Tag: aww HAYLE no

Customer Service

Tiffany and Company had their grand opening at the Stony Point Fashion Park on September 9th.  Seeing as it was my birthday just the day before, I thought I’d keep this party going one more day and roll on over.  I have this necklace I wanted shortened and a pair of earrings that were missing some backs.  Really though, I was looking for a little more “Happy Birthday” to me.

I waited until early afternoon to make my visit, thinking that since Stony Point is close to Morgan’s school, I’d peruse the shop, get my repairs and still be on time for afternoon carpool.   Let me tell you, when I got there, you’d have thought they were giving stuff away.  People (read:women) had been clearly waiting for this store for a long time.  I overheard one associate say that folks were lined up outside at 10am when the mall opened.   When I got there at 1pm, the crowd was still thick.  Flanking the entrance were two stacks of Tiffany boxes at least 8ft. tall.   People were posing with the stacked boxes, snapping Instagrams and what not. I saw one woman lean against the side of the store, her arms framing the Tiffany and Co. sign on the wall.  Her body language, her blissfully contented grin;  I just knew she was going to be uploading that photo trying to convince folks she’d jetted off to NYC for the afternoon or something.

Anyway. . .this nice associate named Kevin greeted me at the door.  He had this Daddy Warbucks mixed with the Secret Service vibe going on.  Bald pate, suit, tie, and the ear bud in-the-ear-coiled-wire-down-the-neck thing.  Guess they have to keep tabs on the merchandise.  I think every associate in that place had on some Tiffany jewelry of some kind. It got me to wondering if you have to buy it to work there or do they loan you some stuff while you’re on the clock.  How about loaning me something like this?

So Kevin asks me how he could help me and I outline how I’d like my necklace shortened and my earring backs replaced. He confides that he’s the shipment manager, but he’d be happy to get an associate (i.e. peon) to help me out.  He casts his eyes about, but since the place is at max capacity, peons associates are scrambling in every direction.  He does me the honor of helping me himself.  I also tell him that I had heard there was a camera charm available.  What a nice little treat to self that would be, and would he be a dear and show it to me (I cross the threshold and suddenly I’m all Holly Golightly).  On his way to replace my earring back, he waylays an associate (let’s call her Erin) who would show me where the Tiffany charms can be found.

Erin turns to say hello and HOLY MOTHER OF PEARL!

Ol’ girl has a freakin’ Tom Selleck mustache hanging out of her nose.

I’m not kidding you.  Nose hair. Nose hair so long, I could have braided it.  I could have braided it up into her unibrow or down into her mustache. Yes, she had ALL THAT. It was triumvirate of hair.  WHAT THE HELL?! This girl gave new meaning to the word hirsute. If that wasn’t enough, when she smiled? **shudder** I think she’d been chewing butter covered rocks on her lunch break.

Kevin promised me a swift return with my items while Erin would help me with the chain shortening and the charms.  So, I follow *NOSE HAIR* Erin to the counter where she proceeds to very ineptly try to help me.  First, she can’t find the velvet covered sleeve you lay on the table to protect your jewelry.  *NOSE HAIR* Then, she can’t find her portfolio where she’s supposed to record my information. *NOSE HAIR* I asked her to measure my chain to be sure of what I have before I start hacking off inches.  Guess what? *NOSE HAIR* She can’t find the ruler. When I ask her to show me a 16″ and a 14″ chain for comparison purposes, she brings me a link necklace that is so markedly different from what I have, I’m wondering if English is her second language. Or third.

*NOSE HAIR*

Now, I’ve read articles and heard stories about how attractive people are treated better than less attractive people.  So, I did some self-checks before letting my irritation show. Truthfully, it wasn’t her hairiness and poor dental hygiene that got me ticked.  She was just an ineffectual customer service provider. She didn’t know where things were. She didn’t know how to fill out the form.  She kept smiling and apologizing.  She was ready to walk away with my stuff and a smile before I prompted her with, “Would you like to take my information down for the repair?” To which she replied, “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

Stop smiling at me! Don’t be sorry, be professional! Get me someone who knows what they’re doing! Gah!

Thankfully, another associate came to her aid, but it took the two of them another 15 minutes to input the information and provide me with a receipt.  And poor Erin! Every time she came back to the counter to assure me that it would just be another minute, she flashed that “I-can’t-believe-it’s-not-butter” smile.  And she coughed up another half dozen or more apologies.

