After years of loathing and resentment, I'm finally severing ties with Charter. I've been a reluctantly loyal customer for 11 years and the reason I've yet to leave is sadly simple, and a testament to my innate laziness: my email address has a Charter domain name and it's a pain in the ass to round up all my contacts and make the switch in my numerous online identities.
I should mention the final straw in my years-long battle: my wireless Internet doesn't work more than eight feet from my modem. No joke. Not upstairs, not in my kitchen, nowhere but the confines of my living room. And every time I call to complain, they tell me that the signal "looks just fine" on their end. Blow me, Charter.
So I finally set up a new email account and before I close my account with them, I need to know from whom I should be getting my Internet service. I don't have a land-line and getting rid of cable will no doubt cause more than a few moments of panic; this process will be like ripping off the giant band-aid that is my reliance on television to fill up the too-quiet moments in my life when my brain needs silencing. At any rate, all I need is wireless Internet service and I need your suggestions, horror stories and tales of customer service, rotten or otherwise. Cost isn't as much as factor, as it will no doubt be less than I'm currently paying for cable and super shitty Internet non-service.
Oh, and here's another question: will my TV work without a converter box, now? And is it just me or does "converter box" make anyone else feel like it's 1952? I didn't have to deal with the digital conversion in 2009 because again, I've always been a Charter monopoly victim. Please advise, oh More-Knowledgeable-Than-I readers.
One more thing: how do I get my new gmail address to work in Outlook? Ok, that should do it.
Friday, April 20, 2012
Monday, April 16, 2012
Courtship, You Say?
For one of my classes this semester, I was tasked with writing a paper detailing the courtship rituals in twentieth-century America as compared to today. I had a great time with this and felt compelled to share a few excerpts with you, so that you may laugh with (at) me and perhaps even find a bit of yourself or your past in my musings on dating, as I see it.
I tried to picture myself in the days of calling and supervised dating; I was much more the girl whose suitors simply slowed down, honked and waited for my signal to “keep driving, I’m going to run through the neighbor’s backyard and I’ll meet you at the end of the block.” And to call them suitors is pretty rich; in reality, they were most likely just the latest guy in town to have received his license and/or a new vehicle and our time together would be spent doing nothing more than driving up and down the endless, omnipresent Main St. that ran through my hometown. It wasn’t so much a date, as a fruitless waste of fossil fuel and a quick way to anger your parents with the number of miles put on the car in one evening. And never could said parents be convinced that you had, indeed, only been “cruising Main”; the odometer suggested something more along the lines of a trip from west-central Wisconsin into the southern tip of Illinois.
In my personal experience, the vast majority of my dates have absorbed the literal cost of our time together; me, more so the emotional cost. But while most of my paramours have held with tradition, I did have a really amazing experience with a young man we’ll call Kevin, because that is his name. Kevin picked me up and swung into the McDonald’s drive-thru on the way to see a movie. He didn’t ask if I was hungry, nor did he offer to get me anything; I guess it was good that I’d eaten before I left the house. Another quick stop, this time at the gas station, and we arrived at the theatre with not a moment to spare.
At this time, I’d like to thank my parents for instilling in me the notion that a lady must always have a little cash on hand; Kevin was conspicuously busy doing absolutely nothing as the ticket sales girl hands me our tickets and informs me of the charge, directing us to theatre four, on the right. I use the last $20 to my name and spend the next two hours and twenty minutes trying to fend off the hands of Gropey McGroperson and wishing that I’d met him at the theatre so I didn’t have to ride home with him.
He uses the ride home to further fondle my left knee and tell me how great my laundry detergent smells; I can hardly hold back from telling him that his Grandpa’s cologne isn’t doing him any favors and I’ll be bathing immediately once I arrive home to rid myself of the cloying smell of imminent death. Naturally, he’s expecting an invite into my humble studio apartment for a nightcap but I barely waited until he’d pulled up to the curb before I was out of the truck and barreling in to my Gain-clean-and-fresh home, securing the deadbolt behind me. That was nine years ago but I still recall every single detail, primarily due to the mortification factor. Bad dates are part of the deal and somewhere, someone told me that you have to kiss a few frogs to find your prince; Kevin is one frog whose story deserves retelling.
I tried to picture myself in the days of calling and supervised dating; I was much more the girl whose suitors simply slowed down, honked and waited for my signal to “keep driving, I’m going to run through the neighbor’s backyard and I’ll meet you at the end of the block.” And to call them suitors is pretty rich; in reality, they were most likely just the latest guy in town to have received his license and/or a new vehicle and our time together would be spent doing nothing more than driving up and down the endless, omnipresent Main St. that ran through my hometown. It wasn’t so much a date, as a fruitless waste of fossil fuel and a quick way to anger your parents with the number of miles put on the car in one evening. And never could said parents be convinced that you had, indeed, only been “cruising Main”; the odometer suggested something more along the lines of a trip from west-central Wisconsin into the southern tip of Illinois.
