programming loop that would normally wear down the ripped-off customer until he or she hangs up.

Heroine handed the phone off to Mr. Heroine who had a very simple and affective strategy: ask one question over and over.
Mr. H: I would like to speak to your supervisor.
Drone: That's not possible.
Mr. H: Oh, are you the CEO?

As Mr. Heroine slowly navigated his way up the food chain, Heroine went online and found the Board of Directors for the airline. She then whipped off an email to one of the board members explaining very calmly and completely the situation and still-ongoing lack of resolution. Before the electrons from the message had even cooled, Heroine's cell phone rang. The board member on the other end of the line said she would take care of the problem and the discounted prices would be honored.

Take that, customer service drone!


Account Two: Dial 'S' for Someone Important

Our heroine, whom we'll call College Mom, purchased a small fridge for her college-bound offspring's dorm room. It was a well-known name brand and included the feature that the door could be hinged on either side to open from either left-to-right or right-to-left. This design hinges on, no pun intended, a small plastic piece that was missing from the box or broken (the author apologizes for blurry facts). A call to the fridge manufacturer ensued, as you knew it would.

Pseudo-resolution: "We'll take care of that right away," said the drone. After sending in copies of the receipt, the UPC from the box, the serial number of the fridge, and tidal charts from the day it was purchased, a replacement part was sent—for a different model! When College Mom called the company again, she was told a part could not be sent out because a part was already sent once before.

Because a fridge to match the part was not forthcoming, College Mom decided to talk to someone who actually had some power: the president of the company. Now, his number was not out there for just any joe-schmoe to call but she realized it had to be in the company phone maze somewhere, right? So, she called the company back and when the computer suggested that she could type in the letters of the name of whom she wanted to reach, she started spelling out common names. After a few tries of Jones and White and Smith, a very helpful voice responded...

Helpful Voice: Yes, this is _________ .
College Mom: Oh, I'm sorry. I was trying to reach the president.
HV: Oh, just a moment. I'll put you right through.
pause
pause
President: This is Bob. (not really named Bob)
CM: Are you really the president?
Bob: Yes, ma'am.

She then told her whole story and concluded with something along the lines of: The part must only cost like 25-cents.
Bob: Actually, it only costs 2-cents.

Needless to say, she got her part.

It should not have to be so hard.

Two categories

All the objects in the entire world can be divided into two distinct categories. You doubt me? I'm not talking about people and will therefore avoid political (liberal vs conservative), racial (white versus everybody else) and social (men vs women, rich vs poor) discussions. No, my division is practical. Let me begin again...

The entire world can be divided into two categories:
1) Things that CAN contain the used kitty litter for transport to the curb, and
2) Things that definitely can NOT

Used milk cartons: Can
Shoeboxes: Can, but not without the accompanying guilt over not recycling the cardboard
The ubiquitous plastic grocery bag: Can
Weekly postcard of pizza coupons: Not
Dirty laundry: Can, but do you ever want to wear the clothes again? If so, Not
Newspaper: Can, with or without creative origamical folding
Dirty dishes: Not, not, not, not, not
Cereal boxes: see shoeboxes above

You may be wondering how this question even came to be asked. Well, as you can imagine, when you have four indoor feline furballs who spend most of their time converting food into used food, the question is bound to come up sooner or later. Not long ago, the house was awash in plastic grocery bags, the default collection device. They were everywhere: in the cupboards, in the pantry, under the furniture, on top of the fridge, in the closets, on the bookshelves (behind both the comic books and the graduate school math texts), and—last but not least—spilling out of their special cloth holding tube hanging on the wall above Used Food Depository #1.

As it happens, time passes. During said time, my shopping habits changed. I began to buy less at the grocery and more at the farmer's market and organic/health food store. Neither of these places readily hands out plastic bags, they use paper instead. These bags leave the house as fast as they come in, albeit stuffed to bursting with newspapers. Since the food conversion habits of the furballs did not change, the plastic bag population slowly decreased until they were completely eradicated. I was finally forced to ask the question and get creative. Disaster was averted with some clever topological solutions. That is, I found containers where none were seen before and I got through until the supply of bags could be replenished.