Kevin returned with my earrings, which he had polished to a shine so brilliant, I could see my pores in the reflection.  And talk about great customer service! When I asked what the fee was for replacing the earring back, he said, “Just come back and see us again soon.”  Was he flirting? It was all I could do not to burble out an “Oh, you!” and put my hand teasingly on his arm.

Erin, true to her word, brought the paperwork back.  She handed it to another associate, who then proceeded to outline what had been inputted and when I could expect to receive my necklace.  Erin stood behind her, nodding like a bobble-head.  Maybe it was her first day on the job. Maybe she was nervous. I know, I’m so imposing that even the most self confident of persons is rendered into a steaming pile of “uh. . .uh. . .uh . .”

I’m sure Erin is a very personable young lady who has a bright future at Tiffany and Co.  I’m sorry that I was so thoroughly blinded by her facial. . .situation, that I may have missed what a personable young lady she truly is.  Shame on me for passing judgement, I know.  I’m curious, though.  Have you ever made a snap decision about someone based on how they looked? Have you been less than pleasant if your server, clerk, customer service rep makes a leper look like the after picture from a Pro-Activ commercial?

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IN: ON: September 16, 2011 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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And Again With the Phone

I’m usually pretty careful with my personal items.  I hardly ever lose things.  I mean, yeah, there was that virginity thing, and my keys that one time.  And hey, I lost only one of my children once in the past 3 years.  I’m doing pretty good, right?

When it comes to the cell phone, however, it’s a lost cause.  I lose it, it turns up. I lose it, it turns up.  We dance this dance again and again.  I threaten to put a bell, a leash, anything on it and yet, it still slips through my grasp.

This is day 3 of the missing phone and the suck factor has multiplied ten-fold.  So, what had happened was. . .

The girls and I headed out to scoop up another mom/daughter friend for a great day at Busch Gardens.  We were off to a good start, and while my friend finished getting ready, I went to install her daughter’s Britax in the back of the car.  I had my phone at the time; I was talking to Gym Mommy, as a matter of fact.  When it looked like the carseat was in, the troops ready to roll, I bid adieu to Gym Mommy and put my phone. . .where? 

Beats me.

We were pulling out onto the main drag and Morgan asked me to put on some Ne-Yo from a playlist on my phone.  I told her that I couldn’t reach my phone — I’m thinking it’s in the way back of the car with my purse and stuff — and I’d do it on the way home.   We make it to Busch Gardens, we lunch, we ride, we walk, walk, walk all over England, Scotland, and Italy.  We head home and I still don’t think about the phone. Blessedly, Morgan forgot her request for Ne-yo and the girls contented themselves with stuffing their faces with Craisins as they watched the Little Einsteins (yes, I have become one of those DVD-in-the-car parents.  A multiple mile backup on 64 will do that to you!).

I do realize, though, that I haven’t heard my phone ring at all.  Not that I’m super popular, but my parents and my brother regularly check in and all had been quiet.  I figured I must have left the phone on my friend’s mail table back at the house.  When we get back to town to drop them off, that’s the first place I look.

No phone.

Hmmmm. . .what did I do after I said bye to Gym Mommy?  Did I put the phone in the car? Or did I go back into the house to coordinate one last potty trip before we got in the car? Did the phone get sucked into some sofa cushions? Swept into a box of Strawberry Shortcake and Polly Pocket detritus?

Let’s call it.  And. . .straight to voicemail? What?! Impossible.  There’s no way that from 10:15am to 5:30pm the phone would have lost a charge.  Craaaaaaaap!

Oh, the irritation that ensued.  My friend and I looked in the house. We checked the car.  Nothing. I said bye to her — it was late and the kids were hungry — and headed home.  When DH came in, I told him of my debacle and asked if he’d check the car.  A fresh pair of eyes never hurt, right?

In the meantime, I called my service provider to find out when the last call was made because maybe it got stolen!  But the call records indicate that the last incoming call was the one I took before leaving for BG.  Great.  My phone has a service called “Find My Phone” and I finally navigate many a webpage to that site.  Yeah, too bad they’re tell me that 1) I never registered my phone and 2) Because the phone appears to be off, I wouldn’t be able to use the “Find My Phone” feature anyway.

Grrrrr!!  The evening ends with my friend checked in with me, but nothing on her end, nothing on mine.

