Q is for Quest

QBecause of our house fire, we had to find a new home. This quest involved six motels, one executive suite and a hell of a lot of travel looking at houses. Unfortunately, it also involved some very questionable business practices along the way.

On my recent voyage, I broke a tooth. It happened because I trusted a dentist to do her job years ago and every single thing she did to my mouth, every filling, veneer and crown, went bad within a few years. I spent over 8K in 4 months in her office. Seriously, I would have sued her if I could. But, the long and short of it is that my tooth swelled up, causing me so much pain that my eardrum perforated and my jaw was infected, because of a missing filling in a back molar. And the one next to it rotted underneath the crown, which apparently wasn’t sealed correctly. When the crown came off, it knocked out the filling next to it. There went $1,500.00.

So, at 4:30 am, I called one of those 1-800-(find a dentist) numbers because I could not sleep. We were staying in Pueblo, CO and they set an emergency appointment 50 miles away in Colorado Springs for 7:30 am. I left at 6:30 and arrived in plenty of time, only to find out at 10 minutes to 8 that the doctor would not be in that day due to a seminar. (There was a note taped to the window). So I get set to drive back, very upset and still in pain. I called to inform “the service” that the dentist was out of town. They were very apologetic, asked me three times if I was in the right building and at the right suite number. “Yep, I’m looking right at it, they are NOT here. No one is, not even the receptionist.”

Then they set another appointment in Pueblo for 9 am. Good. I get back in the car, clutching my face, barely able to breathe over my teeth and drive 50 more miles. I call from the parking lot, to be sure I’m in the right place. That dentist’s office told me the doctor was on vacation this whole week and they had blocked that time off with the 1-800 service. HMMM. I was not even on the schedule, no one was, except those in need of routine cleanings. They too, were very sorry, but could not help me.

So, I call AGAIN. “Well, we’re very sorry, but we do have another dentist back up in the Springs, if you want to turn around and head up there now.”

Another 50 miles? NO. My face was in agony, I needed some relief NOW. So I sought out the nearest Urgent Care. They, in turn, had a 3-hour waiting list and no chairs to sit on. Not one. They were all occupied. And sick children were running everywhere. I almost started to cry. So we went back to the hotel and I put ice on my cheek, figured out how much OTC pain medication would kill me, then backed the dosage off a little bit. It was a rough day.

When I awoke at 7:40 this morning after an extremely fitful night, I had some new e-mails.

1-800-GO-EFF-YOURSELF wanted to know if I had enjoyed my dental experience and would I please rate their service. OH-HO. YEEEESSSSS, my pretty, I will rate your service. But first, I have a few questions for you: When did it become common practice to waste people’s time, blame THEM for your mistakes and generally not give a sh*t when you send them on a 100-mile, 3-hour wild goose chase? How is this good business? Do you expect these dentists to keep using your “referral” service when this is the way you run their patients around?

But, there is a light at the end of the tunnel. The dentist in CO Springs just called as I was writing this. They have an opening at 11:45. At least I can get some pain meds and antibiotics for the trip home.

M is for Motherhood

MProbably the hardest thing a woman will ever do in her career, or indeed in life, is juggle working with motherhood. On top of actually having the baby, there’s babysitters to interview and/or daycare centers to explore. Which one can I trust? What can I afford? Will I be able to get one to watch my kids if I have to stay late?

Now, I have heard horror stories about daycare centers. Those who single out the poorer children, even spraying the “smelly” ones with Glade while they slept. (Get a bathtub and a washer/dryer in that facility if you’re concerned about those kids.) IMHO, those are horrible things to do to children and even worse to show the others. Laughter and derision was not something I wanted to teach my child.

In spite of having a college degree, often when one moves to a new city — a big, unknown entity – one must start towards the bottom. Luckily, I was 25, and this was still a viable option for me. But three years later, I still wasn’t making much more than I had when I graduated. Consequently, I was only making $8.50/hr. 18 years ago. Daycare was charging $7.00 an hour on a day-by-day basis and it was only slightly less expensive to pay by the week. One place charged $10.00 per minute for every minute a person was late after 6 pm. That made staying late, getting even more stuck in traffic, having an accident or a flat tire a VERY expensive proposition. Denver was famous for its accidents too. They had an interchange called the mousetrap, where two interstates intersected. Narrow and dangerous, it provided steady income for tow trucks, who just sat by the dozens on the shoulders and waited for the inevitable. It was even part of the traffic report, every day.