Bikes, Birds, and (silent) Beeps

Finally got off my tukus today and did something that did not involve cleaning out either the fridge or a litterbox. I pumped up the bike tires and hit the trail for a little exercise. It was a fantastic follow-up to a leisurely morning spent over coffee and the Sunday paper. It was great to be outside in the sun, listening to the surf, feeling the breeze.

By golly, being outside almost killed me.

I swear the eagle that was cruising directly overhead for a bit was eyeing me up as a snack for its young. Your thighs, madam homo sapien, are an excellent source of the RDA for proteins and fats—particularly the fats. I am thankful that I could keep the bike moving briskly enough that the bird moved on to another item on the buffet.

This is the first time I have ever seen an eagle. It was quite amazing. I am a bit distressed that I am nearing 40 trips around the sun and this was the first time I'd ever seen one. On the other hand, let's hear it for environmental legislation that seems to have worked; the birds survived decades of poison in the food chain and soft shells.

A somewhat amusing sidelight to the exercise event: I was on a well-marked, often paved, constantly maintained path—and I took my GPS unit with me! What is it about this gadget that is so enthralling? I was never more than 5 miles from home and yet I needed to have satellites incessantly confirm my location. Somehow being able to say "I trekked from N48° W123° to some other equally obscure location" sounds more impressive than "I rode my bike for an hour and almost passed out from the exertion."

Sunday Morning CEO

Sunday's paper had an interesting article on the only two CEOs of major U.S. public companies who also happened to be married to each other. Stephen Reynolds is the head of the utility holding company Puget Energy. Paula Reynolds is the head poobah at Safeco. After reading the article, I still am not entirely sure what it is that Safeco does—manufacturing? insurance? investing? publishing? nothing?—but I do know that it is one of only eight of the nation's 500 largest companies with a woman at the helm.

Ms. Reynolds is not yet 50 and this is at least the second CEO position she's held. As I was reading the story, Tom Lehrer's voice was loud in my head: "It's people like [her] that make you realize how little you've accomplished. It is a sobering thought," Lehrer continues, "that when Mozart was my age, he'd been dead for two years."

Ms. Reynolds made, possibly even earned, a salary of $2 x 10^6 last year. Her work hours do not follow the clock so much as they ignore the calendar. There are evening and weekend commitments. Meetings ad infinitum. Stadiums whose naming rights need to be bought. Deals to be done and decisions to be made and the position of the hands on the chronograph are irrelevant. These things need to be done when they need to be done. Since the article was spun from the angle of the married couple, the focus was on how they make the relationship work. I got tired just reading the article.

And I thought about my own schedule. It is Sunday and today began as it does every week: with a conscious disregard for all timepieces. When I finally decided to open my eyes, I read my sci-fi book. I then moved with the swiftness of a sloth to shower, reclaim the countertop from the ever-growing collection of dirty dishes, fetch coffee and juice and a NY Times and plant my bottom in the sunniest room in the house to read about other people who do more in a day than I plan to accomplish in a year. Monday through Friday, my days are not my own, seeing as I have a job. When the weekend rolls around, I am dizzy with the freedom from any dictated requirements. I have wasted more Saturdays thinking about how I could possible put the time to use rather than actually using the time to do something enjoyable, creative, relaxing, world-changing, etc.

She is a driven CEO and I am so clearly not. Needless to say, while I was deepening the pattern of the butt-groove in my comfie chair, I was feeling somehow less worthy and wondering what I should change in order to make more of my day—short of getting up from the chair, of course. Ms. Reynolds deals with a different issue altogether: she has tasks into her day that serve to keep her grounded. She does all the housework, cooking and grocery shopping herself!! To stay grounded!

Well, comparatively speaking, since I had already done the dishes, made myself a bowl of cereal and bought bananas this morning, our To-Do Lists were virtually the same. It turns out we're not so different after all.

What's this powder?

