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Posts Tagged ‘Rage’

Dear Royal Caribbean,

The travel industry has been hit hard. I don’t have to tell you that, as cruise companies such as yourself have experienced catastrophic losses.

So I would think you would be upping your customer service game.

I’d be wrong. Clearly.

You still suck.

After the first time we traveled with you, I vowed it would be the last.

But sometimes you have to go along with the group, and my group decided to give you another go.

We were supposed to go in June, but PANDEMIC. So we got a credit toward a future cruise.

On Tuesday, the group bat signal went up that it was TIME TO BOOK said cruise.

It is fairly easy to book a cruise (i.e., spend money) on your site.

You know what is not easy to do? ANYTHING ELSE.

  • Link reservations with the others in the group? No. I have to call.
  • See my credit? Nope. Call.
  • Use my credit? Hell no. Call.

Sigh.

So I called, and got the very snippy Miguel. Here’s how part of the conversation went down:

Me: I’d like to use the credit from my cancelled cruise.
Miguel: I see that you spoke to a representative March 9 and were promised a credit.
Me: Yes.
Miguel: You want to use that credit toward the cruise you just booked.
Me: Yes.
Miguel: That credit has not been processed yet.
Me: Not processed? It’s been two months.
Miguel: Yes. I see that you called March 9. May I put you on a brief hold?
(Brief hold commences. Miguel returns.)
Miguel: You will receive an email next week with a confirmation code for the credit. You will then need to call back to ask to have the credit applied.
Me: So let me get this straight: I had to call to cancel to get a credit. Then call to get the credit processed. Then I have to CALL once I receive an EMAIL that my credit is ready so that I can have my credit applied.
Miguel: Yes.
Me: You know that’s insane, right?
Miguel (at his snippy summit): This is our process.

The next step is to link reservations so that we can all sit together at dinner. Miguel is aghast that I would want something else from him. He informs me that both Sophia and Petra have to put in their reservation notes that they want to link with me, and I have to do the same.

MY GOD.

I text both Sophia and Petra about this situation. We are the ones in our families who HANDLE THINGS. So we are handling things like the Tracy Flicks we are. All three of us are on the phone independently with you, Royal Caribbean. It is NO WONDER the wait time to speak to a representative is so long.

Sophia goes FULL KAREN and asks to speak to a manager. I’m so glad she did.

Sophia’s method was so effective that I actually got a confirmation from her, Sophia, via text. Not from you, RC.

Ignore my dark humor. It’s how I cope.

Unbelievable.

So. We will see you in December, COVID willing. But I know I’ll be on the phone with you sooner.

And you know how much I love talking on the phone (sarcasm alert).

Hoping you see my point,
Beth

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Dear Gov. Kemp:

Can I call you Brian? What about Ronald ’cause YOU’RE A CLOWN.

Right. I’m not a comedian. Got it.

Look, I understand that I’m not running the state (not that you really are either, with any success, in my opinion). I understand that you are trying to balance pressure from a variety of sources. I understand that you can’t please everyone.

But dude, the CDC is — as we say in the South — just down the road a piece.

I’m not a scientist (in this case, being a communications researcher doesn’t count), so I will believe those who are. And you can’t swing a cat without hitting one at the CDC. So I’m guessing NO ONE was surprised at this headline after you “reopened” Georgia last week.

Even Trump criticized you. Trump! That’s a surprise.

And you’re doubling down. That’s not a surprise.

In my mind, your actions led to this:

That’s from last weekend, Gov. That’s a flock of people who don’t care about social distancing. Many of them were out to watch the Blue Angels’ tribute to health workers.

Um.

  1. If you don’t want people to gather, don’t stage this event!
  2. That flyover cost taxpayer money that I — a taxpayer — would prefer benefit small businesses.

I’m not blaming you for the Saturday event. I am blaming you for letting people think the fight against Coronavirus is over. It’s clearly not.

I mean, I guess I should be happy that I’m in Atlanta, instead of cities such as Chicago, Los Angeles, Sacramento, Lansing and Raleigh where people are protesting stay-at-home orders, claiming it is an overreaction. Of course, they are doing this WHILE WEARING MASKS.

