What the ...

So I received a package in the mail a couple of days ago. Friday to be exact. It was shipped parcel post for a total cost to the sender of $7.78.

This particular package contained information that was related to a health insurance issue that has since been closed. Closed before the package was shipped. I guess it just takes that long to get the right information to the right people.

Not having any need for this particular packet o' information at this time, I thought it might be nice for the sender to get it back, since it contained some information that could be helpful to another woman. So, on Saturday, I marked "return to sender" on the front, walked out to the mailbox and dropped it in. It left with the mailman and I considered it "mission completion," as Leo, from my son's favorite show "Little Einsteins," would say.

Today, when I went out the mailbox, was a familiar-looking package stuffed in it. It was the same damn package! I pulled it out and saw a bright green sticker telling me that in order to return this unopened package to the original sender, I would have to march down to my local post office and pay $7.78. What? When did this go into effect? I did attempt to look up this particular "policy" on the postal service Web site, but couldn't find anything that related to it.

So, I threw the packaage in the trash. I'm not paying to return unopened, unnecessary, non-relevant mail to my insurance company's third-party vendor. No wonder everyone does everything online these days.

To Pay, or Not To Pay?

I received some really nice feedback after my initial posting, so thanks to those of you who actually read this thing. I was beginning to worry that I was just typing away for no good reason, but no, horrible experiences abound all over the Oklahoma City metro.

A good friend of mine relayed a story yesterday about a really BIG issue she had at Baker Street, a watering hole on the city's north side. (I've been there before; it wasn't too bad, except for the middle-aged balding man who kept hitting on me. And the frequency of middle-aged balding men hitting on me has increased lately, which makes me wonder if I look old, desperate or just don't care. Note: I am married and faithfully wear my rings, which makes my wonder if bling means anything these days).

Anyway, she, her husband and some friends had met for a couple of drinks one night last week. Of course, those friends brought other friends, and so on. So eventually, the party got to be pretty big and full of people my friend didn't know.

Now, when my friend's husband got there, he had given the waitress his check card to start a tab for them. Not normally a big deal, right? I think we've all done this before. The problem was that by the time everyone got there, there was something like 15 to 20 people who were being served by a waitress without a clue because she never bothered to ask anyone who was ordering drinks if it was all on the same check.

Now, I can assure you that every time I'm out with a group for dinner, drinks, whatever, we're always asked if it's on one check or split. ALWAYS. This gal just didn't do it. So people start to leave. And more people start to leave. Finally, it's just my friend and her husband, stuck with a bar tab totaling more than $360.

Okay. My first thought was what kind of schlep would just leave a gathering without first asking for their check? Or knowing that they just didn't pay? Shame on them, and know that karma is psychic boomerang - it all comes back around.

My second thought was what kind of genius is the waitress who let all those people leave without paying?

The answer to the second question is that she's amazingly stupid. So stupid in fact that she actually had the audacity to tell my friend that it was her husband who had ordered, and drank, all that liquor. Now, we're not talking about a couple glasses of wine. We're talking about $360 worth of beer, straight shots, shots mixed with stuff, and Red Bull's mixed with stuff. Are you kidding me?

The worst part - my friend had to pay the tab. Even after talking to the manager, who offered her a Baker Street gift card, which she told him in no uncertain terms that he could keep his gift card because she would never go back there. Even after yelling at this incompetent pair so loudly that she could be heard clearly over the crowd and music.

She had to pay it because they had taken her bank card hostage. To top it off, this waitress ran the bank card after my friend had given her a different card to use. So two cards were run for a total of more than $700. The bank card charge eventually came off her account, but for 5 days she was without the $360 in her bank account.

So my friend has made it her mission to never again go to Baker Street, and to tell everyone she knows to never go there.

Now it's my mission too.

The Beginning

So I've finally decided to jump on the blogging bandwagon. My initial thought was "Hey, I'll just rant about my life in general," but that seemed too self-serving. So I'm now on a crusade - against the idiots in the world who claim to be "customer service oriented" or that my "customer satisfaction" is their first priority. Really? Are you sure? 'Cause I'm not digging my past few experiences.

Now, admittedly, I do work in communications. Specifically, public relations, with a little bit (okay, a lot) of marketing stuff thrown in there (and no, they're NOT the same thing, but that's for a future posting). In a nutshell, I spend a great deal of time bringing harmony and understanding to the relationships between the company I work for and its audiences. So yeah, I'm a little sensitive to the attitude of the person behind the counter, on the other end of the phone, behind the booth at the trade show, and so on. But is it really all that hard to make a person feel like their patronage means something to your business?

So here's what started this whole thing. While out running errands for work today, I stopped to grab a salad that I could take back to the office from a deli I frequent. Notice I said "frequent." That means that they've seen me more than once.

Issue number one: I enter, take my place in line and proceed to place my order with a person who is clearly not happy to be there. Of course, she seems plenty happy to be there when the guy in front of me places his order. Personally, I don't think I look all that scary, but hey, I've been wrong before.

Issue number two: Next, I give my order slip to the guy who owns the place so that he can take my money. He looks at the slip (which has my name on it) gives me my total and then calls me Dan. My name is not Dan. It's Danielle, and I can assure you that I don't look like a man.

Issue number three: Then I move to the "to-go" waiting area for my box 'o goodness, where I wait for what seems like a really long time for a salad. It's finally ready. The guy at the counter calls my name (Danielle this time) sets the box on the counter, turns and walks away. As an afterthought, he says, as he's walking away, "Thanks Dan!"

Issue number four: I've ordered this particular salad before with great results. Fresh, crunchy lettuce. Ripe tomatoes. Fresh crumbled feta. AWESOME dressing. Lo-and-behold, when I opened my box today, what I encountered was not the salad that I had so enjoyed on previous occasions. No, what I got today looked like it had been scraped out of the left-over bin. A couple of olives, yellowed feta, some wimpy cucumber slices, no dressing, and, the worst of all - brown, slimy lettuce.

Anyone who's known me for any period of time will tell you that I'm a bit of a stickler when it comes to a couple of things:

1. Grown women with really high-pitched voices. You know, the ones who sound like they've been sucking on a helium balloon for a week straight.
2. My house must be clean and orderly. Make fun if you want, but I have been known to clean up the kitchen while I still had guests in the house.
3. My food.

Those who know me also know that I will eat just about anything, as long as it's not raw fish, anything that's been near raw fish, or anything that looks like raw fish, is okay by me. So the olives and cucumber I could overlook. And I could pick out the weird pieces of feta. Oh, and I had some dressing here in the work fridge, so that could have worked out. But I draw the line at the lettuce. Quite frankly, it makes my stomach turn.

I realize that eating establishments can't afford to just toss every piece of lettuce with a little bit of brown on the edges, but come on. There's a clear distinction between edible and not edible, and there was no way I was eating that.

So here I sit, hungry and irritated because I know that based on the sum of all the parts from today's visit to the deli, a phone call to complain wouldn't do a whole lot. So my decided course of action? To not go there again. Ever.