Customer Service...anyone?

Don't you just love a good customer service experience? It seems like it doesn't happen as often as it used to.  In one of my first jobs, I had wonderful bosses named Ted and Deb. Ted and Deb taught us, by example, that  it was important to keep the service in customer service, since after all, that's what we were providing (well, through the sales of ice cream, lobster rolls, and chicken patty sandwiches). At the same time, they also taught us by example that the customer did not always have to be right. If a customer was being rude or completely unreasonable, it was OK to get one of your bosses so that they could diplomatically tell the customer where to go to, um, find what it was they were looking for. Over twenty years later, I still find this to be an incredibly valuable life skill.

These days, my time for making phone calls is limited. In fact, I only call customer service numbers when there is absolutely no other way to resolve an issue, since I know that it's close to impossible to resolve something over the phone with two or three kids screaming, fighting, repeatedly calling my name, or having a syrup and peanut butter party happily playing in the background. Recently, though, I called the cable company and made changes to save money on our monthly bill. They were so amazing over the phone and were more than happy to save us money. But then I got my bill, and it wasn't exactly what they said it would be. There were some undisclosed charges to make these changes, as well as a difference in the amount that they had told me. So, I did something very brave and called them, with the kids screaming  happily playing in the background. I explained the issue, and the first person I spoke to said that, while all of those charges were, according to them, valid, they would give me a twenty-five dollar credit "to resolve the issue". Now, some days I would take the twenty-five dollar credit and be done. But the actual amount in question was thirty-five, and that particular day, I just wasn't going to take the twenty-five dollar credit. Plus, I know when I am being paid to go away--something I would happily do if they were actually paying me the amount in question. But they weren't. So I asked nicely to speak with a manager, who was, I'm pretty sure, sixteen.

The sixteen-year-old manager clearly never had anyone like Ted or Deb as a boss, because he was, among other things, incredibly rude. He told me that all of the charges were valid and that I didn't get the information about additional charges because I didn't ask for that information. But after going around and around with him, with B and O screaming and tearing the house apart  happily playing around me, I realized that it felt like, well, arguing with a teenager, and that I just did not have one more second to waste on this.  I nicely said "I don't agree with this, but just go ahead and give me the twenty-five dollar credit and we'll call it a day". And sixteen-year-old manager boy on a power trip said "Well, I can't do that. That was to resolve the problem. Once you asked to speak with a manager, that offer no longer stood."

I can't really explain what happened after that, other than that I decided that I was done being nice to rude sixteen-year-old manager boy on a power trip. I told him his customer service skills were a joke. I told him we would be switching to another company. I told him his lack of professionalism was appalling. And then, because in a moment of weakness I apparently decided to stoop to his sixteen-year-old level, I told him, rather loudly, that his cable company and their so called customer service sucked.  Then there was a pause. A really long pause. I was about to hang up, when he said "Ma'am, um, I can't close your account over the phone today. If you call back, we can handle that in our customer service department". I hung up. I did not call back. I sent a rather pointed e-mail where I may have happened to mention a blog I have where I write about these types of things and I may have implied that said blog has a much larger readership than it actually does and explained the issue, did not get a satisfactory response, and eventually I got over it. 

Today, in the mail, I got a cable bill. Low and behold, it has a twenty five dollar credit. Huh. I wonder how that happened. Who knows what conversation took place before someone decided to issue that credit, but I'm guessing it was along the lines of,  "Give her the credit. She's crazy".

Yesterday, I had a slightly different kind of experience-- one where I was floored by how helpful the company was trying to be. After our refrigerator motor caught on fire a few weeks ago, I sent an email to the manufacturer, making them aware that a fridge we bought in 2001, a two door model with a top freezer, had caught on fire a week earlier. I wanted to make them aware in case they needed to notify other customers, especially since the man who delivered our new fridge mentioned that he had seen this happen before. Here is part of the response from them:

Thank you for contacting our Customer Experience Center.  We regret the incident described in your email. Please provide the information requested below, retain the refrigerator, and disconnect the power to the appliance (unplug or flip the circuit breaker off), do not attempt to operate the unit, and advise all household users not to attempt to operate the unit until it is inspected and deemed safe to operate or repaired/restored to safe operating condition.We appreciate your taking time to write. Please return this email and provide the following:  address where appliance is located,
model number from appliance model/serial tag, date of purchase from purchase receipt, dealer (name only) where purchased.

