MISCUES AT THE MARKETPLACE (2)
Ah, the Mechanics of Things
The first CD player I purchased 22 years ago was a bare-bones Philips model that cost about $100. The most recent CD player I bought last year was a super sophisticated Bose wave system that cost about $1000. Both sets went kerplunk, the Philips just after the warranty expired, and the Bose just a week after it arrived. The first indication that the Philips was flawed occurred when the tray started to creak loudly when I inserted and ejected a disc. The next day, the disc spun erratically when I pressed the select button, activating the ERR warning signal that flashed repeatedly. I immediately took the machine to a repair shop. I was told that a couple of major components were defective and that replacing them would cost about $100. I was so disgusted that I could see myself demolishing the Philips with a sledgehammer. The store manager, sensing my anger, asked me to check the warranty. Perhaps the player was still covered; so there still might be some hope.
When I got home, I discovered that the warranty had expired three days earlier. I was hopping mad: fate was screwing with me, and I had no choice but to submit. My wife, however, had a plan. Why not contact Philips' customer service department? Tapping into my experience in teaching business writing courses, maybe I could convince Philips to waive the lapsed warranty because glaring manufacturing errors inherent in the player--not anything that I had done--had caused it to self-destruct. I agreed that I'd give it a try, but I first needed some time to decompress. When I had regained my composure, I wrote a carefully crafted letter to Philips about my plight. I soon received a reply. Much to my surprise, Philips admitted that despite its scrupulous quality control standards, occasionally, "failures can occur." Even though the warranty had expired, "as a one-time customer relations gesture," Philips would free-of-charge provide the parts required to repair my unit. Labor costs would be my responsibility. This compromise seemed reasonable enough. I ended up paying only $40, and the CD player worked flawlessly for over ten years.
Replacing the Bose system was much easier and cheaper. At first, the wave system worked magnificently, flooding all the rooms in my house with full, rich sound. But I soon realized that I had a major problem when the screen indicated that it couldn't read any disc that I tried to play. I was appalled that such a superior product could break down so fast or, in fact, break down at all. Even my old Philips had lasted longer. However, this time the warranty was still intact. All I had to do was notify Bose by phone (a cordial two-minute procedure), rebox the player (not too tough, even for me), send it off (a cinch), and wait for a new one to be delivered (that was the hard part). Luckily for my nerves, within a week I had a new player that has so far operated without a hitch.
A Rip-roaring Mess at Food Lion
A couple of days ago, I found some plums on sale at Food Lion. I pounced on them, rounding up at least a dozen plump ones. As I was beginning to check out, I gave the cashier my MVP card. She scanned it, glanced at the plums through the transparent cellophane and then entered a price that was double what it should have been—the discount wasn’t showing. So I reminded her that she needed to make sure that she plugged in the correct number tag on the plums. She peered at the plums again, clicked on the register, and out popped the wrong price once more.
Either the cashier made a mistake, or the plums were mislabeled. Seeing that I wasn’t in any rush to press the “yes” transaction button, she tried to contact her supervisor, who was busy with other customer concerns. My complaint would have to wait.
In the meantime, the line behind me was getting longer and a bit unruly. But I didn’t waver: those succulent plums meant a lot to me, especially at 98 cents a pound. Eventually, her boss arrived. She too was mystified until she realized that the number stamped on the plums was identical to the one for the not-on-sale peaches. With this inaccuracy finally detected, the supervisor instructed the cashier how to give me the discount. This process altogether took about fifteen minutes. At my age, wasting time is not an option I relish.
Today, I go back to Food Lion for more plums on sale and for some packages of seafood: Gorton’s two-for-one frozen tilapia and salmon. The plums ring up correctly, so does the salmon, but the tilapia shows no discounted price. I recognize the cashier—she is the one who floundered along with me in the earlier plum incident. I don’t think that she is thrilled to see me again in a similar predicament. After double-checking, she asserts that the tilapia must not be on sale. Is this “Groundhog Day” revisited? I salivated when I saw the two-for-one signs at the Gorton seafood section. There is no mistake. I am not in the midst of a senior moment; I am right on target, and **bleep** it, I will not be denied. The cashier soon locates a customer service person who fiddles with the register and proclaims as well that the tilapia is not on sale. When I firmly but respectfully disagree, the young lady strolls to the seafood freezer to see for herself. It takes her about five minutes to do her research—while some disgruntled shoppers behind me file to another line and new ones replace them, unaware that they too may be delayed. The customer service lady emerges (she wasn’t out of breath) with potentially bad news for me. She cannot find any two-for-one tilapia sale—that special applies only to the salmon.
However, I am not deterred. With most of my reserves of tact depleted, I am still able to persuade her to accompany me to the frozen fish compartment. Let the people in back of me fend for themselves; my sanity is at stake. In a moment, I point at the sale sign: next to a variety of tilapia is written “Two for One.” The young lady apologizes for her oversight, dashes to the cash register, fails to make the adjustment click in, gets flustered, and begs me to pay the full price for now: she will reimburse me at the customer service desk, where she would feel more comfortable with the transaction. Incompetence incorporated! What is the problem with Food Lion? Two consecutive times in one week, the register misfires and their employees are clueless.