Day 2 rolls around and I realize that without my phone, I feel totally incapacitated.   I have no alarm clock.  I actually have to turn on the TV to check the weather.  I don’t know if anyone has called, emailed or texted me.  I can’t see what pithy, witty status updates I’ve missed.  I can’t take funny photos of the girls.  I can’t call my Grandma in between our various errands or check to see how much fundage I have in the bank via my banking app.  My vocabulary is suffering because I can’t submit my entry on Words With Friends, and if I don’t check in on Foursquare soon, someone else is going to be the mayor of Pasha!!  I realize that I have become too reliant on my phone.  I’m too irritated to be embarrassed by that admission.

I have got to find this flippin’ thing.

I take the car apart.  Carseats out, stroller out. I fold down the seats, I pull the seats back up. I empty all cup holders, compartments, catch-alls and cubbies.  I’m sweating because it’s 90 degrees at 9am and because I’m getting really, really ticked off. I find a pen, four goldfish, a barrette, a used tissue and 68 cents.

I call my friend and ask her if I can come scour her front yard to see if it fell in the grass.  Thankfully, she takes my neurosis in stride and welcomes us over.  She’s on her way out of town, getting packed and such, but still stops to help me look.  The kids are watching TV, completely oblivious to the madness around them.  When it looks like the phone is a no show in her house, my friend and I start offering up bribes to the kids to get them to help us.

Cheez-E-Poofs for dessert! Whatever you want, just tell us where the phone is!!

Blank stares all around.

*le sigh* I take a few laps up and down her street because it dawns on me, maybe I left if on the back bumper when I finished talking, just as the tailgate came down.  That wouldn’t be the first time I’ve put a phone there: Side note — I was loading up groceries while talking on the phone, I hung up and put the phone down.  Then I promptly shut the tailgate. Right.on.the.phone.

Anyway, no broken pieces of phone in the road, but what’s to say that it hung on for a few blocks before it flew off.  So here we are on Day 3 and I’m starting to accept that the phone is gone. 

 I’m sure that there is a lesson to be learned here, probably something along the lines of taking a break from technology for the good of my own personal sanity and safety (i.e. all the dangers that go with cell phones and driving), yadda, yadda, yadda.

If I said I was reformed, would that bring my phone back?

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IN: ON: August 4, 2010 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Less Speaking, More Thinking

A good friend and I went out this morning to check out a consignment shop that I had read about in the paper.  GF (good friend) and I dropped the kids off at camp and hauled it down the road to VA Beach in search of a Starbucks and what promised to be some good finds at this place called “The Knapsack.”  


The GPS had me taking all of these twists and turns, every which-a-way off of the interstate to get to this shopping center.  We spotted the Starbucks, a veritable oasis in the midst of the burgeoning commercial sprawl, and hightailed in there for some quad half caf venti 3 pump vanilla 3 pump hazelnut soy extra hot no foam with whip and cinnamon sprinkles lattes.  Did I say hold the whip? 


Anyway, as we are on the clock — camp ends at noon and we’re a good 30 minutes away — we head back to the car, drinks in hand to find this place.  GPS says we’re here.  Google Maps (thanks, iPhone) says we’re here.  We can’t find this place.  No worries, we just call it up and the nice lady on the phone says, “Oh, I’m diagonal from Starbucks”.  Cool; we “U-turn” it over and through the parking lot and pull up to the store.  Out front, there’s a nice sandwich sign proclaiming our favorite word — SALE!!  Sweet!


We go in the store and are immediately greeted by the owner/clerk.  She must have hit up the ‘bucks, too, because she’s talking, talking, talking, fast, fast, fast!   She told us about her friends new store that sells upscale women’s consignments.  She told us about her kids. She told us about why she was in this particular suite in the development as opposed to another.  She told us everything but her social security number and ATM password. 


Now, I don’t really like to shop — no, really — but when I’m ready to, as I was today, I want to be left to my own devices.  No hovering, no shadowing, none of that. Please!  Just let me browse at my leisure.  GF is of the same mindset, but it wasn’t meant to be.   We began picking through the items in the store, giving half-hearted, “Uh-huh’s,” and “Oh, really’s” as this woman kept talking.  And talking. And talking. 


Eventually some other customers came in and the clerk glommed onto them with her questions, non-sequitors and anecdotes.  


For the most part, it looked like this trip was going to be a total bust.  “The Knapsack” had a lot of stuff, just not the stuff we were looking for.  GF did score a pair of Lily Pulitzer pants for her kiddo at a decent price.  We thumbed through the books, picked over the shoes, scanned the DVDS and toys.  Maybe we were just here on an off day. 