Wow! How helpful are they?! And they even told me to unplug the fridge. Thank God for that. Otherwise, I might still be sitting here with a burned out refrigerator STILL PLUGGED IN...while my home was in ashes around it. If only I had retained the refrigerator, so they could have come and examined it. Darn, wish I would have known. I would have just kept it next to the new one. Of course, I'd have to tell my three children to NOT OPERATE THE UNIT UNTIL IT CAN BE RESTORED TO SAFE OPERATING CONDITION. And by the way kids, don't worry about the fact that the motor caught on fire. I'm sure they can just fix that. They were trying to be helpful though, so I thought the least I could do was respond to their email. So I did:

Hi-
I bought the refrigerator from (XYZ Dept Store) 10 yrs ago. Since it was ten years ago, I do not have the rest of the info on the model, nor do I have the receipt, since, after all, it was ten years ago. While I appreciate your specific instructions, we decided that we should probably unplug the model when it caught on fire. Actually, the fire department helped us with that decision. And, since it caught on fire, we decided it was probably just a good idea to get a new one. I would love to give you the address of its current location, but it is now gone from our home since, you know, it caught on fire. We had it sitting out front for a few days, but the neighbors weren't really liking that, so it's gone now. Thanks for your interest in helping us.

I don't know if that was the right email to send. I mean, I could have at least included the address of the local dump in case they want to go look for it. I guess I could have been a little nicer and not so sarcastic. But really, I think I handled it well. It's not like I told them their appliances suck.

Give me some credit. That would have been crazy.

For the Love of...Sleep

It recently occurred to me that I have turned into a freak. Not about everything. I am not a germaphobe. I don't have to have my children in my eyesight every moment of the day. Their rooms don't have to be spotless (In addition to not being a freak about this, I am also not delusional enough to think that it would ever actually happen--hey, maybe my mental health is better than I thought!).  I am a freak, however, when it comes to sleep--particularly nap time. I admire those parents who are OK with having a child with them every waking moment. I, however, am not one of them. I need some child free time in my day, however brief. This is not optional. It is required. For three reasons:

1) As it is, most days I manage only to repeatedly clean the kitchen, hopefully pick up the living room, run the dishwasher, get dirty laundry out of rooms, continually run the washer and dryer, and possibly fold, but rarely actually put away, laundry. When I try to do these things when my children are awake, I have lots of help. More, in fact, than I ever need. The dishwasher gets filled more quickly, but not run, because I have to remove the assorted cars, trucks, trains, and Little People that O has so helpfully placed in there before I can run it. I'm not sure what would happen if I left them there. Maybe I'll try that next time, but I would hate to have to buy a new dishwasher because, in a moment of weakness, I went along with O's plan to turn the dishwasher into a car wash for Hot Wheels. Meanwhile, B is taking all the toys that I just put in the play room back into the living room. If I attempt to do laundry while they are awake, they start grabbing random clothing items from wherever they happen to find them--including drawers and closets--and throwing them down to me. If I try to make dinner while they are awake, they are cracking eggs for me, even when no eggs are necessary. I'm lucky to have such helpful children. But it doesn't really help with productivity.

2) The stories I write about are, believe it or not, generally from the good days, when they have slept. You don't read about what happens on the days when they haven't slept, because I am licking tequila off the floor nearly asleep by eight o'clock those nights, and have no energy left to write about the day's adventures. Not to mention, I don't want to relive them.

3) If I don't have an hour or two of relative silence during the day, I will lose my mind even sooner than predicted.

So, yes, I have turned into a freak about nap times.

Unfortunately, B and O are not quite on the same page as I am. Recently, in spite of my best efforts, they have started staying awake during nap times. If they stayed in their room playing and talking quietly, I would probably be OK with this, as they would hopefully be getting some rest. As it happens, though, they stay in their room laughing, screaming, yelling, throwing things, and taking O's crib apart. Not exactly restful. For any of us. I have tried to remedy this several different ways. Separate rooms--they just scream louder. Separate nap times-someone gets over tired (usually me), which defeats the whole purpose. Separate houses--the neighbors were unhappy when they found a strange child in their house. Whatever.

This is my long winded way of explaining that, when my children do go to sleep, I will do whatever I can to keep it that way. This has the potential, however, to impact my behavior in other areas of my life. I am not proud of this. I wish I could just go with the flow, like I can with so many other things in life. But, my children need me. They need me to be sane. And if that is to happen, they need to take naps.

