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Posts Tagged ‘Peeves’

Dear Embassy Suites Baymeadows Management:

My friend Tammy and I stayed at your property recently. I made the reservation via the hotel website, which indicated that the atrium was under renovation. I didn’t understand this to mean your hotel is a full-blown construction site. 



The atrium, such as it is





View from the breakfast table



View from the room



I really don’t think you should be open during this renovation.

I certainly don’t think you should be hosting an anime convention AND trying to accommodate regular guests, all while under construction. 



Furries saunter through the atrium



It was like an anime prom: high school kids chaperoned by beleaguered parents



Complete with dance party



And puppy pile of those too exhausted to dance



For “regular” guests, there was nowhere to go for peace. The pool was even overrun by a pack of hormonal teen boys.



It was an … interesting experience. It wasn’t one I’d like to repeat. So please post this warning on your website to spare others the discomfort we felt:

Warning: Hotel is a construction site that may be infested with teenagers high on testosterone and/or the thrill of trading Pokemon cards.

That should do it.

Thanks for your consideration,

Beth

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E78PostOffice
Dear USPS deciders-in-chief:

I avoid the Fahm Street branch of the U.S. Postal Service in Savannah because the agents working there are always so unpleasant. Today was by far the worst “service” I’ve ever experienced. What follows is exactly what happened to Eddie, the kids and me today when we arrived for our passport renewal appointment referenced in my last post.

Scene: Two women working the counter. Each has a customer. I am the next person in line.

Woman 1: (Nametag covered by sweater) Can I help you?
Me: I’m here to renew a child’s and an adult’s passport.
Woman 1: (Looks at me blankly for at least five seconds while I look back. It lasts so long that I begin to wonder if I had actually spoken words to her.) The child doesn’t have to be here to renew the passport.

(This seems like an odd thing to say. It doesn’t change my reason for standing in front of her.)

Me: Yes, he actually does, along with both parents.
Woman 2 (to Woman 1): (As if we are not standing there) Do they have an appointment?
Woman 1 (to me): Do you have an appointment?
Me: Yes, at 2:15.
Woman 1: (Sighs and goes to get a book from the back then returns to the counter) Your name?
Me: Concepción
Woman 1: (Looks at me as if my name is an affront to all that she values in life, then looks at the book again) What’s that name?
Me: Concepción. C-O-N-C-E-P-C-I-O-N. 2:15 today.
Woman 1: (Apparently finding my name) Wait over there or in the chairs. It doesn’t matter. She’ll be with you in a moment.
Me: Who will be with me?
Woman 1: (Indicates Woman 2 with her head)

Waiting commences. We watch Woman 1 be unfriendly to four more customers. Woman 2 finishes passport paperwork for her customer.

Woman 2: (To the whole lobby, even though we are standing four feet in front of her and facing her) Concepción!
Me: I have a child and adult passport renewal.
Woman 2: (Nametag reads “Mrs. B. Mobley”) We don’t do adult renewals here.
Me: (Smiling and trying to be friendly) OK, but I can mail it from here.
Mrs. B. Mobley: (Looks at me in a hostile manner) Yes.

I hand her my materials. She looks at Dominic’s photo.

Mrs. B. Mobley: This photo is not the right format. The face is too close. Our camera is broken. You can send it in anyway and see if they contact you.
Me: I followed the instructions on the U.S. Department of State website …
Mrs. B. Mobley: (Cutting me off) That is not my concern. I asked you if you wanted to send it in as is and see if they process it or contact you for a different photo.
Me: (Noting her condescending tone and reflecting my dissatisfaction with a tightness around my eyes and mouth) Yes. I want to send it in.

She fills out paperwork while I make sure Eddie’s renewal paperwork is in order. In a very clipped tone, she requests various things such as signatures, a check for the renewal, and a $25 processing fee (!). (I have to pay for the five minutes it takes to have this paperwork processed by a surly employee?)

Me: (After watching how she attaches Dominic’s photo to the application) May I borrow your stapler? (She hands it to me with a sigh.) I just put it on like you just did?
Mrs. B. Mobley: (No answer. Just a nasty look.)
Me: (Thinking “Why you gotta be so mean?“) How much is the renewal fee for adults?
Mrs. B. Mobley: $110.
Me: And I just put this all in an envelope and send it off? There’s nothing else?
Mrs. B. Mobley: (Still condescending) That’s how it works.