We make our way to the register and GF hands the clerk the cute pants.  The clerk rings her up and then hands her one of those ubiquitous “Frequent Customer” cards — you know, buy 10 things and get 1 at 10% off or some such.  The clerk asks GF for her information so that GF can receive all kinds of good discounts and assorted junk spam in her email.  GF, though, says, “No thanks, I’m getting ready to move overseas in a few weeks.”  


The clerk says, “Oh wow, that’s gonna be something, what with the new baby and all!”


::::silence::::


Says GF, “I’m.not.pregnant.”



I just kept my head down and prayed that the clerk would say something simple like “Sorry” and save herself (and us) from further embarrassment. 


This idiot goes on to say that the dress GF is wearing looks like a maternity dress they had in the store, something about how she (the clerk) gets that all the time, what with her being super puffy and all (LIAR! She looked pretty average to me). 

The clerk starts talking about how puffy she is “because of my surgeries because I’m having a hysterectomy in a few days” and on and on and on and shove, shove, shove that foot farther into her mouth.  


She tears off the receipt, hands it to GF and says, “Have a nice day!”


Right, because you assuming my friend her is preg-tastic just put the cherry on it. 


GF was ever so gracious, but I know that her feelings were hurt.  I did my best to buffer her up, but really, that’s a tough one.  I just can’t believe the nerve of some people. 


So, dear readers, let this be a lesson to you and one to share with your nearest and dearest.  Never, never, NEVER ask a woman if she’s pregnant.  


Ever!  


Not even if you heard it from her husband/boyfriend/lover/sperm donor/whomever! 


Don’t.


Even if you see the baby crowning between the woman’s legs, don’t ask her if she’s pregnant!


Tell her she looks gorgeous and keep on moving. 






 

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IN: ON: July 22, 2010 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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A “WTF?” moment for Friday

I had the pleasure of taking Morgan with me to the Y this morning as she had no school.  I finished my workout and went to collect her from the childwatch.  On the way out to the car, we happened to fall in step with an elderly man who had just finished his workout. 

“Well, hello there!” he says, to us. “What a beautiful little girl you are!”
“Thank you,” says Morgan.
“Yes, what a beautiful little girl.  I’ve got three granddaughters myself. Yep, three little girls.  What a beautiful little girl you have.” He went to expound about the branches on his family tree and peppered his comments with his delightful question.
“So did you have her yourself?” 
What the hayle?!
I pulled up short, almost giving Morgan nursemaid’s elbow in the process and just looked at this guy.  But he didn’t even notice, he just kept on talking. “Of course you did. She’s just beautiful, blah, blah, blah, blah “
I just blinked at him in disbelief. I’m always caught off guard when someone flashes gargantuan amounts of ignorance in my face, and his total lack of couth was winking and blinking like the Vegas strip.  
I’d like to say this was my first exposure to the colossal gall people have, but we all know that’s not true.  And still, I am always unprepared with a response, partly because I’m so surprised that it happens in the first place and partly because, well, I just can’t come up with a scathing enough retort in time.  I’m too busy picking my mouth up off of the floor. 
I will say that of the more ridiculously nervy questions I’ve been asked, this one makes the top three.  The runner’s up include:
1.  Do your daughters have the same father? (seriously, what makes you think it’s okay to ask me this? I don’t know you and even if I did, don’t ask me stupid shiggity like that!)
2.  Do you like the family that you nanny for? (because even though they’re calling me ‘Mommy’, because I’m pushing them around in the stroller at the mall on a Tuesday at 10am, I’m the nanny.)
You know, I used to love to read Mad Magazine, especially Al Jaffee’s sketches called “Snappy Answers to Stupid Questions.”  Time to dust out some back issues.  
Either that or a shiv.

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IN: ON: March 26, 2010 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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Rumble at the Play Area

Well, not exactly, but it sure came close. I took Mo and Co to the play area at the local mall the other day in order to satisfy several needs at once: My need to return and re-purchase items, their need to run around and all of our need to get out of the heat. The play area has had a face-lift in the last few months, but the erstwhile security guards are still more concerned with preventing moms from bringing in their ristretto tall non-fat extra-hot no-whip half-sweet sugar-free gingerbread latte from Starbucks than keeping out children with facial hair and acne.