But I’m not done with the story. When I get to the customer service desk, the young lady asks me how much one package of tilapia costs—she can’t figure it out from the receipt. I blurt out $3.99—a reasonable estimate. She confesses that she can’t afford the time to scrounge around for out the exact price—so $3.99 will be fine. I don’t care if she is inexperienced or just burnt out. I cheerfully pocket my refund and cart off my much-sought-after tilapia, thankful that I am not indeed losing my mind.
An Assist in the Eye of the Storm
I recently purchased new lenses for my glasses because the cataract in my right eye is progressively blurring my vision. Even though I know that a stronger prescription cannot for long counteract the deterioration in my right eye, I still want to see as clearly as possible. And at least for a while, a sharply focused lens should give me that opportunity.
But there was a snag. After putting in the new lenses, my optician asked me to read the eye chart while covering up my left eye. The letters, from the third row down, were surprisingly indistinct. As I started to complain, the optician told me that considering the extent of my cataract development, nothing more could be done. I ought to tolerate the prescription as is.
For about two weeks, I obsessed over how much better I could see out of my left eye than with my right eye, particularly when I was driving. Along with my skewed depth perception and generally poor judge of distance that gets worse at night, adding a sliver of distorted vision only increases my witch’s brew of anxieties.
Eventually, with a nudge from my wife, I returned to my optometrist for a second opinion. I didn’t expect him to see me right away; he is booked months ahead. Before I had a chance to glance around the waiting room, a middle-aged female assistant appeared, ushering me into an office area to give me a battery of vision tests. With a very pronounced (and faintly familiar) New York accent, she explained to what degree the prescription was faulty. My right eye needed a 2.75 correction instead of the current 2.25. She then consulted with the optician next door. After scrutinizing my lenses, he too was convinced that I needed a stronger prescription.
Buttressed with this information, the no-nonsense assistant made sure that I got an appointment scheduled within a week—and she assured me that any local optician would honor, at no extra charge, a “doctor’s reorder.”
When the optometrist later examined my eyes, he agreed that the 2.75 correction would offer me clearer vision when I was stationary. But there was a catch—the differential between my left and right eye would be so great that I might have difficulty coordinating both eyes when I was moving about. That’s why he was so conservative in his original prescription. His caveat notwithstanding, he agreed to write me a script for a more powerful lens. I was elated. All might yet be well.
Before I left the building, I saw the same assistant who had previously befriended me. Suddenly, I recognized where I had seen—and heard her—before. Years ago, she was the exceptionally well informed, cordial receptionist at my former optometrist’s office. Was that why she had been so kind to me and so helpful? Was that why I had been fast-tracked at the appointment desk? I’d like to think that she would have been that solicitous to any patient in my position. In any case, I thanked her for what she had done for me, and she said she was glad that I was on the right track.
As it turns out, with my revised prescription, my vision is markedly improved, whether I squint or sprint. I will always fondly recall the optometrist’s assistant who diligently steered me into the light at the end of the tunnel. But, of course, without my wife’s encouragement, I would still be constricted in the bowels of the tunnel, grumbling and growling with self-pity.
Just as it takes a village to raise a child, sometimes it takes at least two women from a village to enlighten a man.
A MEMORABLE NIGHT OUT
Last night, my wife and I went to a new Italian restaurant called Bella Mia. After we got situated, a very pleasant young waitress took our order. We got water and rolls in a few minutes—but without the olive oil that we had requested. Then we waited and waited and waited some more. The place wasn’t that busy, so where was the food? Finally, the waitress came over and asked us if we wanted our check. What check? We hadn’t even gotten our appetizer, let alone our entrées. She blushed and profusely apologized for her oversight. She said that the orders were so backed up that she was a bit disoriented. In any case, we again asked her for the dipping oil and a new batch of rolls. After my wife and I had exhausted all of the small talk that we could muster, the rolls came, but not the oil. Perhaps the olives were still being harvested in the back room of the kitchen. Everyone around us—even those people who came in after we did—had been served. They looked so jolly, and we enviously eyed their platters filled will heaps of pasta with aromatic sauces.
Where was our food? What was our offense? Why were we being ignored? Neither man nor woman can live by rolls alone. Just as our patience was unraveling, the food came. All of it, including the elusive dipping oil. Even though the long anticipated meal turned out to be delectable, I wanted to punish the inept waitress by giving her a measly tip. At that moment, she reappeared. With an ingratiating smile, she told us that because of our being so much inconvenienced, the meal was on the house.
And I had wanted revenge! Instead of shortchanging her, I left her a very generous gratuity (Scrooge that I otherwise am); and my wife, feeling sorry for her, gave her a farewell hug. What a strange evening: Mama Mia at Bella Mia.
