My Posts Are TOO LONG

I just got told my posts are too long. This pleases me greatly when Someone Else speaks up about what they do and don't like. I am No Longer Alone!

My posts will no longer be too long. Only long enough to convey the message.

[note to self: invent Sarcasm HTML tag]

The Opposite of Good is Apathy

Today I discovered a problem. This problem could cost its company tens of thousands of dollars in lost profits, and far more than that in lost revenue. Like a good Girl Scout, I did my very best to bring it to the attention of the people who stand to lose this revenue.

Perhaps, since it is a Monday and everyone's mood is a tad Monday'ish, the response I encountered was a rousing 'whatever.'

Perhaps the humidity is too high, clogging the input channels so that the implication of this alert did not quite get to the concerned synapses, which would have automatically screeched "SH*T! That's my paycheck!!"

Perhaps I did not crawl up the ankles of the towering corporate megalith far enough to reach the person tasked with caring enough that this revenue is being tossed down the tubes.

Perhaps this company doesn't care that they have lost not only my clients' business but potentially the business of a few thousand other individuals who might see their ill-placed information and wonder what sort of nonsense they are avoiding by NOT doing business with this particular source.

After six long-distance phone calls, five automatic electronic transfers, four unintelligible answering system messages, three misbehaving voicemail boxes and a pair of disconnects, I reached the Partridge in the Pear Tree ... the Not My Department Department.

This highly effective, well-placed Department was actually staffed by a human. This human did not want my name. It did not want my phone number. It did not want to know the nature of the problem nor the implications for my business (or its). It did not offer to send me elsewhere. It did not offer to have someone research the problem and call me back, even if it were to call me back to tell me I should mind my own business. It did, however, thank me for calling - a phrase which it used immediately on answering, with nary a clue of what I was calling about.

So I stopped with the calls and the concern and the worrying, called my client back and gave her two other sources for the product in question (both of which were quite helpful in solving her need - rapidly and accurately).

I am grateful for finally having reached the Not My Department Department. If it weren't for that sole individual's presence, I would still be doing my level best to find a person who actually cares that a problem exists.

Soon word will get out, and every company will want their own Not My Department Department. I look forward to the day - I'll save ever so much money on phone calls and voicemail messages.

Bless their hearts.

Be Happy. That Is An Order.

Gentle readers who have been following my rambling for a while know that I am a person of infinite patience and even temper when it comes to real life events. It is an unspoken rule that here is where my grumpiness emerges, not elsewhere.
(ok, you can stop with the snickering now)

I must confess that this rule of mine was nearly broken - nay, shattered beyond repair today in the face of yet another twist in the continuing saga of downright lame customer service. I'll spare you the gory details, but in short:

I've been trying to deal with this particular company for five months now, politely and patiently, with the respect that any business deserves. Honest I have. I have yet to receive completely satisfactory service but things have been looking up.

Today, the field service guy - yet another in a string of different field service guys - showed up, this time only a few hours late (as opposed to not at all). He did what he had arrived to do, then returned to the front porch again, extending clipboard with a form for signature.

Down and slightly to the right of the place for me to sign, teensy letters: Are you happy with the service? The YES box was already checked (in the same ink as the rest of service guy's writing).

Perhaps someone thinks that if they check this off before I get my mitts on it, I shall be satisfied because the form says so.

Bless their hearts.

Happy Birthday To YouHooHooHoo

I'm one year grumpier than last time we chatted.

When I woke up today and checked my email, I had 67 one-line cheerful bouncy Happy Birthday messages from forums where I don't even recall signing up (and four I'm pretty sure I don't belong to). Oh, and eighteen more heart-felt pleas for me to assist moving millions of dollars out of Nigeria from Dear Best Friends.

All I can say is thank goodness for email. If I'd received all this garbage in print form, I would have to contract for a new Dumpster and instead of grumping about spam, I would be bemoaning the loss of three good-sized trees.