In general, if people come to our home, I try to be welcoming. We like having company, and that's what we're supposed to do, right? Mi casa es su casa. If you can find a spot that's not covered in trains, fairies, yogurt, or dog hair, by all means, please make yourself at home. I'll even try to find something besides cheerios to feed you. If you stay long enough, I will beg you to drink with me and offer you a couch to sleep on, and then I will make you drink more so you don't notice that it's the one covered in yogurt and dog hair. Jimmy is even more welcoming than I am. He goes right to the part where he offers you beer.

If you come during nap time, however, it's a little different. If I know you're coming, I will meet you at the door and we will quietly go talk outside. You may wonder why I'm taking you outside when it's 30 degrees. It's because they are sleeping. If you don't like the cold, come back in the spring. Or at least when nap time is over. If you unexpectedly come to my door during nap time, all bets are off, but here's what will likely happen from your perspective:

You knock. I don't answer. You are vaguely aware that a dog is barking inside. You knock again. You are vaguely aware of a crying baby. You probably think some warm fuzzy thought about babies and dogs as you wonder why we aren't answering since we're obviously home. You knock again. This time, I answer the door, baby on my hip, dog at my side, three-year-old running in circles behind me, and you briefly wonder about my crazed expression, but you're happy that your mission--whatever reason you have for knocking on my door--is one step closer to being accomplished.

Here's what happens from my end: You knock. I cringe and silently curse, awaiting the barking dog that I know will awaken the sleeping children that it just took an hour and a half to convince to go to sleep. I ignore you, hoping you will go away (unless, of course, it's something important, like you are are locked out of your house, your car has broken down, you haven't eaten in two days, or you have brought me tequila). Nothing personal. I probably don't even know who you are at that point. But did you just see the part about it taking an hour and a half to get those children to sleep? But you don't go away. You knock again. If the dog didn't hear you the first time, she does now, and she is barking. My cursing is no longer silent. I hope she won't bark long enough or loudly enough to wake sleeping children, but she does, and now we have a barking dog and a crying toddler. A minute later, we have a barking dog, a crying toddler, and a three-year-old old repeatedly asking "Mommy, who's here? Mommy, who's here? Mommy, who's here?"

I know, of course, that these children will not go back to sleep, and that even if they do, I will have to wake them as soon as they fall asleep to go pick up their sister at school. I also know that they will be grumpy and whiny, if not outright combative, by dinner, which will likely consist of something frozen and barely edible, since I will have tried to get dinner together while also attempting to do the three loads of laundry that I didn't get to do while they should have been sleeping. This is why, when I answer the door, I may look like a crazed woman on the verge of tears. It's not that I'm not happy to see you. It's just that, you know, it's nap time.

I've been thinking though, that it's just not right for me to be so unwelcoming. After all, mi casa es su casa, even if you do come to my casa during nap time. So, from now on, I'm going to be more welcoming. I'm going to tell whoever it is to please, by all means, come in. After all , it must be important if you came in person. During nap time. Without calling first. Please, sit down. Don't mind the yogurt on the couch. Just push those toys over. Make yourself at home. Stay a while. Can I get you some cheerios? Or maybe something different--like cornflakes? I'm so glad you're here. Will you hold O for a minute? I'm just going to pop out to get the mail. No, B can stay with you. I'll be back in a flash. Oh no, I always take my car keys to the mailbox. In fact, I like to drive there, so don't worry if you see the car leaving the driveway. Why don't you try to get the kids to lie down? They love that.
I'll be right back.

Just as soon as you get them to sleep.
And don't worry. I'll knock.

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Monkeys

Today I took B and O to McDonald's play area. This is a painful subject for me, as I'm pretty sure I have PTSD from a previous trip to the play area with NBO. In fact, I wasn't sure I'd be able to even go into another play area, as I was afraid it would lead to flashbacks and panic attacks. But, in a moment of weakness, I bribed B with a trip to the "inside" McDonald's (see, I've trained them not to even SAY "play area", as it causes me to break out in a cold sweat) if he got his flu shot this morning (which, much to my amazement, he did!).

I should have known in the parking lot that this was not a good idea. I told B to stay right at the back of our car as I got O out of his carseat. The problem is, B is three, and sometimes he listens quite well. And, other times, well he just doesn't give a rat's @$$  listen all that well to what I say. As I'm getting O out, I sense that B is wandering and give him my standard "Parking lot! Stay here!" reminder. This time, he listened, and decided to glue himself to my um, side, as I'm getting O out of the car, with the door still open, and our rather large car parked in the very narrow space very closely to the car next to us. (Disclaimer: yes, our car is way too big, but it holds three kids and all their crap necessary items, so I'm not complaining). While I'm glad B has listened, I am now using both arms to hold an increasingly heavy, and squirmy, toddler, I have a preschooler glued to my um, side, a parked car right next to me, and a car door open immediately in front of me.