I dropped my daughter off for one day and went to my interviews. Just a few months old, she screamed the entire time she was there. Another, private sitter, said she couldn’t handle watching my daughter because her “cry was obnoxious”. I tried several other facilities but couldn’t escape the sinking feeling whilst looking at those lonely cribs, that Eryn would be left to cry herself purple in that little, dark room. Finally the feeling of foreboding became so overwhelming, I spoke my husband about it and together, we decided I should stay home. Making an extra $2-2.50 an hour wasn’t going to pay for the gasoline, car servicing, dry cleaning, parking and lunches I would need, much less the mental anguish of knowing my beloved was miserable.

So I got to be a stay-at-home-mom. BEST DECISION I EVER MADE, by the way. However, there were those who always accused me of “pissing my college education down my leg”. They’re wrong. My daughter is bright, beautiful, loving, funny, thoughtful and has a heart of gold for the less fortunate, especially animals. Not to say that yours aren’t. Understand, unlike so many others in my life, that I am not attacking working mothers, simply defending the choice I made not to work. There is a difference.

Years later, I heard a radio DJ complaining that his wife felt put down by others for being a SAH mom. SO MANY people called in, one being a third grade teacher. She said:  “I can tell after being with my children for only one week, with no other insight into their families, which are home-raised and which have been left to daycare. The daycare children are often the bullies, taking other kids’ crayons and pushing them down on the playground. The home-raised kids were (usually) the ones who picked the poor kid up and gave them back their crayons. We are raising generations of takers,” she insisted, “because a lot of these children just aren’t given the attention they need.”

I felt much better about being a SAHM after that. Not to say that your kids are the takers, just that being a mother is full-time job too, and it definitely has its rewards.

K is for Kleptomania

KHave you ever watched someone steal right in front of you? It’s disturbing, isn’t it? During my lifetime, I have had several people shoplift directly in my view, and worst of all, I couldn’t say anything to the store because they were my ride home. So I just stood there, saying things like, “What are you doing?” whilst they gave lame excuses along the lines of, “Hey, that bag that I just half-emptied into my pocket? Well, the store has to sell that cheaper now. I just SAVED someone else money.”


They didn’t understand. All my life, being raised by business owners, I recalled all the lectures about how stealing raised the price of retail items because the less the store makes, the less they can pay their employees and the more they have to charge customers. But my “ride” never saw the logic in that, and I was forced to make new friends on several occasions.

Which is why I was equally unimpressed when a friend told me about the new shoplifting policy of a major national chain. She worked at a large department store in Iowa at a store that has been the anchor of nearly every mall in America. It starts with a J and ends with a Y. She personally witnessed 4 young men come into the store and shoplift hundreds of dollars’ worth of clothes. But when she tried to stop them, the boss told her “no”. This happened over and over again.

You see, their policy had changed, due to several lawsuits involving shoplifters getting hurt or innocent people being accused, so now Barb just had to stand idly by, call the Loss Prevention officer on the phone and gape in awe when that woman said,

“Well, we can’t do anything because they haven’t stolen $10,000 worth of merchandise yet.”

“Seriously? They can walk out of You-Know-Where with $9,999 worth of stuff and NOTHING will happen to them?” I was incredulous…but not stupid. “Too bad I don’t live there anymore, I’d be right down to clean you out!” She knew I was kidding, but come on!

I thought about my parents, who must be whirling like dervishes in their graves and about my oldest brother, who must be livid over these kinds of panty-waisted laws. I don’t know why or by whom these kinds of laws were passed. Perhaps someone had been tackled on that unforgiving mall floor, dragged inside and accused of shoplifting when, in fact, they were perfectly innocent. Perhaps they sued. But still, this kind of lackadaisical policy is just one of the many reasons why said store is now in real danger of going out of business.

I know I don’t make policy for states or national chains, but I have decided to take a small stand against any form of shoplifting. From now on, I will tell a store manager what’s happening whenever I see a person

I = I Quit!

II should’ve known better. It was all too good to be true. My Home Healthcare job that I loved so much? Believe it or not, despite the best efforts of the hag next door, I really did love my job. I got to do word processing, preparation of written proposals or “bids” for contracts, some accounting, some secretarial and every other day I sat at the phones over lunch. It broke up my day nicely. Always something different going on, never 3 boring days in a row. And it was DOWNTOWN.