She finalizes Dominic’s paperwork. I finalize Eddie’s and mail it off. The process is over, thankfully. This is 20 minutes of perhaps the worst customer service I’ve ever experienced.

Do you deliberately seek the most ill-natured people you can find for your customer service positions? These two women have no business dealing with the public.

Look, we all know the USPS is in trouble and hemorrhaging money. Don’t you think you could help your situation by improving customer service? Stop advertising and start improving the experience for the people who are paying you. It’s your only hope!

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I would rather gnaw off my own arm than go to the Fahm Street location again. There are other passport locations. For my mail needs, I’ll continue using my local post office. The people are inept, but at least they are nice.

Sincerely,
Beth

*apologies to Holiday Inn

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67517_600Dear USPS deciders-in-chief:

I think I know why the USPS is in trouble.

  1. I went to my local post office to mail Christmas cards at the beginning of December. They did not have any holiday stamps. None. What’s up with that?
  2. In the middle of December, I requested a mail hold for a three-day span. Two days after it expired, I still had not received my mail. I called my local post office to find out the mail’s whereabouts. The woman on the phone seemed to have no understanding of how the online mail hold request system worked, no idea where my mail was, or how to reach my carrier. She said they don’t have cell phone numbers for carriers because they are not allowed to contact them while they are out. Um … what?!?
  3. I needed to mail a package to my brother-in-law at the end of December. My local post office printed a label for Priority Mail at a cost of $55. Shocked by that price, I balked. The woman told me that there was nothing she could do because she already printed the postage sticker. I had to pay the price.

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.
— inscription on the James Farley Post Office in New York City

Yeah, well, crappy management might.
— Beth, consumer

Is this just December craziness or evidence of a larger problem? I’m inclined to choose the latter because of this:

I need to renew Dominic’s passport. As he is a minor, he must come in person to an authorized passport location, along with Eddie and me. There are only two post offices in Savannah where you can renew minor passports: The main post office on Fahm Street and the Eisenhower branch.

The process took fewer than five minutes last time. The agent had to look at the identification for all three of us and sign the form.

Yet now you require an appointment. An appointment! And when I called to make this appointment, I couldn’t get one for three weeks. Really?!? Is that your bright idea or does it belong to some genius at the U.S. Department of State?

Also, there are no Saturday appointments, so that means I have to pull Dominic out of school, and Eddie and I have to take off work to go to this appointment. Brilliant.

If you’d like to stay in business, you might want to consider customer needs a bit more. Just a thought!

Sincerely,
Beth

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Dear Men:

I am so angry right now. I need to vent. Why?

Because you don’t live in fear of being attacked and raped like women do. It is a part of our lives and it sucks.

Tonight I had a scary encounter as I walked back from having dinner at a delightful Ethiopian restaurant. (Side note: One of the perks of my constant travel is that I can eat where I want to eat. I can’t ever find anyone who will eat Ethiopian food with me. Eddie said the bread reminds him of human skin.)

My friends know me as a tough chick. I am well traveled and rarely afraid. Of course, I don’t put myself in risky situations either.

I learned the hard way that women are easy targets after one night in college when I was assaulted in downtown Atlanta. So I know to be on guard.

After dinner tonight, I walked back to my hotel on a bright, heavily trafficked street. An older gentleman who appeared to be drunk walked toward me. When I passed, he turned around and followed me. I stopped, turned around and made eye contact. He stopped and started walking the other way. When I began walking again, I could hear him begin to follow me again, his shuffling picking up speed as I walked faster. It was like “The Walking Dead.”

When I had nearly reached a populated crosswalk and he had almost caught up to me, I turned around again and backed up to a building to let him pass me. He looked at me and tried to stop to talk. I waved him off and said, “Go on. Get away from me. You’re giving me the creeps.”

Two fellows pulled up in a white sedan and asked if I was OK, was the guy bothering me. They offered me a ride. They looked perfectly normal, but I declined.