"B, you need to move, bud", which is way nicer than what I am thinking, especially as my PTSD is beginning to kick in.
"No mom! It's a PARKING LOT! I have to STAY WITH YOU!"
What a great listener this child is. I try to be thankful for that as I explain that I still need to be able to walk, or even move, which I am currently unable to do. Eventually, painfully, we make our way inside.

After I ordered two what's-so-happy-about-more-made-in-China-pieces-of-junk-to-clutter-up-my-house-meals, I ordered myself a grilled chicken. Good for me, right? Like I'd really admit it if I ordered a big mac. But this time, I really did order grilled chicken, because I was thinking that maybe if I ate more grilled chicken, I would be less likely to repeat the parking lot episode we just experienced. O is now completely done being held and is running around, and B is trying to catch him, which generally has not so great results.

 I'm waiting to give the lady my money when I realize she is staring at me. "What kind do you want?" she asks.
"What kind of what?" I ask her. I gave her my order 15 seconds ago. My mind has moved on. I have no idea what she's talking about.
"What kind of grilled chicken?"
 Um, I don't know. Grilled? On a bun? I hear B scream somewhere next to me, and look around to see O narrowly avoid running into an elderly person with a hot cup of coffee in their hands (I know it's hot, cause it says so in a special warning on the cups. Besides, it's coffee. Everyone knows its hot, don't they?).
 The lady is still staring at me "Do you want a five? With bacon? Or a six? The club".  I briefly consider telling her than I'll take whichever one is tequila infused, but I'm pretty sure she doesn't have a sense of humor. I decide to make tequila infused grilled chicken a menu recommendation on a comment card before we leave, which I'm hoping will be very, very soon.

I settle for a club, because that's the only one I remember, and which is also probably the most unhealthy of the "healthy" grilled chicken options. I tell myself that it's still likely to decrease my chances of having to call the fire dept to use the jaws of life and/or crisco to extricate me from between two parked cars on our next visit (ha! like there's gonna be a next visit!). FYI...if you are trying to watch what you eat, this is actually a very helpful visual.

We make it to the play area, where I am happy to see that we are the only ones. B and O eat and go play, and I realize that McDonald's has completely re-modeled this play area since the last time we were here. I think maybe the new surroundings will be good for my PTSD. There is now a wall of glass between the play area and the rest of McDonald's. An older couple sits on the other side of the glass, drinking coffee (careful--it's hot) and watching B and O play. They are smiling. I smugly note that they clearly think my children are adorable. The husband says something to the wife and even with my less than stellar lip reading skills, I know he's said "how cute!". She smiles and nods in agreement. I wonder if this new design was intentional, like maybe the McDonald's people thought people would come in for breakfast but decide to stay for lunch if they have something cute to watch in the play area. Kind of like watching monkeys in the zoo.

B and O start to get a little restless. B wants to climb to the top ( hearing the words "the top" triggers my PTSD) but only if O goes, too. O wants nothing to do with climbing (thank you God) but instead wants to play "How close can I get to the exit before mommy catches me?". We play several times. I am sweating, and no longer know if it's from the PTSD. B announces that he is going to go find a place to poop and disappears into the play area. For once I am happy he still wears diapers. I feel the older couple still watching. I notice they are still smiling. They clearly think this is all very entertaining.Yeah, I think, I'm sure it's adorable from your side of the glass. Try living on this side, pal. I think of the poor monkeys in the zoo.

As I look to see where B is, O makes it past me into the regular part of  McDonald's. I chase him. B chases me. The older couple seems surprised that we are now on their side of the glass. They point and laugh. I take B and O back into the play areas and attempt to get their shoes on. As I get B's shoes on, O takes off again, and we all once again go into the other side, though this time, B almost runs into someone carrying (hot) coffee. The older couple only half smiles this time.

As I get O's shoes on, B is now completely out of control, and I decide I don't care, as he is at least staying in the play area. He runs in circles, he runs back and forth in the play area, and eventually, he runs right into the emergency door, which sets off the alarm, which causes everyone in the restaurant to turn and stare. None of them are smiling. I look at the older couple. Surely, they will sympathize. They think we're cute--like monkeys! They are not sympathizing. They are not even smiling. He says something to his wife, and she nods in agreement. I tried to read his lips, and I'm pretty sure it included the words "Birth Control".

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