Bus Stop Blues
Even though my wife and I have had some trouble with bus regulations in Paris, this evening we opted to go home on line 94, one of three lines at the bus stop that we walked to. Right away, we saw bus 94 approaching, but it didn't slow down. I waved my arms trying to get the driver's attention. He glanced at me but just kept on going. After I shouted a few obscenities, two other people at the same stop waiting for another bus line explained to me that I didn't properly flag down the bus driver. Arm waving is ineffective because in France, it merely means hello or goodbye. The proper way to get the bus driver to stop for you is to point your index finger at him and wiggle it up and down. These people weren't joking. My wife and I, on the other hand, couldn't believe that such a screwy hand signal was de rigeur. More likely, the bus driver might have ignored me because I appeared to be a tourist with my wind breaker, my extra-large back pack, and my Wilson cap (from what I have seen, Parisian men and women rarely wear any kind of hat).
Getting back to wiggling. A young lady coming late to the bus stop wiggled her finger--and her figure--at the line 27 bus driver who had at first gone past the stop but slowed down half a block away to make sure he could accommodate her. My wife and I were too indignant to stay at that bus stop. If we had remained, the middle finger might have been the only one that we would have displayed rigorously.
A Small Triumph
As an English instructor, I am dismayed when I see misspelled words in public (what a shocker if I'd forgotten to insert the "l" in that word). I either inform the management of the error or, if I have access to my red pen, I make the correction myself. Most of the time, I succeed in righting these grievous affronts to our language. But occasionally, I get rebuffed with a vengeance.
Once while my wife was trying on dresses in a department store, I noticed that there was a large sign nearby that said "Seperates." Automatically, I saw the mistake: the word should be spelled "Separates." I didn't have my red pen at the time, so I located a salesperson to voice my concern. Boy, did I meet my match! She was seething with indignation: "No one cares how the word is spelled; that is our business. And stop browsing around the ladies' clothes racks or I'll call security."
Before I could respond, my wife came out of the dressing room with four expensive outfits that she wanted to buy, gave me a lingering hug, and asked the now-embarrassed salesclerk to ring up the purchases. The woman, who was on commission, got real cheery; she even smiled. In fact, she profusely thanked me for pointing out the spelling error and assured me that the manager would put up a corrected sign that afternoon.
What a hypocrite! The salesperson's about-face showed how two-faced she was: anything for a buck, eh? Although I was sickened by her false transformation, I kept quiet. I'd do anything to protect the purity of the written word. But what if the salesclerk was just trying to humor me? I had to know the truth, so I reconnoitered the dressing area the next day. I was elated to see the sign spelled accurately. My intervention had paid off after all--even at the expense of depleting my pocketbook.
Oy!
The other day, my wife made lunch for us and the grandchildren. The main course was soy crumble meal starters combined with various plain veggies. I always enjoy these unexciting but nutritious crumbles--whether I prepare them or my wife does--but the meal was awfully spicy, so much so that the kids ate very little of it. My palate was burning, but I suffered through the ordeal, not wanting to embarrass my wife or have her harass me for complaining in public. When we were alone, however, I did mention that the food was too strongly seasoned. She had no explanation; I knew, well at least I hoped, that she wasn't trying to torment my taste buds. She must have inadvertently added some extra flavorings.
Tonight, after my wife was elsewhere, I heated up a new package of crumbles with a slight amount of onion and garlic powder, a smidgen of salt, and unseasoned noodles. **bleep**! The stuff was as ferocious as the last time, eating away at the roof of my mouth. Because I hate to waste food, I finished all of it, all the while regretting that I didn't dine out as I had earlier intended.
I figured that Morningstar must have changed its recipe, taking the joy out of my soy. Dejected, I rummaged in the freezer to see how many new and unimproved meal-starter crumbles remained. I immediately found four of the six packages that I had recently purchased. Front and back, they were identical to the crumbles that I was used to. So what was the origin of the mystery ingredient that I found so distasteful? That nagging (and gagging) question was soon resolved when I examined the last two crumble packages. At the bottom of the front side were the words "sausage style"; otherwise the layout was the same as in the original crumbles. Then I checked the ingredients listed on the back and eventually found the culprit: chicory root! That was the root of the problem.
MISLEADING ADVERTISING
At Wal-Mart, I recently purchased many cans of your "Double Q" skinless and boneless wild Alaskan salmon. Each one of them had lots of irritating tiny bones. If you say that your salmon is boneless, it should be boneless, no? Although the price of your salmon was lower than competing brands (gram for gram), I will never buy your product again--unless your deboning process does a better job. The other companies don't have any detectable bones in their boneless canned salmon. Your misleading advertising discredits Peter Pan Seafoods, Inc. Yes, I have a bone to pick with you. Please investigate; your integrity is at stake.
Ads--the Better to Frustrate You With, My Dear Shopper
I hate it when a store lures you in with a sales brochure proclaiming “15% off qualifying purchases including regular, sale, and clearance items storewide all day at Macy’s.” Of course, the key word is qualifying. If you read the fine print, look what is not included: “everyday values, specials, super buys; designer shoes, handbags, and sportswear; cosmetics; fragrances, watches; all electrics and electronics; furniture; mattresses and area rugs; flatware.” And then, we are given a list of over 30 clothing brands that are also excluded. What the hell is left to buy that is 15% off?
schlomo