 šŸ™„

Listen, I’ve been trying really hard not to write about politics here. (In fact, it has been more than three years.) In these polarized times, any criticism of a Republican brings on name calling of the “libtard” and “snowflake” variety (among other names not suitable for a family blog). I’m technically an independent voter. I do, in fact, think for myself when I vote, instead of voting along party lines. But, full disclosure, I didn’t vote for you because I think you are kinda dumb, just like the masked protesters.

Sorry. Not sorry.

You know what Forrest Gump’s mama always said.

You can fix that by listening to people who know more about a subject than you do.

I know you want Georgia to be No. 1 in something.

Can it just not be cases of COVID-19 and deaths?

Thanks for your consideration,
Beth, a registered voter who has a valid ID and votes in every election

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Dear Wilfred:

I’m not a fan of your company and you right now. Thanks to you, we all nearly killed each other this weekend, and I’m covered in bruises.

No, not domestic violence.

Moving.

We were just moving from one place in the neighborhood to another.

Note: It sounds like this might be easier. It’s not. You think, “Oh, I can come back for this.” But then you have 1,000 trips back.

I hired you and your team to move the big stuff. Like a sleeper sofa and mattresses.

I scheduled it for 2 p.m. thinking we could get the little things ourselves.

Then you started changing the plan — again and again.

You didn’t come at 2, though. Or ever. After many calls and texts, the best you could do was 5:45. When we had to get the truck we rented back by 6.

So thanks for nothing.

You noted in one of the phone calls that you want to preserve your five-star rating — one of the reasons I chose your company.

Well.

Sorry, Wilfred: You don’t even rate a star.

Hope you get your act together for the sake of future customers.

Beth

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Dear Parental Patience:

Where are you? Now in my hour of need? Please come back.

I thought I had turned a corner with Dominic.

Funny, right?

And he finally got his Publix uniform to start working.

Today was the big day.

But.

He realized that he had to be at work in 10 minutes but didn’t want to walk in the cold.

He’s so delicate, you know.

So he wanted me to drive him.

After sighing loudly, I put a coat on over my pajamas, and took him over.

Then he texts me. And this is when you, Patience, apparently jumped on another call.

And if the subject matter isn’t bad enough, the child refuses to use proper grammar and punctuation.

Please come back.

I miss you.

Love,
Beth

* Thanks, GnR.

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Black Flag performs in Hell at the Masquerade in Atlanta.

Dear Show-goers,

Auntie Beth is here to make sure you have a good time at a punk concert. Your favorite aunt went to see Black Flag this week, and noticed that some of you need some guidelines.

Lest you think Auntie Beth doesn’t know what she’s talking about, be assured AB is an OG.

Black Flag, Minutemen, Butthole Surfers, Dead Kennedys, Dead Milkmen — she saw them all the first time around at Atlanta clubs 688 and the Metroplex. In fact, Auntie Beth remembers the Surfers setting fire to the Metroplex stage.

She knows a thing or two about mosh pits.

Here are some rules to follow to ensure a good time for all:

  • DO wear comfortable clothes, including shoes that can withstand stomping — yours and others. Auntie Beth was practically in her pajamas, but wore steel-toed boots.
  • DO dress for the crowd. Concert Ts from the band you are seeing and similar are fine. Auntie Beth saw bands such as The Cramps, Suicidal Tendencies and the Misfits proudly represented.
  • DO prepare for loud music and contact with other humans.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1pPrxGBSKtM

  • DO NOT go to the front if you don’t want to slamdance or be slamdanced on. Auntie Beth took her old ass straight to the balcony.

In this crowd is no place to be if you don’t want to be jostled and shoved.

Look how angry this girl is! She should have joined Auntie Beth in the balcony.

  • DO NOT throw punches. Look, the mosh pit is a place for folks to get out some aggression by flinging themselves at others. No need to get upset or start a fight. If you don’t like it, don’t go near it.
  • If you aren’t ready to crowd surf, DO participate by standing on the outer edge and pushing the “dancers” back in when they are flung out.
  • DO pick up your fallen comrades. It’s just the nice thing to do, plus you won’t trip over them.
  • DO take your children (and proper ear protection) to see bands that are important to you. Auntie Beth’s boys saw The Police when they were still in Pampers.