Luckily, my hotel was only a block away and I made it back without further incident. I’m safe. (Clearly, as I’m able to write about it.)

Here is the truth, Men: I didn’t want to stay on the street with a weird dude but I also didn’t want to get into a car with two men I didn’t know.

Imagine if you had been me and the people you encountered were women. I doubt any of you would have been concerned about either scenario.

It pisses me off that women have to worry about these things on a regular basis. It’s not freakin’ fair.

Yeah, I know: Life’s not fair.

I blame Obamacare. And penises.

(Maybe I should thank that disturbing dude for curing my blog writer’s block.)

Safe at last; safe at last,
Beth

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Yes, mine is a 2008.

Yes, mine is a 2008.

Dear “Ross B.” at Volkswagen Customer Care:

Thank you so much for writing me and apologizing for my “negative feelings towards Volkswagen.”

Unfortunately, my negative feelings toward Volkswagen increased today. Why? These words: “I apologize we are unable to assist with the cost of repairs.”

I’m sure you are sincere when you write, “Even when we are unable to financially assist, it is important to me that you and your kids feel safe.”

Sure. You certainly do not want our deaths on your conscience.

Your solution? Sending me to another dealership and having the “Region Case Manager” follow up with the dealership. A follow-up. Gee, thanks. I feel so much better.

You know what has made me feel better? The support of my friends who say they are glad to know about my problems so that they don’t buy a Volkswagen.

After I published my last post, one of my friends immediately wrote me to say that she had the exact same problem with acceleration in her VW and the Macon dealership finally fixed her car.

What makes me feel worse is that VW knows that the problems with acceleration (and with the upholstery) exist but THEY WON’T DO ANYTHING ABOUT THEM.

Hasn’t Volkswagen learned anything from GM and Toyota?

I guess not.

Sorry, Ross B., but this isn’t over. I plan to be Volkswagen’s worst nightmare until my issues are resolved.

On a mission,
Beth

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Dear Volkswagen:

I don’t love you any more. I want a divorce.

We used to be so great together. It was love at first sight between you (in the form of my Eos) and me. Then a year ago, our relationship soured. My Eos started making me look bad, then tried to kill me. Over and over again.

Let me explain:

In September of last year, the door upholstery on the passenger side inexplicably came unglued. I took it to my local dealer, Vaden Volkswagen, expecting it to be fixed immediately. My service consultant said he had seen it before but that you won’t repair it. Really? Um. OK.

I took it to a body shop he recommended. The fellow there said that he could glue it back for $90 but that it would just come unglued again. He could also replace the door for $700.

I gulped. Hard.

Then I colored in the fiberglass underneath with Sharpie so it wasn’t as noticeable (see Exhibit A) and pretended it hadn’t happened.

Exhibit A

Exhibit A

In May, the upholstery on the driver side came unglued (see Exhibit B).

Exhibit B

Exhibit B

Let me interrupt myself to point out that I take care of my car. I keep the car in the garage at home and I park in a parking garage at work.

When I showed this new development to my service consultant, he said, “Well, you do have more than 100,000 miles on your car.” Yes, that may be. However, I’m not driving on the top of the doors.

I spoke to two of your “customer care” representatives. They told me, basically, “Tough luck.”

So I’ve posted a public notice (Exhibit C).

Exhibit C

Exhibit C

Then the car started trying to kill me. I would be driving down the road and suddenly pressing the gas pedal would not accelerate the car. The car would hop a few times and coast. No gas. Then, just as suddenly, the gas pedal would work again.

I took it in for the first of many, many attempts to diagnose the problem. I even had the fuel pump replaced. See Exhibit D for proof (ignore your consultant’s inability to spell):

Exhibit D

Exhibit D

Even though this situation happens to me EVERY SINGLE TIME I drive the car, your technicians can’t duplicate the problem or figure out what’s wrong. I even took video of it happening not once but twice.

It’s apparently a real headscratcher. To you.

This puzzle is going to get me killed. Imagine my dismay when this happens on I-16 as I drive my two kids to school.

So my Eos — the car I loved completely and paid off happily — is unsightly and unsafe.

And you can’t and won’t do anything about it.

That’s why I want a divorce.