Gone is the picnic theme from when we we first started going to this play area. Gone, too are giant hot dog, cupcake, and slice of watermelon. The whole area has become Looney Toon/Port Norfolk amalgamation. Bugs Bunny and pals feature prominently over the playscape, which also includes a container ship, freight trains, cargo boxes, and a huge tug boat. And the whole joint has motion detecting sound elements so that once a child’s foot runs past the boat, you get honest to goodness tug boat sounds. In the beginning, there were a few moms who scratched their heads between covert sips of lattes, wondering, “Good gracious, will that infernal fog horn never end?!” — yeah, sorry ladies.

Anyway, we’re at the play area. The girls are playing amidst the throng of other children whose mother’s think like me and I am pinching grapes from my ziploc bag in my purse into my mouth out of the eyeline of the security guard. We’ve been here for a good while and I’m really enjoying that both Mo and Co are old enough to play together and to play independently. I’m not saying I can just sit back and re-read “Twilight” while the run around, but I don’t have to be shadowing them as they meander here, there, and everywhere.

I see this one little girl, a toddler really, atop one of those climbers shaped like a hybrid freight train. The rear of the train flattens out into a slide ramp and as she makes her way towards it, I know exactly what is about to happen. Off balance, unstable toddler feet, lots of other kids weaving in and out — little girl takes a faceplant on the slide. Adding insult to injury — she doesn’t slide down, just kind of bounces on her face onto the floor. And lays there, crying. I start looking around wondering whose kid this is because clearly she’s hurt and scared. Just as I start to get up, this woman, who has some kind of genetic abnormality where her Apple iPhone has been fused onto her ear and shoulder, strolls on over, hoists the girl up under her armpit and walks away to sit back down. Okayyyyyyyyy. I mean, could you put the phone down for a second and make sure your kid’s facial features are in the same place you last left them?

Fast forward about 15 minutes. Mo is playing with some little girl on this climber shaped to look like Daffy Duck rowing a crate towards the port. The girl is standing on Daffy’s chest, Mo is laying on her stomach atop the crate and the conversation is involving pirates, mermaids, and who knows how to use the toilet all by themselves. Co, desperate to be where the action is, starts to insert herself onto the boat. The little girl, oblivious to the relationship between Mo and Co, begins to tell Co, “No, you can’t be on here. No, you can’t play here. No. No.” Now, I don’t like it when Mo does that to Co and vice-versa, and I doubly don’t like it when some little knock-kneed, buck-toothed, five year old waif does it to either of them. Still, I can’t get all mama bear up in here, so I call out to Mo, “Hey, Mo! You tell that girl that Co can play with you guys!” to which she says, “OK” and then resumes her position on the crate. Gee, thanks. And so for the next minute or two, there is this conversation dance of sorts between the girl saying no, Co saying yes, me calling Mo for reinforcements, and Mo just saying, “OK“.

Finally, Co decides enough is enough and really starts to maneuver her way into the boat. Ol‘ girl ain’t havin‘ that and in her infinite five year old wisdom, begins to pick Co up under her armpits to hoist her off of the boat. OH HAYLE NO. I couldn’t have been more than six to eight feet away from this, but I covered that ground in about 2 steps.

“Excuse me!” I said in my best-Homey-don’t-play-that-voice, crossing over to the boat. “Do not pick her up. Put her down. Now, ” and I gave her the stink eye so bad, her little hands just released Co and hung in the air, unsure of what they were and what they should be doing.

Now, a mom can’t roll up on somone else’s child like that without the offending child’s mother sensing a disturbance in the force. Sure enough, a voice calls out, “Emma (or you can insert your own overly popular name here)!” and head cocked to the side, maintaining proper shoulder to iPhone to ear connectivity, here comes cell phone mom from the faceplant incident. It was clear that this girl was her daughter — not only did they look alike, but the toddler did call her “mom”. Still, all I could do was look at this woman and wonder, who do you have on the phone that is so important, you can’t even pocket that thing to tend to your children? I mean, just tell the person, “Hey, let me call you right back.” What about a “Hang on a sec!” — you don’t even have to hang up. The woman didn’t even look in my direction, barely looked at her kid, but I’d like to think her mumbled, “Sorry about that,” was directed at me and not to the conversationalist on the other end of the phone.

I felt myself getting all Bruce Banner right in the play area, ready to unload an acerbic diatribe on her ass, but the feeling was short-lived. Mo decided she needed to use the potty — now. And when you gotta go, you gotta go. So, we went.

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IN: ON: August 5, 2009 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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