Some of you may disagree with Auntie Beth that it’s OK to bring kids to a concert. Of course it depends on the children and the concert, but Auntie Beth is a fan in general.

  • DO appreciate bands that start and end earlyish on a school night. Auntie Beth was home by 11. (That’s still past her bedtime, though. Look. Listen. She’s elderly and needs her beauty rest.)
  • DO support live music. It’s good for the bands, the venue, the economy, the arts and your soul. Think of it as community service!
  • Auntie Beth loves you and wants you to ROCK ON!

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Dear Readers,

I’m so excited that my badgering has paid off. Here’s another guest post. The Royce had a birthday last week, and it prompted some reflection.

I’ll be back next week with a story about the eldest. Parents with teenagers will relate.

Love,
Beth

This is The Royce in his natural habitat.

 

Aging vs. Old: A Rant
Guest post by The Royce

So, yesterday was my birthday. And that’s good because, hey, another trip around the sun, right? But somewhere along the way — in the last, oh say, few years or so (I don’t know whatever) — it occurred to me that, while I am not old (yet), I am, in fact, aging. Maybe I’m finally ā€œof a certain ageā€ — whatever the hell that entails — because, while I’m definitely still an easygoing person, little things are starting to grind my gears just a bit.

Like those damn neighborhood kids walking in my yard! LOLJK. (Note from Beth: I don’t think he is, in fact, JK.)

Though it’s commonly *cough* invariably *cough* attached to middle age and miracle creams, signs of aging actually applies to things other than crow’s feet and smile lines.

I’m talking about the less-obvious, non-physical signs of aging. Because like it or not, every day of every year, you’re aging. You just don’t notice it.

Until you do.

And then you notice it again. And again. It’s a lot like buying a new car that you thought was unique and rare until you drive off the lot and there’s three of the same vehicle waiting at the first intersection you get to.

On Jan. 13, 1974, the Super Bowl was on my seventh birthday, and I got to watch my favorite team, the Miami Dolphins, become two-time world champions against the Minnesota Vikings. Not a bad day for a kid.

In 2020, the game is three weeks later, two hours longer, and the pre-game show lasts half a day. WTH?

When did that happen?

You see, that’s not old. That’s aging.

Recently I went out with my lovely wife to meet some friends visiting from out of town. We arrived a few minutes early and looked over the drink menu while we waited.

I’m sorry, but WTF?! How did a cocktail get to be $14 in this town? (Note from Beth: They live in Savannah.) Did I teleport to Manhattan when I walked
through the door to this place?

Again: Not old. Aging.

You know why people don’t go out as much when they get a little older? It’s less about being tired and more because we don’t want to get bent over paying those ridiculous prices every time we feel like having a nice meal somewhere. Hey, how about we go out for dinner and have a couple glasses of WELL SHIT THERE GOES A HUNDRED BUCKS.

No, it’s not denial. Old will, with some luck, arrive eventually.

But for now … nah, not old. Merely aging, just like I have every day of my life. And considering the alternative, I’m fine with that.

Seriously, though. Would it kill the little cretins to stay off my lawn?

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Dear Fellow Strong Women:

I went to see “Little Women” with a group of ladies from a professional organization to which I belong.

Despite my love of reading and being an English major for one of my undergraduate degrees, I have never read the book.

(I’ll pause for a collective gasp.)

It’s probably because I was expected to read it as I was named after Beth March. Yeah, the quiet one. Haha!

I know of it, of course. And I’m sure I’d like it as much as Joey did when he read it.

Usually, I read the book then see the movie. I’m that kind of person. (The only movie that is better than the book, IMHO, is “Misery.”)

Anyway, I thought Greta Gerwig’s creation was spectacular. I laughed. I cried. It was better than “Cats.”

At one point, Amy says she is going to be an “ornament to society,” and I was reminded of something that happened at the weekly meeting of this professional group earlier in the day.