Headline from this past Sunday's newspaper: Powder in dorm analyzed
byline: Sylvia Moreno The Washington Post

I submit this story as evidence that the constant banging of the drum of fear by the current administration and associated blowhards is turning us all into nincompoops too scared to think for ourselves. From the article:

" ... A student discovered the powder Thursday in a roll of quarters she was using to operate washing machines ... "

A powder? In a laundry room?!? Say it ain't so! Could it possibly be the dreaded Tide with Bleach Alternative?!?

The student was "weirded out" and called in dorm officials who subsequently called in university police followed by health officials, known in post-9/11 parlance as the "Special Operations Hazardous Materials Regional Strike Team"—complete with haz-mat suits and masks. There was a picture included and, I'm sorry to say, none of the Strike Team members in the photo were seen holding a random brassiere or pair of panties ... although I would not have been surprised if they were.

Allegedly, an initial test revealed the powder to be ricin, not Tide. However, all other tests "gave inconclusive or negative results." Am I alone in thinking this was a bit overblown and the initial test was positive for the sole reason of justifying the excessive response? Of course later tests are going to be negative: the panty raid is over, boys!

All you dorm residents out there be careful with your baby and foot powders. Who knows when a roommate will be "weirded out" and out your hygiene habits outed by the Strike Team.

Oh, the irony

I found this while surfing around looking at the latest Palm OS games and apps. Names and urls have been withheld to maintain the dignity of the webmaster. Typos involving dictionaries are one of the many things that make me laugh out loud, sometimes a giggle and sometimes a guffaw. This one earned a slightly audible snicker.

As it appeared on the website:

Concise Oxford English Dictionary and MSDict Viewer 7.30 - popular dictionary on Plam

No pretense of any accuracy whatsoever

In the past three days, I have found myself trapped in one of the circles of hell not known by Dante: the supermarket check-out line. It is often a challenge to maintain one's sanity during this time of limbo while the individual currently cashing out insists loudly enough for everyone to hear that:
a) I've got the pennies in the bottom of the purse/pocket/tubesock used as changepurse, or
b) I swear that card was good yesterday, or
c) If you count the cookies, chips, nuts, and pop as one meal, then I do only have 12 items.

When silently chanting a shakra to the bovine-spirits to keep my various dairy products uncurdled and chilled, I glanced at the tabloid headlines. It seems that all the celebrities in the world have condensed into only three people: Jen, Brad, and Angelina. Their mugs were on the cover of every tabloid and magazine except for the tiny little books full of secret's never printed before or horoscope wisdom or names for your pet/child.

The stories coming out of Bradgeliniston this week centered on the sex of the child and the matrimonial plans:


























Maybe other news sources weren't duped by claims of successfully cloning humans. Is there a more rational explanation for the current checkout headline confusion?

Context Means Everything

If this is Saturday then that means I went went out for breakfast this morning. What is it about someone else cooking the eggs and bacon that makes this dynamic duo taste so much better than when I cook them myself? This food prep maxim holds no matter what the food item is prepped, even a bologna sandwich. Oh, stop rolling your eyes. A lot of people still eat bologna. And it always tastes better when someone else makes the sandwich.

Anyway, it seems to me that the enjoyment of meals eaten out is also influenced by whether or not you are considered a regular. The other morning at work, for example, I staggered down to the legal drug pusher, aka: the coffee stand, and with eyes still closed, managed to complete the entire transaction without ever speaking a word. My coffee was placed in front of me, prepared just the way I like it, and I had not even needed to be conscious. At some point, I had evolved from being "just another customer" to "a regular." When does this happen?

But I digress; let's get back to breakfast this morning. It was basic fare: eggs, bacon, hashbrowns, bread, and coffee, lots and lots of coffee. You know the routine: enter restaurant, find a table, order coffee, scan menu, drink coffee, order meal, drink coffee, eat meal, drink coffee, linger over coffee. I've gone through the routine hundreds (thousands?) of times and it was not until this very morning as the waitron was topping off my coffee cup yet again that I realized that being a good waitron is not very different from being a good stalker. The waitron this morning was always just out of earshot, hovering, circling back with the coffee pot before I realized my cup was nearing the bottom, timing each appearance perfectly. Outside of the eatery, these same behaviors could land the waitron in jail. In the eatery, however, it is a finely choreographed dance and breakfast is always better for it.