In my personal experience, the vast majority of my dates have absorbed the literal cost of our time together; me, more so the emotional cost. But while most of my paramours have held with tradition, I did have a really amazing experience with a young man we’ll call Kevin, because that is his name. Kevin picked me up and swung into the McDonald’s drive-thru on the way to see a movie. He didn’t ask if I was hungry, nor did he offer to get me anything; I guess it was good that I’d eaten before I left the house. Another quick stop, this time at the gas station, and we arrived at the theatre with not a moment to spare.
At this time, I’d like to thank my parents for instilling in me the notion that a lady must always have a little cash on hand; Kevin was conspicuously busy doing absolutely nothing as the ticket sales girl hands me our tickets and informs me of the charge, directing us to theatre four, on the right. I use the last $20 to my name and spend the next two hours and twenty minutes trying to fend off the hands of Gropey McGroperson and wishing that I’d met him at the theatre so I didn’t have to ride home with him.
He uses the ride home to further fondle my left knee and tell me how great my laundry detergent smells; I can hardly hold back from telling him that his Grandpa’s cologne isn’t doing him any favors and I’ll be bathing immediately once I arrive home to rid myself of the cloying smell of imminent death. Naturally, he’s expecting an invite into my humble studio apartment for a nightcap but I barely waited until he’d pulled up to the curb before I was out of the truck and barreling in to my Gain-clean-and-fresh home, securing the deadbolt behind me. That was nine years ago but I still recall every single detail, primarily due to the mortification factor. Bad dates are part of the deal and somewhere, someone told me that you have to kiss a few frogs to find your prince; Kevin is one frog whose story deserves retelling.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Again, With the Customer Service
I had a meeting this morning with a client and being that I was early - that never happens - I ran through Dunn Bros for a delicious, steaming hot, large dark roast. I drove to the Perkins on 40th Ave W and responded to a few emails while waiting for my client to arrive. Like I said, early. I hardly knew what to do with myself.
When she arrived, my coffee had just cooled to a point that I could drink it without subjecting myself to a full-mouth exfoliation. As we're being led to our booth, a male employee actually grabs my arm and physically stops me, exclaiming, "Oh ma'am! We do not allow beverages here!" I was totally shocked and started to mumble something about how it was just coffee when he literally rips the coffee cup out of my hand and tosses it on the pile of dishes in his arms as he races away, leaving me speechless.
Are you kidding me? There is no way that just happened. I was physically shaking as I walked the rest of the way to the table and sat down. The delightfully cool plate of pancakes were perfectly mediocre and I settled into my meeting with no further assaults. But my favorite part of the meal was, by far, the $2.19 carafe of brown-water that stood as the logical substitute to my delicious, expensive, worth it, large dark from DB.
As I was pulling away from the restaurant, Mr. Grabby walked in front of my truck on his way back in from the dumpster, no doubt having disposed of my illegal beverage. If I had lesser morals I'm certain I would have given in to my impulse to run that crusty old man under the tires of my truck. Dick move, man.
When she arrived, my coffee had just cooled to a point that I could drink it without subjecting myself to a full-mouth exfoliation. As we're being led to our booth, a male employee actually grabs my arm and physically stops me, exclaiming, "Oh ma'am! We do not allow beverages here!" I was totally shocked and started to mumble something about how it was just coffee when he literally rips the coffee cup out of my hand and tosses it on the pile of dishes in his arms as he races away, leaving me speechless.
Are you kidding me? There is no way that just happened. I was physically shaking as I walked the rest of the way to the table and sat down. The delightfully cool plate of pancakes were perfectly mediocre and I settled into my meeting with no further assaults. But my favorite part of the meal was, by far, the $2.19 carafe of brown-water that stood as the logical substitute to my delicious, expensive, worth it, large dark from DB.
As I was pulling away from the restaurant, Mr. Grabby walked in front of my truck on his way back in from the dumpster, no doubt having disposed of my illegal beverage. If I had lesser morals I'm certain I would have given in to my impulse to run that crusty old man under the tires of my truck. Dick move, man.
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
At the Risk of Sounding Like an Octogenarian...
What is with the youth, these days? Specifically, when did customer service hit the shitter and never look back?
My sister called this morning and suggested we lunch together at Takk for Maten. Neither of us had eaten there before but I'd heard good things from a friend. One friend. Like, two years ago. That aside, I was looking forward to our date and only had to circle the block four times to find parking six blocks from the cafe.
I was late (as usual) and my sister had already gotten the lay of the land. Apparently you fill out your own order ticket at your table, bring it to the counter, pay for your meal and then take your seat to wait for someone to bring out your food. There were only a handful of people in the restaurant and my sister was advised that we needn't fill out a ticket for our order but could simply present our requests verbally.
We looked over our menu and approached the counter. Mind you, there are three young female employees and exactly nine customers, my sister and I included. The 1:3 ratio seemed promising.