Sure, it was costing me a fortune to park within a mile radius of the building. Yes, it was a pain to spend over an hour getting somewhere that on light traffic days took 25 minutes. And of course, I had to put up with Godzilla, but at least I felt productive. I learned to pack a lunch. I did my make-up in the car. I economized wherever possible and my bosses took notice. Joanne, the president, routinely called me in, just to thank me for doing such a good job, or for cleaning off her sty of a desk, or driving her to the airport.

Sandy, the Vice President, was hardly ever in the office, as she was setting up a new branch in a suburb an hour from the downtown location. But all of the proposals I wrote, were for her. On her rare days in the office, she would stop by my desk and spend 2 hours talking to me: about motherhood, what a blessing it would be to stay home and raise children, and she gushed over what a wonderful job I did for her latest presentation.

I felt truly appreciated.

One day, after about three months, Koleta came to talk to me. She thanked me for hanging in there. I thought she meant with the harpy across the hall, but she didn’t. Turned out that more than a few of Joanne’s assistants had just “up and quit”, some leaving at lunch and just never coming back. Strange, I thought, given how much I really enjoyed my work. I liked it so much, my boyfriend, who later became my husband, and I started looking at condos to buy. We even put in an offer on one we liked and started the loan approval process. I planned to keep that job for as long as humanly possible.

Initially, I had been hired on as a temp, but they renewed me as full-time when that contract was fulfilled. On my first day, Koleta had informed me about Sandy’s ex-husband. He apparently was one of those “psychos” who lost all custody to his ex-wife and could not even be told Sandy’s phone number or whereabouts for fear he would physically come after his kids. Being divorced myself after a short, painful marriage, I could totally relate.

I kept my word, Sandy’s secrets were safe with me.

Until…I came in one cold morning in January to Sandy sitting on my desk, fuming. I tried to make polite conversation, but all she wanted to do was scream. Evidently, whilst I was manning the receptionist’s desk the day before, someone back in the offices had answered a phone call on Joanne and Sandy’s direct line. It was Sandy’s mother, and she needed to be picked up at the airport. No one gave me the message. No one gave Sandy the message, and due to the no contact rule, no one would give out Sandy’s number over the phone, either.

Of course, she assumed it was me. But as I sit here today, I honestly did not talk to Sandy’s mother. I have wracked my brain for any recollection of that phone call and frankly, the woman had to have spoken with someone else. I could not even recall having a conversation like it. Every call I took was business, not personal, especially since the VP was never there and kept her cell on her at all times for personal calls.

Why she didn’t mention that her mother was coming to town, I don’t know. Why she didn’t know what time her mom’s plane was arriving at the airport, I don’t know. Why didn’t her mom have her daughter’s cell phone number? I don’t know. Who the dipsh*t was who actually dropped the ball on that one, I DON’T KNOW. But try telling that to an irate VP who wants somebody’s, anybody’s, head to roll. And it would have been fine, if she had stopped there.

A one minute tantrum over some imagined wrong I could handle.

But, she started to shriek about how incompetent I was, and people started to stare. She screamed about how I hadn’t done one thing right since I started that job, and people found excuses to open their office doors to peek out. How could I be such a colossal idiot? Now folks were leaning out of their cubicles and straining to hear every word. Thirty of them. Once again, I was as embarrassed as I could be. I could feel my face getting hot, but not with shame, with anger.

Finally, I said, through clenched teeth, “You have an office. With a door. If you have something to say to me, shouldn’t we go in there, like professionals?”


I was literally shaking by this point. She would not be consoled for another five minutes. I stood there and took it, believing everyone was against me. They were standing in doorways, lingering in halls, walking by on purpose with stacks of paperwork, just to get a better look. But, no one was smiling, no one was laughing, some had looks of pity on their faces, but most were just waiting for the other shoe to fall. My shoe. This is what had happened before, why all those women “inexplicably” got up and left.

“I quit”, I said to Koleta as she stood, looking helpless, in her doorway. She followed me to the elevator and tried to convince me to stay. I wanted my job, I wanted my condo, (which never made it through to approval because I was suddenly unemployed), and I felt for her, I really did. Now she had to begin the hunt all over again, for the next poor soul who could not be told the truth, either. God only knows how many times she’s filled my position before, or since. But I have an inkling. We simply weren’t getting paid enough to be anybody’s doormat. There is no price-tag on that.

F is for Federal Law Enforcement?