For excitement, just add water

I'm not sure what to file this under:
a) Lucky to have made it for this long before it happened
b) What were you thinking, you numbskull?
c) Say-la-vee (how do you spell that anyway?)

The event:
On the eve of new year's eve, I was finally off to bed after a long day of ... of ... well, that's not important right now. We need to focus on what comes next. I pulled back the covers on Big Swampy, that's the name of my waterbed (what, you don't name things in your house?), and was shocked to see water soaking into the sheets. This is never a good thing. What was really odd was that the water was coming from underneath the mattress. And the cats were acting very casual and cool. All of them. Hmmm...

After stripping the sheets and poking around, I found the tiniest of holes down along the side in the corner of the mattrress. Given the size of the hole and way the water was soaking into the sheets, it could have been made days earlier. The water was not spurting out like it did out of Mulder's bed in that X-Files episode with the time loop and the bank hold-up. If that were the case, I think the cats would have been less nonchalant and more chalant, don't you?

I've had the bed for about 10 years now and this is the first time the water has tried to escape the confines of the mattress. Having also owned cats for that long, do you see my confusion about trying to file this event? I'm not sure if I should be surprised that it happened or just surprised that it took so long to happen.

Well, none of the grrllzz has fessed up to being the culprit. And the whole paw posse got a free manicure ... uh ... pedicure ... er ... pawicure ... they got their nails clipped and still have rights to the bed.

The best recommendation given to me when I went running all over town to find a patch kit is to use tire patches for quad tires from the local 4-by-4 dealer. I believe the quote was: "Ain't nothing going to get through that patch." So why isn't the whole mattress made from that material?

What a way to start the new year

Scene: Dark; industrial section of urban metropolis; dark; deserted urban landscape; raining; did we mention that it is dark?

... and ... ACTION!!

Our heros are driving to the ferry terminal after a long day spent foraging for computer gagdets and digital media in the capitalist mecca known as The Mall. Neither is familiar with the area they are driving through. They have followed the signs from the freeway to their present location which is under huge concrete overpasses, support towers, warehouses and contains a hidden surprise. Neither is quite sure where the ferry terminal is and they are attentively searching for the next sign. There is no other traffic except for the car in front of them.

Suddenly there is a long LOUD horn coming from ... an indeterminable direction. It seems to be coming from all around them.

Lee: What the heck is that?
Tee: STOP!! It's a train!
L: Where?!?
T: Right there! Stop!
L: Where the f*&# are the tracks? Are we on them?

Appearing just ahead in the darkness is a huge, massive, moving shape, definable only because it is blocking out the lights on warehouses behind it as it moves across their field of vision. Yup, it's a train and it is passing within five (5, V, cinq, cinco, fünf) feet of the front of the car.

L: Are we on the tracks?
T: Holy cow! It's a train!
L: ARE WE ON THE TRACKS?!? curse curse filth filth CURSE! CURSE! CURSE!

The locomotive stops right in front of the car and reverses its direction. When it moves from in front of them, Tee suggests to Lee that it may now be safe to move ahead and get to the ferry terminal. Lee will have none of it and continues to curse.
.....

OK, maybe it's time to stop talking about this in the third person. It was terrifying. After further review, we think the train blew its horn at the car in front of us that had squirted over the tracks right in front of the engine. We never saw the train and we had no idea where the noise was coming from because it was echoing off of all the concrete.

On the heels of my previous blog about no stop signs in my town, this is a bit ironic, don't you think? There were no lights or signs or paint on the road indicating that tracks were anywhere near the road or that tracks would intersect with the road. We were paying attention to signs because we were looking for them! It's not like we missed any. The train had no lights on it at all and it's horn was useless even though it was very loud.

You can't tell me we were the first people to have run into (no pun intended) this situation. Heck, you can't even say that about the car that was right in front of us. This has had to have happened before. We were driving near the city's sports arenas, for pete's sake! Traffic happens here when thousands of cars leave the game.

I am parking my car and not venturing anywhere near the roads for a few days. Blogging is much safer.