The group is mostly older white men. (Typical.)

The leaders of the membership committee solicited ideas for increasing membership via distributing selected topics at each table. My table had the topic of how to increase membership among women.

The oldest dude (about 90 and deaf) at a table of four men and four women actually said this:

Their husbands are working 8-10 hours a day bringing home the bacon. It shouldn’t be too hard to recruit more women as their schedules are more flexible.

Right.

And there was silence.

Now, I’m a brand-new member of this group. I didn’t feel comfortable barking at this man that I work 8-10 hours a day bringing home the bacon. Instead, I got up to get coffee from the coffee table.

A woman who is a past president of the group was sitting next to him. She looked properly mortified. I don’t know if she said something to him privately later. I’m going to ask her at the next meeting.

When I shared this anecdote with my boss, who is a former member of this group (and an older white male, it should be noted), he also was mortified.

But he asked a crucial question:

He wouldn’t have said something like that about an ethnic minority group or the LBGTQ community. Why did he feel it was OK to share outdated views of women?

Why indeed.

It’s time to stop being “ornaments to society.” How do we do that? What should I have done? What about the other women at the table? What should I do now?

Please share your thoughts.

And go see “Little Women” whether you have read the book or not.

“The world is hard on ambitious girls.” That’s right, Amy.

Yours in solidarity,
Beth

 

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Dear Members of The Prodigy,

I’m so sorry I didn’t really know you until recently. If it weren’t for my friend Glen responding to my post requesting music suggestions, I never would have listened intentionally. Who knew I had so much in common, taste-wise, with Glen plus Merrill and Trevor? (Thanks also to Kristina, April, George, Tara and William for some good tunes.)

I usually listen to the most raucous music in my library when I’m getting ready in the morning.

A few days ago, I was putting on mascara when Eddie walked into the bathroom.

Him: What’s that?
Me, without batting a mascaraed eye: Smack My Bitch Up.

I make no apologies.

And because of that exchange, you earned a few cents. (I have an Apple Music account, so you don’t make much from me.)

 

I’m glad you are now part of my listening life, along with Godsmack, Prophets of Rage, Dirty Honey and The Struts.

My mornings are certainly a little louder.

Love,
Beth

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Dear Karen, Georgia and furred colleagues, including Steven,

I’ll get right to it:

I was accepted to a leadership conference hosted by my sorority. I haven’t been involved in the organization since I left college many (many) years ago, but it’s been a tough year, and so I applied.

The organizers sent out a list of roommate assignments.

I’m a grown woman; I didn’t want a roommate.

That is until I Googled my assigned roommate. (I’m a journalist. I research.)

She was a Chi Omega.

At Florida State University.

In 1978.

That’s right, y’all.

My roommate was nearly a victim of Ted Bundy.

He killed the sister next door to her, and the one in the room across the hall.

The police took her door because his fingerprints were on the doorknob. He was interrupted from going in because Nita Neary came home.

My roommate was the one who found Lisa Levy — still alive until she got into the ambulance.

She ended up being deposed three times by that monster who served as his own lawyer.

(You know what Lincoln said: He who represents himself has a fool for a client.)

The focus of the conference was resilience. And Diane McCain is the epitome of resilience. Her Bundy experience led to her becoming a crusader for victim’s rights.

She’s also battled some serious health issues.

In sum, Diane is a badass.

Of course, I offered to help her write a book about her life, or write it for her.

Stay sexy, and say yes to roommates.

Love,
Beth

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Dear Obnoxious Man in 10D,

Why can’t you just be a d-bag in private? Why must you let your fool flag fly on this plane?

I’ve been sitting next to you for 10 minutes and you’ve made three loud-as-hell calls.

I don’t care about Kevin or his long-term goals. I’m not interested in the project that’s six months away. And I am not impressed that you need to spell out the timeline to people who don’t get it.

I need you to shut up.

Sit quietly in your middle seat.

Read a damn book.

Or maybe read this post where I talk about having manners in a public place.

Please let me enjoy this flight to a leadership conference in peace.

Thank you,
10E

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