In the meantime, I’m telling everyone I know about my problems with you. Remember this quote by Douglas Adams in “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”:

Nothing travels faster than the speed of light with the possible exception of bad news, which obeys its own special laws.

Here’s to getting justice in my own special way. I hope I see justice before I see a bright light …

Living in fear,
Beth

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Dear White People,

I have something to say and I hope you will listen to me as I am (mostly) one of you:

We have to stop thinking that our experience as white people is the same experience that people of other colors have.

Let me tell you a little about myself beyond my skin shade:

I once tried to make a fellow I was dating jealous by stating that Eddie (yes, the Eddie to whom I am now married) had asked me out. He said, “I don’t know what you want with that spic.”

I was shocked. I was shocked for the obvious reason (“What did you say?!?”) but also shocked because I realized for the first time that Eddie is Hispanic.

You may roll your eyes, but it is true. I never noticed. The last name should have been a dead giveaway, but he was just Eddie to me.

I went to a public elementary school in a mostly black neighborhood. My public high school was racially mixed. My parents taught me, in the immortal words of Martin Luther King Jr., to judge someone not “by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

So, to me, if someone is a complete ass, it is because he/she is an ass, not because his/her skin is brown, black, white, red, light brown, taupe, ecru or whatever.

However, that does not mean I spent my life as an understanding, evolved, enlightened (mostly) white person. I thought, as many of you do and as this writer did, that the world is a fair, equal place. That hard work will get you where you want and need to go. That people are inherently decent.

I was wrong.

So wrong.

I was a broadcast journalist for many years. One of my news friends, a beautiful black woman, told me once that clerks watched her in stores because they were afraid she was going to shoplift. I sighed and said, “Oh, it isn’t at all because you are gorgeous, and they’ve seen you on TV or anything!”

I did not understand that this was not a new phenomenon. It didn’t start happening after she started her news career.

She also said clerks wouldn’t touch her hand when they were giving back change. Even though I thought that couldn’t possibly be true, I changed my own behavior just in case. I now put my hands all over people when I give them my money.

These were real experiences for her. Truth be told, I had a hard time believing her simply because I had never had similar experiences. I didn’t have a frame of reference. I didn’t freakin’ get it. White people don’t get it.

Understand this: We white people don’t usually live in fear of the cops. (Unless we have done some Forensic Files-worthy stuff, that is.) Guess what: Many black people do.

racial-profiling

Along with most of America, I watched in horror as events unfolded in Ferguson, Missouri. The Justice Department now plans to investigate the Ferguson police department. Good.

White people, we do not know what it is like to be black, Hispanic, Asian, etc. We do not understand the experience of non-whites. So we have to stop pretending that our experience is universal. It’s not.

This has to stop. We cannot maintain the status quo. What it has been cannot be what it is or will be.

Kareem Abdul-Jabbar makes an interesting point that some of the biggest tensions in America are not about race as much as they are about class.

Maybe he is right.

All I know is that it is impossible not to see difference in color. We just can’t attach judgement to that difference.

Please, fellow white people, understand that we’ve had it made for 400 years. Understand that we need to listen — really listen — when people of other shades talk about their experiences. Understand that we need to make a change.

All men (and women) are created equal, right?

Yours in enlightenment,
Beth

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Dear West Chatham YMCA,

I’ve been a member since you opened. My family and I have taken advantage of the gym, the classes, Kid Fit, the summer and holiday camps — almost everything you have to offer.

We may never again use the pool, though. (And it is not because of a “Code Brown.”)

Dominic complained this summer about having to attend Y camp because of all the rules, especially in the pool. As he is the child of mine who likes to push boundaries, I ignored him. I assumed he wanted to jump off the top of the slide or play WWE with his brother in the shallow end.

Oh no.

I saw for myself what he meant. Here are some of the rules I discovered in just 30 minutes.

You cannot:

• Run around the pool.
• Walk fast around the pool.
• Go near the pool when they are testing the pH.
• Dive.
• Swim under the lane markers.
• Follow too closely on the slide.
• Go down head-first on the slide.
• Go down backward on the slide.
• Go down sitting on the slide.
• Twist your body while going down the slide.
• Wear goggles while going down the slide.
• Stay too long in the shallow area once you’ve gone down the slide.
• Get out of the pool any way but via the stairs.
• Play in the water under the slide even if there is no one else in the pool.
• Jump into the pool any way but feet first.
• Go anywhere near people who are taking lessons.
• Yell with glee.