FI believe certain things when it comes to business. One, as you know, is the customer is always right. Secondly, one should pay well, and be well paid, for work well done. Thirdly, I (naively?) believed that if you work hard and live honestly, life would always work out.

During my life, however, I have come across those who believe in earning an income any way they can. Professionals, mind you, in respectable careers, not just those who live on the fringes of society.

For example, in August 1997, my husband and I purchased a house with some help from my parents. They gave us the down-payment so we could get out of that 1 bedroom apartment and raise our newborn little girl. It should have been one of the happiest moments of my life, and for a few weeks, it was.

We went through all of the usual steps, credit checks, applications, paperwork and more paperwork. We stood on our heads for weeks running down all of the documents they needed and then my folks agreed to help out with the down-payment. Hurray! We had everything we needed! We were finally going to get off the hamster-wheel of renting and have something to show for all of those monthly payments.

But, what my mother refused to do, was sign a piece of paper stating that the money was a gift, not a loan.

We were screwed.

We’d spent months looking at houses, meeting with realtors, collecting business cards until we found the perfect one — which happened to be located right next door to the realtor who was selling the home for her former neighbors. She was a real sweetheart and I was looking forward to having her and her family for my neighbors.

Until it all fell through…or so I thought. Without that “gift” notification, the mortgage company would have to consider the money a loan that would, at some time in the future, need to be repaid. In other words, they would reject our mortgage application and all of our months of running around would be for naught. I was heartbroken.

Meanwhile, I was being harassed by my husband’s ex-wife, a cruel alcoholic, who after 3 years of marriage, would still not accept our union. Or our daughter as legitimate, even though we got married in May of 1994 and she was 5 months old. So, on top of all the stress with my parents, I had The Harpy to worry about. Every night, like clockwork, she would call after midnight, ranting and raving about something and finally, I’d had enough. Consequently, I had a machine hooked up to our phone which recorded her calls, their content and duration as proof for the police. We were pressing charges. But this tape recording would turn out to have more than one use.

When the realtor found out about the gift letter, she freaked. I thought I was upset. She then told me to give the money to my husband’s grandmother and have her return the money, with the signed letter, as if the down-payment had come from her. Which is fine, except that it’s money laundering. Possessing a Bachelor’s in Business, I knew this. I called the credit union, to verify my suspicions. A nice young woman answered and proceeded to tell me, in a very chipper voice, “oh don’t worry, there was someone in here doing the same thing just the other day.” Apparently, to the bank, that was not a crime. I hung up before I could blurt out: “Well, you sit right there honey, ‘cause I’m going to run off a stack of twenties with my laser printer. When I’m done, I’m bring them to your window, because you probably don’t know that counterfeiting is illegal either.”

But that’s not all. Being a veteran’s widow, Grandma had gone to the Judge Advocate General’s office up at the Army base nearby. He confirmed my fears – that we could all get in serious trouble, if caught. Fair enough.

So I told the realtor, “Thanks, but no thanks.” But she was relentless. Next thing I knew, she had the mortgage broker call me on a three-way line. You see, they were not willing to forfeit their potential commissions…not yet. They outlined, in detail, how I could still get the house of my dreams…if I was willing to bend the rules a little.

Step 1: Sign the gift letter with my mother’s name.

Step 2: Fill out the mortgage documents and sign them, stating unequivocally that all of this was on the up and up.

Forgery? Falsifying government documents? Really? (Those are not rules, lady. Those are felonies.) But, I had an ace in the hole… Remember the phone tap? Bingo!

Now, for the record, I’m usually pretty laid back. Not a narc. I’ve bent my share of rules. If you want to have a beer and you’re over 18, I’ll turn my head. If you have a joint and it falls out of your pocket in front of me, I’ll give it back, provided you’re an adult. But this was something like 10-15 years in prison, ok, for something that was supposed to be perfectly legal. And these people had licenses to do their jobs, so they knew they were telling me to break the law. They have seminars about this stuff.

I was furious, so I took the advice of a friend and called the largest federal law enforcement agency in this land. They answered, took my statement over a period of about 30 minutes and sounded very surprised that I had this all on cassette tape. But yes, I had them dead to rights. This was fraud, forgery, money laundering… right up their alley, one would think. Finally, I thought, some justice – for these no-account crooks dressed up as legitimate businesspersons. (Both women, I might add. How disappointing.)

And do you know what they said? “Don’t call us, we’ll call you.”