S and I stood there for a full six minutes without so much as a greeting. Nothing. No eye contact, no nod of recognition. The girl working the register simply stared between the screen and the order slips in her hand as if she was bound and determined to learn to read, right before my very eyes. Eventually she looks up and asks me if the tickets she's holding belong to us. No, I say, we're just waiting to order. Still nothing. No explanation, she continues to act as though we are merely a figment of her altered state.
A second employee comes over to assist with the terribly challenging order-at-hand and she is equally apathetic. After a few minutes she asks me what kind of bread I wanted my sandwich on. I inform her that the order doesn't belong to me and my sister interjects to suggest that we were told we could order at the counter but are still waiting. The third girl pipes up from the coffee station to say that we're fine and can indeed order at the counter. The first girl, who has been standing next to the register doing absolutely nothing, nods along and says Yeah, you can totally order here. It took every single bit of self-control and societal grace that I possess not to come back with When, exactly, might I totally be able to order?
Eventually, and after much explanation, we have completed the exhausting task of placing a lunch order and have seated ourselves; me with my self-serve water and S with her poor excuse for an Americano. A few minutes later, one of the girls brings out another Americano. We point to S's cup and explain that she's already got her coffee. Puzzled, she asks my sister, But didn't you order an Americano? Why yes, as a matter of fact, she did. And she's drinking it right now.
Our utterly disappointing, not appealing and over-priced/small portion meal arrives and it takes us about four minutes to consume the entire affair. But don't worry, my sister got her pie long, long before the lunch was served, so no need to worry about not having enough room for dessert. Having enjoyed a delightfully underwhelming and at times totally ridiculous meal, we're finally free to leave this small, sad restaurant that reeks of a burned-to-hell oven in the middle of the self-cleaning cycle. There's no farewell or thanks from the staff as we leave, the final nail in the coffin of obscenely bad customer service.
It's only fair to note, that my sister and I have notoriously bad luck when dining together in public. And today's lunch didn't disappoint; in fact, it may have set the bar even lower. We won't be returning to Takk for Maten, and if you're considering a trip down that way, save yourself the time and effort and go somewhere that you'll be appreciated. Like Burger King. At least there, you can Have It Your Way.
My sister called this morning and suggested we lunch together at Takk for Maten. Neither of us had eaten there before but I'd heard good things from a friend. One friend. Like, two years ago. That aside, I was looking forward to our date and only had to circle the block four times to find parking six blocks from the cafe.
I was late (as usual) and my sister had already gotten the lay of the land. Apparently you fill out your own order ticket at your table, bring it to the counter, pay for your meal and then take your seat to wait for someone to bring out your food. There were only a handful of people in the restaurant and my sister was advised that we needn't fill out a ticket for our order but could simply present our requests verbally.
We looked over our menu and approached the counter. Mind you, there are three young female employees and exactly nine customers, my sister and I included. The 1:3 ratio seemed promising.
S and I stood there for a full six minutes without so much as a greeting. Nothing. No eye contact, no nod of recognition. The girl working the register simply stared between the screen and the order slips in her hand as if she was bound and determined to learn to read, right before my very eyes. Eventually she looks up and asks me if the tickets she's holding belong to us. No, I say, we're just waiting to order. Still nothing. No explanation, she continues to act as though we are merely a figment of her altered state.
A second employee comes over to assist with the terribly challenging order-at-hand and she is equally apathetic. After a few minutes she asks me what kind of bread I wanted my sandwich on. I inform her that the order doesn't belong to me and my sister interjects to suggest that we were told we could order at the counter but are still waiting. The third girl pipes up from the coffee station to say that we're fine and can indeed order at the counter. The first girl, who has been standing next to the register doing absolutely nothing, nods along and says Yeah, you can totally order here. It took every single bit of self-control and societal grace that I possess not to come back with When, exactly, might I totally be able to order?
Eventually, and after much explanation, we have completed the exhausting task of placing a lunch order and have seated ourselves; me with my self-serve water and S with her poor excuse for an Americano. A few minutes later, one of the girls brings out another Americano. We point to S's cup and explain that she's already got her coffee. Puzzled, she asks my sister, But didn't you order an Americano? Why yes, as a matter of fact, she did. And she's drinking it right now.
Our utterly disappointing, not appealing and over-priced/small portion meal arrives and it takes us about four minutes to consume the entire affair. But don't worry, my sister got her pie long, long before the lunch was served, so no need to worry about not having enough room for dessert. Having enjoyed a delightfully underwhelming and at times totally ridiculous meal, we're finally free to leave this small, sad restaurant that reeks of a burned-to-hell oven in the middle of the self-cleaning cycle. There's no farewell or thanks from the staff as we leave, the final nail in the coffin of obscenely bad customer service.
It's only fair to note, that my sister and I have notoriously bad luck when dining together in public. And today's lunch didn't disappoint; in fact, it may have set the bar even lower. We won't be returning to Takk for Maten, and if you're considering a trip down that way, save yourself the time and effort and go somewhere that you'll be appreciated. Like Burger King. At least there, you can Have It Your Way.
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