Each of these rules was announced by the lifeguard, prefaced by “Hey, Buddy!”

At one point, I actually whipped around and said, “What now?!?”

And this is coming from someone who appreciates rules.

Some of them I can certainly understand (running and diving seem like guaranteed tickets to the ER). Others, not so much.

What you’ve really guaranteed is a no-fun zone, patrolled by 16-year-old dictators hopped up on a little power.

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I realize you have these rules because of fear of litigation. I understand personal responsibility is nearly nonexistent in Amurka.

Allow me, please, to decide what’s safe and not safe for my children (within reason, of course) when I am in the water supervising. I promise I won’t sue. I’ll even sign a waiver.

I’m a member. Don’t you have to at least pretend to care what I think?

Thank you for your consideration of this request.
Beth

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Dear Eddie,

I love you. I do. And that’s why I need to tell you something out of love and concern for your well-being and our medical flex-spending account:

Your basketball days are over.

You’ve said you are going to quit, but like a wicked meth mistress, it pulls you back.

You must stop now. For real. You just emerged from your third nasal realignment surgery (aka rhinoplasty, aka nose job). Your third. Third! Is that sinking in?

No?

Let me jog your memory about other basketball-related visits to the hospital: double knee surgery, plantar fascia repair, bicep reattachment, elbow reconstruction, hip consultations, shoulder scar-tissue cleansing or whatever that was. You are the new Six Million Dollar Man.

I’ve spent many hours of my life hanging out in the Memorial waiting room:

IMG_8021.JPG

Today’s confinement? Ten hours. Ten!

You are on a first-name basis with your orthopedic surgeon. “Oh hey, Eddie! Great to see you again!” — I actually heard that this morning from your anesthesiologist. Really, Dude? This isn’t crazy to you?

You are like a beautiful mural painted on a condemned building. You are rotting inside. All for the love of the game.

I love you. Please stop.

You have your CrossFit cult. You have the billion-dollar bicycle we bought when you were on your cycling kick. You don’t need basketball. You will find other ways to stay in shape.

I know you like basketball and you’re good at it. We all know that. You don’t have to prove anything. You’ve already proven yourself a force on the court and on the bench — in a uniform as a player and in a suit as a coach.

I’m taking away your various braces, pads, arm bands, kayak-sized basketball shoes, weird-smelling tank tops, athletic man Spanx, and other accoutrements of the game. You can still watch ESPN. You can start sentences with, “Back in my day …” You can coach our kids.

You cannot play basketball anymore.

For the love of all that is holy, wonderful and right in the world, please let this be the last photo I take of your nose being jacked-up.

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If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me. Do it for your kids. Do it for our savings account.

No more basketball.

I know the doctors will be sad to see you (and the new cars they buy at your expense) go, but everyone else will thank you. (OK, maybe not your teammates, but still.)

Love,
Your long-suffering, professional doctor-meeting, waiting-room-sitting, cafeteria-food-eating wife

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Dear Those of You Who Believe the World Revolves Around You:

You’re so vain, you probably think this post is about you. OK, it is.

Break out of your “me” zone and take this advice when you travel:

1. If you are standing in line and your nose touches my shoulder, you are standing too close to me. Back the eff up!

2. If it is clear that people in front of you are part of a family traveling together, please do not insert yourself into the group because you are anxious to get on the plane. Please wait just a hot second. I assure you that you will be able to get on the plane before it leaves.

3. Do not leap into the airplane aisles as soon as you hear that special ding. Again, just wait. You will get off the plane, I promise. Your decision to wait can save others from getting their feet stomped on and experiencing a face full of butt.

4. Learn the rules of walking. I can help with that. Read this.

5. Stand back from the baggage carousel. When you see your bag, you can move forward and claim it. If you huddle around the carousel, you impede egress and cause a jam. You also are likely to get whacked with a bag. (A consequence you would richly deserve.)

Let’s work together to make the world a better place.

Thank you for your attention in this matter,
Beth

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