Yep, hold on to that tape honey, and if, at some point, we decide to DO OUR JOBS, we’ll let you know. Click. I sat there in shock, staring at the phone. I had agonized for days over whether to even make this call. These women had families! But I knew what the agency was thinking, a victimless crime, right? It’s houses lady, not heroin. And they were correct, for the moment.

My mother did finally sign the paper. We got our house and the incident was forgotten. That tape got lost somewhere over the next 18 years.

But since then, exactly 11 years later, it was revealed that thousands of mortgages were pushed through the system that were not strictly legitimate. Many would not have been approved, if not for some “creative accounting”. Countless Americans lost their homes. Banks and mortgage companies went under by the dozens and those that survived had to be bailed out to the tune of hundreds of billions of taxpayer dollars. Death by millions of cuts.

Yet the Law Enforcement Agency claimed to know nothing about it.

I have one question for that agency. How victimless is it now?

E is for Epitome (of Stupidity!!)

EAs you may have noticed, I like to complain – not just when I have been treated poorly by those who pay me to perform a job, but especially when I’m treated badly by those whom I pay to do theirs.

We’ve all had the experience of standing in some government office and wondering what sort of mental illness one must possess to be qualified for that job. But at the DMV, it isn’t mental illness, so much as personality disorder at play. Narcissistic Personality Disorder to be precise. After my latest adventure, I felt obliged to look it up…it’s a real thing.

Setting: In January of this year we had a house fire which destroyed almost all of my belongings, including things I thought were secure, like the title to my car. (Note to self: buy better safe). The insurance company moved us to a motel in our small KS town, then to some furnished apartments outside of town. Outside of the state in fact. Without the title, I could not get my car registered in the new state and my plates from my former state, Colorado, were about to expire, so I called the dealership where I bought it and they sent me a new one. In a little over a week, a company in Colorado managed to track down, obtain and mail a document vital to my recovery from this tragic incident. It was kind of them, I must say.

However, the story skews from there. Armed with the title and all of the documents I can ever recall needing at the DMV, my daughter and I proceeded to the office in Joplin, MO. We waited for half an hour and presented our paperwork at the counter. All I needed was a temporary license plate so I could drive my car for the next 60 days in their state. Then we were going back to Kansas.

I had brought everything: the title, my lease, my driver’s license, my paperwork from the house fire, the car insurance, and several other documents of identity as proof. The girl behind the desk fixed me with an appraising look as I dumped my paperwork on the counter. I began to explain what had happened. She, or course, interrupted me by pulling out a sheet of paper, circling items I would need, including, but not limited to a vehicle inspection and a COURT WAIVER stating I owed no in-state taxes. Then, she none-too-politely informed me I would be better off going back to Kansas to title my car. I informed her that was a 180-mile round trip, to which she gave me a half-smile and called the next number.

Kansas it was.

The next day, I took all of the above, plus my house’s recent utility bill and drove 80 miles to my destination. No one was in line, thankfully, and I approached the desk with something akin to hope burgeoning in my black little heart. Maybe the Missouri girl was right. Yes, this was much better.

“You need a KS driver’s license, first off. Please go to their office and have a seat. Do you know where it is?”

The fifth circle of Hell?

Had I really expected anything else?

After we received directions, off we went to the license office. It’s a quaint little affair, located on the bottom floor of a building painted the exact color of gangrene. They don’t hand out printed numbers from a ticket machine there – they have the letters A-Z handwritten on a hook. Very low tech.

Every seat was full.


After sorting through the stack of papers I’d brought along, cleaning out all the receipts my insurance company insists I keep for the fire from my purse and unsuccessfully rooting around for a Chap-stick for my daughter, it was finally my turn.


I approached the Asian man in training with my wad of papers and he began to cringe. Three sentences in, he put out his hands…”I am just a trainee. I can’t help you, yet. Maybe in a couple of weeks, I’ll know how to do this one.” I almost put my head down on the counter. Then a voice came to my rescue…or so I thought.

“Here, you handle this gentleman, I’ll take her,” he announced brusquely from behind his desk. My heart leapt. A seasoned veteran, returned from lunch to help me out? Somebody call Ripley’s. Quickly, I traded places with a man who had one piece of paper and spoke very little English. The paper didn’t even have his photo on it. Good luck, buddy, I thought, looking down at the stack of ID in my hand: driver’s license, SS card, tax papers, insurance cards, bills, and a letter from the Social Security Administration verifying my birthdate and identity.

How could this go wrong?

I turned to him with a smile…that instantly died on my face. This man was a cop. I mean it, a cop. A flat-topped, thick-necked, brick you-know-what-house of a man who looked like he wore mirrored sunglasses for the state patrol five minutes ago. Crap. But he knew his stuff. As I began again, he quickly interrupted me as well.

“Do you have your birth certificate?” he asked gruffly, giving all of proof a cursory glance.

“No, that was lost in a fire. The only other copy might be with my ex-husband in Colorado.”

Meanwhile, the Latino man standing next to me with one sheet of paper, got to proceed to the “let’s take your photo now” line. Hmmm.

“Well, you’re going to need it. Either that or a passport,” he added, passing me my stack of papers with yet another perched on top. You guessed it, the list with acceptable ID circled in red. “You are, after all, coming from another state.”

Yes, but not another COUNTRY, I was tempted to add. And point. But I didn’t.

“Go find it, then come back,” he barked and announced the next letter in the alphabet. “Oh, and we’ll need an inspection too,” he called out as I was headed towards the door.

Of course you do.

“C” for Customer Service

CFirst, a little history about me. My father owned businesses in the Midwest that total 67 stores today. I worked for them since I was 13. Therefore, I KNOW how you’re supposed to treat a customer: no matter how upset they are, no matter the size or duration of their tantrum, no matter how pissed you might be, my parents taught me one lesson above all – the CUSTOMER IS ALWAYS RIGHT.

So, if you have ever been the victim of poor customer service, you know firsthand how frustrating that can be. Now, we’ve all seen the 17-yr. old at the convenience store who paints her nails whilst talking on the phone, to her boyfriend no less, who rings up your items without any eye contact, total amount due or spoken words whatsoever. That’s bothersome, even annoying at times.

I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about hair-tearing, jaw-clenching, weapons-grade epic fails.

The kind that remind you of trying to claim your lost luggage at an airport while the person behind the counter looks you straight in the eyes and asks, “Has your plane landed yet?”

For instance:

While living in a suburb of Denver, I was the recipient of several such incidents, the most egregious of which concerned a regional phone/internet provider.

Situation: At 11:05 pm, my home phone goes out. It is provided by and connected through the internet company and that service is still up and running just fine. At the time, I did not have a cell phone. So, I go to online chat, a wonderful new service I thought would be the answer to my current problem. I sign on and I wait. And wait. Annnnd wait… finally, a connection.

Customer Service Person (CSP): Hello, welcome to (XYZ) Internet Services. My name is (let’s call her Bambi, shall we?)

Me: Good evening. My phone service has gone out. No dial tone, no connection whatsoever. What can I do?

Bambi: Let me take a look at what’s happening…

Me: (waiting for 5 minutes while she checks all the connections)

Bambi: Looks as though everything should be working. Did you unplug and re-plug all of the cords?

Me: Yes, I did that.

Bambi: Hmmm, did you reset your modem?

Me: Yep, I tried that too.

Bambi: Well, that’s all I can think of on this end. Here’s a phone number where you can get ahold of customer service, as what we can do here is really quite limited. 1-800-DON’T-KNOW. Or you can try, 1-888-DON’T-CARE.

Me: But, my PHONE is out. How can I call them?

Bambi: Don’t you have a cell phone?

Me: No.

Bambi: Can you go to a neighbor’s?

Me: It’s after midnight now, so, probably not.

Bambi: Can’t you just wake someone up? [Not kidding]

Me: Um, not really, I’d like them to talk to me from now on.

Bambi: Can you get to a payphone?

Me: Don’t have a car and the only one in the neighborhood is broken. I’ve tried to use it before. [Note: Not too many payphones available that haven’t been vandalized within an inch of their lives in Denver.]

Bambi: I’m sorry, but that’s all I can offer.

Me: Wait a minute, then what is THIS chat service for?

Bambi: For when the internet is having trouble.

Me: So let me get this straight, if I’m having trouble with my internet, I can chat with you online, but if my phone goes out I can call?

Bambi: That’s right. Sorry I couldn’t help you. You’ll just have to borrow someone’s phone tomorrow. Bye.

[Leaves chat]


Honestly folks, I’ve been on both sides of that scenario. I used to do incoming customer service for the now-defunct MCI, all right? But I have never, NEVER encountered someone as dense and unhelpful as the folks being hired nowadays. So please, companies, when you hire people, don’t just cut them loose after a half-day of watching others perform this task. TRAIN them for the love of God.

Back to you…